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Title: The Vicar of Bullhampton


Author: Anthony Trollope



Release Date: September 5, 2008  [eBook #26541]

Language: English

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THE VICAR OF BULLHAMPTON.

by

ANTHONY TROLLOPE.

With Thirty Illustrations by H. Woods.






[Illustration: Waiting-Room at the Assize Court. (frontispiece)]


[Illustration for title page]



London:
Bradbury, Evans, and Co., 11, Bouverie Street.
1870.




PREFACE.


The writing of prefaces is, for the most part, work thrown away; and
the writing of a preface to a novel is almost always a vain thing.
Nevertheless, I am tempted to prefix a few words to this novel on
its completion, not expecting that many people will read them, but
desirous, in doing so, of defending myself against a charge which may
possibly be made against me by the critics,--as to which I shall be
unwilling to revert after it shall have been preferred.

I have introduced in the Vicar of Bullhampton the character of a girl
whom I will call,--for want of a truer word that shall not in its
truth be offensive,--a castaway. I have endeavoured to endow her with
qualities that may create sympathy, and I have brought her back at
last from degradation at least to decency. I have not married her to
a wealthy lover, and I have endeavoured to explain that though there
was possible to her a way out of perdition, still things could not be
with her as they would have been had she not fallen.

There arises, of course, the question whether a novelist, who
professes to write for the amusement of the young of both sexes,
should allow himself to bring upon his stage such a character as that
of Carry Brattle? It is not long since,--it is well within the memory
of the author,--that the very existence of such a condition of life,
as was hers, was supposed to be unknown to our sisters and daughters,
and was, in truth, unknown to many of them. Whether that ignorance
was good may be questioned; but that it exists no longer is beyond
question. Then arises that further question,--how far the condition
of such unfortunates should be made a matter of concern to the sweet
young hearts of those whose delicacy and cleanliness of thought is a
matter of pride to so many of us. Cannot women, who are good, pity
the sufferings of the vicious, and do something perhaps to mitigate
and shorten them, without contamination from the vice? It will be
admitted probably by most men who have thought upon the subject that
no fault among us is punished so heavily as that fault, often so
light in itself but so terrible in its consequences to the less
faulty of the two offenders, by which a woman falls. All her own sex
is against her,--and all those of the other sex in whose veins runs
the blood which she is thought to have contaminated, and who, of
nature, would befriend her were her trouble any other than it is.

She is what she is, and remains in her abject, pitiless, unutterable
misery, because this sentence of the world has placed her beyond
the helping hand of Love and Friendship. It may be said, no doubt,
that the severity of this judgment acts as a protection to female
virtue,--deterring, as all known punishments do deter, from vice. But
this punishment, which is horrible beyond the conception of those who
have not regarded it closely, is not known beforehand. Instead of the
punishment there is seen a false glitter of gaudy life,--a glitter
which is damnably false,--and which, alas, has been more often
portrayed in glowing colours, for the injury of young girls, than
have those horrors, which ought to deter, with the dark shadowings
which belong to them.

To write in fiction of one so fallen as the noblest of her sex, as
one to be rewarded because of her weakness, as one whose life is
happy, bright, and glorious, is certainly to allure to vice and
misery. But it may perhaps be possible that if the matter be handled
with truth to life, some girl, who would have been thoughtless, may
be made thoughtful, or some parent's heart may be softened. It may
also at last be felt that this misery is worthy of alleviation, as is
every misery to which humanity is subject.

A. T.




CONTENTS

      I. BULLHAMPTON
     II. FLO'S RED BALL
    III. SAM BRATTLE
     IV. THERE IS NO ONE ELSE
      V. THE MILLER
     VI. BRATTLE'S MILL
    VII. THE MILLER'S WIFE
   VIII. THE LAST DAY
     IX. MISS MARRABLE
      X. CRUNCH'EM CAN'T BE HAD
     XI. DON'T YOU BE AFEARD ABOUT ME
    XII. BONE'M AND HIS MASTER
   XIII. CAPTAIN MARRABLE AND HIS FATHER
    XIV. COUSINHOOD
     XV. THE POLICE AT FAULT
    XVI. MISS LOWTHER ASKS FOR ADVICE
   XVII. THE MARQUIS OF TROWBRIDGE
  XVIII. BLANK PAPER
    XIX. SAM BRATTLE RETURNS HOME
     XX. I HAVE A JUPITER OF MY OWN NOW
    XXI. WHAT PARSON JOHN THINKS ABOUT IT
   XXII. WHAT THE FENWICKS THOUGHT ABOUT IT
  XXIII. WHAT MR. GILMORE THOUGHT ABOUT IT
   XXIV. THE REV. HENRY FITZACKERLEY CHAMBERLAINE
    XXV. CARRY BRATTLE
   XXVI. THE TURNOVER CORRESPONDENCE
  XXVII. "I NEVER SHAMED NONE OF THEM"
 XXVIII. MRS. BRATTLE'S JOURNEY
   XXIX. THE BULL AT LORING
    XXX. THE AUNT AND THE UNCLE
   XXXI. MARY LOWTHER FEELS HER WAY
  XXXII. MR. GILMORE'S SUCCESS
 XXXIII. FAREWELL
  XXXIV. BULLHAMPTON NEWS
   XXXV. MR. PUDDLEHAM'S NEW CHAPEL
  XXXVI. SAM BRATTLE GOES OFF AGAIN
 XXXVII. FEMALE MARTYRDOM
XXXVIII. A LOVER'S MADNESS
  XXXIX. THE THREE HONEST MEN
     XL. TROTTER'S BUILDINGS
    XLI. STARTUP FARM
   XLII. MR. QUICKENHAM, Q.C.
  XLIII. EASTER AT TURNOVER CASTLE
   XLIV. THE MARRABLES OF DUNRIPPLE
    XLV. WHAT SHALL I DO WITH MYSELF?
   XLVI. MR. JAY OF WARMINSTER
  XLVII. SAM BRATTLE IS WANTED
 XLVIII. MARY LOWTHER RETURNS TO BULLHAMPTON
   XLIX. MARY LOWTHER'S DOOM
      L. MARY LOWTHER INSPECTS HER FUTURE HOME
     LI. THE GRINDER AND HIS COMRADE
    LII. CARRY BRATTLE'S JOURNEY
   LIII. THE FATTED CALF
    LIV. MR. GILMORE'S RUBIES
     LV. GLEBE LAND
    LVI. THE VICAR'S VENGEANCE
   LVII. OIL IS TO BE THROWN UPON THE WATERS
  LVIII. EDITH BROWNLOW'S DREAM
    LIX. NEWS FROM DUNRIPPLE
     LX. LORD ST. GEORGE IS VERY CUNNING
    LXI. MARY LOWTHER'S TREACHERY
   LXII. UP AT THE PRIVETS
  LXIII. THE MILLER TELLS HIS TROUBLES
   LXIV. IF I WERE YOUR SISTER!
    LXV. MARY LOWTHER LEAVES BULLHAMPTON
   LXVI. AT THE MILL
  LXVII. SIR GREGORY MARRABLE HAS A HEADACHE
 LXVIII. THE SQUIRE IS VERY OBSTINATE
   LXIX. THE TRIAL
    LXX. THE FATE OF THE PUDDLEHAMITES
   LXXI. THE END OF MARY LOWTHER'S STORY
  LXXII. AT TURNOVER CASTLE
 LXXIII. CONCLUSION




LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS.

   WAITING-ROOM AT THE ASSIZE COURT.               (_frontispiece_)

   "YOU SHOULD GIVE HIM AN ANSWER, DEAR, ONE WAY
   OR THE OTHER."                                      (Chapter II)

   "I THOUGHT I SHOULD CATCH YOU IDLE JUST AT THIS
   MOMENT," SAID THE CLERGYMAN.                        (Chapter VI)

   MR. FENWICK CAME ROUND FROM FARMER TRUMBULL'S
   SIDE OF THE CHURCH, AND GOT OVER THE STILE
   INTO THE CHURCHYARD.                              (Chapter VIII)

   "I HOPE IT WILL BE ALL RIGHT NOW,
   MR. FENWICK," THE GIRL SAID.                        (Chapter XI)

   "HOW DARE YOU MENTION MY DAUGHTERS?"              (Chapter XVII)

   "IT IS ALL BLANK PAPER WITH YOU?"                (Chapter XVIII)

   "I HAVE COME TO SAY A WORD, IF I CAN,
   TO COMFORT YOU."                                 (Chapter XXIII)

   "CARRY," HE SAID, COMING BACK TO HER, "IT
   WASN'T ALL FOR HIM THAT I CAME."                   (Chapter XXV)

   PARSON JOHN AND WALTER MARRABLE.                  (Chapter XXIX)

   MARY LOWTHER WRITES TO WALTER MARRABLE.         (Chapter XXXIII)

   SITE OF MR. PUDDLEHAM'S NEW CHAPEL.            (Chapter XXXVIII)

   "DO COME IN, HARRY."                           (Chapter XXXVIII)

   "I DARE SAY NOT," SAID MR. QUICKENHAM.            (Chapter XLII)

   SUNDAY MORNING AT DUNRIPPLE.                      (Chapter XLIV)

   "WHO ARE YOU, SIR, THAT YOU SHOULD
   INTERPRET MY WORDS?"                             (Chapter XLVII)

   CARRY BRATTLE.                                     (Chapter LII)

   "IF I MAY BIDE WITH YOU,--IF I MAY
   BIDE WITH YOU--."                                 (Chapter LIII)

   MR. QUICKENHAM'S LETTER DISCUSSED.                  (Chapter LV)

   SHE HAD BROUGHT HIM OUT A CUP OF COFFEE.         (Chapter LVIII)

   "IT'S IN HERE, MUSTER FENWICK,--IN HERE."        (Chapter LXIII)

   "OH, FATHER," SHE SAID, "I WILL BE GOOD."         (Chapter LXVI)

   THE DRAWING-ROOM AT TURNOVER CASTLE.             (Chapter LXXII)




THE VICAR OF BULLHAMPTON.



CHAPTER I.

BULLHAMPTON.


[Illustration]

I am disposed to believe that no novel reader in England has seen the
little town of Bullhampton, in Wiltshire, except such novel readers
as live there, and those others, very few in number, who visit it
perhaps four times a year for the purposes of trade, and who are
known as commercial gentlemen. Bullhampton is seventeen miles from
Salisbury, eleven from Marlborough, nine from Westbury, seven from
Haylesbury, and five from the nearest railroad station, which is
called Bullhampton Road, and lies on the line from Salisbury to
Ycovil. It is not quite on Salisbury Plain, but probably was so once,
when Salisbury Plain was wider than it is now. Whether it should be
called a small town or a large village I cannot say. It has no mayor,
and no market, but it has a fair. There rages a feud in Bullhampton
touching this want of a market, as there are certain Bullhamptonites
who aver that the charter giving all rights of a market to
Bullhampton does exist; and that at one period in its history the
market existed also,--for a year or two; but the three bakers and
two butchers are opposed to change; and the patriots of the place,
though they declaim on the matter over their evening pipes and
gin-and-water, have not enough of matutinal zeal to carry out their
purpose. Bullhampton is situated on a little river, which meanders
through the chalky ground, and has a quiet, slow, dreamy prettiness
of its own. A mile above the town,--for we will call it a town,--the
stream divides itself into many streamlets, and there is a district
called the Water Meads, in which bridges are more frequent than
trustworthy, in which there are hundreds of little sluice-gates for
regulating the irrigation, and a growth of grass which is a source
of much anxiety and considerable trouble to the farmers. There is a
water-mill here, too, very low, with ever a floury, mealy look, with
a pasty look often, as the flour becomes damp with the spray of the
water as it is thrown by the mill-wheel. It seems to be a tattered,
shattered, ramshackle concern, but it has been in the same family
for many years; and as the family has not hitherto been in distress,
it may be supposed that the mill still affords a fair means of
livelihood. The Brattles,--for Jacob Brattle is the miller's
name,--have ever been known as men who paid their way, and were able
to hold up their heads. But nevertheless Jacob Brattle is ever at
war with his landlord in regard to repairs wanted for his mill,
and Mr. Gilmore, the landlord in question, declares that he wishes
that the Avon would some night run so high as to carry off the mill
altogether. Bullhampton is very quiet. There is no special trade
in the place. Its interests are altogether agricultural. It has
no newspaper. Its tendencies are altogether conservative. It is
a good deal given to religion; and the Primitive Methodists have
a very strong holding there, although in all Wiltshire there is
not a clergyman more popular in his own parish than the Rev. Frank
Fenwick. He himself, in his inner heart, rather likes his rival,
Mr. Puddleham, the dissenting minister; because Mr. Puddleham is an
earnest man, who, in spite of the intensity of his ignorance, is
efficacious among the poor. But Mr. Fenwick is bound to keep up the
fight; and Mr. Puddleham considers it to be his duty to put down Mr.
Fenwick and the Church Establishment altogether.

The men of Bullhampton, and the women also, are aware that the glory
has departed from them, in that Bullhampton was once a borough, and
returned two members to Parliament. No borough more close, or shall
we say more rotten, ever existed. It was not that the Marquis of
Trowbridge had, what has often delicately been called, an interest in
it; but he held it absolutely in his breeches pocket, to do with it
as he liked; and it had been the liking of the late Marquis to sell
one of the seats at every election to the highest bidder on his side
in politics. Nevertheless, the people of Bullhampton had gloried
in being a borough, and the shame, or at least the regret of their
downfall, had not yet altogether passed away when the tidings of
a new Reform Bill came upon them. The people of Bullhampton are
notoriously slow to learn, and slow to forget. It was told of a
farmer of Bullhampton, in old days, that he asked what had become of
Charles I., when told that Charles II. had been restored. Cromwell
had come and gone, and had not disturbed him at Bullhampton.

At Bullhampton there is no public building, except the church, which
indeed is a very handsome edifice with a magnificent tower, a thing
to go to see, and almost as worthy of a visit as its neighbour the
cathedral at Salisbury. The body of the church is somewhat low, but
its yellow-gray colour is perfect, and there is, moreover, a Norman
door, and there are Early English windows in the aisle, and a
perfection of perpendicular architecture in the chancel, all of which
should bring many visitors to Bullhampton; and there are brasses in
the nave, very curious, and one or two tombs of the Gilmore family,
very rare in their construction, and the churchyard is large and
green, and bowery, with the Avon flowing close under it, and nooks in
it which would make a man wish to die that he might be buried there.
The church and churchyard of Bullhampton are indeed perfect, and yet
but few people go to see it. It has not as yet had its own bard to
sing its praises. Properly it is called Bullhampton Monachorum, the
living having belonged to the friars of Chiltern. The great tithes
now go to the Earl of Todmorden, who has no other interest in the
place whatever, and who never saw it. The benefice belongs to St.
John's, Oxford, and as the vicarage is not worth more than £400 a
year, it happens that a clergyman generally accepts it before he has
lived for twenty or thirty years in the common room of his college.
Mr. Fenwick took it on his marriage, when he was about twenty-seven,
and Bullhampton has been lucky.

The bulk of the parish belongs to the Marquis of Trowbridge, who,
however, has no residence within ten miles of it. The squire of the
parish is Squire Gilmore,--Harry Gilmore,--and he possesses every
acre in it that is not owned by the Marquis. With the village, or
town as it may be, Mr. Gilmore has no concern; but he owns a large
tract of the water meads, and again has a farm or two up on the
downs as you go towards Chiltern. But they lie out of the parish of
Bullhampton. Altogether he is a man of about fifteen hundred a year,
and as he is not as yet married, many a Wiltshire mother's eye is
turned towards Hampton Privets, as Mr. Gilmore's house is, somewhat
fantastically, named.

Mr. Gilmore's character must be made to develope itself in these
pages,--if such developing may be accomplished. He is to be our
hero,--or at least one of two. The author will not, in these early
words, declare that the squire will be his favourite hero, as he
will wish that his readers should form their own opinions on that
matter. At this period he was a man somewhat over thirty,--perhaps
thirty-three years of age, who had done fairly well at Harrow and at
Oxford, but had never done enough to make his friends regard him as a
swan. He still read a good deal; but he shot and fished more than he
read, and had become, since his residence at the Privets, very fond
of the outside of his books. Nevertheless, he went on buying books,
and was rather proud of his library. He had travelled a good deal,
and was a politician,--somewhat scandalising his own tenants and
other Bullhamptonites by voting for the liberal candidates for his
division of the county. The Marquis of Trowbridge did not know him,
but regarded him as an objectionable person, who did not understand
the nature of the duties which devolved upon him as a country
gentleman; and the Marquis himself was always spoken of by Mr.
Gilmore as--an idiot. On these various grounds the squire has
hitherto regarded himself as being a little in advance of other
squires, and has, perhaps, given himself more credit than he has
deserved for intellectuality. But he is a man with a good heart, and
a pure mind, generous, desirous of being just, somewhat sparing of
that which is his own, never desirous of that which is another's. He
is good-looking, though, perhaps, somewhat ordinary in appearance;
tall, strong, with dark-brown hair, and dark-brown whiskers, with
small, quick grey eyes, and teeth which are almost too white and too
perfect for a man. Perhaps it is his greatest fault that he thinks
that as a liberal politician and as an English country gentleman he
has combined in his own position all that is most desirable upon
earth. To have the acres without the acre-laden brains, is, he
thinks, everything.

And now it may be as well told at once that Mr. Gilmore is over head
and ears in love with a young lady to whom he has offered his hand
and all that can be made to appertain to the future mistress of
Hampton Privets. And the lady is one who has nothing to give in
return but her hand, and her heart, and herself. The neighbours all
round the country have been saying for the last five years that Harry
Gilmore was looking out for an heiress; for it has always been told
of Harry, especially among those who have opposed him in politics,
that he had a keen eye for the main chance. But Mary Lowther has not,
and never can have, a penny with which to make up for any deficiency
in her own personal attributes. But Mary is a lady, and Harry Gilmore
thinks her the sweetest woman on whom his eye ever rested. Whatever
resolutions as to fortune-hunting he may have made,--though probably
none were ever made,--they have all now gone to the winds. He is so
absolutely in love that nothing in the world is, to him, at present
worth thinking about except Mary Lowther. I do not doubt that he
would vote for a conservative candidate if Mary Lowther so ordered
him; or consent to go and live in New York if Mary Lowther would
accept him on no other condition. All Bullhampton parish is nothing
to him at the present moment, except as far as it is connected with
Mary Lowther. Hampton Privets is dear to him only as far as it can be
made to look attractive in the eyes of Mary Lowther. The mill is to
be repaired, though he knows he will never get any interest on the
outlay, because Mary Lowther has said that Bullhampton water-meads
would be destroyed if the mill were to tumble down. He has drawn for
himself mental pictures of Mary Lowther till he has invested her with
every charm and grace and virtue that can adorn a woman. In very
truth he believes her to be perfect. He is actually and absolutely in
love. Mary Lowther has hitherto neither accepted nor rejected him.
In a very few lines further on we will tell how the matter stands
between them.

It has already been told that the Rev. Frank Fenwick is Vicar of
Bullhampton. Perhaps he was somewhat guided in his taking of the
living by the fact that Harry Gilmore, the squire of the parish,
had been his very intimate friend at Oxford. Fenwick, at the period
with which we are about to begin our story, had been six years at
Bullhampton, and had been married about five and a half. Of him
something has already been said, and perhaps it may be only necessary
further to state that he is a tall, fair-haired man, already becoming
somewhat bald on the top of his head, with bright eyes, and the
slightest possible amount of whiskers, and a look about his nose and
mouth which seems to imply that he could be severe if he were not so
thoroughly good-humoured. He has more of breeding in his appearance
than his friend,--a show of higher blood; though whence comes such
show, and how one discerns that appearance, few of us can tell. He
was a man who read more and thought more than Harry Gilmore, though
given much to athletics and very fond of field sports. It shall
only further be said of Frank Fenwick that he esteemed both his
churchwardens and his bishop, and was afraid of neither.

His wife had been a Miss Balfour, from Loring, in Gloucestershire,
and had had some considerable fortune. She was now the mother of
four children, and, as Fenwick used to say, might have fourteen for
anything he knew. But as he also had possessed some small means
of his own, there was no poverty, or prospect of poverty at the
vicarage, and the babies were made welcome as they came. Mrs. Fenwick
is as good a specimen of an English country parson's wife as you
shall meet in a county,--gay, good-looking, fond of the society
around her, with a little dash of fun, knowing in blankets and
corduroys and coals and tea; knowing also as to beer and gin and
tobacco; acquainted with every man and woman in the parish; thinking
her husband to be quite as good as the squire in regard to position,
and to be infinitely superior to the squire, or any other man in
the world, in regard to his personal self;--a handsome, pleasant,
well-dressed lady, who has no nonsense about her. Such a one was, and
is, Mrs. Fenwick.

Now the Balfours were considerable people at Loring, though their
property was not county property; and it was always considered that
Janet Balfour might have done better than she did, in a worldly point
of view. Of that, however, little had been said at Loring, because it
soon became known there that she and her husband stood rather well in
the country round about Bullhampton; and when she asked Mary Lowther
to come and stay with her for six months, Mary Lowther's aunt, Miss
Marrable, had nothing to say against the arrangement, although she
herself was a most particular old lady, and always remembered that
Mary Lowther was third or fourth cousin to some earl in Scotland.
Nothing more shall be said of Miss Marrable at present, as it is
expedient, for the sake of the story, that the reader should fix his
attention on Bullhampton till he find himself quite at home there.
I would wish him to know his way among the water meads, to be quite
alive to the fact that the lodge of Hampton Privets is a mile and a
quarter to the north of Bullhampton church, and half a mile across
the fields west from Brattle's mill; that Mr. Fenwick's parsonage
adjoins the churchyard, being thus a little farther from Hampton
Privets than the church; and that there commences Bullhampton street,
with its inn,--the Trowbridge Arms, its four public-houses, its three
bakers, and its two butchers. The bounds of the parsonage run down
to the river, so that the Vicar can catch his trout from his own
bank,--though he much prefers to catch them at distances which admit
of the appurtenances of sport.

Now there must be one word of Mary Lowther, and then the story shall
be commenced. She had come to the vicarage in May, intending to stay
a month, and it was now August, and she had been already three months
with her friend. Everybody said that she was staying because she
intended to become the mistress of Hampton Privets. It was a month
since Harry Gilmore had formally made his offer, and as she had not
refused him, and as she still stayed on, the folk of Bullhampton were
justified in their conclusions. She was a tall girl, with dark brown
hair, which she wore fastened in a knot at the back of her head,
after the simplest fashion. Her eyes were large and grey, and full
of lustre; but they were not eyes which would make you say that Mary
Lowther was especially a bright-eyed girl. They were eyes, however,
which could make you think, when they looked at you, that if Mary
Lowther would only like you, how happy your lot would be,--that if
she would love you, the world would have nothing higher or better to
offer. If you judged her face by any rules of beauty, you would say
that it was too thin; but feeling its influence with sympathy, you
could never wish it to be changed. Her nose and mouth were perfect.
How many little noses there are on young women's faces which of
themselves cannot be said to be things of beauty, or joys for ever,
although they do very well in their places! There is the softness
and colour of youth, and perhaps a dash of fun, and the eyes above
are bright, and the lips below alluring. In the midst of such sweet
charms, what does it matter that the nose be puggish,--or even a
nose of putty, such as you think you might improve in the original
material by a squeeze of your thumb and forefinger? But with Mary
Lowther her nose itself was a feature of exquisite beauty, a feature
that could be eloquent with pity, reverence, or scorn. The curves of
the nostrils, with their almost transparent membranes, told of the
working of the mind within, as every portion of human face should
tell--in some degree. And the mouth was equally expressive, though
the lips were thin. It was a mouth to watch, and listen to, and read
with curious interest, rather than a mouth to kiss. Not but that
the desire to kiss would come, when there might be a hope to kiss
with favour;--but they were lips which no man would think to ravage
in boisterous play. It might have been said that there was a want
of capability for passion in her face, had it not been for the
well-marked dimple in her little chin,--that soft couch in which one
may be always sure, when one sees it, that some little imp of Love
lies hidden.

It has already been said that Mary Lowther was tall,--taller than
common. Her back was as lovely a form of womanhood as man's eye ever
measured and appreciated. Her movements, which were never naturally
quick, had a grace about them which touched men and women alike. It
was the very poetry of motion; but its chief beauty consisted in
this, that it was what it was by no effort of her own. We have all
seen those efforts, and it may be that many of us have liked them
when they have been made on our own behalf. But no man as yet could
ever have felt himself to be so far flattered by Miss Lowther. Her
dress was very plain; as it became her that it should be, for she was
living on the kindness of an aunt who was herself not a rich woman.
But it may be doubted whether dress could have added much to her
charms.

She was now turned one-and-twenty, and though, doubtless, there were
young men at Loring who had sighed for her smiles, no young man had
sighed with any efficacy. It must be acknowledged, indeed, that she
was not a girl for whom the most susceptible of young men would sigh.
Young men given to sigh are generally attracted by some outward and
visible sign of softness which may be taken as an indication that
sighing will produce some result, however small. At Loring it was
said that Mary Lowther was cold and repellent, and, on that account,
one who might very probably descend to the shades as an old maid in
spite of the beauty of which she was the acknowledged possessor. No
enemy, no friend, had ever accused her of being a flirt.

Such as she was, Harry Gilmore's passion for her much astonished his
friends. Those who knew him best had thought that, as regarded his
fate matrimonial,--or non-matrimonial,--there were three chances
before him: he might carry out their presumed intention of marrying
money; or he might become the sudden spoil of the bow and spear of
some red-cheeked lass; or he might walk on as an old bachelor, too
cautious to be caught at all. But none believed that he would become
the victim of a grand passion for a poor, reticent, high-bred,
high-minded specimen of womanhood. Such, however, was now his
condition.

He had an uncle, a clergyman, living at Salisbury, a prebendary
there, who was a man of the world, and in whom Harry trusted more
than in any other member of his own family. His mother had been
the sister of the Rev. Henry Fitzackerly Chamberlaine; and as Mr.
Chamberlaine had never married, much of his solicitude was bestowed
upon his nephew.

"Don't, my dear fellow," had been the prebendary's advice when he was
taken over to see Miss Lowther. "She is a lady, no doubt; but you
would never be your own master, and you would be a poor man till you
died. An easy temper and a little money are almost as common in our
rank of life as destitution and obstinacy." On the day after this
advice was given, Harry Gilmore made his formal offer.




CHAPTER II.

FLO'S RED BALL.


"You should give him an answer, dear, one way or the other." These
wise words were spoken by Mrs. Fenwick to her friend as they sat
together, with their work in their hands, on a garden seat under a
cedar tree. It was an August evening after dinner, and the Vicar was
out about his parish. The two elder children were playing in the
garden, and the two young women were alone together.


[Illustration: "You should give him an answer, dear, one way
or the other."]


"Of course I shall give him an answer. What answer does he wish?"

"You know what answer he wishes. If any man was ever in earnest he
is."

"Am I not doing the best I can for him then in waiting--to see
whether I can say yes?"

"It cannot be well for him to be in suspense on such a matter; and,
dear Mary, it cannot be well for you either. One always feels that
when a girl bids a man to wait, she will take him after a while. It
always comes to that. If you had been at home at Loring, the time
would not have been much; but, being so near to him, and seeing him
every day, must be bad. You must both be in a state of fever."

"Then I will go back to Loring."

"No; not now, till you have positively made up your mind, and given
him an answer one way or the other. You could not go now and leave
him in doubt. Take him at once, and have done with it. He is as good
as gold."

In answer to this, Mary for a while said nothing, but went sedulously
on with her work.

"Mamma," said a little girl, running up, followed by a nursery-maid,
"the ball's in the water!"

The child was a beautiful fair-haired little darling about
four-and-a-half years old, and a boy, a year younger, and a little
shorter, and a little stouter, was toddling after her.

"The ball in the water, Flo! Can't Jim get it out?"

"Jim's gone, mamma."

Then Jane, the nursery-maid, proceeded to explain that the ball had
rolled in and had been carried down the stream to some bushes, and
that it was caught there just out of reach of all that she, Jane,
could do with a long stick for its recovery. Jim, the gardener, was
not to be found; and they were in despair lest the ball should become
wet through and should perish.

Mary at once saw her opportunity of escape,--her opportunity for that
five minutes of thought by herself which she needed. "I'll come, Flo,
and see what can be done," said Mary.

"Do; 'cause you is so big," said the little girl.

"We'll see if my long arms won't do as well as Jim's," said Mary;
"only Jim would go in, perhaps, which I certainly shall not do." Then
she took Flo by the hand, and together they ran down to the margin of
the river.

There lay the treasure, a huge red inflated ball, just stopped in its
downward current by a short projecting stick. Jim could have got it
certainly, because he could have suspended himself over the stream
from a bough, and could have dislodged the ball, and have floated it
on to the bank.

"Lean over, Mary,--a great deal, and we'll hold you," said Flo, to
whom her ball was at this moment worth any effort. Mary did lean
over, and poked at it, and at last thought that she would trust
herself to the bough, as Jim would have done, and became more
and more venturous, and at last touched the ball, and then, at
last,--fell into the river! Immediately there was a scream and a
roar, and a splashing about of skirts and petticoats, and by the
time that Mrs. Fenwick was on the bank, Mary Lowther had extricated
herself, and had triumphantly brought out Flo's treasure with her.

"Mary, are you hurt?" said her friend.

"What should hurt me? Oh dear, oh dear! I never fell into a river
before. My darling Flo, don't be unhappy. It's such good fun. Only
you mustn't fall in yourself, till you're as big as I am." Flo was in
an agony of tears, not deigning to look at the rescued ball.

"You do not mean that your head has been under?" said Mrs. Fenwick.

"My face was, and I felt so odd. For about half a moment I had a
sound of Ophelia in my ears. Then I was laughing at myself for being
such a goose."

"You'd better come up and go to bed, dear; and I'll get you something
warm."

"I won't go to bed, and I won't have anything warm; but I will change
my clothes. What an adventure! What will Mr. Fenwick say?"

"What will Mr. Gilmore say?" To this Mary Lowther made no answer, but
went straight up to the house, and into her room, and changed her
clothes.

While she was there Fenwick and Gilmore both appeared at the open
window of the drawing-room in which Mrs. Fenwick was sitting. She had
known well enough that Harry Gilmore would not let the evening pass
without coming to the vicarage, and at one time had hoped to persuade
Mary Lowther to give her verdict on this very day. Both she and her
husband were painfully anxious that Harry might succeed. Fenwick had
loved the man dearly for many years, and Janet Fenwick had loved him
since she had known him as her husband's friend. They both felt that
he was showing more of manhood than they had expected from him in the
persistency of his love, and that he deserved his reward. And they
both believed also that for Mary herself it would be a prosperous and
a happy marriage. And then, where is the married woman who does not
wish that the maiden friend who comes to stay with her should find a
husband in her house? The parson and his wife were altogether of one
mind in this matter, and thought that Mary Lowther ought to be made
to give herself to Harry Gilmore.

"What do you think has happened?" said Mrs. Fenwick, coming to the
window, which opened down to the ground. "Mary Lowther has fallen
into the river."

"Fallen where?" shouted Gilmore, putting up both his hands, and
seeming to prepare himself to rush away among the river gods in
search of his love.

"Don't be alarmed, Mr. Gilmore, she's upstairs, quite safe,--only she
has had a ducking." Then the circumstances were explained, and the
papa declared magisterially that Flo must not play any more with her
ball near the river,--an order to which it was not probable that much
close attention would ever be paid.

"I suppose Miss Lowther will have gone to bed?" said Gilmore.

"On the contrary, I expect her every moment. I suggested bed, and
warm drinks, and cossetting; but she would have none of it. She
scrambled out all by herself, and seemed to think it very good fun."

"Come in at any rate and have some tea," said the Vicar. "If you
start before eleven, I'll walk half the way back with you."

In the mean time, in spite of her accident, Mary had gained the
opportunity that she had required. The point for self-meditation was
not so much whether she would or would not accept Mr. Gilmore now,
as that other point;--was she or was she not wrong to keep him in
suspense. She knew very well that she would not accept him now. It
seemed to her that a girl should know a man very thoroughly before
she would be justified in trusting herself altogether to his hands,
and she thought that her knowledge of Mr. Gilmore was insufficient.
It might however be the case that in such circumstances duty required
her to give him at once an unhesitating answer. She did not find
herself to be a bit nearer to knowing him and to loving him than she
was a month since. Her friend Janet had complained again and again of
the suspense to which she was subjecting the man;--but she knew on
the other hand that her friend Janet did this in her intense anxiety
to promote the match. Was it wrong to say to the man--"I will wait
and try?" Her friend told her that to say that she would wait and
try, was in truth to say that she would take him at some future
time;--that any girl who said so had almost committed herself to
such a decision;--that the very fact that she was waiting and trying
to love a man ought to bind her to the man at last. Such certainly
had not been her own idea. As far as she could at present look into
her own future feelings, she did not think that she could ever
bring herself to say that she would be this man's wife. There was a
solemnity about the position which had never come fully home to her
before she had been thus placed. Everybody around her told her that
the man's happiness was really bound up in her reply. If this were
so,--and she in truth believed that it was so,--was she not bound
to give him every chance in her power? And yet because she still
doubted, she was told by her friend that she was behaving badly! She
would believe her friend, would confess her fault, and would tell her
lover in what most respectful words of denial she could mould, that
she would not be his wife. For herself personally, there would be no
sorrow in this, and no regret.

Her ducking had given her time for all this thought; and then, having
so decided, she went downstairs. She was met, of course, with various
inquiries about her bath. Mr. Gilmore was all pity, as though the
accident were the most serious thing in the world. Mr. Fenwick
was all mirth, as though there had never been a better joke. Mrs.
Fenwick, who was perhaps unwise in her impatience, was specially
anxious that her two guests might be left together. She did not
believe that Mary Lowther would ever say the final No; and yet she
thought also that, if it were so, the time had quite come in which
Mary Lowther ought to say the final Yes.

"Let us go down and look at the spot," she said, after tea.

So they went down. It was a beautiful August night. There was no
moon, and the twilight was over; but still it was not absolutely
dark; and the air was as soft as a mother's kiss to her sleeping
child. They walked down together, four abreast, across the lawn, and
thence they reached a certain green orchard path that led down to the
river. Mrs. Fenwick purposely went on with the lover, leaving Mary
with her husband, in order that there might be no appearance of a
scheme. She would return with her husband, and then there might be a
ramble among the paths, and the question would be pressed, and the
thing might be settled.

They saw through the gloom the spot where Mary had scrambled, and
the water which had then been bright and smiling, was now black and
awful.

"To think that you should have been in there!" said Harry Gilmore,
shuddering.

"To think that she should ever have got out again!" said the parson.

"It looks frightful in the dark," said Mrs. Fenwick. "Come away,
Frank. It makes me sick." And the charming schemer took her husband's
arm, and continued the round of the garden. "I have been talking to
her, and I think she would take him if he would ask her now."

The other pair of course followed them. Mary's mind was so fully made
up, at this moment, that she almost wished that her companion might
ask the question. She had been told that she was misusing him; and
she would misuse him no longer. She had a firm No, as it were, within
her grasp, and a resolution that she would not be driven from it. But
he walked on beside her talking of the water, and of the danger, and
of the chance of a cold, and got no nearer to the subject than to
bid her think what suffering she would have caused had she failed
to extricate herself from the pool. He also had made up his mind.
Something had been said by himself of a certain day when last he had
pleaded his cause; and that day would not come round till the morrow.
He considered himself pledged to restrain himself till then; but on
the morrow he would come to her.

There was a little gate which led from the parsonage garden through
the churchyard to a field path, by which was the nearest way to
Hampton Privets.

"I'll leave you here," he said, "because I don't want to make Fenwick
come out again to-night. You won't mind going up through the garden
alone?"

"Oh dear, no."

"And, Miss Lowther,--pray, pray take care of yourself. I hardly think
you ought to have been out again to-night."

"It was nothing, Mr. Gilmore. You make infinitely too much of it."

"How can I make too much of anything that regards you? You will be at
home to-morrow?"

"Yes, I fancy so."

"Do remain at home. I intend to come down after lunch. Do remain at
home." He held her by the hand as he spoke to her, and she promised
him that she would obey him. He clearly was entitled to her obedience
on such a point. Then she slowly made her way round the garden, and
entered the house at the front door, some quarter of an hour after
the others.

Why should she refuse him? What was it that she wanted in the world?
She liked him, his manners, his character, his ways, his mode of
life, and after a fashion she liked his person. If there was more of
love in the world than this, she did not think that it would ever
come in her way. Up to this time of her life she had never felt any
such feeling. If not for her own sake, why should she not do it for
him? Why should he not be made happy? She had risked a plunge in the
water to get Flo her ball, and she liked him better than she liked
Flo. It seemed that her mind had been altogether changed by that
stroll through the dark alleys.

"Well," said Janet, "how is it to be?"

"He is to come to-morrow, and I do not know how it will be," she
said, turning away to her own room.




CHAPTER III.

SAM BRATTLE.


It was about eleven o'clock when Gilmore passed through the wicket
leading from the vicarage garden to the churchyard. The path he was
about to take crossed simply a corner of the church precincts, as it
came at once upon a public footway leading from the fields through
the churchyard to the town. There was, of course, no stopping the
public path, but Fenwick had been often advised to keep a lock on his
own gate, as otherwise it almost seemed that the vicarage gardens
were open to all Bullhampton. But the lock had never been put on. The
gate was the way by which he and his family went to the church, and
the parson was accustomed to say that however many keys there might
be provided, he knew that there would never be one in his pocket
when he wanted it. And he was wont to add, when his wife would tease
him on the subject, that they who desired to come in decently were
welcome, and that they who were minded to make an entrance indecently
would not be debarred by such rails and fences as hemmed in the
vicarage grounds. Gilmore, as he passed through the corner of the
churchyard, clearly saw a man standing near to the stile leading from
the fields. Indeed, this man was quite close to him, although, from
the want of light and the posture of the man, the face was invisible
to him. But he knew the fellow to be a stranger to Bullhampton. The
dress was strange, the manner was strange, and the mode of standing
was strange. Gilmore had lived at Bullhampton all his life, and,
without much thought on the subject, knew Bullhampton ways. The
jacket which the man wore was a town-made jacket, a jacket that had
come farther a-field even than Salisbury; and the man's gaiters had a
savour which was decidedly not of Wiltshire. Dark as it was, he could
see so much as this. "Good night, my friend," said Gilmore, in a
sharp cheery voice. The man muttered something, and passed on as
though to the village. There had, however, been something in his
position which made Gilmore think that the stranger had intended
to trespass on his friend's garden. He crossed the stile into the
fields, however, without waiting,--without having waited for half a
moment, and immediately saw the figure of a second man standing down,
hidden as it were in the ditch; and though he could discover no more
than the cap and shoulders of the man through the gloom, he was sure
he knew who it was that owned the cap and shoulders. He did not speak
again, but passed on quickly, thinking what he might best do. The
man whom he had seen and recognised had latterly been talked of as a
discredit to his family, and anything but an honour to the usually
respectable inhabitants of Bullhampton.

On the further side of the church from the town was a farmyard, in
the occupation of one of Lord Trowbridge's tenants,--a man who had
ever been very keen at preventing the inroads of trespassers, to
which he had, perhaps, been driven by the fact that his land was
traversed by various public pathways. Now a public pathway through
pasture is a nuisance, as it is impossible to induce those who use
it to keep themselves to one beaten track; but a pathway through
cornfields is worse, for, let what pains may be taken, wheat,
beans, and barley will be torn down and trampled under foot. And
yet in apportioning his rents, no landlord takes all this into
consideration. Farmer Trumbull considered it a good deal, and was
often a wrathful man. There was at any rate no right of way across
his farmyard, and here he might keep as big a dog as he chose,
chained or unchained. Harry Gilmore knew the dog well, and stood for
a moment leaning on the gate.

"Who be there?" said the voice of the farmer.

"Is that you, Mr. Trumbull? It is I,--Mr. Gilmore. I want to get
round to the front of the parson's house."

"Zurely, zurely," said the farmer, coming forward and opening the
gate. "Be there anything wrong about, Squire?"

"I don't know. I think there is. Speak softly. I fancy there are men
lying in the churchyard."

"I be a-thinking so, too, Squire. Bone'm was a growling just now like
the old 'un." Bone'm was the name of the bull-dog as to which Gilmore
had been solicitous as he looked over the gate. "What is't t'ey're up
to? Not bugglary?"

"Our friend's apricots, perhaps. But I'll just move round to the
front. Do you and Bone'm keep a look-out here."

"Never fear, Squire; never fear. Me and Bone'm together is a'most too
much for 'em, bugglars and all." Then he led Mr. Gilmore through the
farmyard, and out on to the road, Bone'm growling a low growl as he
passed away.

The Squire hurried along the high road, past the church, and in at
the Vicarage front gate. Knowing the place well, he could have made
his way round into the garden; but he thought it better to go to
the front door. There was no light to be seen from the windows; but
almost all the rooms of the house looked out into the garden at the
back. He knocked sharply, and in a minute or two the door was opened
by the parson in person.

"Frank," said the Squire.

"Halloo! is that you? What's up now?"

"Men who ought to be in bed. I came across two men hanging about your
gate in the churchyard, and I'm not sure there wasn't a third."

"They're up to nothing. They often sit and smoke there."

"These fellows were up to something. The man I saw plainest was a
stranger, and just the sort of man who won't do your parishioners any
good to be among them. The other was Sam Brattle."

"Whew--w--w," said the parson.

"He has gone utterly to the dogs," said the Squire.

"He's on the road, Harry; but nobody has gone while he's still going.
I had some words with him in his father's presence last week, and
he followed me afterwards, and told me he'd see it out with me. I
wouldn't tell you, because I didn't want to set you more against
them."

"I wish they were out of the place,--the whole lot of them."

"I don't know that they'd do better elsewhere than here. I suppose
Mr. Sam is going to keep his word with me."

"Only for the look of that other fellow, I shouldn't think they meant
anything serious," said Gilmore.

"I don't suppose they do, but I'll be on the look-out."

"Shall I stay with you, Frank?"

"Oh, no; I've a life-preserver, and I'll take a round of the gardens.
You come with me, and you can pass home that way. The chances
are they'll mizzle away to bed, as they've seen you, and heard
Bone'm,--and probably heard too every word you said to Trumbull."

He then got his hat and the short, thick stick of which he had
spoken, and turning the key of the door, put it in his pocket. Then
the two friends went round by the kitchen garden, and so through to
the orchard, and down to the churchyard gate. Hitherto they had seen
nothing, and heard nothing, and Fenwick was sure that the men had
made their way through the churchyard to the village.

"But they may come back," said Gilmore.

"I'll be about if they do," said the parson.

"What is one against three? You had better let me stay."

Fenwick laughed at this, saying that it would be quite as rational to
propose that they should keep watch every night.

"But, hark!" said the Squire, with a mind evidently perturbed.

"Don't you be alarmed about us," said the parson.

"If anything should happen to Mary Lowther!"

"That, no doubt, is matter of anxiety, to which may, perhaps, be
added some trifle of additional feeling on the score of Janet and the
children. But I'll do my best. If the women knew that you and I were
patrolling the place, they'd be frightened out of their wits."

Then Gilmore, who never liked that there should be a laugh against
himself, took his leave and walked home across the fields. Fenwick
passed up through the garden, and, when he was near the terrace which
ran along the garden front of the house, he thought that he heard
a voice. He stood under the shade of a wall dark with ivy, and
distinctly heard whispering on the other side of it. As far as he
could tell there were the voices of more than two men. He wished now
that he had kept Gilmore with him,--not that he was personally afraid
of the trespassers, for his courage was of that steady settled kind
which enables the possessor to remember that men who are doing deeds
of darkness are ever afraid of those whom they are injuring; but had
there been an ally with him his prospect of catching one or more of
the ruffians would have been greatly increased. Standing where he was
he would probably be able to interrupt them, should they attempt to
enter the house; but in the mean time they might be stripping his
fruit from the wall. They were certainly, at present, in the kitchen
garden, and he was not minded to leave them there at such work as
they might have in hand. Having paused to think of this, he crept
along under the wall, close to the house, towards the passage by
which he could reach them. But they had not heard him, nor had they
waited among the fruit. When he was near the corner of the wall, one
leading man came round within a foot or two of the spot on which he
stood; and, before he could decide on what he would do, the second
had appeared. He rushed forward with the loaded stick in his hand,
but, knowing its weight, and remembering the possibility of the
comparative innocence of the intruders, he hesitated to strike. A
blow on the head would have brained a man, and a knock on the arm
with such an instrument would break the bone. In a moment he found
his left hand on the leading man's throat, and the man's foot behind
his heel. He fell, but as he fell he did strike heavily, cutting
upwards with his weapon, and bringing the heavy weight of lead at the
end of it on to the man's shoulder. He stumbled rather than fell, but
when he regained his footing, the man was gone. That man was gone,
and two others were following him down towards the gate at the bottom
of the orchard. Of these two, in a few strides, he was able to catch
the hindermost, and then he found himself wrestling with Sam Brattle.

"Sam," said he, speaking as well as he could with his short breath,
"if you don't stand, I'll strike you with the life-preserver."

Sam made another struggle, trying to seize the weapon, and the parson
hit him with it on the right arm.

"You've smashed that anyway, Mr. Fenwick," said the man.

"I hope not; but do you come along with me quietly, or I'll smash
something else. I'll hit you on the head if you attempt to move away.
What were you doing here?"

Brattle made no answer, but walked along towards the house at the
parson's left hand, the parson holding him the while by the neck of
his jacket, and swinging the life-preserver in his right hand. In
this way he took him round to the front of the house, and then began
to think what he would do with him.

"That, after all, you should be at this work, Sam!"

"What work is it, then?"

"Prowling about my place, after midnight, with a couple of strange
blackguards."

"There ain't so much harm in that, as I knows of."

"Who were the men, Sam?"

"Who was the men?"

"Yes;--who were they?"

"Just friends of mine, Mr. Fenwick. I shan't say no more about 'em.
You've got me, and you've smashed my arm, and now what is it you're
a-going to do with me? I ain't done no harm,--only just walked about,
like."

To tell the truth, our friend the parson did not quite know what he
meant to do with the Tartar he had caught. There were reasons which
made him very unwilling to hand over Sam Brattle to the village
constable. Sam had a mother and sister who were among the Vicar's
first favourites in the parish; and though old Jacob Brattle, the
father, was not so great a favourite, and was a man whom the Squire,
his landlord, held in great disfavour, Mr. Fenwick would desire, if
possible, to spare the family. And of Sam, himself, he had had high
hopes, though those hopes, for the last eighteen months had been
becoming fainter and fainter. Upon the whole, he was much averse to
knocking up the groom, the only man who lived on the parsonage except
himself, and dragging Sam into the village. "I wish I knew," he said,
"what you and your friends were going to do. I hardly think it has
come to that with you, that you'd try to break into the house and cut
our throats."

"We warn't after no breaking in, nor no cutting of throats, Mr.
Fenwick. We warn't indeed!"

"What shall you do with yourself, to-night, if I let you off?"

"Just go home to father's, sir; not a foot else, s'help me."

"One of your friends, as you call them, will have to go to the
doctor, if I am not very much mistaken; for the rap I gave you was
nothing to what he got. You're all right?"

"It hurt, sir, I can tell ye;--but that won't matter."

"Well, Sam,--there; you may go. I shall be after you to-morrow, and
the last word I say to you, to-night, is this;--as far as I can see,
you're on the road to the gallows. It isn't pleasant to be hung, and
I would advise you to change your road." So saying, he let go his
hold, and stood waiting till Sam should have taken his departure.

"Don't be a-coming after me, to-morrow, parson, please," said the
man.

"I shall see your mother, certainly."

"Dont'ee tell her of my being here, Mr. Fenwick, and nobody shan't
ever come anigh this place again,--not in the way of prigging
anything."

"You fool, you!" said the parson. "Do you think that it is to save
anything that I might lose, that I let you go now? Don't you know
that the thing I want to save is you,--you,--you; you helpless, idle,
good-for-nothing reprobate? Go home, and be sure that I shall do the
best I can according to my lights. I fear that my lights are bad
lights, in that they have allowed me to let you go."

When he had seen Sam take his departure through the front gate, he
returned to the house, and found that his wife, who had gone to bed,
had come down-stairs in search of him.

"Frank, you have frightened me so terribly! Where have you been?"

"Thief-catching. And I'm afraid I've about split one fellow's back. I
caught another, but I let him go."

"What on earth do you mean, Frank?"

Then he told her the whole story,--how Gilmore had seen the men, and
had come up to him; how he had gone out and had a tussle with one
man, whom he had, as he thought, hurt; and how he had then caught
another, while the third escaped.

"We ain't safe in our beds, then," said the wife.

"You ain't safe in yours, my dear, because you chose to leave it; but
I hope you're safe out of it. I doubt whether the melons and peaches
are safe. The truth is, there ought to be a gardener's cottage on
the place, and I must build one. I wonder whether I hurt that fellow
much. I seemed to hear the bone crunch."

"Oh, Frank!"

"But what could I do? I got that thing because I thought it safer
than a pistol, but I really think it's worse. I might have murdered
them all, if I'd lost my temper,--and just for half-a-dozen
apricots!"

"And what became of the man you took?"

"I let him go."

"Without doing anything to him?"

"Well; he got a tap too."

"Did you know him?"

"Yes, I knew him,--well."

"Who was he, Frank?"

The parson was silent for a moment, and then he answered her. "It was
Sam Brattle."

"Sam Brattle, coming to rob?"

"He's been at it, I fear, for months, in some shape."

"And what shall you do?"

"I hardly know as yet. It would about kill her and Fanny, if they
were told all that I suspect. They are stiff-necked, obstinate,
ill-conditioned people--that is, the men. But I think Gilmore has
been a little hard on them. The father and brother are honest men.
Come;--we'll go to bed."




CHAPTER IV.

THERE IS NO ONE ELSE.


On the following morning there was of course a considerable amount
of conversation at the Vicarage as to the affairs of the previous
evening. There was first of all an examination of the fruit; but as
this was made without taking Jem the gardener into confidence, no
certain conclusion could be reached. It was clear, however, that no
robbery for the purpose of sale had been made. An apricot or two
might have been taken, and perhaps an assault made on an unripe
peach. Mr. Fenwick was himself nearly sure that garden spoliation was
not the purpose of the assailants, though it suited him to let his
wife entertain that idea. The men would hardly have come from the
kitchen garden up to the house and round the corner at which he had
met them, if they were seeking fruit. Presuming it to have been their
intention to attempt the drawing-room windows, he would have expected
to meet them as he did meet them. From the garden the Vicar and the
two ladies went down to the gate, and from thence over the stile to
Farmer Trumbull's farmyard. The farmer had not again seen the men,
after the Squire had left him, nor had he heard them. To him the
parson said nothing of his encounter, and nothing of that blow on
the man's back. From thence Mr. Fenwick went on to the town, and the
ladies returned to the Vicarage.

The only person whom the parson at once consulted was the
surgeon,--Dr. Cuttenden, as he was called. No man with an injured
shoulder-blade had come to him last night or that morning. A man, he
said, might receive a very violent blow on his back, in the manner
in which the fellow had been struck, and might be disabled for days
from any great personal exertion, without having a bone broken.
If the blade of his shoulder were broken, the man--so thought the
doctor--could not travel far on foot, would hardly be able to get
away to any of the neighbouring towns unless he were carried. Of
Sam Brattle the parson said nothing to the doctor; but when he had
finished his morning's work about the town, he walked on to the mill.

In the mean time the two ladies remained at home at the Parsonage.
The excitement occasioned by the events of the previous night was
probably a little damaged by the knowledge that Mr. Gilmore was
coming. The coming of Mr. Gilmore on this occasion was so important
that even the terrible idea of burglars, and the sensation arising
from the use of that deadly weapon which had been produced at the
breakfast table during the morning, were robbed of some of their
interest. They did not keep possession of the minds of the two ladies
as they would have done had there been no violent interrupting cause.
But here was the violent interrupting cause, and by the time that
lunch was on the table, Sam Brattle and his comrades were forgotten.

Very little was said between the two women on that morning respecting
Mr. Gilmore. Mrs. Fenwick, who had allowed herself to be convinced
that Mary would act with great impropriety if she did not accept
the man, thought that further speech might only render her friend
obstinate. Mary, who knew the inside of her friend's mind very
clearly, and who loved and respected her friend, could hardly fix her
own mind. During the past night it had been fixed, or nearly fixed,
two different ways. She had first determined that she would refuse
her lover,--as to which resolve, for some hours or so, she had been
very firm; then that she would accept him,--as to which she had
ever, when most that way inclined, entertained some doubt as to the
possibility of her uttering that word "Yes."

"If it be that other women don't love better than I love him, I
wonder that they ever get married at all," she said to herself.

She was told that she was wrong to keep the man in suspense, and she
believed it. Had she not been so told, she would have thought that
some further waiting would have been of the three alternatives the
best.

"I shall be upstairs with the bairns," said Mrs. Fenwick, as she left
the dining-room after lunch, "so that if you prefer the garden to the
drawing-room, it will be free."

"Oh dear, how solemn and ceremonious you make it."

"It is solemn, Mary; I don't know how anything can be more solemn,
short of going to heaven or the other place. But I really don't see
why there should be any doubt or difficulty."

There was something in the tone in which these words were said which
almost made Mary Lowther again decide against the man. The man had a
home and an income, and was Squire of the parish; and therefore there
need be no difficulty! When she compared Mr. Fenwick and Mr. Gilmore
together, she found that she liked Mr. Fenwick the best. She thought
him to be the more clever, the higher spirited, the most of a man of
the two. She certainly was not the least in love with her friend's
husband; but then she was just as little in love with Mr. Gilmore.

At about half-past two Mr. Gilmore made his appearance, standing at
the open window.

"May I come in?" he said.

"Of course you may come in."

"Mrs. Fenwick is not here?"

"She is in the house, I think, if you want her."

"Oh no. I hope you were not frightened last night. I have not seen
Frank this morning; but I hear from Mr. Trumbull that there was
something of a row."

"There was a row, certainly. Mr. Fenwick struck some of the men, and
he is afraid that he hurt one of them."

"I wish he had broken their heads. I take it there was a son of one
of my tenants there, who is about as bad as he can be. Frank will
believe me now. I hope you were not frightened here."

"I heard nothing of it till this morning."

After that there was a pause. He had told himself as he came along
that the task before him could not be easy and pleasant. To declare a
passion to the girl he loves may be very pleasant work to the man who
feels almost sure that his answer will not be against him. It may be
an easy task enough even when there is a doubt. The very possession
of the passion,--or even its pretence,--gives the man a liberty which
he has a pleasure and a pride in using. But this is the case when the
man dashes boldly at his purpose without preconcerted arrangements.
Such pleasure, if it ever was a pleasure to him,--such excitement at
least, was come and gone with Harry Gilmore. He had told his tale,
and had been desired to wait. Now he had come again at a fixed hour
to be informed--like a servant waiting for a place--whether it was
thought that he would suit. The servant out of place, however, would
have had this advantage, that he would receive his answer without the
necessity of further eloquence on his own part. With the lover it was
different. It was evident that Mary Lowther would not say to him, "I
have considered the matter, and I think that, upon the whole, you
will do." It was necessary that he should ask the question again, and
ask it as a suppliant.

"Mary," he said, beginning with words that he had fixed for himself
as he came up the garden, "it is six weeks, I think, since I asked
you to be my wife; and now I have come to ask you again."

She made him no immediate answer, but sat as though waiting for some
further effort of his eloquence.

"I do not think you doubt my truth, or the warmth of my affection. If
you trust in them--"

"I do; I do."

"Then I don't know that I can say anything further. Nothing that
I can say now will make you love me. I have not that sort of power
which would compel a girl to come into my arms."

"I don't understand that kind of power,--how any man can have it with
any girl."

"They say that it is so; but I do not flatter myself that it is so
with me; and I do not think that it would be so with any man over
you. Perhaps I may assure you that, as far as I know myself at
present, all my future happiness must depend on your answer. It will
not kill me--to be refused; at least, I suppose not. But it will make
me wish that it would." Having so spoken he waited for her reply.

She believed every word that he said. And she liked him so well that,
for his own sake, she desired that he might be gratified. As far as
she knew herself, she had no desire to be Harry Gilmore's wife. The
position was not even one in which she could allow herself to look
for consolation on one side, for disappointments on the other. She
had read about love, and talked about love; and she desired to be
in love. Certainly she was not in love with this man. She had begun
to doubt whether it would ever be given to her to love,--to love as
her friend Janet loved Frank Fenwick. Janet loved her husband's very
footsteps, and seemed to eat with his palate, hear with his ears, and
see with his eyes. She was, as it were, absolutely a bone from her
husband's rib. Mary thought that she was sure that she could never
have that same feeling towards Henry Gilmore. And yet it might come;
or something might come which would do almost as well. It was likely
that Janet's nature was softer and sweeter than her own,--more prone
to adapt itself, like ivy to a strong tree. For herself, it might be,
that she could never become as the ivy; but that, nevertheless, she
might be the true wife of a true husband. But if ever she was to be
the true wife of Harry Gilmore, she could not to-day say that it
should be so.

"I suppose I must answer you," she said, very gently.

"If you tell me that you are not ready to do so I will wait, and come
again. I shall never change my mind. You may be sure of that."

"But that is just what I may not do, Mr. Gilmore."

"Who says so?"

"My own feelings tell me so. I have no right to keep you in suspense,
and I will not do it. I respect and esteem you most honestly. I have
so much liking for you that I do not mind owning that I wish that it
were more. Mr. Gilmore, I like you so much that I would make a great
sacrifice for you; but I cannot sacrifice my own honesty or your
happiness by making believe that I love you."

For a few moments he sat silent, and then there came over his face a
look of inexpressible anguish,--a look as though the pain were almost
more than he could bear. She could not keep her eyes from his face;
and, in her woman's pity, she almost wished that her words had been
different.

"And must that be all?" he asked.

"What else can I say, Mr. Gilmore?"

"If that must be all, it will be to me a doom that I shall not know
how to bear. I cannot live here without you. I have thought about you
till you have become mixed with every tree and every cottage about
the place. I did not know of myself that I could become such a slave
to a passion. Mary, say that you will wait again. Try it once more.
I would not ask for this, but that you have told me that there was no
one else."

"Certainly, there is no one else."

"Then let me wait again. It can do you no harm. If there should come
any man more fortunate than I am, you can tell me, and I shall know
that it is over. I ask no sacrifice from you, and no pledge; but I
give you mine. I shall not change."

"There must be no such promise, Mr. Gilmore."

"But there is the promise. I certainly shall not change. When three
months are over I will come to you again."

She tried to think whether she was bound to tell him that her answer
must be taken as final, or whether she might allow the matter to
stand as he proposed, with some chance of a result that might be good
for him. On one point she was quite sure,--that if she left him now,
with an understanding that he should again renew his offer after a
period of three months, she must go away from Bullhampton. If there
was any possibility that she should learn to love him, such feeling
would arise within her more quickly in his absence than in his
presence. She would go home to Loring, and try to bring herself to
accept him.

"I think," she said, "that what we now say had better be the last of
it."

"It shall not be the last of it. I will try again. What is there that
I can do, so that I may make myself worthy of you?"

"It is no question of worthiness, Mr. Gilmore. Who can say how his
heart is moved,--and why? I shall go home to Loring; and you may be
sure of this, that if there be anything that you should hear of me, I
will let you know."

Then he took her hand in his own, held it for a while, pressed it to
his lips, and left her. She was by no means contented with herself,
and, to tell the truth, was ashamed to let her friend know what she
had done. And yet how could she have answered him in other words? It
might be that she could teach herself to be contented with the amount
of regard which she entertained for him. It might be that she could
persuade herself to be his wife; and if so, why should he not have
the chance,--the chance which he professed that he was so anxious to
retain? He had paid her the greatest compliment which a man can pay a
woman, and she owed him everything,--except herself. She was hardly
sure even now that if the proposition had come to her by letter the
answer might not have been of a different nature.

As soon as he was gone she went upstairs to the nursery, and thence
to Mrs. Fenwick's bedroom. Flo was there, but Flo was soon dismissed.
Mary began her story instantly, before a question could be asked.

"Janet," she said, "I am going home--at once."

"Why so?"

"Because it is best. Nothing more is settled than was settled before.
When he asks me whether he may come again, how can I say that he may
not? What can I say, except that as far I can see now, I cannot be
his wife?"

"You have not accepted him, then?"

"No."

"I believe that you would, if he had asked you last night."

"Most certainly I should not. I may doubt when I am talking behind
his back; but when I meet him face to face I cannot do it."

"I think you have been wrong,--very wrong and very foolish."

"In not taking a man I do not love?" said Mary.

"You do love him; but you are longing for you do not know what; some
romance,--some grand passion,--something that will never come."

"Shall I tell you what I want?"

"If you please."

"A feeling such as you have for Frank. You are my model; I want
nothing beyond that."

"That comes after marriage. Frank was very little to me till we were
man and wife. He'll tell you the same. I don't know whether I didn't
almost dislike him when I married him."

"Oh, Janet!"

"Certainly the sort of love you are thinking of comes
afterwards;--when the interests of two people are the same. Frank was
very well as a lover."

"Don't I remember it?"

"You were a child."

"I was fifteen; and don't I remember how all the world used to change
for you when he was coming? There wasn't a ribbon you wore but you
wore it for him; you dressed yourself in his eyes; you lived by his
thoughts."

"That was all after I was engaged. If you would accept Harry Gilmore,
you would do just the same."

"I must be sure that it would be so. I am now almost sure that it
would not."

"And why do you want to go home?"

"That he may not be pestered by having me near him. I think it will
be better for him that I should go."

"And he is to ask you again?"

"He says that he will--in three months. But you should tell him
that it will be better that he should not. I would advise him to
travel,--if I were his friend, like you."

"And leave all his duties, and his pleasures, and his house, and his
property, because of your face and figure, my dear! I don't think any
woman is worth so much to a man."

Mary bit her lips in sorrow for what she had said. "I was thinking
of his own speech about himself, Janet, not of my worth. It does not
astonish you more than it does me that such a man as Mr. Gilmore
should be perplexed in spirit for such a cause. But he says that he
is perplexed."

"Of course he is perplexed, and of course I was in joke. Only it does
seem so hard upon him! I should like to shake you till you fell into
his arms. I know it would be best for you. You will go on examining
your own feelings and doubting about your heart, and waiting for
something that will never come till you will have lost your time.
That is the way old maids are made. If you married Harry, by the time
your first child was born you would think that he was Jupiter,--just
as I think that Frank is."

Mrs. Fenwick owned, however, that as matters stood at present, it
would be best that Mary should return home; and letters were written
that afternoon to say that she would be at Loring by the middle of
next week.

The Vicar was not seen till dinner-time, and then he came home in
considerable perplexity of spirit. It was agreed between the two
women that the fate of Harry Gilmore, as far as it had been decided,
should be told to Mr. Fenwick by his wife; and she, though she was
vexed, and almost angry with Mary, promised to make the best of it.

"She'll lose him at last; that'll be the end of it," said the parson,
as he scoured his face with a towel after washing it.

"I never saw a man so much in love in my life," said Mrs. Fenwick.

"But iron won't remain long at red heat," said he. "What she says
herself would be the best for him. He'll break up and go away for a
time, and then, when he comes back, there'll be somebody else. She'll
live to repent it."

"When she's away from him there may be a change."

"Fiddlestick!" said the parson.

Mary, when she met him before dinner, could see that he was angry
with her, but she bore it with the utmost meekness. She believed of
herself that she was much to blame in that she could not fall in love
with Harry Gilmore. Mrs. Fenwick had also asked a question or two
about Sam Brattle during the dressing of her husband; but he had
declined to say anything on that subject till they two should be
secluded together for the night.




CHAPTER V.

THE MILLER.


Mr. Fenwick reached Brattle's mill about two o'clock in the day.
During the whole morning, while saying comfortable words to old
women, and gently rebuking young maidens, he had been thinking of Sam
Brattle and his offences. He had not been in the parish very long,
not over five or six years, but he had been there long enough to see
Sam grow out of boyhood into manhood; and at his first coming to
the parish, for the first two or three years, the lad had been a
favourite with him. Young Brattle could run well, leap well, fish
well, and do a good turn of work about his father's mill. And he
could also read and write, and cast accounts, and was a clever
fellow. The parson, though he had tried his hand with energy at
making the man, had, perhaps, done something towards marring him; and
it may be that some feeling of this was on Mr. Fenwick's conscience.
A gentleman's favourite in a country village, when of Sam Brattle's
age, is very apt to be spoiled by the kindness that is shown to him.
Sam had spent many a long afternoon fishing with the parson, but
those fishing days were now more than two years gone by. It had been
understood that Sam was to assist his father at the mill; and much
good advice as to his trade the lad had received from Mr. Fenwick.
There ought to be no more fishing for the young miller, except
on special holiday occasions,--no more fishing, at least, during
the hours required for milling purposes. So Mr. Fenwick had said
frequently. Nevertheless the old miller attributed his son's idleness
in great part to the parson's conduct, and he had so told the
parson more than once. Of late Sam Brattle had certainly not been
a good son, had neglected his work, disobeyed his father, and
brought trouble on a household which had much suffering to endure
independently of that which he might bring upon it.

Jacob Brattle was a man at this time over sixty-five years of age,
and every year of the time had been spent in that mill. He had never
known another occupation or another home, and had very rarely slept
under another roof. He had married the daughter of a neighbouring
farmer, and had had some twelve or fourteen children. There were at
this time six still living. He himself had ever been a hardworking,
sober, honest man. But he was cross-grained, litigious, moody, and
tyrannical. He held his mill and about a hundred acres of adjoining
meadow land at a rent in which no account was taken either of the
building or of the mill privileges attached to it. He paid simply for
the land at a rate per acre, which, as both he and his landlord well
knew, would make it acceptable on the same terms to any farmer in the
parish; and neither for his mill, nor for his land, had he any lease,
nor had his father or his grandfather had leases before him. Though
he was a clever man in his way, he hardly knew what a lease was.
He doubted whether his landlord could dispossess him as long as he
paid his rent, but he was not sure. But of this he thought he was
sure,--that were Mr. Gilmore to attempt to do such a thing, all
Wiltshire would cry out against the deed, and probably the heavens
would fall and crush the doer. He was a man with an unlimited love
of justice; but the justice which he loved best was justice to
himself. He brooded over injuries done to him,--injuries real or
fancied,--till he taught himself to wish that all who hurt him might
be crucified for the hurt they did to him. He never forgot, and never
wished to forgive. If any prayer came from him, it was a prayer that
his own heart might be so hardened that when vengeance came in his
way he might take it without stint against the trespasser of the
moment. And yet he was not a cruel man. He would almost despise
himself, because when the moment for vengeance did come, he would
abstain from vengeance. He would dismiss a disobedient servant with
curses which would make one's hair stand on end, and would hope
within his heart of hearts that before the end of the next week the
man with his wife and children might be in the poorhouse. When the
end of the next week came, he would send the wife meat, and would
give the children bread, and would despise himself for doing so.
In matters of religion he was an old Pagan, going to no place of
worship, saying no prayer, believing in no creed,--with some vague
idea that a supreme power would bring him right at last, if he worked
hard, robbed no one, fed his wife and children, and paid his way. To
pay his way was the pride of his heart; to be paid on his way was its
joy.

In that matter of his quarrel with his landlord he was very bitter.
The Squire's father some fifteen years since had given to the miller
a verbal promise that the house and mill should be repaired. The old
Squire had not been a good man of business, and had gone on with his
tenants very much as he had found them, without looking much into the
position of each. But he had, no doubt, said something that amounted
to a promise on his own account as to these repairs. He had died soon
after, and the repairs had not been effected. A year after his death
an application,--almost a demand,--was made upon our Squire by the
miller, and the miller had been wrathful even when the Squire said
that he would look into it. The Squire did look into it, and came to
the conclusion that as he received no rent at all for the house and
mill, and as his own property would be improved if the house and
mill were made to vanish, and as he had no evidence whatever of any
undertaking on his father's part, as any such promise on his father's
part must simply have been a promise of a gift of money out of his
own pocket, and further as the miller was impudent, he would not
repair the mill. Ultimately he offered £20 towards the repairs, which
the miller indignantly refused. Readers will be able to imagine how
pretty a quarrel there would thus be between the landlord and his
tenant. When all this was commencing,--at the time, that is, of the
old Squire's death,--Brattle had the name of being a substantial
person; but misfortune had come upon him; doctors' bills had been
very heavy, his children had drained his resources from him, and it
was now known that it set him very hard to pay his way. In regard to
the house and the mill, some absolutely essential repairs had been
done at his own costs; but the £20 had never been taken.

In some respects the man's fortune in life had been good. His wife
was one of those loving, patient, self-denying, almost heavenly human
beings, one or two of whom may come across one's path, and who, when
found, are generally found in that sphere of life to which this woman
belonged. Among the rich there is that difficulty of the needle's
eye; among the poor there is the difficulty of the hardness of their
lives. And the miller loved this woman with a perfect love. He hardly
knew that he loved her as he did. He could be harsh to her and
tyrannical. He could say cutting words to her. But at any time in his
life he would have struck over the head, with his staff, another man
who should have said a word to hurt her. They had lost many children;
but of the six who remained, there were four of whom they might be
proud. The eldest was a farmer, married and away, doing well in a far
part of the county, beyond Salisbury, on the borders of Hampshire.
The father in his emergencies had almost been tempted to ask his son
for money; but hitherto he had refrained. A daughter was married to
a tradesman at Warminster, and was also doing well. A second son who
had once been sickly and weak, was a scholar in his way, and was now
a schoolmaster, also at Warminster, and in great repute with the
parson of the parish there. There was a second daughter, Fanny, at
home, a girl as good as gold, the glory and joy and mainstay of her
mother, whom even the miller could not scold,--whom all Bullhampton
loved. But she was a plain girl, brown, and somewhat hard-visaged;--a
morsel of fruit as sweet as any in the garden, but one that the eye
would not select for its outside grace, colour, and roundness. Then
there were the two younger. Of Sam, the youngest of all, who was now
twenty-one, something has already been said. Between him and Fanny
there was,--perhaps it will be better to say there had been,--another
daughter. Of all the flock Carry had been her father's darling. She
had not been brown or hard-visaged. She was such a morsel of fruit
as men do choose, when allowed to range and pick through the whole
length of the garden wall. Fair she had been, with laughing eyes,
and floating curls; strong in health, generous in temper, though now
and again with something of her father's humour. To her mother's eye
she had never been as sweet as Fanny; but to her father she had been
as bright and beautiful as the harvest moon. Now she was a thing,
somewhere, never to be mentioned! Any man who would have named her
to her father's ears, would have encountered instantly the force of
his wrath. This was so well known in Bullhampton that there was not
one who would dare to suggest to him even that she might be saved.
But her mother prayed for her daily, and her father thought of her
always. It was a great lump upon him, which he must bear to his
grave; and for which there could be no release. He did not know
whether it was his mind, his heart, or his body that suffered. He
only knew that it was there,--a load that could never be lightened.
What comfort was it to him now, that he had beaten a miscreant to
death's door--that he, with his old hands, had nearly torn the wretch
limb from limb--that he had left him all but lifeless, and had walked
off scatheless, nobody daring to put a finger on him? The man had
been pieced up by some doctor, and was away in Asia, in Africa, in
America--soldiering somewhere. He had been a lieutenant in those
days, and was probably a lieutenant still. It was nothing to old
Brattle where he was. Had he been able to drink the fellow's blood to
the last drop, it would not have lightened his load an ounce. He knew
that it was so now. Nothing could lighten it;--not though an angel
could come and tell him that his girl was a second Magdalen. The
Brattles had ever held up their heads. The women, at least, had
always been decent.

Jacob Brattle, himself, was a low, thickset man, with an appearance
of great strength, which was now submitting itself, very slowly, to
the hand of time. He had sharp green eyes, and shaggy eyebrows, with
thin lips, and a square chin, a nose which, though its shape was
aquiline, protruded but little from his face. His forehead was low
and broad, and he was seldom seen without a flat hat upon his head.
His hair and very scanty whiskers were gray; but, then too, he was
gray from head to foot. The colour of his trade had so clung to him,
that no one could say whether that grayish whiteness of his face came
chiefly from meal or from sorrow. He was a silent, sad, meditative
man, thinking always of the evil things that had been done to him.




CHAPTER VI.

BRATTLE'S MILL.


When Mr. Fenwick reached the mill, he found old Brattle sitting alone
on a fixed bench in front of the house door with a pipe in his mouth.
Mary Lowther was quite right in saying that the mill, in spite of its
dilapidations,--perhaps by reason of them,--was as pretty as anything
in Bullhampton. In the first place it was permeated and surrounded by
cool, bright, limpid little streams. One of them ran right through
it, as it were, passing between the dwelling-house and the mill, and
turning the wheel, which was there placed. This course was, no doubt,
artificial, and the water ran more rapidly in it than it did in the
neighbouring streamlets. There were sluice-gates, too, by which it
could be altogether expelled, or kept up to this or that height; and
it was a river absolutely under man's control, in which no water-god
could take delight. But there were other natural streams on each
side of the building, the one being the main course of the Avon,
and the other some offspring of a brooklet, which joined its parent
two hundred yards below, and fifty yards from the spot at which
the ill-used working water was received back into its mother's
idle bosom. Mill and house were thatched, and were very low. There
were garrets in the roof, but they were so shaped that they could
hardly be said to have walls to them at all, so nearly were they
contained by the sloping roof. In front of the building there ran a
road,--which after all was no more than a private lane. It crossed
the smaller stream and the mill-run by two wooden bridges; but the
river itself had been too large for the bridge-maker's efforts, and
here there was a ford, with stepping-stones for foot passengers. The
banks on every side were lined with leaning willows, which had been
pollarded over and over again, and which with their light-green wavy
heads gave the place, from a distance, the appearance of a grove.
There was a little porch in front of the house, and outside of that a
fixed seat, with a high back, on which old Brattle was sitting when
the parson accosted him. He did not rise when Mr. Fenwick addressed
him; but he intended no want of courtesy by not doing so. He was on
his legs at business during nearly the whole of the day, and why
should he not rest his old limbs during the few mid-day minutes which
he allowed himself for recreation?

"I thought I should catch you idle just at this moment," said the
clergyman.


[Illustration: "I thought I should catch you idle just at
this moment," said the clergyman.]


"Like enough, Muster Fenwick," said the miller; "I be idle at times,
no doubt."

"It would be a bad life if you did not,--and a very short one too.
It's hot walking, I can tell you, Mr. Brattle. If it goes on like
this, I shall want a little idle time myself, I fear. Is Sam here?"

"No, Muster Fenwick, Sam is not here."

"Nor has been this morning, I suppose?"

"He's not here now, if you're wanting him."

This the old man said in a tone that seemed to signify some offence,
or at least a readiness to take offence if more were said to him
about his son. The clergyman did not sit down, but stood close over
the father, looking down upon him; and the miller went on with his
pipe gazing into the clear blue sky.

"I do want him, Mr. Brattle." Then he stopped, and there was a pause.
The miller puffed his pipe, but said not a word. "I do want him. I
fear, Mr. Brattle, he's not coming to much good."

"Who said as he was? I never said so. The lad'd have been well enough
if other folks would have let him be."

"I know what you mean, Mr. Brattle."

"I usually intend folks to know what I mean, Muster Fenwick. What's
the good o' speaking else? If nobody hadn't a meddled with the lad,
he'd been a good lad. But they did, and he ain't. That's all about
it."

"You do me a great injustice, but I'm not going to argue that with
you now. There would be no use in it. I've come to tell you I fear
that Sam was at no good last night."

"That's like enough."

"I had better tell you the truth at once. He was about my place with
two ruffians."

"And you wants to take him afore the magistrate?"

"I want nothing of the kind. I would make almost any sacrifice
rather. I had him yesterday night by the collar of the coat, and I
let him go free."

"If he couldn't shake himself free o' you, Muster Fenwick, without
any letting in the matter, he ain't no son of mine."

"I was armed, and he couldn't. But what does that matter? What does
matter is this;--that they who were with him were thoroughly bad
fellows. Was he at home last night?"

"You'd better ax his mother, Muster Fenwick. The truth is, I don't
care much to be talking of him at all. It's time I was in the mill, I
believe. There's no one much to help me now, barring the hired man."
So saying, he got up and passed into the mill without making the
slightest form of salutation.

Mr. Fenwick paused for a minute, looking after the old man, and then
went into the house. He knew very well that his treatment from the
women would be very different to that which the miller had vouchsafed
to him; but on that very account it would be difficult for him to
make his communication. He had, however, known all this before he
came. Old Brattle would, quite of course, be silent, suspicious, and
uncivil. It had become the nature of the man to be so, and there was
no help for it. But the two women would be glad to see him,--would
accept his visit as a pleasure and a privilege; and on this account
he found it to be very hard to say unpleasant words to them. But the
unpleasant words must be spoken. Neither in duty nor in kindness
could he know what he had learned last night, and be silent on this
matter to the young man's family. He entered the house, and turned
into the large kitchen or keeping-room on the left, in which the
two women were almost always to be found. This was a spacious,
square, low apartment, in which there was a long grate with
various appurtenances for boiling, roasting, and baking. It was an
old-fashioned apparatus, but Mrs. Brattle thought it to be infinitely
more commodious than any of the newer-fangled ranges which from time
to time she had been taken to see. Opposite to the fire-place there
was a small piece of carpet, without which the stone floor would
hardly have looked warm and comfortable. On the outer corner of this,
half facing the fire, and half on one side of it, was an old oak
arm-chair, made of oak throughout, but with a well-worn cushion on
the seat of it, in which it was the miller's custom to sit when the
work of the day was done. In this chair no one else would ever sit,
unless Sam would do so occasionally, in bravado, and as a protest
against his father's authority. When he did so his mother would be
wretched, and his sister lately had begged him to desist from the
sacrilege. Close to this was a little round deal table, on which
would be set the miller's single glass of gin and water, which would
be made to last out the process of his evening smoking, and the
candle, by the light of which, and with the aid of a huge pair of
tortoise-shell spectacles, his wife would sit and darn her husband's
stockings. She also had her own peculiar chair in this corner, but
she had never accustomed herself to the luxury of arms to lean on,
and had no cushion for her own comfort. There were various dressers,
tables, and sideboards round the room, and a multiplicity of dishes,
plates, and bowls, all standing in their proper places. But though
the apartment was called a kitchen,--and, in truth, the cookery for
the family was done here,--there was behind it, opening out to the
rear, another kitchen in which there was a great boiler, and a huge
oven never now used. The necessary but unsightly doings of kitchen
life were here carried on, out of view. He, indeed, would have been
fastidious who would have hesitated, on any score of cleanliness or
niceness, to sit and eat at the long board on which the miller's
dinner was daily served, or would have found it amiss to sit at that
fire and listen to the ticking of the great mahogany-cased clock,
which stood in the corner of the room. On the other side of the broad
opening passage Mrs. Brattle had her parlour. Doubtless this parlour
added something to the few joys of her life; though how it did so,
or why she should have rejoiced in it, it would be very difficult
to say. She never entered it except for the purpose of cleaning and
dusting. But it may be presumed that it was a glory to her to have a
room carpeted, with six horsehair chairs, and a round table, and a
horsehair sofa, and an old mirror over the fireplace, and a piece of
worsted-work done by her daughter and framed like a picture, hanging
up on one of the walls. But there must have come from it, we should
say, more of regret than of pleasure; for when that room was first
furnished, under her own auspices, and when those horsehair chairs
were bought with a portion of her own modest dowry, doubtless she had
intended that these luxuries should be used by her and hers. But they
never had been so used. The day for using them had never come. Her
husband never, by any chance, entered the apartment. To him probably,
even in his youth, it had been a woman's gewgaw, useless, but
allowable as tending to her happiness. Now the door was never even
opened before his eye. His last interview with Carry had been in
that room,--when he had laid his curse upon her, and bade her begone
before his return, so that his decent threshold should be no longer
polluted by her vileness.

On this side of the house there was a cross passage, dividing the
front rooms from the back. At the end of this, looking to the front
so as to have the parlour between it and the house-door, was the
chamber in which slept Brattle and his wife. Here all those children
had been born who had brought upon the household so many joys and so
much sorrow. And behind, looking to the back on to the little plot of
vegetables which was called the garden,--a plot in which it seemed
that cabbages and gooseberry bushes were made to alternate,--there
was a large store-room, and the chamber in which Fanny slept,--now
alone, but which she had once shared with four sisters. Carry was the
last one that had left her; and now Fanny hardly dared to name the
word sister above her breath. She could speak, indeed, of Sister Jay,
the wife of the prosperous ironmonger at Warminster; but of sisters
by their Christian names no mention was ever made.

Upstairs there were garrets, one of which was inhabited by Sam, when
he chose to reside at home; and another by the red-armed country
lass, who was maid-of-all-work at Brattle Mill. When it has also been
told that below the cabbage-plot there was an orchard, stretching
down to the junction of the waters, the description of Brattle Mill
will have been made.




CHAPTER VII.

THE MILLER'S WIFE.


When Mr. Fenwick entered the kitchen, Mrs. Brattle was sitting there
alone. Her daughter was away, disposing of the remnants and utensils
of the dinner-table. The old lady, with her spectacles on her nose,
was sitting as usual with a stocking over her left arm. On the round
table was a great open Bible, and, lying on the Bible, were sundry
large worsted hose, which always seemed to Mr. Fenwick as though
they must have undarned themselves as quickly as they were darned.
Her Bible and her stockings furnished the whole of Mrs. Brattle's
occupation from her dinner to her bed. In the morning, she would
still occupy herself in matters of cookery, would peel potatoes, and
prepare apples for puddings, and would look into the pot in which
the cabbage was being boiled. But her stockings and her Bible shared
together the afternoons of her week-days. On the Sundays there would
only be the Bible, and then she would pass many hours of the day
asleep. On every other Sunday morning she still walked to church and
back,--going there always alone. There was no one now to accompany
her. Her husband never went,--never had gone,--to church, and her son
now had broken away from his good practices. On alternate mornings
Fanny went, and also on every Sunday afternoon. Wet or dry, storm
or sunshine, she always went; and her father, who was an old Pagan,
loved her for her zeal. Mrs. Brattle was a slight-made old woman,
with hair almost white peering out modestly from under her clean cap,
dressed always in a brown stuff gown that never came down below her
ankle. Her features were still pretty, small, and débonnaire, and
there was a sweetness in her eyes that no observer could overlook.
She was a modest, pure, high-minded woman,--whom we will not call
a lady, because of her position in life, and because she darned
stockings in a kitchen. In all other respects she deserved the name.

"I heard your voice outside with the master," she said, rising from
her chair to answer the parson's salutation, and putting down her
stockings first, and then her spectacles upon the book, so that the
Bible was completely hidden; "and I knew you would not go without
saying a word to the old woman."

"I believe I came mostly to see you to-day, Mrs. Brattle."

"Did you then? It's kind of you, I'm sure, Mr. Fenwick, this hot
weather,--and you with so many folk to mind too. Will you take an
apple, Mr. Fenwick? I don't know that we've anything else to offer,
but the quarantines are rare this year, they say;--though, no doubt,
you have them better at the Vicarage?"

Fenwick took a large, red apple from the dresser, and began to munch,
it, declaring that they had none such in their orchard. And then,
when the apple was finished, he had to begin his story.

"Mrs. Brattle, I'm sorry that I have something to say that will vex
you."

"Eh, Mr. Fenwick! Bad news? 'Deed and I think there's but little good
news left to us now,--little that comes from the tongues of men. It's
bad news that is always coming here. Mr. Fenwick,--what is it, sir?"

Then he repeated the question he had before put to the miller about
Sam. Where was Sam last night?--She only shook her head. Did he sleep
at home?--She shook her head again. Had he breakfasted at home?

"'Deed no, sir. I haven't set eyes on him since before yesterday."

"But how does he live? His father does not give him money, I
suppose?"

"There's little enough to give him, Mr. Fenwick. When he is at the
mill his father do pay him a some'at over and above his keep. It
isn't much, sir. Young men must have a some'at in their pockets at
times."

"He has too much in his pockets, I fear. I wish he had nothing, so
that he needs must come home for his meals. He works at the mill,
doesn't he?"

"At times, sir; and there isn't a lad in all Bullumpton,"--for so the
name was ordinarily pronounced,--"who can do a turn of work to beat
him."

"Do he and his father agree pretty well?"

"At times, sir. Times again his father don't say much to him. The
master ain't given to much talking in the mill, and Sam, when he's
there, works with a will. There's times when his father softens down
to him, and then to see 'em, you'd think they was all in all to each
other. There's a stroke of the master about Sam hisself, at times,
Mr. Fenwick, and the old man's eyes gladden to see it. There's none
so near his heart now as poor Sam."

"If he were as honest a man as his father, I could forgive all the
rest," said Mr. Fenwick slowly, meaning to imply that he was not
there now to complain of church observances neglected, or of small
irregularities of life. The paganism of the old miller had often been
the subject of converse between the parson and Mrs. Brattle, it being
a matter on which she had many an unhappy thought. He, groping darkly
among subjects which he hardly dared to touch in her presence lest
he should seem to unteach that in private which he taught in public,
had subtlely striven to make her believe that though she, through her
faith, would be saved, he, the husband, might yet escape that doom
of everlasting fire, which to her was so stern a reality that she
thought of its fury with a shudder whenever she heard of the world's
wickedness. When Parson Fenwick had first made himself intimate
at the mill Mrs. Brattle had thought that her husband's habits of
life would have been to him as wormwood and gall,--that he would be
unable not to chide, and well she knew that her husband would bear no
chiding. By degrees she had come to understand that this new parson
was one who talked more of life with its sorrows, and vices, and
chances of happiness, and possibilities of goodness, than he did
of the requirements of his religion. For herself inwardly she had
grieved at this, and, possibly, also for him; but, doubtless, there
had come to her some comfort, which she did not care to analyse, from
the manner in which "the master," as she called him, Pagan as he was,
had been treated by her clergyman. She wondered that it should be so,
but yet it was a relief to her to know that God's messenger should
come to her, and yet say never a word of his message to that hard
lord, whom she so feared and so loved, and who was, as she well knew,
too stubborn to receive it. And Fenwick had spoken,--still spoke
to her, so tenderly of her erring, fallen child, never calling her
a castaway, talking of her as Carry, who might yet be worthy of
happiness here and of all joy hereafter; that when she thought
of him as a minister of God, whose duty it was to pronounce God's
threats to erring human beings, she was almost alarmed. She could
hardly understand his leniency,--his abstinence from reproof; but
entertained a vague, wandering, unformed wish that, as he never
opened the vials of his wrath on them, he would pour it out upon
her,--on her who would bear it for their sake so meekly. If there was
such a wish it was certainly doomed to disappointment. At this moment
Fanny came in and curtseyed as she gave her hand to the parson.

"Was Sam at home last night, Fan?" asked the mother, in a sad, low
voice.

"Yes, mother. He slept in his bed."

"You are sure?" said the parson.

"Quite sure. I heard him this morning as he went out. It was about
five. He spoke to me, and I answered him."

"What did he say?"

"That he must go over to Lavington, and wouldn't be home till
nightfall. I told him where he would find bread and cheese, and he
took it."

"But you didn't see him last night?"

"No, sir. He comes in at all hours, when he pleases. He was at dinner
before yesterday, but I haven't seen him since. He didn't go nigh the
mill after dinner that day."

Then Mr. Fenwick considered how much he would tell to the mother and
sister, and how much he would keep back. He did not in his heart
believe that Sam Brattle had intended to enter his house and rob
it; but he did believe that the men with whom Sam was associated
were thieves and housebreakers. If these men were prowling about
Bullhampton it was certainly his duty to have them arrested if
possible, and to prevent probable depredations, for his neighbours'
sake as well as for his own. Nor would he be justified in neglecting
this duty with the object of saving Sam Brattle. If only he could
entice Sam away from them, into his own hands, under the power of his
tongue,--there might probably be a chance.

"You think he'll be home to-night?" he asked.

"He said he would," replied Fanny, who knew that she could not answer
for her brother's word.

"If he does, bid him come to me. Make him come to me! Tell him that
I will do him no harm. God knows how truly it is my object to do him
good."

"We are sure of that, sir," said the mother.

"He need not be afraid that I will preach to him. I will only talk to
him, as I would to a younger brother."

"But what is it that he has done, sir?"

"He has done nothing that I know. There;--I will tell you the whole.
I found him prowling about my garden at near midnight, yesterday. Had
he been alone I should have thought nothing of it. He thinks he owes
me a grudge for speaking to his father; and had I found him paying it
by filling his pockets with fruit, I should only have told him that
it would be better that he should come and take it in the morning."

"But he wasn't--stealing?" asked the mother.

"He was doing nothing; neither were the men. But they were
blackguards, and he was in bad hands. He could not have been in
worse. I had a tussle with one of them, and I am sure the man was
hurt. That, however, has nothing to do with it. What I desire is to
get a hold of Sam, so that he may be rescued from the hands of such
companions. If you can make him come to me, do so."

Fanny promised, and so did the mother; but the promise was given in
that tone which seemed to imply that nothing should be expected from
its performance. Sam had long been deaf to the voices of the women
of his family, and, when his father's anger would be hot against him,
he would simply go, and live where and how none of them knew. Among
such men and women as the Brattles, parental authority must needs lie
much lighter than it does with those who are wont to give much and to
receive much. What obedience does the lad owe who at eighteen goes
forth and earns his own bread? What is it to him that he has not yet
reached man's estate? He has to do a man's work, and the price of it
is his own, in his hands, when he has earned it. There is no curse
upon the poor heavier than that which comes from the early breach
of all ties of duty between fathers and their sons, and mothers and
their daughters.

Mr. Fenwick, as he passed out of the miller's house, saw Jacob
Brattle at the door of the mill. He was tugging along some load,
pulling it in at the door, and prevailing against the weakness of his
age by the force of his energy. The parson knew that the miller saw
him, but the miller took no notice,--looked rather as though he did
not wish to be observed,--and so the parson went on. When at home he
postponed his account of what had taken place till he should be alone
with his wife; but at night he told her the whole story.

"The long and the short of it is, Master Sam will turn to
housebreaking, if somebody doesn't get hold of him."

"To housebreaking, Frank?"

"I believe that he is about it."

"And were they going to break in here?"

"I don't think he was. I don't believe he was so minded then. But he
had shown them the way in, and they were looking about on their own
scores. Don't you frighten yourself. What with the constable and
the life-preserver, we'll be safe. I've a big dog coming, a second
Bone'm. Sam Brattle is in more danger, I fear, than the silver
forks."

But, in spite of the cheeriness of his speech, the Vicar was anxious,
and almost unhappy. After all that occurred in reference to himself
and to Sam Brattle,--their former intimacies, the fish they had
caught together, the rats they had killed together, the favour which
he, the parson of the parish, had shown to this lad, and especially
after the evil things which had been said of himself because of this
friendship on his part for one so much younger than himself, and
so much his inferior in rank,--it would be to him a most grievous
misfortune should he be called upon to acknowledge publicly Sam
Brattle's iniquity, and more grievous still, if the necessity should
be forced upon him of bringing Sam to open punishment. Fenwick knew
well that diverse accusations had been made against him in the
parish regarding Sam. The Marquis of Trowbridge had said a word. Mr.
Puddleham had said many words. The old miller himself had growled.
Even Gilmore had expressed disapprobation. The Vicar, in his pride,
had turned a deaf ear to them all. He began to fear now that possibly
he had been wrong in the favours shown to Sam Brattle.




CHAPTER VIII.

THE LAST DAY.


[Illustration]

The parson's visit to the mill was on a Saturday. The next Sunday
passed by very quietly, and nothing was seen of Mr. Gilmore at the
Vicarage. He was at church, and walked with the two ladies from the
porch to their garden gate, but he declined Mrs. Fenwick's invitation
to lunch, and was not seen again on that day. The parson had sent
word to Fanny Brattle during the service to stop a few minutes for
him, and had learned from her that Sam had not been at home last
night. He had also learned, before the service that morning, that
very early on the Saturday, probably about four o'clock, two men
had passed through Paul's Hinton with a huxter's cart and a pony.
Now Paul's Hinton, or Hinton Saint Paul's as it should be properly
called, was a long straggling village, six miles from Bullhampton,
and half-way on the road to Market Lavington, to which latter place
Sam had told his sister that he was going. Putting these things
together, Mr. Fenwick did not in the least doubt but the two men in
the cart were they who had been introduced to his garden by young
Brattle.

"I only hope," said the parson, "that there's a good surgeon at
Market Lavington. One of the gentlemen in that cart must have wanted
him, I take it." Then he thought that it might, perhaps, be worth his
while to trot over to Lavington in the course of the week, and make
inquiries.

On the Wednesday Mary Lowther was to go back to Loring. This seemed
like a partial break-up of their establishment, both to the parson
and his wife. Fenwick had made up his mind that Mary was to be his
nearest neighbour for life, and had fallen into the way of treating
her accordingly, telling her of things in the parish as he might have
done to the Squire's wife, presuming the Squire's wife to have been
on the best possible terms with him. He now regarded Mary as being
almost an impostor. She had taken him in and obtained his confidence
under false pretences. It was true that she might still come and
fill the place that he had appointed for her. He rather thought
that at last she would do so. But he was angry with her because she
hesitated. She was creating an unnecessary disturbance among them.
She had, he thought, been now wooed long enough, and, as he told his
wife more than once, was making an ass of herself. Mrs. Fenwick was
not quite so hard in her judgment, but she also was tempted to be a
little angry. She loved her friend Mary a great deal better than she
loved Mr. Gilmore, but she was thoroughly convinced that Mary could
not do better than accept a man whom she owned that she liked,--whom
she, at any rate, liked so well that she had not as yet rejected him.
Therefore, although Mary was going, they were, both of them, rather
savage with her.

The Monday passed by, also very quietly, and Mr. Gilmore did not come
to them, but he had sent a note to tell them that he would walk down
on the Tuesday evening to say good-bye to Miss Lowther. Early on
the Wednesday Mr. Fenwick was to drive her to Westbury, whence the
railway would take her round by Chippenham and Swindon to Loring. On
the Tuesday morning she was very melancholy. Though she knew that it
was right to go away, she greatly regretted that it was necessary.
She was angry with herself for not having better known her own mind,
and though she was quite sure that were Mr. Gilmore to repeat his
offer to her that moment, she would not accept it, nevertheless she
thought ill of herself because she would not do so. "I do believe,"
she said to herself, "that I shall never like any man better." She
knew well enough that if she was never brought to love any man, she
never ought to marry any man; but she was not quite sure whether
Janet was not right in telling her that she had formed erroneous
notions of the sort of love she ought to feel for the man whom she
should resolve to accept. Perhaps it was true that that kind of
adoration which Janet entertained for her husband was a feeling which
came after marriage--a feeling which would spring up in her own heart
as soon as she was the man's own wife, the mistress of his house, the
mother of his children, the one human being for whose welfare he was
solicitous beyond that of all others. And this man did love her. She
had no doubt about that. And she was unhappy, too, because she felt
that she had offended his friends, and that they thought that she was
not treating their friend well.

"Janet," she said, as they were again sitting out on the lawn, on
that Tuesday afternoon, "I am almost sorry that I came here at all."

"Don't say that, dear."

"I have spent some of the happiest days of my life here, but the
visit, on the whole, has been unfortunate. I am going away in
disgrace. I feel that so acutely."

"What nonsense! How are you in disgrace?"

"Mr. Fenwick and you think that I have behaved badly. I know you do,
and I feel it so strongly! I think so much of him, and believe him to
be so good, and so wise, and so understanding,--he knows what people
should do, and should be, so well,--that I cannot doubt that I have
been wrong if he thinks so."

"He only wishes that you could have made up your mind to marry a most
worthy man, who is his friend, and who, by marrying you, would have
fixed you close to us. He wishes it still, and so do I."

"But he thinks that I have been--have been mopish, and
lack-a-daisical, and--and--almost untrue. I can hear it in the tone
of his voice, and see it in his eye. I can tell it from the way he
shakes hands with me in the morning. He is such a true man that I
know in a moment what he means at all times. I am going away under
his displeasure, and I wish I had never come."

"Return as Mrs. Gilmore, and all his displeasure will disappear."

"Yes, because he would forgive me. He would say to himself that, as
I had repented, I might be taken back to his grace; but as things are
at present he condemns me. And so do you."

"If you ask me, Mary, I must tell the truth. I don't think you know
your own mind."

"Suppose I don't, is that disgraceful?"

"But there comes a time when a girl should know her own mind. You are
giving this poor fellow an enormous deal of unnecessary trouble."

"I have known my own mind so far as to tell him that I could not
marry him."

"As far as I understand, Mary, you have always told him to wait a
little longer."

"I have never asked him to wait, Janet;--never. It is he who says
that he will wait; and what can I answer when he says so? All the
same I don't mean to defend myself. I do believe that I have been
wrong, and I wish that I had never come here. It sounds ungrateful,
but I do. It is so dreadful to feel that I have incurred the
displeasure of people that I love so dearly."

"There is no displeasure, Mary; the word is a good deal too strong.
I wonder what you'll think of all this when the parson and his wife
come up on future Sundays to dine with the Squire and his lady. I
have long since made up my mind that when afternoon service is over,
we ought to go up and be made much of at the Privets; and you're
putting all this off till I'm an old woman--for a chimera. It's about
our Sunday dinners that I'm angry. Flo, my darling, what a face you
have got. Do come and sit still for a few minutes, or you'll be in a
fever." While Mrs. Fenwick was wiping her girl's brow, and smoothing
her ringlets, Mary walked off to the orchard by herself. There was a
broad green path which made the circuit of it, and she took the round
twice, pausing at the bottom to look at the spot from which she had
tumbled into the river. What a trouble she had been to them all! She
was thoroughly dissatisfied with herself; especially so because she
had fallen into those very difficulties which from early years she
had resolved that she would avoid. She had made up her mind that she
would not flirt, that she would never give a right to any man--or to
any woman--to call her a coquette; that if love and a husband came
in her way she would take them thankfully, and that if they did not,
she would go on her path quietly, if possible, feeling no uneasiness,
and certainly showing none, because the joys of a married life did
not belong to her. But now she had gotten herself into a mess, and
she could not tell herself that it was not her own fault. Then she
resolved again that in future she would go right. It could not but
be that a woman could keep herself from floundering in these messes
of half-courtship,--of courtship on one side, and doubt on the
other,--if she would persistently adhere to some safe rule. Her
rejection of Mr. Gilmore ought to have been unhesitating and certain
from the first. She was sure of that now. She had been guilty of
an absurdity in supposing that because the man had been in earnest,
therefore she had been justified in keeping him in suspense, for his
own sake. She had been guilty of an absurdity, and also of great
self-conceit. She could do nothing now but wait till she should hear
from him,--and then answer him steadily. After what had passed she
could not go to him and declare that it was all over. He was coming
to-night, and she was nearly sure that he would not say a word to her
on the subject. If he did,--if he renewed his offer,--then she would
speak out. It was hardly possible that he should do so, and therefore
the trouble which she had created must remain.

As she thus resolved, she was leaning over the gate looking into the
churchyard, not much observing the graves or the monuments or the
beautiful old ivy-covered tower, or thinking of the dead that were
lying there, or of the living who prayed there; but swearing to
herself that for the rest of her life she would keep clear of, what
she called, girlish messes. Like other young ladies she had read much
poetry and many novels; but her sympathies had never been with young
ladies who could not go straight through with their love affairs,
from the beginning to the end, without flirtation of either an inward
or an outward nature. Of all her heroines, Rosalind was the one she
liked the best, because from the first moment of her passion she knew
herself and what she was about, and loved her lover right heartily.
Of all girls in prose or poetry she declared that Rosalind was
the least of a flirt. She meant to have the man, and never had a
doubt about it. But with such a one as Flora MacIvor she had no
patience;--a girl who did and who didn't, who would and who wouldn't,
who could and who couldn't, and who of all flirts was to her the most
nauseous! As she was taking herself to task, accusing herself of
being a Flora without the poetry and romance to excuse her, Mr.
Fenwick came round from Farmer Trumbull's side of the church, and got
over the stile into the churchyard.


[Illustration: Mr. Fenwick came round from Farmer Trumbull's
side of the church, and got over the stile into the churchyard.]


"What, Mary, is that you gazing in so intently among your brethren
that were?"

"I was not thinking of them," she said, with a smile. "My mind was
intent on some of my brethren that are." Then there came a thought
across her, and she made a sudden decision. "Mr. Fenwick," she said,
"would you mind walking up and down the churchyard with me once or
twice? I have something to say to you, and I can say it now so well."
He opened the gate for her, and she joined him. "I want to beg your
pardon, and to get you to forgive me. I know you have been angry with
me."

"Hardly angry,--but vexed. As you ask me so frankly and prettily, I
will forgive you. There is my hand upon it. All evil thoughts against
you shall go out of my head. I shall still have my wishes, but I will
not be cross with you."

"You are so good, and so clearly honest. I declare I think Janet the
happiest woman that I ever heard of."

"Come, come; I didn't bargain for this kind of thing when I allowed
myself to be brought in here."

"But it is so. I did not stop you for that, however, but to
acknowledge that I have been wrong, and to ask you to pardon me."

"I will. I do. If there has been anything amiss, it shall not be
looked on again as amiss. But there has been only one thing amiss."

"And, Mr. Fenwick, will you do this for me? Will you tell him that I
was foolish to say that he might wait? Why should he wait? Of course
he should not wait. When I am gone, tell him so, and beg him to make
an end of it. I had not thought of it properly, or I would not have
allowed him to be tormented."

There was a pause after this, during which they walked half the
length of the path in silence. "No, Mary," he said, after a while; "I
will not tell him that."

"Why not, Mr. Fenwick?"

"Because it will not be for his good, or for mine, or for Janet's,
or, as I believe, for yours."

"Indeed, it will, for the good of us all."

"I think, Mary, you do not quite understand. There is not one among
us who does not wish that you should come here and be one of us;
a real, right down Bullompton 'ooman, as they say in the village.
I want you to be my wife's dearest friend, and my own nearest
neighbour. There is no man in the world whom I love as I do Harry
Gilmore, and I want you to be his wife. I have said to myself and
to Janet a score of times that you certainly would be so sooner or
later. My wrath has not come from your bidding him to wait, but from
your coldness in not taking him without waiting. You should remember
that we grow gray very quickly, Mary."

Here was the old story again,--the old story as she had heard it from
Harry Gilmore, but told as she had never expected to hear it from
the lips of Frank Fenwick. It amounted to this; that even he, Frank
Fenwick, bade her wait and try. But she had formed her resolution,
and she was not going to be turned aside, even by Frank Fenwick; "I
had thought that you would help me," she said, very slowly.

"So I will, with all my heart, towards the keys of the store closets
of the Privets, but not a step the other way. It has to be, Mary. He
is too much in earnest, and too good, and too fit for the place to
which he aspires, to miss his object. Come, we'll go in. Mind, you
and I are one again, let it go how it may. I will own that I have
been vexed for the last two days,--have been in a humour unbecoming
your departure to-morrow. I throw all that behind me. You and I are
dear friends,--are we not?"

"I do hope so, Mr. Fenwick?"

"There shall be no feather moulted between us. But as to operating
between you and Harry, with the view of keeping you apart, I decline
the commission. It is my assured belief that sooner or later he will
be your husband. Now we will go up to Janet, who will begin to think
herself a Penelope, if we desert her much longer."

Immediately after this Mary went up to dress for dinner. Should she
make up her mind to give way, and put on the blue ribbons which he
loved so well? She thought that she could tell him at once, if she
made up her mind in that direction. It would not, perhaps, be very
maidenly, but anything would be better than suspense,--than torment
to him. Then she took out her blue ribbons, and tried to go through
that ceremony of telling him. It was quite impossible. Were she to do
so, she would know no happiness again in this world, or probably in
the other. To do the thing, it would be necessary that she should lie
to him.

She came down in a simple white dress, without any ribbons, in
just the dress which she would have worn had Mr. Gilmore not been
coming. At dinner they were very merry. The word of command had gone
forth from Frank that Mary was to be forgiven, and Janet of course
obeyed. The usual courtesies of society demand that there shall be
civility--almost flattering civility--from host to guest, and from
guest to host; and yet how often does it occur that in the midst
of these courtesies there is something that tells of hatred, of
ridicule, or of scorn! How often does it happen that the guest knows
that he is disliked, or the host knows that he is a bore! In the last
two days Mary had felt that she was not cordially a welcome guest.
She had felt also that the reason was one against which she could not
contend. Now all that, at least, was over. Frank Fenwick's manner had
never been pleasanter to her than it was on this occasion, and Janet
followed the suit which her lord led.

They were again on the lawn between eight and nine o'clock when Harry
Gilmore came up to them. He was gracious enough in his salutation to
Mary Lowther, but no indifferent person would have thought that he
was her lover. He talked chiefly to Fenwick, and when they went in to
tea did not take a place on the sofa beside Mary. But after a while
he said something which told them all of his love.

"What do you think I've been doing to-day, Frank?"

"Getting your wheat down, I should hope."

"We begin that to-morrow. I never like to be quite the earliest at
that work, or yet the latest."

"Better be a day too early than a day too late, Harry."

"Never mind about that. I've been down with old Brattle."

"And what have you been doing with him?"

"I'm half ashamed, and yet I fancy I'm right."

As he said this he looked across to Mary Lowther, who no doubt was
watching every turn of his face from the corner of her eye. "I've
just been and knocked under, and told him that the old place shall be
put to rights."

"That's your doing, Mary," said Mrs. Fenwick, injudiciously.

"Oh, no; I'm sure it is not. Mr. Gilmore would only do such a thing
as that because it is proper."

"I don't know about it's being proper," said he. "I'm not quite sure
whether it is or not. I shall never get any interest for my money."

"Interest for one's money is not everything," said Mrs. Fenwick.

"Nevertheless, when one builds houses for other people to live in,
one has to look to it," said the parson.

"People say it's the prettiest spot in the parish," continued Mr.
Gilmore, "and as such it shouldn't be let go to ruin." Janet remarked
afterwards to her husband that Mary Lowther had certainly declared
that it was the prettiest spot in the parish, but that, as far as
her knowledge went, nobody else had ever said so. "And then, you see,
when I refused to spend money upon it, old Brattle had money of his
own, and it was his business to do it."

"He hasn't much now, I fear," said Mr. Fenwick.

"I fear not. His family has been very heavy on him. He paid money
to put two of his boys into trade who died afterwards, and then for
years he had either doctors or undertakers about the place. So I just
went down to him and told him I would do it."

"And how did he take it?"

"Like a bear, as he is. He would hardly speak to me, but went away
into the mill, telling me that I might settle it all with his wife.
It's going to be done, however. I shall have the estimate next week,
and I suppose it will cost me two or three hundred pounds. The mill
is worse than the house, I take it."

"I am so glad it is to be done," said Mary. After that Mr. Gilmore
did not in the least begrudge his two or three hundred pounds. But he
said not a word to Mary, just pressed her hand at parting, and left
her subject to a possibility of a reversal of her sentence at the end
of the stated period.

On the next morning Mr. Fenwick drove her in his little open phaeton
to the station at Westbury. "You are to come back to us, you know,"
said Mrs. Fenwick, "and remember how anxiously I am waiting for my
Sunday dinners." Mary said not a word, but as she was driven round
in front of the church she looked up at the dear old tower, telling
herself that, in all probability, she would never see it again.

"I have just one thing to say, Mary," said the parson, as he walked
up and down the platform with her at Westbury; "you are to remember
that, whatever happens, there is always a home for you at Bullhampton
when you choose to come to it. I am not speaking of the Privets now,
but of the Vicarage."

"How very good you are to me!"

"And so are you to us. Dear friends should be good to each other.
God bless you, dear." From thence she made her way home to Loring by
herself.




CHAPTER IX.

MISS MARRABLE.


Whatever may be the fact as to the rank and proper calling of
Bullhampton, there can be no doubt that Loring is a town. There is a
market-place, and a High Street, and a Board of Health, and a Paragon
Crescent, and a Town Hall, and two different parish churches, one
called St. Peter Lowtown, and the other St. Botolph's Uphill, and
there are Uphill Street, and Lowtown Street, and various other
streets. I never heard of a mayor of Loring, but, nevertheless, there
is no doubt as to its being a town. Nor did it ever return members
to Parliament; but there was once, in one of the numerous bills that
have been proposed, an idea of grouping it with Cirencester and
Lechlade. All the world of course knows that this was never done; but
the transient rumour of it gave the Loringites an improved position,
and justified that little joke about a live dog being better than a
dead lion, with which the parson at Bullhampton regaled Miss Lowther
at the time.

All the fashion of Loring dwelt, as a matter of course, at Uphill.
Lowtown was vulgar, dirty, devoted to commercial and manufacturing
purposes, and hardly owned a single genteel private house. There was
the parsonage, indeed, which stood apart from its neighbours, inside
great tall slate-coloured gates, and which had a garden of its own.
But except the clergyman, who had no choice in the matter, nobody
who was anybody lived at Lowtown. There were three or four factories
there,--in and out of which troops of girls would be seen passing
twice a day, in their ragged, soiled, dirty mill dresses, all of
whom would come out on Sunday dressed with a magnificence that
would lead one to suppose that trade at Loring was doing very well.
Whether trade did well or ill, whether wages were high or low,
whether provisions were cheap in price, whether there were peace
or war between capital and labour, still there was the Sunday
magnificence. What a blessed thing it is for women,--and for men too
certainly,--that there should be a positive happiness to the female
sex in the possession, and in exhibiting the possession, of bright
clothing! It is almost as good for the softening of manners, and the
not permitting of them to be ferocious, as is the faithful study of
the polite arts. At Loring the manners of the mill hands, as they
were called, were upon the whole good,--which I believe was in a
great degree to be attributed to their Sunday magnificence.

The real West-end of Loring was understood by all men to lie in
Paragon Crescent, at the back of St. Botolph's Church. The whole of
this Crescent was built, now some twenty years ago, by Mrs. Fenwick's
father, who had been clever enough to see that as mills were made to
grow in the low town, houses for wealthy people to live in ought to
be made to grow in the high town. He therefore built the Paragon,
and a certain small row of very pretty houses near the end of the
Paragon, called Balfour Place,--and had done very well, and had made
money; and now lay asleep in the vaults below St. Botolph's Church.
No inconsiderable proportion of the comfort of Bullhampton parsonage
is due to Mr. Balfour's success in that achievement of Paragon
Crescent. There were none of the family left at Loring. The widow had
gone away to live at Torquay with a sister, and the only other child,
another daughter, was married to that distinguished barrister on the
Oxford circuit, Mr. Quickenham. Mr. Quickenham and our friend the
parson were very good friends; but they did not see a great deal of
each other, Mr. Fenwick not going up very often to London, and Mr.
Quickenham being unable to use the Vicarage of Bullhampton when on
his own circuit. As for the two sisters, they had very strong ideas
about their husbands' professions; Sophia Quickenham never hesitating
to declare that one was life, and the other stagnation; and Janet
Fenwick protesting that the difference to her seemed to be almost
that between good and evil. They wrote to each other perhaps once a
quarter. But the Balfour family was in truth broken up.

Miss Marrable, Mary Lowther's aunt, lived, of course, at Uphill; but
not in the Crescent, nor yet in Balfour Place. She was an old lady
with very modest means, whose brother had been rector down at St.
Peter's, and she had passed the greatest part of her life within
those slate-coloured gates. When he died, and when she, almost
exactly at the same time, found that it would be expedient that she
should take charge of her niece, Mary, she removed herself up to a
small house in Botolph Lane, in which she could live decently on her
£300 a year. It must not be surmised that Botolph Lane was a squalid
place, vile, or dirty, or even unfashionable. It was narrow and old,
having been inhabited by decent people long before the Crescent, or
even Mr. Balfour himself, had been in existence; but it was narrow
and old, and the rents were cheap, and here Miss Marrable was able
to live, and occasionally to give tea-parties, and to provide a
comfortable home for her niece, within the limits of her income. Miss
Marrable was herself a lady of very good family, the late Sir Gregory
Marrable having been her uncle; but her only sister had married a
Captain Lowther, whose mother had been first cousin to the Earl of
Periwinkle; and therefore on her own account, as well as on that of
her niece, Miss Marrable thought a good deal about blood. She was
one of those ladies,--now few in number,--who within their heart
of hearts conceive that money gives no title to social distinction,
let the amount of money be ever so great, and its source ever so
stainless. Rank to her was a thing quite assured and ascertained,
and she had no more doubt as to her own right to pass out of a
room before the wife of a millionaire than she had of the right of
a millionaire to spend his own guineas. She always addressed an
attorney by letter as Mister, raising up her eyebrows when appealed
to on the matter, and explaining that an attorney is not an esquire.
She had an idea that the son of a gentleman, if he intended to
maintain his rank as a gentleman, should earn his income as a
clergyman, or as a barrister, or as a soldier, or as a sailor. Those
were the professions intended for gentlemen. She would not absolutely
say that a physician was not a gentleman, or even a surgeon; but she
would never allow to physic the same absolute privileges which, in
her eyes, belonged to law and the church. There might also possibly
be a doubt about the Civil Service and Civil Engineering; but she had
no doubt whatever that when a man touched trade or commerce in any
way he was doing that which was not the work of a gentleman. He might
be very respectable, and it might be very necessary that he should do
it; but brewers, bankers, and merchants, were not gentlemen, and the
world, according to Miss Marrable's theory, was going astray, because
people were forgetting their landmarks.

As to Miss Marrable herself nobody could doubt that she was a lady;
she looked it in every inch. There were not, indeed, many inches of
her, for she was one of the smallest, daintiest, little old women
that ever were seen. But now, at seventy, she was very pretty, quite
a woman to look at with pleasure. Her feet and hands were exquisitely
made, and she was very proud of them. She wore her own grey hair of
which she showed very little, but that little was always exquisitely
nice. Her caps were the perfection of caps. Her green eyes were
bright and sharp, and seemed to say that she knew very well how
to take care of herself. Her mouth, and nose, and chin, were all
well-formed, small, shapely, and concise, not straggling about her
face as do the mouths, noses, and chins of some old ladies--ay, and
of some young ladies also. Had it not been that she had lost her
teeth, she would hardly have looked to be an old woman. Her health
was perfect. She herself would say that she had never yet known a
day's illness. She dressed with the greatest care, always wearing
silk at and after luncheon. She dressed three times a day, and in the
morning would come down in what she called a merino gown. But then,
with her, clothes never seemed to wear out. Her motions were so
slight and delicate, that the gloss of her dresses would remain on
them when the gowns of other women would almost have been worn to
rags. She was never seen of an afternoon or evening without gloves,
and her gloves were always clean and apparently new. She went to
church once on Sundays in winter, and twice in summer, and she had a
certain very short period of each day devoted to Bible reading; but
at Loring she was not reckoned to be among the religious people.
Indeed, there were those who said that she was very worldly-minded,
and that at her time of life she ought to devote herself to other
books than those which were daily in her hands. Pope, Dryden, Swift,
Cowley, Fielding, Richardson, and Goldsmith, were her authors. She
read the new novels as they came out, but always with critical
comparisons that were hostile to them. Fielding, she said, described
life as it was; whereas Dickens had manufactured a kind of life that
never had existed, and never could exist. The pathos of Esmond was
very well, but Lady Castlemaine was nothing to Clarissa Harlowe. As
for poetry, Tennyson, she said, was all sugar-candy; he had neither
the common sense, nor the wit, nor, as she declared, to her ear the
melody of Pope. All the poets of the present century, she declared,
if put together, could not have written the Rape of the Lock. Pretty
as she was, and small, and nice, and lady-like, I think she liked
her literature rather strong. It is certain that she had Smollett's
novels in a cupboard up-stairs, and it was said that she had been
found reading one of Wycherley's plays.

The strongest point in her character was her contempt of money. Not
that she had any objection to it, or would at all have turned up
her nose at another hundred a year had anybody left to her such
an accession of income; but that in real truth she never measured
herself by what she possessed, or others by what they possessed. She
was as grand a lady to herself, eating her little bit of cold mutton,
or dining off a tiny sole, as though she sat at the finest banquet
that could be spread. She had no fear of economies, either before her
two handmaids or anybody else in the world. She was fond of her tea,
and in summer could have cream for twopence; but when cream became
dear, she saved money and had a pen'north of milk. She drank two
glasses of Marsala every day, and let it be clearly understood that
she couldn't afford sherry. But when she gave a tea-party, as she
did, perhaps, six or seven times a year, sherry was always handed
round with cake before the people went away. There were matters in
which she was extravagant. When she went out herself she never took
one of the common street flies, but paid eighteen pence extra to get
a brougham from the Dragon. And when Mary Lowther,--who had only
fifty pounds a year of her own, with which she clothed herself and
provided herself with pocket-money,--was going to Bullhampton, Miss
Marrable actually proposed to her to take one of the maids with her.
Mary, of course, would not hear of it, and said that she should just
as soon think of taking the house; but Miss Marrable had thought
that it would, perhaps, not be well for a girl so well-born as Miss
Lowther to go out visiting without a maid. She herself very rarely
left Loring, because she could not afford it; but when, two summers
back, she did go to Weston-super-Mare for a fortnight, she took one
of the girls with her.

Miss Marrable had heard a great deal about Mr. Gilmore. Mary, indeed,
was not inclined to keep secrets from her aunt, and her very long
absence,--so much longer than had at first been intended,--could
hardly have been sanctioned unless some reason had been given. There
had been many letters on the subject, not only between Mary and her
aunt, but between Mrs. Fenwick and her very old friend Miss Marrable.
Of course these latter letters had spoken loudly the praises of
Mr. Gilmore, and Miss Marrable had become quite one of the Gilmore
faction. She desired that her niece should marry; but that she should
marry a gentleman. She would have infinitely preferred to see Mary
an old maid, than to hear that she was going to give herself to any
suitor contaminated by trade. Now Mr. Gilmore's position was exactly
that which Miss Marrable regarded as being the best in England.
He was a country gentleman, living on his own acres, a justice of
the peace, whose father and grandfather and great-grandfather had
occupied exactly the same position. Such a marriage for Mary would be
quite safe; and in those days one did hear so often of girls making,
she would not say improper marriages, but marriages which in her
eyes were not fitting! Mr. Gilmore, she thought, exactly filled that
position which entitled a gentleman to propose marriage to such a
lady as Mary Lowther.

"Yes, my dear, I am glad to have you back again. Of course I have
been a little lonely, but I bear that kind of thing better than most
people. Thank God, my eyes are good."

"You are looking so well, Aunt Sarah!"

"I am well. I don't know how other women get so much amiss; but God
has been very good to me."

"And so pretty," said Mary, kissing her.

"My dear, it's a pity you're not a young gentleman."

"You are so fresh and nice, aunt. I wish I could always look as you
do."

"What would Mr. Gilmore say?"

"Oh, Mr. Gilmore, Mr. Gilmore, Mr. Gilmore! I am so weary of Mr.
Gilmore."

"Weary of him, Mary?"

"Weary of myself because of him--that is what I mean. He has behaved
always well, and I am not at all sure that I have. And he is a
perfect gentleman. But I shall never be Mrs. Gilmore, Aunt Sarah."

"Janet says that she thinks you will."

"Janet is mistaken. But, dear aunt, don't let us talk about it at
once. Of course you shall hear everything in time, but I have had so
much of it. Let us see what new books there are. Cast Iron! You don't
mean to say you have come to that?"

"I shan't read it."

"But I will, aunt. So it must not go back for a day or two. I do love
the Fenwicks, dearly, dearly, both of them. They are almost, if not
quite, perfect. And yet I am glad to be at home."




CHAPTER X.

CRUNCH'EM CAN'T BE HAD.


Mr. Fenwick had intended to have come home round by Market Lavington,
after having deposited Miss Lowther at the Westbury Station, with
the view of making some inquiry respecting the gentleman with the
hurt shoulder; but he had found the distance to be too great, and
had abandoned the idea. After that there was not a day to spare till
the middle of the next week; so that it was nearly a fortnight after
the little scene at the corner of the Vicarage garden wall before he
called upon the Lavington constable and the Lavington doctor. From
the latter he could learn nothing. No such patient had been to him.
But the constable, though he had not seen the two men, had heard
of them. One was a man who in former days had frequented Lavington,
Burrows by name, generally known as Jack the Grinder, who had been
in every prison in Wiltshire and Somersetshire, but who had not,--so
said the constable,--honoured Lavington for the last two years, till
this his last appearance. He had, however, been seen there in company
with another man, and had evidently been in a condition very unfit
for work. He had slept one night at a low public-house, and had then
moved on. The man had complained of a fall from the cart, and had
declared that he was black and blue all over; but it seemed to be
clear that he had no broken bones. Mr. Fenwick therefore was all but
convinced that Jack the Grinder was the gentleman with whom he had
had the encounter, and that the grinder's back had withstood that
swinging blow from the life-preserver. Of the Grinder's companions
nothing could be learned. The two men had taken the Devizes road
out of Lavington, and beyond that nothing was known of them. When
the parson mentioned Sam Brattle's name in a whisper, the Lavington
constable shook his head. He knew all about old Jacob Brattle. A very
respectable party was old Mr. Brattle in the constable's opinion.
Nevertheless the constable shook his head when Sam Brattle's name was
mentioned. Having learned so much, the parson rode home.

Two days after this, on a Friday, Fenwick was sitting after breakfast
in his study, at work on his sermon for next Sunday, when he was told
that old Mrs. Brattle was waiting to see him. He immediately got up,
and found his own wife and the miller's seated in the hall. It was
not often that Mrs. Brattle made her way to the Vicarage, but when
she did so she was treated with great consideration. It was still
August, and the weather was very hot, and she had walked up across
the water mead, and was tired. A glass of wine and a biscuit were
pressed upon her, and she was encouraged to sit and say a few
indifferent words, before she was taken into the study and told to
commence the story which had brought her so far. And there was a
most inviting topic for conversation. The mill and the mill premises
were to be put in order by the landlord. Mrs. Brattle affected to
be rather dismayed than otherwise by the coming operations. The
mill would have lasted their time, she thought, "and as for them as
were to come after them,--well! she didn't know. As things was now,
perhaps, it might be that after all Sam would have the mill." But the
trouble occasioned by the workmen would be infinite. How were they to
live in the mean time, and where were they to go? It soon appeared,
however, that all this had been already arranged. Milling must of
course be stopped for a month or six weeks. "Indeed, sir, feyther
says that there won't be no more grinding much before winter."
But the mill was to be repaired first, and then, when it became
absolutely necessary to dismantle the house, they were to endeavour
to make shift, and live in the big room of the mill itself, till
their furniture should be put back again. Mrs. Fenwick, with ready
good nature, offered to accommodate Mrs. Brattle and Fanny at the
Vicarage; but the old woman declined with many protestations of
gratitude. She had never left her old man yet, and would not do so
now. The weather would be mild for awhile, and she thought that they
could get through. By this time the glass of wine had been sipped
to the bottom, and the parson, mindful of his sermon, had led the
visitor into his study. She had come to tell that Sam at last had
returned home.

"Why didn't you bring him up with you, Mrs. Brattle?" Here was a
question to ask of an old lady, whose dominion over her son was
absolutely none! Sam had become so frightfully independent that he
hardly regarded the word of his father, who was a man pre-eminently
capable of maintaining authority, and would no more do a thing
because his mother told him than because the wind whistled.

"I axed him to come up, not just with me, but of hisself, Mr.
Fenwick; but he said as how you would know where to find him if you
wanted him."

"That's just what I don't know. However, if he's there now I'll go to
him. It would have been better far that he should have come to me."

"I told 'un so, Mr. Fenwick, I did, indeed."

"It does not signify. I will go to him; only it cannot be to-day, as
I have promised to take my wife over to Charlicoats. But I'll come
down immediately after breakfast to-morrow. You think he'll be still
there?"

"I be sure he will, Mr. Fenwick. He and feyther have taken on again,
till it's beautiful to see. There was none of 'em feyther ever loved
like he,--only one." Thereupon the poor woman burst out into tears,
and covered her face with her handkerchief. "He never makes half so
much account of my Fan, that never had a fault belonging to her."

"If Sam will stick to that it will be well for him."

"He's taken up extraordinary with the repairs, Mr. Fenwick. He's in
and about and over the place, looking to everything; and feyther says
he knows so much about it, he b'lieves the boy could do it all out o'
his own head. There's nothing feyther ever liked so much as folks to
be strong and clever."

"Perhaps the Squire's tradesmen won't like all that. Is Mitchell
going to do it?"

"It ain't a doing in that way, Mr. Fenwick. The Squire is allowing
£200, and feyther is to get it done. Mister Mitchell is to see that
it's done proper, no doubt."

"And now tell me, Mrs. Brattle, what has Sam been about all the time
that he was away?"

"That's just what I cannot tell you, Mr. Fenwick."

"Your husband has asked him, I suppose?"

"If he has, he ain't told me, Mr. Fenwick. I don't care to come
between them with hints and jealousies, suspecting like. Our Fan says
he's been out working somewhere Lavington way; but I don't know as
she knows."

"Was he decent looking when he came home?"

"He wasn't much amiss, Mr. Fenwick. He has that way with him that he
most always looks decent;--don't he, sir?"

"Had he any money?"

"He had a some'at, because when he was working, moving the big lumber
as though for bare life, he sent one of the boys for beer, and I
see'd him give the boy the money."

"I'm sorry for it. I wish he'd come back without a penny, and with
hunger like a wolf in his stomach, and with his clothes all rags,
so that he might have had a taste of the suffering of a vagabond's
life."

"Just like the Prodigal Son, Mr. Fenwick?"

"Just like the Prodigal Son. He would not have come back to his
father had he not been driven by his own vices to live with the
swine." Then, seeing the tears coming down the poor mother's cheeks,
he added in a kinder voice, "Perhaps it may be all well as it is. We
will hope so at least, and to-morrow I will come down and see him.
You need not tell him that I am coming, unless he should ask where
you have been." Then Mrs. Brattle took her leave, and the parson
finished his sermon.

That afternoon he drove his wife across the county to visit certain
friends at Charlicoats, and, both going and coming, could not keep
himself from talking about the Brattles. In the first place, he
thought that Gilmore was wrong not to complete the work himself.

"Of course he'll see that the money is spent and all that, and no
doubt in this way he may get the job done twenty or thirty pounds
cheaper; but the Brattles have not interest enough in the place to
justify it."

"I suppose the old man liked it best so."

"The old man shouldn't have been allowed to have his way. I am in an
awful state of alarm about Sam. Much as I like him,--or at any rate
did like him,--I fear he is going, or perhaps has gone, to the dogs.
That those two men were housebreakers is as certain as that you sit
there; and I cannot doubt but that he has been with them over at
Lavington or Devizes, or somewhere in that country."

"But he may, perhaps, never have joined them in anything of that
kind."

"A man is known by his companions. I would not have believed it if
I had not found him with the men, and traced him and them about the
county together. You see that this fellow whom they call the Grinder
was certainly the man I struck. I tracked him to Lavington, and there
he was complaining of being sore all over his body. I don't wonder
that he was sore. He must be made like a horse to be no worse than
sore. Well, then, that man and Sam were certainly in our garden
together."

"Give him a chance, Frank."

"Of course, I will give him a chance. I will give him the very best
chance I can. I would do anything to save him,--but I can't help
knowing what I know."

He had made very little to his wife of the danger of the Vicarage
being robbed, but he could not but feel that there was danger.
His wife had brought with her, among other plenishing for their
household, a considerable amount of handsome plate, more than is,
perhaps, generally to be found in country parsonages, and no doubt
this fact was known, at any rate, to Sam Brattle. Had the men simply
intended to rob the garden, they would not have run the risk of
coming so near to the house windows. But then it certainly was true
that Sam was not showing them the way. The parson did not quite know
what to think about it, but it was clearly his duty to be on his
guard.

That same evening he sauntered across the corner of the churchyard
to his neighbour the farmer. Looking out warily for Bone'm, he stood
leaning upon the farm gate. Bone'm was not to be seen or heard, and
therefore he entered, and walked up to the back door, which indeed
was the only door for entrance or egress that was ever used. There
was a front door opening into a little ragged garden, but this was as
much a fixture as the wall. As he was knocking at the back door, it
was opened by the farmer himself. Mr. Fenwick had called to inquire
whether his friend had secured for him,--as half promised,--the
possession of a certain brother of Bone'm's, who was supposed to be
of a very pugnacious disposition in the silent watches of the night.

"It's no go, parson."

"Why not, Mr. Trumbull?"

"The truth is, there be such a deal of talk o' thieves about the
country, that no one likes to part with such a friend as that. Muster
Crickly, over at Imber, he have another big dog it's true, a reg'lar
mastiff, but he do say that Crunch'em be better than the mastiff, and
he won't let 'un go, parson,--not for love nor money. I wouldn't let
Bone'm go, I know; not for nothing." Then Mr. Fenwick walked back to
the Vicarage, and was half induced to think that as Crunch'em was not
to be had, it would be his duty to sit up at night, and look after
the plate box himself.




CHAPTER XI.

DON'T YOU BE AFEARD ABOUT ME.


On the following morning Mr. Fenwick walked down to the mill. There
was a path all along the river, and this was the way he took. He
passed different points as he went, and he thought of the trout he
had caught there, or had wished to catch, and he thought also how
often Sam Brattle had been with him as he had stood there delicately
throwing his fly. In those days Sam had been very fond of him, had
thought it to be a great thing to be allowed to fish with the parson,
and had been reasonably obedient. Now Sam would not even come up to
the Vicarage when he was asked to do so. For more than a year after
the close of those amicable relations the parson had behaved with
kindness and almost with affection to the lad. He had interceded with
the Squire when Sam was accused of poaching,--had interceded with
the old miller when Sam had given offence at home,--and had even
interceded with the constable when there was a rumour in the wind
of offences something worse than these. Then had come the occasion
on which Mr. Fenwick had told the father that unless the son would
change his course evil would come of it; and both father and son had
taken this amiss. The father had told the parson to his face that he,
the parson, had led his son astray; and the son in his revenge had
brought housebreakers down upon his old friend's premises.

"One hasn't to do it for thanks," said Mr. Fenwick, as he became a
little bitter while thinking of all this. "I'll stick to him as long
as I can, if it's only for the old woman's sake,--and for the poor
girl whom we used to love." Then he thought of a clear, sweet, young
voice that used to be so well known in his village choir, and of the
heavy curls, which it was a delight to him to see. It had been a
pleasure to him to have such a girl as Carry Brattle in his church,
and now Carry Brattle was gone utterly, and would probably never be
seen in a church again. These Brattles had suffered much, and he
would bear with them, let the task of doing so be ever so hard.

The sound of workmen was to be already heard as he drew near to
the mill. There were men there pulling the thatch off the building,
and there were carts and horses bringing laths, lime, bricks, and
timber, and taking the old rubbish away. As he crossed quickly by
the slippery stones he saw old Jacob Brattle standing before the
mill looking on, with his hands in his breeches pockets. He was
too old to do much at such work as this,--work to which he was not
accustomed--and was looking up in a sad melancholy way, as though it
were a work of destruction, and not one of reparation.

"We shall have you here as smart as possible before long, Mr.
Brattle," said the parson.

"I don't know much about smart, Muster Fenwick. The old place was
a'most tumbling down,--but still it would have lasted out my time,
I'm thinking. If t' Squire would 'a done it fifteen years ago, I'd
'a thanked un; but I don't know what to say about it now, and this
time of year and all, just when the new grist would be coming in.
If t' Squire would 'a thought of it in June, now. But things is
contrary--a'most allays so." After this speech, which was made in a
low, droning voice, bit by bit, the miller took himself off and went
into the house.

At the back of the mill, perched on an old projecting beam, in the
midst of dust and dirt, assisting with all the energy of youth in the
demolition of the roof, Mr. Fenwick saw Sam Brattle. He perceived at
once that Sam had seen him; but the young man immediately averted his
eyes and went on with his work. The parson did not speak at once, but
stepped over the ruins around him till he came immediately under the
beam in question. Then he called to the lad, and Sam was constrained
to answer "Yes, Mr. Fenwick, I am here;--hard at work, as you see."

"I do see it, and wish you luck with your job. Spare me ten minutes,
and come down and speak to me."

"I am in such a muck now, Mr. Fenwick, that I do wish to go on with
it, if you'll let me."

But Mr. Fenwick, having taken so much trouble to get at the young
man, was not going to be put off in this way. "Never mind your muck
for a quarter of an hour," he said. "I have come here on purpose to
find you, and I must speak to you."

"Must!" said Sam, looking down with a very angry lower on his face.

"Yes,--must. Don't be a fool now. You know that I do not wish to
injure you. You are not such a coward as to be afraid to speak to me.
Come down."

"Afeard! Who talks of being afeard? Stop a moment, Mr. Fenwick, and
I'll be with you;--not that I think it will do any good." Then slowly
he crept back along the beam and came down through the interior of
the building. "What is it, Mr. Fenwick? Here I am. I ain't a bit
afeard of you at any rate."

"Where have you been the last fortnight, Sam?"

"What right have you to ask me, Mr. Fenwick?"

"I have the right of old friendship, and perhaps also some right from
my remembrance of the last place in which I saw you. What has become
of that man, Burrows?"

"What Burrows?"

"Jack the Grinder, whom I hit on the back the night I made you
prisoner. Do you think that you were doing well in being in my garden
about midnight in company with such a fellow as that,--one of the
most notorious jailbirds in the county? Do you know that I could have
had you arrested and sent to prison at once?"

"I know you couldn't--do nothing of the kind."

"You know this, Sam,--that I've no wish to do it; that nothing would
give me more pain than doing it. But you must feel that if we should
hear now of any depredation about the county, we couldn't,--I at
least could not,--help thinking of you. And I am told that there will
be depredations, Sam. Are you concerned in these matters?"

"No, I am not," said Sam, doggedly.

"Are you disposed to tell me why you were in my garden, and why those
men were with you?"

"We were down in the churchyard, and the gate was open, and so we
walked up;--that was all. If we'd meant to do anything out of the way
we shouldn't 'a come like that, nor yet at that hour. Why, it worn't
midnight, Mr. Fenwick."

"But why was there such a man as Burrows with you? Do you think he
was fit company for you, Sam?"

"I suppose a chap may choose his own company, Mr. Fenwick?"

"Yes, he may, and go to the gallows because he chooses it, as you are
doing."

"Very well; if that's all you've got to say to me, I'll go back to my
work."

"Stop one moment, Sam. That is not quite all. I caught you the other
night where you had no business to be, and for the sake of your
father and mother, and for old recollections, I let you go. Perhaps I
was wrong, but I don't mean to hark back upon that again."

"You are a-harking back on it, ever so often."

"I shall take no further steps about it."

"There ain't no steps to be taken, Mr. Fenwick."

"But I see that you intend to defy me, and therefore I am bound to
tell you that I shall keep my eye upon you."

"Don't you be afeard about me, Mr. Fenwick."

"And if I hear of those fellows, Burrows and the other, being about
the place any more, I shall give the police notice that they are
associates of yours. I don't think so badly of you yet, Sam, as to
believe you would bring your father's grey hairs with sorrow to the
grave by turning thief and housebreaker; but when I hear of your
being away from home, and nobody knowing where you are, and find
that you are living without decent employment, and prowling about at
nights with robbers and cut-throats, I cannot but be afraid. Do you
know that the Squire recognised you that night as well as I?"

"The Squire ain't nothing to me, and if you've done with me now,
Mr. Fenwick, I'll go back to my work." So saying, Sam Brattle again
mounted up to the roof, and the parson returned discomfited to the
front of the building. He had not intended to see any of the family,
but, as he was crossing the little bridge, meaning to go home round
by the Privets, he was stopped by Fanny Brattle.

"I hope it will be all right now, Mr. Fenwick," the girl said.


[Illustration: "I hope it will be all right now, Mr. Fenwick,"
the girl said.]


"I hope so too, Fanny. But you and your mother should keep an eye
on him, so that he may know that his goings and comings are noticed.
I dare say it will be all right as long as the excitement of these
changes is going on; but there is nothing so bad as that he should be
in and out of the house at nights and not feel that his absence is
noticed. It will be better always to ask him, though he be ever so
cross. Tell your mother I say so."




CHAPTER XII.

BONE'M AND HIS MASTER.


After leaving the mill Mr. Fenwick went up to the Squire, and, in
contradiction, as it were, of all the hard things that he had said
to Sam Brattle, spoke to the miller's landlord in the lad's favour.
He was hard at work now, at any rate; and seemed inclined to stick
to his work. And there had been an independence about him which the
parson had half liked, even while he had been offended at it. Gilmore
differed altogether from his friend. "What was he doing in your
garden? What was he doing hidden in Trumbull's hedge? When I see
fellows hiding in ditches at night, I don't suppose that they're
after much good." Mr. Fenwick made some lame apology, even for these
offences. Sam had, perhaps, not really known the extent of the
iniquity of the men with whom he had associated, and had come up the
garden probably with a view to the fruit. The matter was discussed at
great length, and the Squire at last promised that he would give Sam
another chance in regard to his own estimation of the young man's
character.

On that same evening,--or, rather, after the evening was over, for it
was nearly twelve o'clock at night,--Fenwick walked round the garden
and the orchard with his wife. There was no moon now, and the night
was very dark. They stopped for a minute at the wicket leading into
the churchyard, and it was evident to them that Bone'm, from the
farmyard at the other side of the church, had heard them, for he
commenced a low growl, with which the parson was by this time well
acquainted.

"Good dog, good dog," said the parson, in a low voice. "I wish we had
his brother, I know."

"He would only be tearing the maids and biting the children," said
Mrs. Fenwick. "I hate having a savage beast about."

"But it would be so nice to catch a burglar and crunch him. I feel
almost bloodthirsty since I hit that fellow with the life-preserver,
and find that I didn't kill him."

"I know, Frank, you're thinking about these thieves more than you
like to tell me."

"I was thinking just then, that if they were to come and take all the
silver it wouldn't do much harm. We should have to buy German plate,
and nobody would know the difference."

"Suppose they murdered us all?"

"They never do that now. The profession is different from what it
used to be. They only go where they know they can find a certain
amount of spoil, and where they can get it without much danger. I
don't think housebreakers ever cut throats in these days. They're too
fond of their own." Then they both agreed that if these rumours of
housebreakings were continued, they would send away the plate some
day to be locked up in safe keeping at Salisbury. After that they
went to bed.

On the next morning, the Sunday morning, at a few minutes before
seven, the parson was awakened by his groom at his bedroom door.

"What is it, Roger?" he asked.

"For the love of God, sir, get up! They've been and murdered Mr.
Trumbull."

Mrs. Fenwick, who heard the tidings, screamed; and Mr. Fenwick was
out of bed and into his trousers in half a minute. In another half
minute Mrs. Fenwick, clothed in her dressing-gown, was up-stairs
among her children. No doubt she thought that as soon as the poor
farmer had been despatched, the murderers would naturally pass on
into her nursery. Mr. Fenwick did not believe the tidings. If a man
be hurt in the hunting-field, it is always said that he's killed.
If the kitchen flue be on fire, it is always said that the house is
burned down. Something, however, had probably happened at Farmer
Trumbull's; and down went the parson across the garden and orchard,
and through the churchyard, as quick as his legs would carry him.
In the farmyard he found quite a crowd of men, including the two
constables and three or four of the leading tradesmen in the village.
The first thing that he saw was the dead body of Bone'm, the dog. He
was stiff and stark, and had been poisoned.

"How's Mr. Trumbull?" he asked, of the nearest by-stander.

"Laws, parson, ain't ye heard?" said the man. "They've knocked his
skull open with a hammer, and he's as dead--as dead."

Hearing this, the parson turned round, and made his way into the
house. There was not a doubt about it. The farmer had been murdered
during the night, and his money carried off. Upstairs Mr. Fenwick
made his way to the farmer's bedroom, and there lay the body. Mr.
Crittenden, the village doctor, was there; and a crowd of men, and
an old woman or two. Among the women was Trumbull's sister, the wife
of a neighbouring farmer, who, with her husband, a tenant of Mr.
Gilmore's, had come over just before the arrival of Mr. Fenwick.
The body had been found on the stairs, and it was quite clear that
the farmer had fought desperately with the man or men before he had
received the blow which despatched him.

"I told 'um how it be,--I did, I did, when he would 'a all that money
by 'um." This was the explanation given by Mr. Trumbull's sister,
Mrs. Boddle.

It seemed that Trumbull had had in his possession over a hundred
and fifty pounds, of which the greater part was in gold, and that
he kept this in a money-box in his bedroom. One of the two women
who lived in his service,--he himself had been a widower without
children,--declared that she had always known that at night he took
the box out of his cupboard into bed with him. She had seen it there
more than once when she had taken him up drinks when he was unwell.
When first interrogated, she declared that she did not remember, at
that moment, that she had ever told anybody; she thought she had
never told anybody; at last, she would swear that she had never
spoken a word about it to a single soul. She was supposed to be a
good girl, had come of decent people, and was well known by Mr.
Fenwick, of whose congregation she was one. Her name was Agnes Pope.
The other servant was an elderly woman, who had been in the house all
her life, but was unfortunately deaf. She had known very well about
the money, and had always been afraid about it; had very often spoken
to her master about it, but never a word to Agnes. She had been woken
in the night,--that was, as it turned out, about 2 A.M.,--by the
girl who slept with her, and who declared that she had heard a great
noise, as of somebody tumbling,--a very great noise indeed, as though
there were ever so many people tumbling. For a long time, for perhaps
an hour, they had lain still, being afraid to move. Then the elder
woman had lighted a candle, and gone down from the garret in which
they slept. The first thing she saw was the body of her master, in
his shirt, upon the stairs. She had then called up the only other
human being who slept on the premises, a shepherd, who had lived for
thirty years with Trumbull. This man had thrown open the house, and
had gone for assistance, and had found the body of the dead dog in
the yard.

Before nine o'clock the facts, as they have been told, were known
everywhere, and the Squire was down on the spot. The man,--or, as it
was presumed, men,--had entered by the unaccustomed front door, which
was so contrived as to afford the easiest possible mode of getting
into the house; whereas, the back door, which was used by everybody,
had been bolted and barred with all care. The men must probably have
entered by the churchyard and the back gate of the farmyard, as that
had been found to be unlatched, whereas the gate leading out on to
the road had been found closed. The farmer himself had always been
very careful to close both these gates when he let out Bone'm before
going to bed. Poor Bone'm had been enticed to his death by a piece of
poisoned meat, thrown to him probably some considerable time before
the attack was made.

Who were the murderers? That of course was the first question. It
need hardly be said with how sad a heart Mr. Fenwick discussed this
matter with the Squire. Of course inquiry must be made of the manner
in which Sam Brattle had passed the night. Heavens! how would it be
with that poor family if he had been concerned in such an affair as
this! And then there came across the parson's mind a remembrance that
Agnes Pope and Sam Brattle had been seen by him together, on more
Sundays than one. In his anxiety, and with much imprudence, he went
to the girl and questioned her again.

"For your own sake, Agnes, tell me, are you sure you never mentioned
about the money-box to--Sam Brattle?"

The girl blushed and hesitated, and then said that she was quite sure
she never had. She didn't think she had ever said ten words to Sam
since she knew about the box.

"But five words would be sufficient, Agnes."

"Then them five words was never spoke, sir," said the girl. But still
she blushed, and the parson thought that her manner was not in her
favour.

It was necessary that the parson should attend to his church; but the
Squire, who was a magistrate, went down with the two constables to
the mill. There they found Sam and his father, with Mrs. Brattle and
Fanny. No one went to the church from the mill on that day. The news
had reached them of the murder, and they all felt,--though no one
of them had so said to any other,--that something might in some way
connect them with the deed that had been done. Sam had hardly spoken
since he had heard of Mr. Trumbull's death; though when he saw that
his father was perfectly silent, as one struck with some sudden
dread, he bade the old man hold up his head and fear nothing. Old
Brattle, when so addressed, seated himself in his arm-chair, and
there remained without a word till the magistrate with the constables
were among them.

There were not many at church, and Mr. Fenwick made the service very
short. He could not preach the sermon which he had prepared, but said
a few words on the terrible catastrophe which had occurred so near
to them. This man who was now lying within only a few yards of them,
with his brains knocked out, had been alive among them, strong and
in good health, yesterday evening! And there had come into their
peaceful village miscreants who had been led on from self-indulgence
to idleness, and from idleness to theft, and from theft to murder! We
all know the kind of words which the parson spoke, and the thrill of
attention with which they would be heard. Here was a man who had been
close to them, and therefore the murder came home to them all, and
filled them with an excitement which, alas! was not probably without
some feeling of pleasure. But the sermon, if sermon it could be
called, was very short; and when it was over, the parson also hurried
down to the mill.

It had already been discovered that Sam Brattle had certainly been
out during the night. He had himself denied this at first, saying,
that though he had been the last to go to bed, he had gone to bed
about eleven, and had not left the mill-house till late in the
morning;--but his sister had heard him rise, and had seen his body
through the gloom as he passed beneath the window of the room in
which she slept. She had not heard him return, but, when she arose at
six, had found out that he was then in the house. He manifested no
anger against her when she gave this testimony, but acknowledged that
he had been out, that he had wandered up to the road, and explained
his former denial frankly,--or with well-assumed frankness,--by
saying that he would, if possible, for his father's and mother's
sake, have concealed the fact that he had been away,--knowing that
his absence would give rise to suspicions which would well-nigh break
their hearts. He had not, however,--so he said,--been any nearer
to Bullhampton than the point of the road opposite to the lodge of
Hampton Privets, from whence the lane turned down to the mill. What
had he been doing down there? He had done nothing, but sat and smoked
on a stile by the road side. Had he seen any strangers? Here he
paused, but at last declared that he had seen none, but had heard
the sound of wheels and of a pony's feet upon the road. The vehicle,
whatever it was, must have passed on towards Bullhampton just before
he reached the road. Had he followed the vehicle? No;--he had thought
of doing so, but had not. Could he guess who was in the vehicle? By
this time many surmises had been made aloud as to Jack the Grinder
and his companion, and it had become generally known that the
parson had encountered two such men in his own garden some nights
previously. Sam, when he was pressed, said that the idea had come
into his mind that the vehicle was the Grinder's cart. He had no
knowledge, he said, that the man was coming to Bullhampton on that
night;--but the man had said in his hearing, that he would like to
strip the parson's peaches. He was asked also about Farmer Trumbull's
money. He declared that he had never heard that the farmer kept money
in the house. He did know that the farmer was accounted to be a very
saving man,--but that was all that he knew. He was as much surprised,
he said, as any of them at what had occurred. Had the men turned the
other way and robbed the parson he would have been less surprised. He
acknowledged that he had called the parson a turn-coat and a meddling
tell-tale, in the presence of these men.

All this ended of course in Sam's arrest. He had himself seen from
the first that it would be so, and had bade his mother take comfort
and hold up her head. "It won't be for long, mother. I ain't got any
of the money, and they can't bring it nigh me." He was taken away
to be locked up at Heytesbury that night, in order that he might be
brought before the bench of magistrates which would sit at that place
on Tuesday. Squire Gilmore for the present committed him.

The parson remained for some time with the old man and his wife after
Sam was gone, but he soon found that he could be of no service by
doing so. The miller himself would not speak, and Mrs. Brattle was
utterly prostrated by her husband's misery.

"I do not know what to say about it," said Mr. Fenwick to his wife
that night. "The suspicion is very strong; but I cannot say that
I have an opinion one way or the other." There was no sermon in
Bullhampton Church on that Sunday afternoon.




CHAPTER XIII.

CAPTAIN MARRABLE AND HIS FATHER.


Only that it is generally conceived that in such a history as is this
the writer of the tale should be able to make his points so clear
by words that no further assistance should be needed, I should be
tempted here to insert a properly illustrated pedigree tree of the
Marrable family. The Marrable family is of very old standing in
England, the first baronet having been created by James I., and there
having been Marrables,--as is well known by all attentive readers of
English history,--engaged in the Wars of the Roses, and again others
very conspicuous in the religious persecutions of the children of
Henry VIII. I do not know that they always behaved with consistency;
but they held their heads up after a fashion, and got themselves
talked of, and were people of note in the country. They were
cavaliers in the time of Charles I. and of Cromwell,--as became men
of blood and gentlemen,--but it is not recorded of them that they
sacrificed much in the cause; and when William III. became king they
submitted with a good grace to the new order of things. A certain Sir
Thomas Marrable was member for his county in the reigns of George I.
and George II., and enjoyed a lucrative confidence with Walpole. Then
there came a blustering, roystering Sir Thomas, who, together with a
fine man and gambler as a heir, brought the property to rather a low
ebb; so that when Sir Gregory, the grandfather of our Miss Marrable,
came to the title in the early days of George III. he was not a rich
man. His two sons, another Sir Gregory and a General Marrable, died
long before the days of which we are writing,--Sir Gregory in 1815,
and the General in 1820. That Sir Gregory was the second of the
name,--the second at least as mentioned in these pages. He had been
our Miss Marrable's uncle, and the General had been her father, and
the father of Mrs. Lowther,--Mary's mother. A third Sir Gregory
was reigning at the time of our story, a very old gentleman with
one single son,--a fourth Gregory. Now the residence of Sir
Gregory was at Dunripple Park, just on the borders of Warwickshire
and Worcestershire, but in the latter county. The property was
small,--for a country gentleman with a title,--not much exceeding
£3000 a year; and there was no longer any sitting in Parliament, or
keeping of race-horses, or indeed any season in town for the present
race of Marrables. The existing Sir Gregory was a very quiet man, and
his son and only child, a man now about forty years of age, lived
mostly at home, and occupied himself with things of antiquity. He
was remarkably well read in the history of his own country, and it
had been understood for the last twenty years by the Antiquarian,
Archæological, and other societies that he was the projector of a new
theory about Stonehenge, and that his book on the subject was almost
ready. Such were the two surviving members of the present senior
branch of the family. But Sir Gregory had two brothers,--the younger
of the two being Parson John Marrable, the present rector of St.
Peter's Lowtown and the occupier of the house within the heavy
slate-coloured gates, where he lived a bachelor life, as had done
before him his cousin the late rector;--the elder being a certain
Colonel Marrable. The Colonel Marrable again had a son, who was a
Captain Walter Marrable,--and after him the confused reader shall be
introduced to no more of the Marrable family. The enlightened reader
will have by this time perceived that Miss Mary Lowther and Captain
Walter Marrable were second cousins; and he will also have perceived,
if he has given his mind fully to the study, that the present Parson
John Marrable had come into the living after the death of a cousin of
the same generation as himself,--but of lower standing in the family.
It was so; and by this may be seen how little the Sir Gregory of the
present day had been able to do for his brother, and perhaps it may
also be imagined from this that the present clergyman at Loring
Lowtown had been able to do very little for himself. Nevertheless,
he was a kindly-hearted, good, sincere old man,--not very bright,
indeed, nor peculiarly fitted for preaching the gospel, but he was
much liked, and he kept a curate, though his income out of the
living was small. Now it so happened that Captain Marrable,--Walter
Marrable,--came to stay with his uncle the parson about the same time
that Mary Lowther returned to Loring.

"You remember Walter, do you not?" said Miss Marrable to her niece.

"Not the least in the world. I remember there was a Walter when I was
at Dunripple. But that was ten years ago, and boy cousins and girl
cousins never fraternise."

"I suppose he was nearly a young man then, and you were a child?"

"He was still at school, though just leaving it. He is seven years
older than I am."

"He is coming to stay with Parson John."

"You don't say so, aunt Sarah? What will such a man as Captain
Marrable do at Loring?"

Then aunt Sarah explained all that she knew, and perhaps suggested
more than she knew. Walter Marrable had quarrelled with his father,
the Colonel,--with whom, indeed, everybody of the name of Marrable
had always been quarrelling, and who was believed by Miss Marrable to
be the very--mischief himself. He was a man always in debt, who had
broken his wife's heart, who lived with low company and disgraced the
family, who had been more than once arrested, on whose behalf all
the family interest had been expended, so that nobody else could get
anything, and who gambled and drank and did whatever wicked things
a wicked old colonel living at Portsmouth could do. And indeed,
hitherto, Miss Marrable had entertained opinions hardly more
charitable respecting the son than she had done in regard to
the father. She had disbelieved in this branch of the Marrables
altogether. Captain Marrable had lived with his father a good
deal,--at least, so she had understood,--and therefore could not but
be bad. And, moreover, our Miss Sarah Marrable had, throughout her
whole life, been somewhat estranged from the elder branches of the
family. Her father, Walter, had been,--so she thought,--injured by
his brother Sir Gregory, and there had been some law proceedings, not
quite amicable, between her brother the parson, and the present Sir
Gregory. She respected Sir Gregory as the head of the family, but she
never went now to Dunripple, and knew nothing of Sir Gregory's heir.
Of the present Parson John she had thought very little before he had
come to Loring. Since he had been living there she had found that
blood was thicker than water,--as she would say,--and they two were
intimate. When she heard that Captain Marrable was coming, because
he had quarrelled with his father, she began to think that perhaps
it might be as well that she should allow herself to meet this new
cousin.

"What do you think of your cousin, Walter?" the old clergyman said to
his nephew, one evening, after the two ladies, who had been dining at
the Rectory, had left them. It was the first occasion on which Walter
Marrable had met Mary since his coming to Loring.

"I remember her as well as if it were yesterday, at Dunripple. She
was a little girl then, and I thought her the most beautiful little
girl in the world."

"We all think her very beautiful still."

"So she is; as lovely as ever she can stand. But she does not seem to
have much to say for herself. I remember when she was a little girl
she never would speak."

"I fancy she can talk when she pleases, Walter. But you mustn't fall
in love with her."

"I won't, if I can help it."

"In the first place I think she is as good as engaged to a fellow
with a very pretty property in Wiltshire, and in the next place she
hasn't got--one shilling."

"There is not much danger. I am not inclined to trouble myself about
any girl in my present mood, even if she had the pretty property
herself, and wasn't engaged to anybody. I suppose I shall get over it
some day, but I feel just at present as though I couldn't say a kind
word to a human being."

"Psha! psha! that's nonsense, Walter. Take things coolly. They're
more likely to come right, and they won't be so troublesome, even if
they don't." Such was the philosophy of Parson John,--for the sake
of digesting which the captain lit a cigar, and went out to smoke it,
standing at one of the open slate-coloured gates.

It was said in the first chapter of this story that Mr. Gilmore was
one of the heroes whose deeds the story undertakes to narrate, and
a hint was perhaps expressed that of all the heroes he was the
favourite. Captain Marrable is, however, another hero, and, as such,
some word or two must be said of him. He was a better-looking man,
certainly, than Mr. Gilmore, though perhaps his personal appearance
did not at first sight give to the observer so favourable an idea of
his character as did that of the other gentleman. Mr. Gilmore was
to be read at a glance as an honest, straightforward, well-behaved
country squire, whose word might be taken for anything, who might,
perhaps, like to have his own way, but who could hardly do a cruel
or an unfair thing. He was just such a man to look at as a prudent
mother would select as one to whom she might entrust her daughter
with safety. Now Walter Marrable's countenance was of a very
different die. He had served in India, and the naturally dark colour
of his face had thus become very swarthy. His black hair curled round
his head, but the curls on his brow were becoming very thin, as
though age were already telling on them, and yet he was four or five
years younger than Mr. Gilmore. His eyebrows were thick and heavy,
and his eyes seemed to be black. They were eyes which were used
without much motion; and when they were dead set, as they were not
unfrequently, it would seem as though he were defying those on whom
he looked. Thus he made many afraid of him, and many who were not
afraid of him, disliked him because of a certain ferocity which
seemed to characterise his face. He wore no beard beyond a heavy
black moustache, which quite covered his upper lip. His nose was long
and straight, his mouth large, and his chin square. No doubt he was
a handsome man. And he looked to be a tall man, though in truth he
lacked two full inches of the normal six feet. He was broad across
the chest, strong on his legs, and was altogether such a man to look
at that few would care to quarrel with him, and many would think that
he was disposed to quarrel. Of his nature he was not quarrelsome; but
he was a man who certainly had received much injury. It need not be
explained at length how his money affairs had gone wrong with him. He
should have inherited, and, indeed, did inherit, a fortune from his
mother's family, of which his father had contrived absolutely to rob
him. It was only within the last month that he had discovered that
his father had succeeded in laying his hands on certainly the bulk of
his money, and it might be upon all. Words between them had been very
bitter. The father, with a cigar between his teeth, had told his son
that this was the fortune of war, that if justice had been done him
at his marriage, the money would have been his own, and that by G----
he was very sorry, and couldn't say anything more. The son had called
the father a liar and a swindler,--as, indeed, was the truth, though
the son was doubtless wrong to say so to the author of his being. The
father had threatened the son with his horsewhip; and so they had
parted, within ten days of Walter Marrable's return from India.

Walter had written to his two uncles, asking their advice as to
saving the wreck, if anything might be saved. Sir Gregory had written
back to say that he was an old man, that he was greatly grieved at
the misunderstanding, and that Messrs. Block and Curling were the
family lawyers. Parson John invited his nephew to come down to Loring
Lowtown. Captain Marrable went to Block and Curling, who were by no
means consolatory, and accepted his uncle's invitation.

It was but three days after the first meeting between the two
cousins, that they were to be seen one evening walking together along
the banks of the Lurwell, a little river which at Loring sometimes
takes the appearance of a canal, and sometimes of a natural stream.
But it is commercial, having connection with the Kennet and Avon
navigation; and long, slow, ponderous barges, with heavy, dirty,
sleepy bargemen, and rickety, ill-used barge-horses, are common in
the neighbourhood. In parts it is very pretty, as it runs under the
chalky downs, and there are a multiplicity of locks, and the turf
of the sheep-walks comes up to the towing path; but in the close
neighbourhood of the town the canal is straight and uninteresting;
the ground is level, and there is a scattered community of small,
straight-built light-brick houses, which are in themselves so ugly
that they are incompatible with anything that is pretty in landscape.

Parson John, always so called to distinguish him from the late
parson, his cousin, who had been the Rev. James Marrable, had taken
occasion, on behalf of his nephew, to tell the story of his wrong to
Miss Marrable, and by Miss Marrable it had been told to Mary. To both
these ladies the thing seemed to be so horrible,--the idea that a
father should have robbed his son,--that the stern ferocity of the
slow-moving eyes was forgiven, and they took him to their hearts, if
not for love, at least for pity. Twenty thousand pounds ought to have
become the property of Walter Marrable, when some maternal relative
had died. It had seemed hard that the father should have none of it,
and, on the receipt in India of representations from the Colonel,
Walter had signed certain fatal papers, the effect of which was that
the father had laid his hands on pretty nearly the whole, if not on
the whole, of the money, and had caused it to vanish. There was now a
question whether some five thousand pounds might not be saved. If so,
Walter would stay in England; if not, he would exchange and go back
to India; "or," as he said himself, "to the Devil."

"Don't speak of it in that way," said Mary.

"The worst of it is," said he "that I am ashamed of myself for being
so absolutely cut up about money. A man should be able to bear that
kind of thing; but this hits one all round."

"I think you bear it very well."

"No, I don't. I didn't bear it well when I called my father a
swindler. I didn't bear it well when I swore that I would put him in
prison for robbing me. I don't bear it well now, when I think of it
every moment. But I do so hate India, and I had so absolutely made
up my mind never to return. If it hadn't been that I knew that this
fortune was to be mine, I could have saved money, hand over hand."

"Can't you live on your pay here?"

"No!" He answered her almost as though he were angry with her. "If I
had been used all my life to the strictest economies, perhaps I might
do so. Some men do, no doubt; but I am too old to begin it. There is
the choice of two things,--to blow my brains out, or go back."

"You are not such a coward as that."

"I don't know. I ain't sure that it would be cowardice. If there were
anybody I could injure by doing it, it would be cowardly."

"The family," suggested Mary.

"What does Sir Gregory care for me? I'll show you his letter to me
some day. I don't think it would be cowardly at all to get away from
such a lot."

"I am sure you won't do that, Captain Marrable."

"Think what it is to know that your father is a swindler. Perhaps
that is the worst of it all. Fancy talking or thinking of one's
family after that. I like my uncle John. He is very kind, and has
offered to lend me £150, which I'm sure he can't afford to lose, and
which I am too honest to take. But even he hardly sees it. He calls
it a misfortune, and I've no doubt would shake hands with his brother
to-morrow."

"So would you, if he were really sorry."

"No, Mary; nothing on earth shall ever induce me to set my eyes on
him again willingly. He has destroyed all the world for me. He should
have had half of it without a word. When he used to whine to me in
his letters, and say how cruelly he had been treated, I always made
up my mind that he should have half the income for life. It was
because he should not want till I came home that I enabled him to do
what he has done. And now he has robbed me of every cursed shilling!
I wonder whether I shall ever get my mind free from it."

"Of course you will."

"It seems now that my heart is wrapped in lead." As they were coming
home she put her hand upon his arm, and asked him to promise her to
withdraw that threat.

"Why should I withdraw it? Who cares for me?"

"We all care. My aunt cares. I care."

"The threat means nothing, Mary. People who make such threats don't
carry them out. Of course I shall go on and endure it. The worst of
all is, that the whole thing makes me so unmanly,--makes such a beast
of me. But I'll try to get over it."

Mary Lowther thought that, upon the whole, he bore his misfortune
very well.




CHAPTER XIV.

COUSINHOOD.


Mary Lowther and her cousin had taken their walk together on Monday
evening, and on the next morning she received the following letter
from Mrs. Fenwick. When it reached her she had as yet heard nothing
of the Bullhampton tragedy.


   Vicarage, Monday, Sept. 1, 186--.

   DEAREST MARY,

   I suppose you will have heard before you get this of the
   dreadful murder that has taken place here, and which has
   so startled and horrified us, that we hardly know what we
   are doing even yet. It is hard to say why a thing should
   be worse because it is close, but it certainly is so. Had
   it been in the next parish, or even further off in this
   parish, I do not think that I should feel it so much, and
   then we knew the old man so well; and then, again,--which
   makes it worst of all,--we all of us are unable to get rid
   of a suspicion that one whom we knew, and was liked, has
   been a participator in the crime.

   It seems that it must have been about two o'clock on
   Sunday morning that Mr. Trumbull was killed. It was, at
   any rate, between one and three. As far as they can judge,
   they think that there must have been three men concerned.
   You remember how we used to joke about poor Mr. Trumbull's
   dog. Well, he was poisoned first,--probably an hour before
   the men got into the house. It has been discovered that
   the foolish old man kept a large sum of money by him in a
   box, and that he always took this box into bed with him.
   The woman, who lived in the house with him, used to see it
   there. No doubt the thieves had heard of this, and both
   Frank and Mr. Gilmore think that the girl, Agnes Pope,
   whom you will remember in the choir, told about it. She
   lived with Mr. Trumbull, and we all thought her a very
   good girl,--though she was too fond of that young man, Sam
   Brattle.

   They think that the men did not mean to do the murder, but
   that the old man fought so hard for his money that they
   were driven to it. His body was not in the room, but on
   the top of the stairs, and his temple had been split open
   with a blow of a hammer. The hammer lay beside him, and
   was one belonging to the house. Mr. Gilmore says that
   there was great craft in their using a weapon which they
   did not bring with them. Of course they cannot be traced
   by the hammer.

   They got off with £150 in the box, and did not touch
   anything else. Everybody feels quite sure that they knew
   all about the money, and that when Mr. Gilmore saw them
   that night down at the churchyard corner, they were
   prowling about with a view of seeing how they could get
   into the farmer's house, and not into the Vicarage. Frank
   thinks that when he afterwards found them in our place,
   Sam Brattle had brought them in with a kind of wild idea
   of taking the fruit, but that the men, of their own
   account, had come round to reconnoitre the house. They
   both say that there can be no doubt about the men having
   been the same. Then comes the terrible question whether
   Sam Brattle, the son of that dear woman at the mill, has
   been one of the murderers. He had been at home all the
   previous day working very hard at the works,--which are
   being done in obedience to your orders, my dear; but he
   certainly was out on the Saturday night.

   It is very hard to get at any man's belief in such
   matters, but, as far as I can understand them, I don't
   think that either Frank or Mr. Gilmore do really believe
   that he was there. Frank says that it will go very
   hard with him, and Mr. Gilmore has committed him. The
   magistrates are to sit to-morrow at Heytesbury, and Mr.
   Gilmore will be there. He has, as you may be sure, behaved
   as well as possible, and has quite altered in his manner
   to the old people. I was at the mill this morning. Brattle
   himself would not speak to me, but I sat for an hour
   with Mrs. Brattle and Fanny. It makes it almost the more
   melancholy having all the rubbish and building things
   about, and yet the work stopped.

   Fanny Brattle has behaved so well! It was she who told
   that her brother had been out at night. Mr. Gilmore says
   that when the question was asked in his presence, she
   answered it in her own quiet, simple way, without a
   moment's doubt; but since that she has never ceased to
   assert her conviction that her brother has had nothing to
   do either with the murder or with the robbery. If it had
   not been for this, Mrs. Brattle would, I think, have sunk
   under the load. Fanny says the same thing constantly to
   her father. He scolds her, and bids her hold her tongue;
   but she goes on, and I think it has some effect even on
   him. The whole place does look such a picture of ruin! It
   would break your heart to see it. And then, when one looks
   at the father and mother, one remembers about that other
   child, and is almost tempted to ask why such misery should
   have fallen upon parents who have been honest, sober,
   and industrious. Can it really be that the man is being
   punished here on earth because he will not believe? When
   I hinted this to Frank, he turned upon me, and scolded
   me, and told me I was measuring the Almighty God with a
   foot-rule. But men were punished in the Bible because they
   did not believe. Remember the Baptist's father. But I
   never dare to go on with Frank on these matters.

   I am so full of this affair of poor Mr. Trumbull, and so
   anxious about Sam Brattle, that I cannot now write about
   anything else. I can only say that no man ever behaved
   with greater kindness and propriety than Harry Gilmore,
   who has had to act as magistrate. Poor Fanny Brattle has
   to go to Heytesbury to-morrow to give her evidence. At
   first they said that they must take the father also, but
   he is to be spared for the present.

   I should tell you that Sam himself declares that he
   got to know these men at a place where he was at work,
   brickmaking, near Devizes. He had quarrelled with his
   father, and had got a job there, with high wages. He used
   to be out at night with them, and acknowledges that he
   joined one of them, a man named Burrows, in stealing a
   brood of pea-fowl which some poulterers wanted to buy. He
   says he looked on it as a joke. Then it seems he had some
   spite against Trumbull's dog, and that this man, Burrows,
   came over here on purpose to take the dog away. This,
   according to his story, is all that he knows of the man;
   and he says that on that special Saturday night he had not
   the least idea that Burrows was at Bullhampton, till he
   heard the sound of a certain cart on the road. I tell
   you all this, as I am sure you will share our anxiety
   respecting this unfortunate young man,--because of his
   mother and sister.

   Good-bye, dearest; Frank sends ever so many loves;--and
   somebody else would send them too, if he thought that I
   would be the bearer. Try to think so well of Bullhampton
   as to make you wish to live here.--Give my kindest love to
   your aunt Sarah.

   Your most affectionate friend,

   JANET FENWICK.


Mary was obliged to read the letter twice before she completely
understood it. Old Mr. Trumbull murdered! Why she had known the old
man well, had always been in the habit of speaking to him when she
met him either at the one gate or the other of the farmyard,--had
joked with him about Bone'm, and had heard him assert his own perfect
security against robbers not a week before the night on which he was
murdered! As Mrs. Fenwick had said, the truth is so much more real
when it comes from things that are near. And then she had so often
heard the character of Sam Brattle described,--the man who was now in
prison as a murderer! And she herself had given lessons in singing to
Agnes Pope, who was now in some sort accused of aiding the thieves.
And she herself had asked Agnes whether it was not foolish for her to
be hanging about the farmyard, outside her master's premises, with
Sam Brattle. It was all brought very near to her!

Before that day was over she was telling the story to Captain
Marrable. She had of course told it to her aunt, and they had
been discussing it the whole morning. Mr. Gilmore's name had been
mentioned to Captain Marrable, but very little more than the name.
Aunt Sarah, however, had already begun to think whether it might
not be prudent to tell cousin Walter the story of the half-formed
engagement. Mary had expressed so much sympathy with her cousin's
wrongs, that aunt Sarah had begun to fear that that sympathy might
lead to a tenderer feeling, and aunt Sarah was by no means anxious
that her niece should fall in love with a gentleman whose chief
attraction was the fact that he had been ruined by his own father,
even though that gentleman was a Marrable himself. This danger might
possibly be lessened if Captain Marrable were made acquainted with
the Gilmore affair, and taught to understand how desirable such a
match would be for Mary. But aunt Sarah had qualms of conscience
on the subject. She doubted whether she had a right to tell the
story without leave from Mary; and then there was in truth no real
engagement. She knew indeed that Mr. Gilmore had made the offer more
than once; but then she knew also that the offer had at any rate not
as yet been accepted, and she felt that on Mr. Gilmore's account as
well as on Mary's she ought to hold her tongue. It might indeed be
admissible to tell to a cousin that which she would not tell to an
indifferent young man; but, nevertheless, she could not bring herself
to do, even with so good an object, that which she believed to be
wrong.

That evening Mary was again walking on the towing-path beside the
river with her cousin Walter. She had met him now about five times,
and there was already an intimacy between them. The idea of cousinly
intimacy to girls is undoubtedly very pleasant; and I do not know
whether it is not the fact that the better and the purer is the girl,
the sweeter and the pleasanter is the idea. In America a girl may
form a friendly intimacy with any young man she fancies, and though
she may not be free from little jests and good-humoured joking, there
is no injury to her from such intimacy. It is her acknowledged right
to enjoy herself after that fashion, and to have what she calls a
good time with young men. A dozen such intimacies do not stand in her
way when there comes some real adorer who means to marry her and is
able to do so. She rides with these friends, walks with them, and
corresponds with them. She goes out to balls and picnics with them,
and afterwards lets herself in with a latchkey, while her papa and
mamma are a-bed and asleep, with perfect security. If there be much
to be said against the practice, there is also something to be said
for it. Girls on the other hand, on the continent of Europe, do not
dream of making friendship with any man. A cousin with them is as
much out of the question as the most perfect stranger. In strict
families, a girl is hardly allowed to go out with her brother; and I
have heard of mothers who thought it indiscreet that a father should
be seen alone with his daughter at a theatre. All friendships between
the sexes must, under such a social code, be looked forward to as
post-nuptial joys. Here in England there is a something betwixt the
two. The intercourse between young men and girls is free enough to
enable the latter to feel how pleasant it is to be able to forget for
awhile conventional restraints, and to acknowledge how joyous a thing
it is to indulge in social intercourse in which the simple delight of
equal mind meeting equal mind in equal talk is just enhanced by the
unconscious remembrance that boys and girls when they meet together
may learn to love. There is nothing more sweet in youth than
this, nothing more natural, nothing more fitting, nothing, indeed,
more essentially necessary for God's purposes with his creatures.
Nevertheless, here with us, there is the restriction, and it is
seldom that a girl can allow herself the full flow of friendship with
a man who is not old enough to be her father, unless he is her lover
as well as her friend. But cousinhood does allow some escape from
the hardship of this rule. Cousins are Tom, and Jack, and George,
and Dick. Cousins probably know all or most of your little family
secrets. Cousins, perhaps, have romped with you, and scolded you,
and teased you, when you were young. Cousins are almost the same as
brothers, and yet they may be lovers. There is certainly a great
relief in cousinhood.

Mary Lowther had no brother. She had neither brother nor sister;--had
since her earliest infancy hardly known any other relative save
her aunt and old Parson John. When first she had heard that Walter
Marrable was at Loring, the tidings gave her no pleasure whatever. It
never occurred to her to say to herself: "Now I shall have one who
may become my friend, and be to me perhaps almost a brother?" What
she had hitherto heard of Walter Marrable had not been in his favour.
Of his father she had heard all that was bad, and she had joined
the father and the son together in what few ideas she had formed
respecting them. But now, after five interviews, Walter Marrable was
her dear cousin, with whom she sympathised, of whom she was proud,
whose misfortunes were in some degree her misfortunes, to whom she
thought she could very soon tell this great trouble of her life
about Mr. Gilmore, as though he were indeed her brother. And she
had learned to like his dark staring eyes, which now always seemed
to be fixed on her with something of real regard. She liked them
the better, perhaps, because there was in them so much of real
admiration; though if it were so, Mary knew nothing of such liking
herself. And now at his bidding she called him Walter. He had
addressed her by her Christian name at first, as a matter of course,
and she had felt grateful to him for doing so. But she had not dared
to be so bold with him, till he had bade her do so, and now she felt
that he was a cousin indeed. Captain Marrable was at present waiting,
not with much patience, for tidings from Block and Curling. Would
that £5000 be saved for him, or must he again go out to India and
be heard of no more at home in his own England? Mary was not so
impatient as the Captain, but she also was intensely interested
in the expected letters. On this day, however, their conversation
chiefly ran on the news which Mary had that morning heard from
Bullhampton.

"I suppose you feel sure," said the Captain, "that young Sam Brattle
was one of the murderers?"

"Oh no, Walter."

"Or at least one of the thieves?"

"But both Mr. Fenwick and Mr. Gilmore think that he is innocent."

"I do not gather that from what your friend says. She says that she
thinks that they think so. And then it is clear that he was hanging
about the place before with the very men who have committed the
crime; and that there was a way in which he might have heard and
probably had heard of the money; and then he was out and about that
very night."

"Still I can't believe it. If you knew the sort of people his father
and mother are." Captain Marrable could not but reflect that, if an
honest gentleman might have a swindler for his father, an honest
miller might have a thief for his son. "And then if you saw the place
at which they live! I have a particular interest about it."

"Then the young man, of course, must be innocent."

"Don't laugh at me, Walter."

"Why is the place so interesting to you?"

"I can hardly tell you why. The father and the mother are interesting
people, and so is the sister. And in their way they are so good! And
they have had great troubles,--very great troubles. And the place
is so cool and pretty, all surrounded by streams and old pollard
willows, with a thatched roof that comes in places nearly to the
ground; and then the sound of the mill wheel is the pleasantest sound
I know anywhere."

"I will hope he is innocent, Mary."

"I do so hope he is innocent! And then my friends are so much
interested about the family. The Fenwicks are very fond of them, and
Mr. Gilmore is their landlord."

"He is the magistrate?"

"Yes, he is the magistrate."

"What sort of fellow is he?"

"A very good sort of fellow; such a sort that he can hardly be
better; a perfect gentleman."

"Indeed! And has he a perfect lady for his wife?"

"Mr. Gilmore is not married."

"What age is he?"

"I think he is thirty-three."

"With a nice estate and not married! What a chance you have left
behind you, Mary!"

"Do you think, Walter, that a girl ought to wish to marry a man
merely because he is a perfect gentleman, and has a nice estate and
is not yet married?"

"They say that they generally do;--don't they?"

"I hope you don't think so. Any girl would be very fortunate to marry
Mr. Gilmore--if she loved him."

"But you don't?"

"You know I am not talking about myself, and you oughtn't to make
personal allusions."

These cousinly walks along the banks of the Lurwell were not probably
favourable to Mr. Gilmore's hopes.




CHAPTER XV.

THE POLICE AT FAULT.


[Illustration]

The magistrates sat at Heytesbury on the Tuesday, and Sam Brattle was
remanded. An attorney thus was employed on his behalf by Mr. Fenwick.
The parson on the Monday evening had been down at the mill, and
had pressed strongly on the old miller the necessity of getting
some legal assistance for his son. At first Mr. Brattle was stern,
immovable, and almost dumb. He sat on the bench outside his door,
with his eyes fixed on the dismantled mill, and shook his head
wearily, as though sick and sore with the words that were being
addressed to him. Mrs. Brattle the while stood in the doorway, and
listened without uttering a sound. If the parson could not prevail,
it would be quite out of the question that any word of hers should
do good. There she stood, wiping the tears from her eyes, looking on
wishfully, while her husband did not even know that she was there. At
last he rose from his seat, and hallooed to her. "Maggie," said he,
"Maggie." She stepped forward, and put her hand upon his shoulder.
"Bring me down the purse, mother," he said.

"There will be nothing of that kind wanted," said the parson.

"Them gentlemen don't work for such as our boy for nothin'," said the
miller. "Bring me the purse, mother, I say. There ar'n't much in it,
but there's a few guineas as 'll do for that, perhaps. As well pitch
'em away that way as any other."

Mr. Fenwick, of course, declined to take the money. He would make the
lawyer understand that he would be properly paid for his trouble,
and that for the present would suffice. Only, as he explained, it
was expedient that he should have the father's authority. Should
any question on the matter arise, it would be bettor for the young
man that he should be defended by his father's aid than by that
of a stranger. "I understand, Mr. Fenwick," said the old man,--"I
understand; and it's neighbourly of you. But it'd be better that
you'd just leave us alone to go out like the snuff of a candle."

"Father," said Fanny, "I won't have you speak in that way, making out
our Sam to be guilty before ere a one else has said so."

The miller shook his head again, but said nothing further, and the
parson, having received the desired authority, returned to the
Vicarage.

The attorney had been employed, and Sam had been remanded. There was
no direct evidence against him, and nothing could be done until the
other men should be taken, for whom they were seeking. The police had
tracked the two men back to a cottage, about fifteen miles distant
from Bullhampton, in which lived an old woman, who was the mother
of the Grinder. With Mrs. Burrows they found a young woman who had
lately come to live there, and who was said in the neighbourhood to
be the Grinder's wife.

But nothing more could be learned of the Grinder than that he
had been at the cottage on the Sunday morning, and had gone away,
according to his wont. The old woman swore that he slept there the
whole of Saturday night, but of course the policemen had not believed
her statement. When does any policeman ever believe anything? Of the
pony and cart the old woman declared she knew nothing. Her son had no
pony, and no cart, to her knowing. Then she went on to declare that
she knew very little about her son, who never lived with her; and
that she had only taken in the young woman out of charity, about
two weeks since. The mother did not for a moment pretend that her
son was an honest man, getting his bread after an honest fashion.
The Grinder's mode of life was too well known for even a mother
to attempt to deny it. But she pretended that she was very honest
herself, and appealed to sundry brandy-balls and stale biscuits in
her window, to prove that she lived after a decent, honest,
commercial fashion.

Sam was of course remanded. The head constable of the district asked
for a week more to make fresh inquiry, and expressed a very strong
opinion that he would have the Grinder and his friend by the heels
before the week should be over. The Heytesbury attorney made a
feeble request that Sam might be released on bail, as there was not,
according to his statement, "the remotest shadow of a tittle of
evidence against him." But poor Sam was sent back to gaol, and there
remained for that week. On the next Tuesday the same scene was
re-enacted. The Grinder had not been taken, and a further remand was
necessary. The face of the head constable was longer on this occasion
than it had been before, and his voice less confident. The Grinder,
he thought, must have caught one of the early Sunday trains, and
made his way to Birmingham. It had been ascertained that he had
friends at Birmingham. Another remand was asked for a week, with an
understanding that at the end of the week it should be renewed if
necessary. The policeman seemed to think that by that time, unless
the Grinder were below the sod, his presence above it would certainly
be proved. On this occasion the Heytesbury attorney made a very
loud demand for Sam's liberation, talking of habeas corpus, and
the injustice of carceration without evidence of guilt. But the
magistrates would not let him go. "When I'm told that the young man
was seen hiding in a ditch close to the murdered man's house, only
a few days before the murder, is that no evidence against him, Mr.
Jones?" said Sir Thomas Charleys, of Charlicoats.

"No evidence at all, Sir Thomas. If I had been found asleep in the
ditch, that would have been no evidence against me."

"Yes, it would, very strong evidence; and I would have committed you
on it, without hesitation, Mr. Jones."

Mr. Jones made a spirited rejoinder to this; but it was of no use,
and poor Sam was sent back to gaol for the third time.

For the first ten days after the murder nothing was done as to the
works at the mill. The men who had been employed by Brattle ceased to
come, apparently of their own account, and everything was lying there
just in the state in which the men had left the place on the Saturday
night. There was something inexpressibly sad in this, as the old man
could not even make a pretence of going into the mill for employment,
and there was absolutely nothing to which he could put his hands, to
do it. When ten days were over, Gilmore came down to the mill, and
suggested that the works should be carried on and finished by him. If
the mill were not kept at work, the old man could not live, and no
rent would be paid. At any rate, it would be better that this great
sorrow should not be allowed so to cloud everything as to turn
industry into idleness, and straitened circumstances into absolute
beggary. But the Squire found it very difficult to deal with the
miller. At first old Brattle would neither give nor withhold his
consent. When told by the Squire that the property could not be left
in that way, he expressed himself willing to go out into the road,
and lay himself down and die there;--but not until the term of his
holding was legally brought to a close. "I don't know that I owe
any rent over and beyond this Michaelmas as is coming, and there's
the hay on the ground yet." Gilmore, who was very patient, assured
him that he had no wish to allude to rent; that there should be no
question of rent even when the day came, if at that time money was
scarce. But would it not be better that the mill, at least, should be
put in order?

"Indeed it will, Squire," said Mrs. Brattle. "It is the idleness that
is killing him."

"Hold your jabbering tongue," said the miller, turning round upon her
fiercely. "Who asked you? I will see to it myself, Squire, to-morrow
or next day."

After two or three further days of inaction at the mill the Squire
came again, bringing the parson with him; and they did manage to
arrange between them that the repairs should be at once continued.
The mill should be completed; but the house should be left till next
summer. As to Brattle himself, when he had been once persuaded to
yield the point, he did not care how much they pulled down, or how
much they built up. "Do it as you will," he said; "I ain't nobody
now. The women drives me about my own house as if I hadn't a'most no
business there." And so the hammers and trowels were heard again; and
old Brattle would sit perfectly silent, gazing at the men as they
worked. Once, as he saw two men and a boy shifting a ladder, he
turned round, with a little chuckle to his wife, and said, "Sam'd 'a
see'd hisself d----d, afore he'd 'a asked another chap to help him
with such a job as that."

As Mrs. Brattle told Mrs. Fenwick afterwards, he had one of the two
erring children in his thoughts morning, noon, and night. "When I
tell 'un of George,"--who was the farmer near Fordingbridge,--"and of
Mrs. Jay,"--who was the ironmonger's wife at Warminster,--"he won't
take any comfort in them," said Mrs. Brattle. "I don't think he cares
for them, just because they can hold their own heads up."

At the end of three weeks the Grinder was still missing; and others
besides Mr. Jones, the attorney, were beginning to say that Sam
Brattle should be let out of prison. Mr. Fenwick was clearly of
opinion that he should not be detained, if bail could be forthcoming.
The Squire was more cautious, and said that it might well be that his
escape would render it impossible for the police even to get on the
track of the real murderers. "No doubt, he knows more than he has
told," said Gilmore, "and will probably tell it at last. If he be let
out, he will tell nothing." The police were all of opinion that Sam
had been present at the murder, and that he should be kept in custody
till he was tried. They were very sharp in their manoeuvres to get
evidence against him. His boot, they had said, fitted a footstep
which had been found in the mud in the farm-yard. The measure had
been taken on the Sunday. That was evidence. Then they examined
Agnes Pope over and over again, and extracted from the poor girl an
admission that she loved Sam better than anything in the whole wide
world. If he were to be in prison, she would not object to go to
prison with him. If he were to be hung, she would wish to be hung
with him. She had no secret she would not tell him. But, as a matter
of fact,--so she swore over and over again,--she had never told him
a word about old Trumbull's box. She did not think she had ever told
any one; but she would swear on her death-bed that she had never told
Sam Brattle. The head constable declared that he had never met a
more stubborn or a more artful young woman. Sir Thomas Charleys was
clearly of opinion that no bail should be accepted. Another week
of remand was granted with the understanding that, if nothing of
importance was elicited by that time, and if neither of the other two
suspected men were then in custody, Sam should be allowed to go at
large upon bail--a good, substantial bail, himself in £400, and his
bailsmen in £200 each.

"Who'll be his bailsmen?" said the Squire, coming away with his
friend the parson from Heytesbury.

"There will be no difficulty about that, I should say."

"But who will they be,--his father for one?"

"His brother George, and Jay, at Warminster, who married his sister,"
said the parson.

"I doubt them both," said the Squire.

"He sha'n't want for bail. I'll be one myself, sooner. He shall have
bail. If there's any difficulty, Jones shall bail him; and I'll see
Jones safe through it. He sha'n't be persecuted in that way."

"I don't think anybody has attempted to persecute him, Frank."

"He will be persecuted if his own brothers won't come forward to help
him. It isn't that they have looked into the matter, and that they
think him guilty; but that they go just the way they're told to go,
like sheep. The more I think of it, the more I feel that he had
nothing to do with the murder."

"I never knew a man change his opinion so often as you do," said
Gilmore.

During three weeks the visits made by Head Constable Toffy to the
cottage in which Mrs. Burrows lived were much more frequent than
were agreeable to that lady. This cottage was about four miles from
Devizes, and on the edge of a common, about half a mile from the
high road which leads from that town to Marlborough. There is, or
was a year or two back, a considerable extent of unenclosed land
thereabouts, and on a spot called Pycroft Common there was a small
collection of cottages, sufficient to constitute a hamlet of the
smallest class. There was no house there of greater pretensions than
the very small beershop which provided for the conviviality of the
Pycroftians; and of other shops there was none, save a baker's, the
owner of which seldom had much bread to sell, and the establishment
for brandy-balls, which was kept by Mrs. Burrows. The inhabitants
were chiefly labouring men, some of whom were in summer employed in
brick making; and there was an idea abroad that Pycroft generally was
not sustained by regular labour and sober industry. Rents, however,
were paid for the cottages, or the cottagers would have been turned
adrift; and Mrs. Burrows had lived in hers for five or six years, and
was noted in the neighbourhood for her outward neatness and attention
to decency. In the summer there were always half-a-dozen large
sunflowers in the patch of ground called a garden, and there was a
rose-tree, and a bush of honeysuckle over the door, and an alder
stump in a corner, which would still put out leaves and bear berries.
When Head Constable Toffy visited her there would be generally a few
high words, for Mrs. Burrows was by no means unwilling to let it be
known that she objected to morning calls from Mr. Toffy.

It has been already said that at this time Mrs. Burrows did not live
alone. Residing with her was a young woman, who was believed by Mr.
Toffy to be the wife of Richard Burrows, alias the Grinder. On his
first visit to Pycroft no doubt, Mr. Toffy was mainly anxious to
ascertain whether anything was known by the old woman as to her son's
whereabouts, but the second, third, and fourth visits were made
rather to the younger than to the older woman. Toffy had probably
learned in his wide experience that a man of the Grinder's nature
will generally place more reliance on a young woman than on an old;
and that the young woman will, nevertheless, be more likely to betray
confidence than the older,--partly from indiscretion, and partly,
alas! from treachery. But, if the presumed Mrs. Burrows, junior, knew
aught of the Grinder's present doings, she was neither indiscreet nor
treacherous. Mr. Toffy could get nothing from her. She was sickly,
weak, sullen, and silent. "She didn't think it was her business to
say where she had been living before she came to Pycroft. She hadn't
been living with any husband, and had got no husband that she knew
of. If she had she wasn't going to say so. She hadn't any children,
and she didn't know what business he had to ask her. She came from
Lunnun. At any rate, she came from there last, and she didn't know
what business he had to ask her where she came from. What business
was it of his to be asking what her name was? Her name was Anne
Burrows, if he liked to call her so. She wouldn't answer him any more
questions. No; she wouldn't say what her name was before she was
married."

Mr. Toffy had his reasons for interrogating this poor woman, but he
did not for a while let any one know what those reasons were. He
could not, however, obtain more information than what is contained in
the answers above given, which were, for the most part, true. Neither
the mother nor the younger woman knew where was to be found, at the
present moment, that hero of adventure who was called the Grinder,
and all the police of Wiltshire began to fear that they were about to
be outwitted.

"You never were at Bullhampton with your husband, I suppose?" asked
Mr. Toffy.

"Never," said the supposed Grinder's wife; "but what does it matter
to you where I was?"

"Don't answer him never another word," said old Mrs. Burrows.

"I won't," said the other.

"Were you ever at Bullhampton at all?" asked Mr. Toffy.

"Oh dear, oh dear," said the younger woman.

"I think you must have been there once," said Mr. Toffy.

"What business is it of yourn?" demanded Mrs. Burrows, senior. "Drat
you; get out of this. You ain't no right here, and you shan't stay
here. If you ain't out of this, I'll brain yer. I don't care for
perlice nor anything. We ain't done nothing. If he did smash the
gen'leman's head, we didn't do it; neither she nor me."

"All the same, I think that Mrs. Burrows has been at Bullhampton,"
said the policeman.

Not another word after this was said by Mrs. Burrows, junior,
so called, and constable Toffy soon took his departure. He was
convinced, at any rate, of this;--that wherever the murderers might
be, the man or men who had joined Sam Brattle in the murder,--for
of Sam's guilt he was quite convinced,--neither the mother, nor
the so-called wife knew of their whereabouts. He, in his heart,
condemned the constabulary of Warwickshire, of Gloucestershire, of
Worcestershire, and of Somersetshire, because the Grinder was not
taken. Especially he condemned the constabulary of Warwickshire,
feeling almost sure that the Grinder was in Birmingham. If the
constabulary in those counties would only do their duty as they in
Wiltshire did theirs, the Grinder and his associates would soon be
taken. But by him nothing further could be learned, and Mr. Toffy
left Pycroft Common with a heavy heart.




CHAPTER XVI.

MISS LOWTHER ASKS FOR ADVICE.


All these searchings for the murderers of Mr. Trumbull, and these
remandings of Sam Brattle, took place in the month of September,
and during that same month the energy of other men of law was very
keenly at work on a widely different subject. Could Messrs. Block and
Curling assure Captain Marrable that a portion of his inheritance
would be saved for him, or had that graceless father of his in very
truth seized upon it all? There was no shadow of doubt but that if
aught was spared, it had not been spared through any delicacy on the
part of the Colonel. The Colonel had gone to work, paying creditors
who were clamorous against him, the moment he had got his hand
upon the money, and had gone to work also gambling, and had made
assignments of money, and done his very best to spend the whole. But
there was a question whether a certain sum of £5000, which seemed
to have got into the hands of a certain lady who protested that she
wanted it very badly, might not be saved. Messrs. Block and Curling
thought that it might, but were by no means certain. It probably
might be done, if the Captain would consent to bring the matter
before a jury; in which case the whole story of the father's iniquity
must, of course, be proved. Or it might be that by threatening to
do this, the lady's friends would relax their grasp on receiving a
certain present out of the money.

"We would offer them £50, and perhaps they would take £500," said
Messrs. Block and Curling.

All this irritated the Captain. He was intensely averse to any law
proceedings by which the story should be made public.

"I won't pretend that it is on my father's account," said he to
his uncle. Parson John shrugged his shoulders, and shook his head,
meaning to imply that it certainly was a bad case, but that as
Colonel Marrable was a Marrable, he ought to be spared, if possible.
"It is on my own account," continued the Captain, "and partly,
perhaps, on that of the family. I would endure anything rather than
have the filth of the transaction flooded through the newspapers. I
should never be able to join my mess again if I did that."

"Then you'd better let Block and Curling compromise and get what they
can," said Parson John, with an indifferent and provoking tone, which
clearly indicated that he would regard the matter when so settled as
one arranged amicably and pleasantly between all the parties. His
uncle's calmness and absence of horror at the thing that had been
done was very grievous to Captain Marrable.

"Poor Wat!" the parson had once said, speaking of his wicked brother;
"he never could keep two shillings together. It's ever so long since
I had to determine that nothing on earth should induce me to let him
have half-a-crown. I must say that he did not take it amiss when I
told him."

"Why should he have wanted half-a-crown from you?"

"He was always one of those thirsty sandbags that swallow small drops
and large alike. He got £10,000 out of poor Gregory about the time
that you were born, and Gregory is fretting about it yet."

"What kills me is the disgrace of it," said the young man.

"It would be disagreeable to have it in the newspapers," said Parson
John. "And then he was such a pleasant fellow, and so handsome. I
always enjoyed his society when once I had buttoned up my breeches'
pocket."

Yet this man was a clergyman, preaching honesty and moral conduct,
and living fairly well up to his preaching, too, as far as he himself
was concerned! The Captain almost thought that the earth and skies
should be brought together, and the clouds clap with thunder, and
the mountains be riven in twain at the very mention of his father's
wickedness. But then sins committed against oneself are so much more
sinful than any other sins.

The Captain had much more sympathetic listeners in Uphill Lane; not
that either of the ladies there spoke severely against his father,
but that they entered more cordially into his own distresses. If he
could save even £4500 out of the wreck, the interest on the money
would enable him to live at home in his regiment. If he could get
£4000 he would do it.

"With £150 per annum," he said, "I could just hold my head up and get
along. I should have to give up all manner of things; but I would
never cry about that."

Then, again, he would declare that the one thing necessary for his
happiness was, that he should get the whole business of the money off
his mind. "If I could have it settled, and have done with it," said
he, "I should be at ease."

"Quite right, my dear," said the old lady. "My idea about money is
this, that whether you have much or little, you should make your
arrangements so that it be no matter of thought to you. Your money
should be just like counters at a round game with children, and
should mean nothing. It comes to that when you once get things on a
proper footing."

They thus became very intimate, the two ladies in Uphill Lane and the
Captain from his uncle's parsonage in the Lowtown; and the intimacy
on his part was quite as strong with the younger as with the elder
relative,--quite as strong, and no doubt more pleasant. They walked
together constantly, as cousins may walk, and they discussed every
turn that took place in the correspondence with Messrs. Block and
Curling. Captain Marrable had come to his uncle's house for a week or
ten days, but had been pressed to remain on till this business should
be concluded. His leave of absence lasted till the end of November,
and might be prolonged if he intended to return to India. "Stay here
till the end of November," said Parson John. "What's the use of
spending your money at a London hotel? Only don't fall in love with
cousin Mary." So the Captain did stay, obeying one half of his
uncle's advice, and promising obedience to the other half.

Aunt Sarah also had her fears about the falling in love, and spoke a
prudent word to Mary. "Mary, dear," she said, "you and Walter are as
loving as turtle doves."

"I do like him so much," said Mary, boldly.

"So do I, my dear. He is a gentleman, and clever, and, upon the
whole, he bears a great injury well. I like him. But I don't think
people ought to fall in love when there is a strong reason against
it."

"Certainly not, if they can help it."

"Pshaw! That's missish nonsense, Mary, and you know it. If a girl
were to tell me she fell in love because she couldn't help it, I
should tell her that she wasn't worth any man's love."

"But what's your reason, Aunt Sarah?"

"Because it wouldn't suit Mr. Gilmore."

"I am not bound to suit Mr. Gilmore."

"I don't know about that. And then, too, it would not suit Walter
himself. How could he marry a wife when he has just been robbed of
all his fortune?"

"But I have not the slightest idea of falling in love with him. In
spite of what I said, I do hope that I can help it. And then I feel
to him just as though he were my brother. I've got almost to know
what it would be to have a brother."

In this Miss Lowther was probably wrong. She had now known her
cousin for just a month. A month is quite long enough to realise the
pleasure of a new lover, but it may be doubted whether the intimacy
of a brother does not take a very much longer period for its
creation.

"I think if I were you," said Miss Marrable, after a pause, "that I
would tell him about Mr. Gilmore."

"Would you, Aunt Sarah?"

"I think I would. If he were really your brother you would tell him."

It was probably the case, that when Miss Marrable gave this
advice, her opinion of Mr. Gilmore's success was greater than the
circumstances warranted. Though there had been much said between the
aunt and her niece about Mr. Gilmore and his offers, Mary had never
been able quite to explain her own thoughts and feelings. She herself
did not believe that she could be brought to accept him, and was
now stronger in that opinion than ever. But were she to say so in
language that would convince her aunt, her aunt would no doubt ask
her, why then had she left the man in doubt? Though she knew that
at every moment in which she had been called upon to act, she had
struggled to do right, yet there hung over her a half-conviction that
she had been weak, and almost selfish. Her dearest friends wrote to
her and spoke to her as though she would certainly take Mr. Gilmore
at last. Janet Fenwick wrote of it in her letters as of a thing
almost fixed; and Aunt Sarah certainly lived as though she expected
it. And yet Mary was very nearly sure that it could not be so. Would
it not be better that she should write to Mr. Gilmore at once,
and not wait till the expiration of the weary six months which he
had specified as the time at the end of which he might renew his
proposals? Had Aunt Sarah known all this,--had she been aware how
very near Mary was to the writing of such a letter,--she would
not probably have suggested that her niece should tell her cousin
anything about Mr. Gilmore. She did think that the telling of the
tale would make Cousin Walter understand that he should not allow
himself to become an interloper; but the tale, if told as Mary would
tell it, might have a very different effect.

Nevertheless Mary thought that she would tell it. It would be so nice
to consult a brother! It would be so pleasant to discuss the matter
with some one that would sympathise with her,--with some one who
would not wish to drive her into Mr. Gilmore's arms simply because
Mr. Gilmore was an excellent gentleman, with a snug property! Even
from Janet Fenwick, whom she loved dearly, she had never succeeded
in getting the sort of sympathy that she wanted. Janet was the best
friend in the world,--was actuated in this matter simply by a desire
to do a good turn to two people whom she loved. But there was no
sympathy between her and Mary in the matter.

"Marry him," said Janet, "and you will adore him afterwards."

"I want to adore him first," said Mary.

So she resolved that she would tell Walter Marrable what was her
position. They were again down on the banks of the Lurwell, sitting
together on a slope which had been made to support some hundred yards
of a canal, where the river itself rippled down a slightly rapid
fall. They were seated between the canal and the river, with their
feet towards the latter, and Walter Marrable was just lighting a
cigar. It was very easy to bring the conversation round to the
affairs of Bullhampton, as Sam was still in prison, and Janet's
letters were full of the mystery which shrouded the murder of Mr.
Trumbull.

"By the bye," said she, "I have something to tell you about Mr.
Gilmore."

"Tell away," said he, as he turned the cigar round in his mouth, to
complete the lighting of the edges in the wind.

"Ah, but I shan't, unless you will interest yourself. What I am going
to tell you ought to interest you."

"He has made you a proposal of marriage?"

"Yes."

"I knew it."

"How could you know it? Nobody has told you."

"I felt sure of it from the way in which you speak of him. But I
thought also that you had refused him. Perhaps I was wrong there?"

"No."

"You have refused him?"

"Yes."

"I don't see that there is very much of a story to be told, Mary."

"Don't be so unkind, Walter. There is a story, and one that troubles
me. If it were not so I should not have proposed to tell you. I
thought that you would give me advice, and tell me what I ought to
do."

"But if you have refused him, you have done so,--no doubt
rightly,--without my advice; and I am too late in the field to be of
any service."

"You must let me tell my own story, and you must be good to me while
I do so. I think I shouldn't tell you if I hadn't almost made up my
mind; but I shan't tell you which way, and you must advise me. In the
first place, though I did refuse him, the matter is still open, and
he is to ask me again, if he pleases."

"He has your permission for that?"

"Well,--yes. I hope it wasn't wrong. I did so try to be right."

"I do not say you were wrong."

"I like him so much, and think him so good, and do really feel that
his affection is so great an honour to me, that I could not answer
him as though I were quite indifferent to him."

"At any rate, he is to come again?"

"If he pleases."

"Does he really love you?"

"How am I to say? But that is missish and untrue. I am sure he loves
me."

"So that he will grieve to lose you?"

"I know he will grieve. I ought not to say so. But I know he will."

"You ought to tell the truth, as you believe it. And you
yourself,--do you love him?"

"I don't know. I do love him; but if I heard he was going to marry
another girl to-morrow it would make me very happy."

"Then you can't love him?"

"I feel as though I should think the same of any man who wanted to
marry me. But let me go on with my story. Everybody I care for wishes
me to take him. I know that Aunt Sarah feels quite sure that I shall
at last, and that she thinks I ought to do so at once. My friend,
Janet Fenwick, cannot understand why I should hesitate, and only
forgives me because she is sure that it will come right, in her way,
some day. Mr. Fenwick is just the same, and will always talk to me as
though it were my fate to live at Bullhampton all my life."

"Is not Bullhampton a nice place?"

"Very nice; I love the place."

"And Mr. Gilmore is rich?"

"He is quite rich enough. Fancy my inquiring about that, with just
£1200 for my fortune."

"Then why, in God's name, don't you accept him?"

"You think I ought?"

"Answer my question;--why do you not?"

"Because--I do not love him--as I should hope to love my husband."

After this Captain Marrable, who had been looking her full in the
face while he had been asking these questions, turned somewhat
away from her, as though the conversation were over. She remained
motionless, and was minded so to remain till he should tell her that
it was time to move, that they might return home. He had given her
no advice; but she presumed she was to take what had passed as the
expression of his opinion that it was her duty to accept an offer so
favourable and so satisfactory to the family. At any rate, she would
say nothing more on the subject till he should address her. Though
she loved him dearly as her cousin, yet she was, in some slight
degree, afraid of him. And now she was not sure but that he was
expressing towards her, by his anger, some amount of displeasure
at her weakness and inconsistency. After a while he turned round
suddenly, and took her by the hand.

"Well, Mary!" he said.

"Well, Walter!"

"What do you mean to do, after all?"

"What ought I to do?"

"What ought you to do? You know what you ought to do. Would you marry
a man for whom you have no more regard than you have for this stick,
simply because he is persistent in asking you? No more than you have
for this stick, Mary. What sort of a feeling must it be, when you say
that you would willingly see him married to any other girl to-morrow?
Can that be love?"

"I have never loved any one better."

"And never will?"

"How can I say? It seems to me that I haven't got the feeling that
other girls have. I want some one to love me;--I do. I own that. I
want to be first with some one; but I have never found the one yet
that I cared for."

"You had better wait till you find him," said he, raising himself up
on his arm. "Come, let us get up and go home. You have asked me for
my advice, and I have given it you. Do not throw yourself away upon
a man because other people ask you, and because you think you might
as well oblige them and oblige him. If you do, you will soon live to
repent it. What would you do, if after marrying this man you found
there was some one you could love?"

"I do not think it would come to that, Walter."

"How can you tell? How can you prevent its coming to that, except
by loving the man you do marry? You don't care two straws for Mr.
Gilmore; and I cannot understand how you can have the courage to
think of becoming his wife. Let us go home. You have asked my advice,
and you've got it. If you do not take it, I will endeavour to forget
that I gave it you."

Of course she would take it. She did not tell him so then; but, of
course, he should guide her. With how much more accuracy, with how
much more delicacy of feeling had he understood her position, than
had her other friends! He had sympathised with her at a word. He
spoke to her sternly, severely, almost cruelly. But it was thus that
she had longed to be spoken to by some one who would care enough for
her, would take sufficient interest in her, to be at the trouble so
to advise her. She would trust him as a brother, and his words should
be sweet to her, were they ever so severe.

They walked together home in silence, and his very manner was stern
to her; but it might be just thus that a loving brother would carry
himself who had counselled his sister wisely, and had not as yet been
assured that his counsel would be taken.

"Walter," she said, as they neared the town, "I hope you have no
doubt about it."

"Doubt about what, Mary?"

"It is quite a matter of course that I shall do as you tell me."




CHAPTER XVII.

THE MARQUIS OF TROWBRIDGE.


By the end of September it had come to be pretty well understood that
Sam Brattle must be allowed to go out of prison, unless something
in the shape of fresh evidence should be brought up on the next
Tuesday. There had arisen a very strong feeling in the county on
the subject;--a Brattle feeling, and an anti-Brattle feeling. It
might have been called a Bullhampton feeling and an anti-Bullhampton
feeling, were it not that the biggest man concerned in Bullhampton,
with certain of his hangers-on and dependents, were very clearly of
opinion that Sam Brattle had committed the murder, and that he should
be kept in prison till the period for hanging him might come round.
This very big person was the Marquis of Trowbridge, under whom poor
Farmer Trumbull had held his land, and who now seemed to think that
a murder committed on one of his tenants was almost as bad as insult
to himself. He felt personally angry with Bullhampton, had ideas
of stopping his charities to the parish, and did resolve, then and
there, that he would have nothing to do with a subscription for the
repair of the church, at any rate for the next three years. In making
up his mind on which subject he was, perhaps, a little influenced by
the opinions and narratives of Mr. Puddleham, the Methodist minister
in the village.

It was not only that Mr. Trumbull had been murdered. So great and
wise a man as Lord Trowbridge would, no doubt, know very well, that
in a free country, such as England, a man could not be specially
protected from the hands of murderers, or others, by the fact of
his being the tenant, or dependent,--by his being in some sort
the possession of a great nobleman. The Marquis's people were all
expected to vote for his candidates, and would soon have ceased to be
the Marquis's people had they failed to do so. They were constrained,
also in many respects, by the terms of their very short leases. They
could not kill a head of game on their farms. They could not sell
their own hay off the land, nor, indeed, any produce other than their
corn or cattle. They were compelled to crop their land in certain
rotation; and could take no other lands than those held under the
Marquis without his leave. In return for all this, they became the
Marquis's people. Each tenant shook hands with the Marquis perhaps
once in three years; and twice a year was allowed to get drunk at the
Marquis's expense--if such was his taste--provided that he had paid
his rent. If the duties were heavy, the privileges were great. So
the Marquis himself felt; and he knew that a mantle of security, of
a certain thickness, was spread upon the shoulders of each of his
people by reason of the tenure which bound them together. But he did
not conceive that this mantle would be proof against the bullet of
the ordinary assassin, or the hammer of the outside ruffian. But here
the case was very different. The hammer had been the hammer of no
outside ruffian. To the best of his lordship's belief,--and in that
belief he was supported by the constabulary of the whole county,--the
hammer had been wielded by a man of Bullhampton,--had been wielded
against his tenant by the son of "a person who holds land under a
gentleman who has some property in the parish." It was thus the
Marquis was accustomed to speak of his neighbour, Mr. Gilmore, who,
in the Marquis's eyes, was a man not big enough to have his tenants
called his people. That such a man as Sam Brattle should have
murdered such a one as Mr. Trumbull, was to the Marquis an insult
rather than an injury; and now it was to be enhanced by the release
of the man from prison, and that by order of a bench of magistrates
on which Mr. Gilmore sat!

And there was more in it even than all this. It was very well known
at Turnover Park,--the seat of Lord Trowbridge, near Westbury,--that
Mr. Gilmore, the gentleman who held property in his lordship's parish
of Bullhampton, and Mr. Fenwick, who was vicar of the same, were
another Damon and Pythias. Now the ladies at Turnover, who were much
devoted to the Low Church, had heard and doubtless believed, that our
friend, Mr. Fenwick, was little better than an infidel. When first
he had come into the county, they had been very anxious to make him
out to be a High Churchman, and a story or two about a cross and
a candlestick were fabricated for their gratification. There was
at that time the remnant of a great fight going on between the
Trowbridge people and another great family in the neighbourhood on
this subject; and it would have suited the Ladies Stowte,--John
Augustus Stowte was the Marquis of Trowbridge,--to have enlisted our
parson among their enemies of this class; but the accusation fell so
plump to the ground, was so impossible of support, that they were
obliged to content themselves with knowing that Mr. Fenwick was--an
infidel! To do the Marquis justice, we must declare that he would
not have troubled himself on this score, if Mr. Fenwick would have
submitted himself to become one of his people. The Marquis was master
at home, and the Ladies Sophie and Carolina would have been proud to
entertain Mr. Fenwick by the week together at Turnover, had he been
willing, infidel or believer, to join that faction. But he never
joined that faction, and he was not only the bosom friend of the
"gentleman who owned some land in the parish;" but he was twice more
rebellious than that gentleman himself. He had contradicted the
Marquis flat to his face,--so the Marquis said himself,--when they
met once about some business in the parish; and again, when, in the
Vicar's early days in Bullhampton, some gathering for school-festival
purposes was made in the great home field behind Farmer Trumbull's
house, Mrs. Fenwick misbehaved herself egregiously.

"Upon my word, she patronised us," said Lady Sophie, laughing. "She
did, indeed! And you know what she was. Her father was just a common
builder at Loring, who made some money by a speculation in bricks and
mortar."

When Lady Sophie said this she was, no doubt, ignorant of the fact
that Mr. Balfour had been the younger son of a family much more
ancient than her own, that he had taken a double-first at Oxford,
had been a member of half the learned societies in Europe, and had
belonged to two or three of the best clubs in London.

From all this it will be seen that the Marquis of Trowbridge would
be disposed to think ill of whatever might be done in regard to the
murder by the Gilmore-Fenwick party in the parish. And then there
were tales about for which there was perhaps some foundation, that
the Vicar and the murderer had been very dear friends. It was
certainly believed at Turnover that the Vicar and Sam Brattle had
for years past spent the best part of their Sundays fishing together.
There were tales of rat-killing matches in which they had been
engaged,--originating in the undeniable fact of a certain campaign
against rats at the mill, in which the Vicar had taken an ardent
part. Undoubtedly the destruction of vermin, and, in regard to one
species, its preservation for the sake of destruction,--and the
catching of fish,--and the shooting of birds,--were things lovely
in the Vicar's eyes. He, perhaps, did let his pastoral dignity go
a little by the board, when he and Sam stooped together, each with
a ferret in his hand, grovelling in the dust to get at certain
rat-advantages in the mill. Gilmore, who had seen it, had told him
of this. "I understand it all, old fellow," Fenwick had said to his
friend, "and know very well I have got to choose between two things.
I must be called a hypocrite, or else I must be one. I have no doubt
that as years go on with me I shall see the advantage of choosing the
latter." There were at that time frequent discussions between them
on the same subject, for they were friends who could dare to discuss
each other's modes of life; but the reader need not be troubled
further now with this digression. The position which the Vicar held
in the estimation of the Marquis of Trowbridge will probably be
sufficiently well understood.

The family at Turnover Park would have thought it a great blessing
to have had a clergyman at Bullhampton with whom they could have
cordially co-operated; but, failing this, they had taken Mr.
Puddleham, the Methodist minister, to their arms. From Mr. Puddleham
they learned parish facts and parish fables, which would never have
reached them but for his assistance. Mr. Fenwick was well aware of
this, and used to declare that he had no objection to it. He would
protest that he could not see why Mr. Puddleham should not get along
in the parish just as well as himself, he having, and meaning to
keep to himself, the slight advantages of the parish church, the
vicarage-house, and the small tithes. Of this he was quite sure, that
Mr. Puddleham's religious teaching was better than none at all; and
he was by no means convinced,--so he said,--that, for some of his
parishioners, Mr. Puddleham was not a better teacher than he himself.
He always shook hands with Mr. Puddleham, though Mr. Puddleham
would never look him in the face, and was quite determined that Mr.
Puddleham should not be a thorn in his side.

In this matter of Sam Brattle's imprisonment and now intended
liberation, tidings from the parish were doubtless conveyed by Mr.
Puddleham to Turnover,--probably not direct, but still in such a
manner that the great people at Turnover knew to whom they were
indebted. Now Mr. Gilmore had certainly, from the first, been by no
means disposed to view favourably the circumstances attaching to
Sam Brattle on that Saturday night. When the great blow fell on the
Brattle family, his demeanour to them was changed, and he forgave
the miller's contumacy; but he had always thought that Sam had been
guilty. The parson had from the first regarded the question with
great doubt, but, nevertheless, his opinion too had at first been
averse to Sam. Even now, when he was so resolute that Sam should be
released, he founded his demand, not on Sam's innocence, but on the
absence of any evidence against him.

"He's entitled to fair play, Harry," he would say to Gilmore, "and he
is not getting it, because there is a prejudice against him. You hear
what that old ass, Sir Thomas, says."

"Sir Thomas is a very good magistrate."

"If he don't take care, he'll find himself in trouble for keeping the
lad locked up without authority. Is there a juryman in the country
would find him guilty because he was lying in the old man's ditch a
week before?" In this way Gilmore also became a favourer of Sam's
claim to be released; and at last it came to be understood that on
the next Tuesday he would be released, unless further evidence should
be forthcoming.

And then it came to pass that a certain very remarkable meeting took
place in the parish. Word was brought to Mr. Gilmore on Monday, the
5th October, that the Marquis of Trowbridge was to be at the Church
Farm,--poor Trumbull's farm,--on that day at noon, and that his
lordship thought that it might be expedient that he and Mr. Gilmore
should meet on the occasion. There was no note, but the message was
brought by Mr. Packer, a sub-agent, one of the Marquis's people, with
whom Mr. Gilmore was very well acquainted.

"I'll walk down about that time, Packer," said Mr. Gilmore, "and
shall be very happy to see his lordship."

Now the Marquis never sat as a magistrate at the Heytesbury bench,
and had not been present on any of the occasions on which Sam had
been examined; nor had Mr. Gilmore seen the Marquis since the
murder,--nor, for the matter of that, for the last twelve months. Mr.
Gilmore had just finished breakfast when the news was brought to him,
and he thought he might as well walk down and see Fenwick first. His
interview with the parson ended in a promise that he, Fenwick, would
also look in at the farm.

At twelve o'clock the Marquis was seated in the old farmer's
arm-chair, in the old farmer's parlour. The house was dark and
gloomy, never having been altogether opened since the murder. With
the Marquis was Packer, who was standing, and the Marquis was
pretending to cast his eye over one or two books which had been
brought to him. He had been taken all over the house; had stood
looking at the bed where the old man lay when he was attacked,
as though he might possibly discover, if he looked long enough,
something that would reveal the truth; had gazed awe-struck at the
spot on which the body had been found, and had taken occasion to
remark to himself that the house was a good deal out of order. The
Marquis was a man nearer seventy than sixty, but very hale, and with
few signs of age. He was short and plump, with hardly any beard on
his face, and short grey hair, of which nothing could be seen when he
wore his hat. His countenance would not have been bad, had not the
weight of his marquisate always been there; nor would his heart have
been bad, had it not been similarly burdened. But he was a silly,
weak, ignorant man, whose own capacity would hardly have procured
bread for him in any trade or profession, had bread not been so
adequately provided for him by his fathers before him.

"Mr. Gilmore said he would be here at twelve, Packer?"

"Yes, my lord."

"And it's past twelve now?"

"One minute, my lord."

Then the peer looked again at poor old Trumbull's books.

"I shall not wait, Packer."

"No, my lord."

"You had better tell them to put the horses to."

"Yes, my lord."

But just as Packer went out into the passage for the sake of giving
the order he met Mr. Gilmore, and ushered him into the room.

"Ha! Mr. Gilmore; yes, I am very glad to see you, Mr. Gilmore;" and
the Marquis came forward to shake hands with his visitor. "I thought
it better that you and I should meet about this sad affair in the
parish;--a very sad affair, indeed."

"It certainly is, Lord Trowbridge; and the mystery makes it more so."

"I suppose there is no real mystery, Mr. Gilmore? I suppose there can
be no doubt that that unfortunate young man did,--did,--did bear a
hand in it at least?"

"I think that there is very much doubt, my lord."

"Do you, indeed? I think there is none,--not the least. And all the
police force are of the same opinion. I have considerable experiences
of my own in these matters; but I should not venture, perhaps, to
express my opinion so confidently, if I were not backed by the
police. You are aware, Mr. Gilmore, that the police are--very--seldom
wrong?"

"I should be tempted to say that they are very seldom right--except
when the circumstances are all under their noses."

"I must say I differ from you entirely, Mr. Gilmore. Now, in this
case--" The Marquis was here interrupted by a knock at the door, and,
before the summons could be answered, the parson entered the room.
And with the parson came Mr. Puddleham. The Marquis had thought that
the parson might, perhaps, intrude; and Mr. Puddleham was in waiting
as a make-weight, should he be wanting. When Mr. Fenwick had met
the minister hanging about the farmyard, he had displayed not the
slightest anger. If Mr. Puddleham chose to come in also, and make
good his doing so before the Marquis, it was nothing to Mr. Fenwick.
The great man looked up, as though he were very much startled and
somewhat offended; but he did at last condescend to shake hands,
first with one clergyman and then with the other, and to ask them to
sit down. He explained that he had come over to make some personal
inquiry into the melancholy matter, and then proceeded with his
opinion respecting Sam Brattle. "From all that I can hear and see,"
said his lordship, "I fear there can be no doubt that this murder has
been due to the malignity of a near neighbour."

"Do you mean the poor boy that is in prison, my lord?" asked the
parson.

"Of course I do, Mr. Fenwick. The constabulary are of opinion--"

"We know that, Lord Trowbridge."

"Perhaps, Mr. Fenwick, you will allow me to express my own ideas. The
constabulary, I say, are of opinion that there is no manner of doubt
that he was one of those who broke into my tenant's house on that
fatal night; and, as I was explaining to Mr. Gilmore when you did us
the honour to join us, in the course of a long provincial experience
I have seldom known the police to be in error."

"Why, Lord Trowbridge--!"

"If you please, Mr. Fenwick, I will go on. My time here cannot be
long, and I have a proposition which I am desirous of making to
Mr. Gilmore, as a magistrate acting in this part of the county. Of
course, it is not for me to animadvert upon what the magistrates may
do at the bench to-morrow."

"I am sure your lordship would make no such animadversion," said Mr.
Gilmore.

"I do not intend it, for many reasons. But I may go so far as to say
that a demand for the young man's release will be made."

"He is to be released, I presume, as a matter of course," said the
parson.

The Marquis made no allusion to this, but went on. "If that be
done,--and I must say that I think no such step would be taken by the
bench at Westbury,--whither will the young man betake himself?"

"Home to his father, of course," said the parson.

"Back into this parish, with his paramour, to murder more of my
tenants."

"My lord, I cannot allow such an unjust statement to be made," said
the parson.

"I wish to speak for one moment; and I wish it to be remembered that
I am addressing myself especially to your neighbour, Mr. Gilmore, who
has done me the honour of waiting upon me here at my request. I do
not object to your presence, Mr. Fenwick, or to that of any other
gentleman," and the Marquis bowed to Mr. Puddleham, who had stood by
hitherto without speaking a word; "but, if you please, I must carry
out the purpose that has brought me here. I shall think it very sad
indeed, if this young man be allowed to take up his residence in the
parish after what has taken place."

"His father has a house here," said Mr. Gilmore.

"I am aware of the fact," said the Marquis. "I believe that the young
man's father holds a mill from you, and some few acres of land?"

"He has a very nice farm."

"So be it. We will not quarrel about terms. I believe there is no
lease?--though, of course, that is no business of mine."

"I must say that it is not, my lord," said Mr. Gilmore, who was
waxing wrothy and becoming very black about the brows.

"I have just said so; but I suppose you will admit that I have some
interest in this parish? I presume that these two gentlemen, who are
God's ministers here, will acknowledge that it is my duty, as the
owner of the greater part of the parish, to interfere?"

"Certainly, my lord," said Mr. Puddleham.

Mr. Fenwick said nothing. He sat, or rather leant, against the edge
of a table, and smiled. His brow was not black, like that of his
friend; but Gilmore, who knew him, and who looked into his face,
began to fear that the Marquis would be addressed before long in
terms stronger than he himself, Mr. Gilmore, would approve.

"And when I remember," continued his lordship, "that the unfortunate
man who has fallen a victim had been for nearly half a century a
tenant of myself and of my family, and that he was foully murdered
on my own property,--dragged from his bed in the middle of the night,
and ruthlessly slaughtered in this very house in which I am sitting,
and that this has been done in a parish of which I own, I think,
something over two-thirds--"

"Two thousand and two acres out of two thousand nine hundred and
ten," said Mr. Puddleham.

"I suppose so. Well, Mr. Puddleham, you need not have interrupted
me."

"I beg pardon, my lord."

"What I mean to say is this, Mr. Gilmore,--that you should take steps
to prevent that young man's return among our people. You should
explain to the father that it cannot be allowed. From what I hear, it
would be no loss if the whole family left the parish. I am told that
one of the daughters is a--prostitute."

"It is too true, my lord," said Mr. Puddleham.

The parson turned round and looked at his colleague, but said
nothing. It was one of the principles of his life that he wouldn't
quarrel with Mr. Puddleham; and at the present moment he certainly
did not wish to waste his anger on so weak an enemy.

"I think that you should look to this, Mr. Gilmore," said the
Marquis, completing his harangue.

"I cannot conceive, my lord, what right you have to dictate to me in
such a matter," said Mr. Gilmore.

"I have not dictated at all; I have simply expressed my opinion,"
said the Marquis.

"Now, my lord, will you allow me for a moment?" said Mr. Fenwick.
"In the first place, if Sam Brattle could not find a home at the
mill,--which I hope he will do for many a long year to come,--he
should have one at the Vicarage."

"I dare say," said the Marquis.

Mr. Puddleham held up both hands.

"You might as well hold your tongue, Frank," said Gilmore.

"It is a matter on which I wish to say a word or two, Harry. I have
been appealed to as one of God's ministers here, and I acknowledge my
responsibility. I never in my life heard any proposition more cruel
or inhuman than that made by Lord Trowbridge. This young man is to be
turned out because a tenant of his lordship has been murdered! He is
to be adjudged to be guilty by us, without any trial, in the absence
of all evidence, in opposition to the decision of the magistrates--"

"It is not in opposition to the magistrates, sir," said the Marquis.

"And to be forbidden to return to his own home, simply because Lord
Trowbridge thinks him guilty! My lord, his father's house is his own,
to entertain whom he may please, as much as is yours. And were I to
suggest to you to turn out your daughters, it would be no worse an
offence than your suggesting to Mr. Brattle that he should turn out
his son."

"My daughters!"

"Yes, your daughters, my lord."

"How dare you mention my daughters?"


[Illustration: "How dare you mention my daughters?"]


"The ladies, I am well aware, are all that is respectable. I have
not the slightest wish that you should ill-use them. But if you
desire that your family concerns should be treated with reserve and
reticence, you had better learn to treat the family affairs of others
in the same way."

The Marquis by this time was on his feet, and was calling for
Packer,--was calling for his carriage and horses,--was calling on
the very gods to send down their thunder to punish such insolence
as this. He had never heard of the like in all his experience. His
daughters! And then there came across his dismayed mind an idea that
his daughters had been put upon a par with that young murderer, Sam
Brattle,--perhaps even on a par with something worse than this. And
his daughters were such august persons,--old and ugly, it is true,
and almost dowerless in consequence of the nature of the family
settlements and family expenditure. It was an injury and an insult
that Mr. Fenwick should make the slightest allusion to his daughters;
but to talk of them in such a way as this, as though they were
mere ordinary human beings, was not to be endured! The Marquis had
hitherto had his doubts, but now he was quite sure that Mr. Fenwick
was an infidel. "And a very bad sort of infidel, too," as he said to
Lady Carolina on his return home. "I never heard of such conduct in
all my life," said Lord Trowbridge, walking down to his carriage.
"Who can be surprised that there should be murderers and prostitutes
in the parish?"

"My lord, they don't sit under me," said Mr. Puddleham.

"I don't care who they sit under," said his lordship.

As they walked away together, Mr. Fenwick had just a word to say to
Mr. Puddleham. "My friend," he said, "you were quite right about his
lordship's acres."

"Those are the numbers," said Mr. Puddleham.

"I mean that you were quite right to make the observation. Facts are
always valuable, and I am sure Lord Trowbridge was obliged to you.
But I think you were a little wrong as to another statement."

"What statement, Mr. Fenwick?"

"What you said about poor Carry Brattle. You don't know it as a
fact."

"Everybody says so."

"How do you know she has not married, and become an honest woman?"

"It is possible, of course. Though as for that,--when a young woman
has once gone astray--"

"As did Mary Magdalene, for instance!"

"Mr. Fenwick, it was a very bad case."

"And isn't my case very bad,--and yours? Are we not in a bad
way,--unless we believe and repent? Have we not all so sinned as to
deserve eternal punishment?"

"Certainly, Mr. Fenwick."

"Then there can't be much difference between her and us. She can't
deserve more than eternal punishment. If she believes and repents,
all her sins will be white as snow."

"Certainly, Mr. Fenwick."

"Then speak of her as you would of any other sister or brother,--not
as a thing that must be always vile because she has fallen once.
Women will so speak,--and other men. One sees something of a reason
for it. But you and I, as Christian ministers, should never allow
ourselves to speak so thoughtlessly of sinners. Good morning, Mr.
Puddleham."




CHAPTER XVIII.

BLANK PAPER.


Early in October Captain Marrable was called up to town by letters
from Messrs. Block and Curling, and according to promise wrote
various letters to Mary Lowther, telling her of the manner in which
his business progressed. All of these letters were shown to Aunt
Sarah,--and would have been shown to Parson John were it not that
Parson John declined to read them. But though the letters were purely
cousinly,--just such letters as a brother might write,--yet Miss
Marrable thought that they were dangerous. She did not say so; but
she thought that they were dangerous. Of late Mary had spoken no word
of Mr. Gilmore; and Aunt Sarah, through all this silence, was able
to discover that Mr. Gilmore's prospects were not becoming brighter.
Mary herself, having quite made up her mind that Mr. Gilmore's
prospects, so far as she was concerned, were all over, could not
decide how and when she should communicate the resolve to her lover.
According to her present agreement with him, she was to write to him
at once should she accept any other offer; and was to wait for six
months if this should not be the case. Certainly, there was no rival
in the field, and therefore she did not quite know whether she ought
or ought not to write at once in her present circumstances of assured
determination. She soon told herself that in this respect also she
would go to her new-found brother for advice. She would ask him, and
do just as he might bid her. Had he not already proved how fit a
person he was to give advice on such a subject?

After an absence of ten days he came home, and nothing could exceed
Mary's anxiety as to the tidings which he should bring with him. She
endeavoured not to be selfish about the matter; but she could not but
acknowledge that, even as regarded herself, the difference between
his going to India or staying at home was so great as to affect
the whole colour of her life. There was, perhaps, something of the
feeling of being subject to desertion about her, as she remembered
that in giving up Mr. Gilmore she must also give up the Fenwicks. She
could not hope to go to Bullhampton again, at least for many a long
day. She would be very much alone if her new brother were to leave
her now. On the morning after his arrival he came up to them at
Uphill, and told them that the matter was almost settled. Messrs.
Block and Curling had declared that it was as good as settled; the
money would be saved, and there would be, out of the £20,000 which
he had inherited, something over £4000 for him; so that he need not
return to India. He was in very high spirits, and did not speak a
word of his father's iniquities.

"Oh, Walter, what a joy!" said Mary, with the tears streaming from
her eyes.

He took her by both her hands, and kissed her forehead. At that
moment Aunt Sarah was not in the room.

"I am so very, very happy," she said, pressing her little hands
against his.

Why should he not kiss her? Was he not her brother? And then,
before he went, she remembered she had something special to tell
him;--something to ask him. Would he not walk with her that evening?
Of course he would walk with her.

"Mary, dear," said her aunt, putting her little arm round her niece's
waist, and embracing her, "don't fall in love with Walter."

"How can you say anything so foolish, Aunt Sarah?"

"It would be very foolish to do so."

"You don't understand how completely different it is. Do you think
I could be so intimate with him as I am if anything of the kind were
possible?"

"I do not know how that may be."

"Do not begrudge it me because I have found a cousin that I can love
almost as I would a brother. There has never been anybody yet for
whom I could have that sort of feeling."

Aunt Sarah, whatever she might think, had not the heart to repeat her
caution; and Mary, quite happy and contented with herself, put on her
hat to run down the hill and meet her cousin at the great gates of
the Lowtown Rectory. Why should he be dragged up the hill, to escort
a cousin down again? This arrangement had, therefore, been made
between them.

For the first mile or two the talk was all about Messrs. Block and
Curling and the money. Captain Marrable was so full of his own
purposes, and so well contented that so much should be saved to him
out of the fortune he had lost, that he had, perhaps, forgotten that
Mary required more advice. But when they had come to the spot on
which they had before sat, she bade him stop and seat himself.

"And now what is it?" he said, as he rolled himself comfortably close
to her side. She told her story, and explained her doubts, and asked
for the revelations of his wisdom. "Are you quite sure about the
propriety of this, Mary?" he said.

"The propriety of what, Walter?"

"Giving up a man who loves you so well, and who has so much to
offer?"

"What was it you said yourself? Sure! Of course I am sure. I am quite
sure. I do not love him. Did I not tell you that there could be no
doubt after what you said?"

"I did not mean that my words should be so powerful."

"They were powerful; but, independently of that, I am quite sure now.
If I could do it myself, I should be false to him. I know that I do
not love him." He was not looking at her where he was lying, but was
playing with a cigar-case which he had taken out, as though he were
about to resume his smoking. But he did not open the case, or look
towards her, or say a word to her. Two minutes had perhaps passed
before she spoke again. "I suppose it would be best that I should
write to him at once?"

"There is no one else, then, you care for, Mary?" he asked.

"No one," she said, as though the question were nothing.

"It is all blank paper with you?"


[Illustration: "It is all blank paper with you?"]


"Quite blank," she said, and laughed. "Do you know, I almost think it
always will be blank."

"By G----! it is not blank with me," he said, springing up
and jumping to his feet. She stared at him, not in the least
understanding what he meant, not dreaming even that he was about to
tell her his love secrets in reference to another. "I wonder what you
think I'm made of, Mary;--whether you imagine I have any affection to
bestow?"

"I do not in the least understand."

"Look here, dear," and he knelt down beside her as he spoke, "it
is simply this, that you have become to me more than all the
world;--that I love you better than my own soul;--that your beauty
and sweetness, and soft, darling touch, are everything to me. And
then you come to me for advice! I can only give you one bit of advice
now, Mary."

"And what is that?"

"Love me."

"I do love you."

"Ay, but love me and be my wife."

She had to think of it; but she knew from the first moment that the
thinking of it was a delight to her. She did not quite understand
at first that her chosen brother might become her lover, with no
other feeling than that of joy and triumph; and yet there was a
consciousness that no other answer but one was possible. In the first
place, to refuse him anything, asked in love, would be impossible.
She could not say No to him. She had struggled often in reference
to Mr. Gilmore, and had found it impossible to say Yes. There was
now the same sort of impossibility in regard to the No. She couldn't
blacken herself with such a lie. And yet, though she was sure of
this, she was so astounded by his declaration, so carried off her
legs by the alteration in her position, so hard at work within
herself with her new endeavour to change the aspect in which she must
look at the man, that she could not even bring herself to think of
answering him. If he would only sit down near her for awhile,--very
near,--and not speak to her, she thought that she would be happy.
Everything else was forgotten. Aunt Sarah's caution, Janet Fenwick's
anger, poor Gilmore's sorrow,--of all these she thought not at all,
or only allowed her mind to dwell on them as surrounding trifles, of
which it would be necessary that she, that they--they two who were
now all in all to each other--must dispose; as they must, also, of
questions of income, and such like little things. She was without a
doubt. The man was her master, and had her in his keeping, and of
course she would obey him. But she must settle her voice, and let her
pulses become calm, and remember herself before she could tell him
so. "Sit down again, Walter," she said at last.

"Why should I sit?"

"Because I ask you. Sit down, Walter."

"No. I understand how wise you will be, and how cold; and I
understand, too, what a fool I have been."

"Walter, will you not come when I ask you?"

"Why should I sit?"

"That I may try to tell you how dearly I love you."

He did not sit, but he threw himself at her feet, and buried his face
upon her lap. There were but few more words spoken then. When it
comes to this, that a pair of lovers are content to sit and rub their
feathers together like two birds, there is not much more need of
talking. Before they had arisen, her fingers had been playing through
his curly hair, and he had kissed her lips and cheeks as well as her
forehead. She had begun to feel what it was to have a lover and to
love him. She could already talk to him almost as though he were a
part of herself, could whisper to him little words of nonsense, could
feel that everything of hers was his, and everything of his was hers.
She knew more clearly now even than she had done before that she had
never loved Mr. Gilmore, and never could have loved him. And that
other doubt had been solved for her. "Do you know," she had said,
not yet an hour ago, "that I think it always will be blank." And now
every spot of the canvas was covered.

"We must go home now," she said at last.

"And tell Aunt Sarah," he replied, laughing.

"Yes, and tell Aunt Sarah;--but not to-night. I can do nothing
to-night but think about it. Oh, Walter, I am so happy!"




CHAPTER XIX.

SAM BRATTLE RETURNS HOME.


The Tuesday's magistrates' meeting had come off at Heytesbury, and
Sam Brattle had been discharged. Mr. Jones had on this occasion
indignantly demanded that his client should be set free without bail;
but to this the magistrates would not assent. The attorney attempted
to demonstrate to them that they could not require bail for the
reappearance of an accused person, when that accused person was
discharged simply because there was no evidence against him. But to
this exposition of the law Sir Thomas and his brother magistrates
would not listen. "If the other persons should at last be taken, and
Brattle should not then be forthcoming, justice would suffer," said
Sir Thomas. County magistrates, as a rule, are more conspicuous for
common sense and good instincts than for sound law; and Mr. Jones
may, perhaps, have been right in his view of the case. Nevertheless
bail was demanded, and was not forthcoming without considerable
trouble. Mr. Jay, the ironmonger at Warminster, declined. When spoken
to on the subject by Mr. Fenwick, he declared that the feeling among
the gentry was so strong against his brother-in-law, that he could
not bring himself to put himself forward. He couldn't do it for the
sake of his family. When Fenwick promised to make good the money
risk, Jay declared that the difficulty did not lie there. "There's
the Marquis, and Sir Thomas, and Squire Greenthorne, and our parson,
all say, sir, as how he shouldn't be bailed at all. And then, sir,
if one has a misfortune belonging to one, one doesn't want to flaunt
it in everybody's face, sir." And there was trouble, too, with
George Brattle from Fordingbridge. George Brattle was a prudent,
hard-headed, hard-working man, not troubled with much sentiment, and
caring very little what any one could say of him as long as his rent
was paid; but he had taken it into his head that Sam was guilty,
that he was at any rate a thoroughly bad fellow who should be turned
out of the Brattle nest, and that no kindness was due to him. With
the farmer, however, Mr. Fenwick did prevail, and then the parson
became the other bondsman himself. He had been strongly advised,--by
Gilmore, by Gilmore's uncle, the prebendary at Salisbury, and by
others,--not to put himself forward in this position. The favour
which he had shown to the young man had not borne good results
either for the young man or for himself; and it would be unwise,--so
said his friends,--to subject his own name to more remark than
was necessary. He had so far assented as to promise not to come
forward himself, if other bailsmen could be procured. But, when the
difficulty came, he offered himself, and was, of necessity, accepted.

When Sam was released, he was like a caged animal who, when liberty
is first offered to him, does not know how to use it. He looked
about him in the hall of the Court House, and did not at first seem
disposed to leave it. The constable had asked him whether he had
means of getting home, to which he replied, that "it wasn't no more
than a walk." Dinner was offered to him by the constable, but this he
refused, and then he stood glaring about him. After a while Gilmore
and Fenwick came up to him, and the Squire was the first to speak.
"Brattle," he said, "I hope you will now go home, and remain there
working with your father for the present."

"I don't know nothing about that," said the lad, not deigning to look
at the Squire.

"Sam, pray go home at once," said the parson. "We have done what we
could for you, and you should not oppose us."

"Mr. Fenwick, if you tells me to go to--to--to,"--he was going to
mention some very bad place, but was restrained by the parson's
presence,--"if you tells me to go anywheres, I'll go."

"That's right. Then I tell you to go to the mill."

"I don't know as father'll let me in," said he, almost breaking into
sobs as he spoke.

"That he will, heartily. Do you tell him that you had a word or two
with me here, and that I'll come up and call on him to-morrow." Then
he put his hand into his pocket, and whispering something, offered
the lad money. But Sam turned away, and shook his head, and walked
off. "I don't believe that that fellow had any more to do with it
than you or I," said Fenwick.

"I don't know what to believe," said Gilmore. "Have you heard that
the Marquis is in the town? Greenthorne just told me so."

"Then I had better get out of it, for Heytesbury isn't big enough
for the two of us. Come, you've done here, and we might as well jog
home."

Gilmore dined at the Vicarage that evening, and of course the day's
work was discussed. The quarrel, too, which had taken place at the
farmhouse had only yet been in part described to Mrs. Fenwick. "Do
you know I feel half triumphant and half frightened," Mrs. Fenwick
said to the Squire. "I know that the Marquis is an old fool,
imperious, conceited, and altogether unendurable when he attempts
to interfere. And yet I have a kind of feeling that because he is a
Marquis, and because he owns two thousand and so many acres in the
parish, and because he lives at Turnover Park, one ought to hold him
in awe."

"Frank didn't hold him in awe yesterday," said the Squire.

"He holds nothing in awe," said the wife.

"You wrong me there, Janet. I hold you in great awe, and every lady
in Wiltshire more or less;--and I think I may say every woman. And
I would hold him in a sort of awe, too, if he didn't drive me beyond
myself by his mixture of folly and pride."

"He can do us a great deal of mischief, you know," said Mrs. Fenwick.

"What he can do, he will do," said the parson. "He even gave me a bad
name, no doubt; but I fancy he was generous enough to me in that way
before yesterday. He will now declare that I am the Evil One himself,
and people won't believe that. A continued persistent enmity,
always at work, but kept within moderate bounds, is more dangerous
now-a-days, than a hot fever of revengeful wrath. The Marquis can't
send out his men-at-arms and have me knocked on the head, or cast
into a dungeon. He can only throw mud at me, and the more he throws
at once, the less will reach me."

As to Sam, they were agreed that, whether he were innocent or guilty,
the old miller should be induced to regard him as innocent, as far as
their joint exertion in that direction might avail.

"He is innocent before the law till he has been proved to be guilty,"
said the Squire.

"Then of course there can be nothing wrong in telling his father that
he is innocent," said the lady.

The Squire did not quite admit this, and the parson smiled as he
heard the argument; but they both acknowledged that it would be right
to let it be considered throughout the parish that Sam was to be
regarded as blameless for that night's transaction. Nevertheless, Mr.
Gilmore's mind on the subject was not changed.

"Have you heard from Loring?" the Squire asked Mrs. Fenwick as he got
up to leave the Vicarage.

"Oh, yes,--constantly. She is quite well, Mr. Gilmore."

"I sometimes think that I'll go off and have a look at her."

"I'm sure both she and her aunt would be glad to see you."

"But would it be wise?"

"If you ask me, I am bound to say that I think it would not be wise.
If I were you, I would leave her for awhile. Mary is as good as gold,
but she is a woman; and, like other women, the more she is sought,
the more difficult she will be."

"It always seems to me," said Mr. Gilmore, "that to be successful in
love, a man should not be in love at all; or, at any rate, he should
hide it." Then he went off home alone, feeling on his heart that
pernicious load of a burden which comes from the unrestrained longing
for some good thing which cannot be attained. It seemed to him now
that nothing in life would be worth a thought if Mary Lowther should
continue to say him nay; and it seemed to him, too, that unless the
yea were said very quickly, all his aptitudes for enjoyment would be
worn out of him.

On the next morning, immediately after breakfast, Mr. and Mrs.
Fenwick walked down to the mill together. They went through the
village, and thence by a pathway down to a little foot-bridge, and so
along the river side. It was a beautiful October morning, the 7th of
October, and Fenwick talked of the pheasants. Gilmore, though he was
a sportsman, and shot rabbits and partridges about his own property,
and went occasionally to shooting-parties at a distance, preserved
no game. There had been some old unpleasantness about the Marquis's
pheasants, and he had given it up. There could be no doubt that his
property in the parish being chiefly low lying lands and water meads
unfit for coverts, was not well disposed for preserving pheasants,
and that in shooting he would more likely shoot Lord Trowbridge's
birds than his own. But it was equally certain that Lord Trowbridge's
pheasants made no scruple of feeding on his land. Nevertheless, he
had thought it right to give up all idea of keeping up a head of game
for his own use in Bullhampton.

"Upon my word, if I were you, Gilmore," said the parson, as a bird
rose from the ground close at their feet, "I should cease to be nice
about the shooting after what happened yesterday."

"You don't mean that you would retaliate, Frank?"

"I think I should."

"Is that good parson's law?"

"It's very good squire's law. And as for that doctrine of
non-retaliation, a man should be very sure of his own motives before
he submits to it. If a man be quite certain that he is really
actuated by a Christian's desire to forgive, it may be all very well;
but if there be any admixture of base alloy in his gold, if he allows
himself to think that he may avoid the evils of pugnacity, and have
things go smooth for him here, and become a good Christian by the
same process, why then I think he is likely to fall to the ground
between two stools." Had Lord Trowbridge heard him, his lordship
would now have been quite sure that Mr. Fenwick was an infidel.

They had both doubted whether Sam would be found at the mill; but
there he was, hard at work among the skeleton timbers, when his
friends reached the place.

"I am glad to see you at home again, Sam," said Mrs. Fenwick, with
something, however, of an inner feeling that perhaps she might be
saluting a murderer.

Sam touched his cap, but did not utter a word, or look away from his
work. They passed on amidst the heaps in front of the mill, and came
to the porch before the cottage. Here, as had been his wont in all
these idle days, the miller was sitting with a pipe in his mouth.
When he saw the lady he got up and ducked his head, and then sat down
again. "If your wife is here, I'll just step in, Mr. Brattle," said
Mrs. Fenwick.

"She be there, ma'am," said the miller, pointing towards the kitchen
window with his head. So Mrs. Fenwick lifted the latch and entered.
The parson sat himself down by the miller's side.

"I am heartily glad, Mr. Brattle, that Sam is back with you here once
again."

"He be there, at work among the rest o' 'em," said the miller.

"I saw him as I came along. I hope he will remain here now."

"I can't say, Muster Fenwick."

"But he intends to do so?"

"I can't say, Muster Fenwick."

"Would it not be well that you should ask him?"

"Not as I knows on, Muster Fenwick."

It was manifest enough that the old man had not spoken to his son
on the subject of the murder, and that there was no confidence,--at
least, no confidence that had been expressed,--between the father and
the son. No one had as yet heard the miller utter any opinion as to
Sam's innocence or his guilt. This of itself seemed to the clergyman
to be a very terrible condition for two persons who were so closely
united, and who were to live together, work together, eat together,
and have mutual interests.

"I hope, Mr. Brattle," he said, "that you give Sam the full benefit
of his discharge."

"He'll get his vittles and his bed, and a trifle of wages if he works
for 'em."

"I didn't mean that. I'm quite sure you wouldn't see him want a
comfortable home, as long as you have one to give him."

"There ain't much comfort about it now."

"I was speaking of your own opinion of the deed that was done. My own
opinion is that Sam had nothing to do with it."

"I'm sure I can't say, Muster Fenwick."

"But it would be a comfort to you to think that he is innocent."

"I ain't no comfort in talking about it,--not at all,--and I'd
rayther not, if it's all one to you, Muster Fenwick."

"I will not ask another question, but I'll repeat my own opinion, Mr.
Brattle. I don't believe that he had anything more to do with the
robbery or the murder, than I had."

"I hope not, Muster Fenwick. Murder is a terrible crime. And now, if
you'll tell me how much it was you paid the lawyer at Heytesbury--"

"I cannot say as yet. It will be some trifle. You need not trouble
yourself about that."

"But I mean to pay 'un, Muster Fenwick. I can pay my way as yet,
though it's hard enough at times." The parson was obliged to promise
that Mr. Jones's bill of charges should be sent to him, and then he
called his wife, and they left the mill. Sam was still up among the
timbers, and had not once come down while the visitors were in the
cottage. Mrs. Fenwick had been more successful with the women than
the parson had been with the father. She had taken upon herself to
say that she thoroughly believed Sam to be innocent, and they had
thanked her with many protestations of gratitude.

They did not go back by the way they had come, but went up to the
road, which they crossed, and thence to some outlying cottages which
were not very far from Hampton Privets House. From these cottages
there was a path across the fields back to Bullhampton, which led by
the side of a small wood belonging to the Marquis. There was a good
deal of woodland just here, and this special copse, called Hampton
bushes, was known to be one of the best pheasant coverts in that part
of the country. Whom should they meet, standing on the path, armed
with his gun, and with his keeper behind him armed with another, than
the Marquis of Trowbridge himself. They had heard a shot or two, but
they had thought nothing of it, or they would have gone back to the
road. "Don't speak," said the parson, as he walked on quickly with
his wife on his arm. The Marquis stood and scowled; but he had the
breeding of a gentleman, and when Mrs. Fenwick was close to him, he
raised his hat. The parson also raised his, the lady bowed, and then
they passed on without a word. "I had no excuse for doing so, or I
would certainly have told him that Sam Brattle was comfortably at
home with his father," said the parson.

"How you do like a fight, Frank!"

"If it's stand up, and all fair, I don't dislike it."




CHAPTER XX.

I HAVE A JUPITER OF MY OWN NOW.


When Mary Lowther returned home from the last walk with her cousin
that has been mentioned, she was quite determined that she would
not disturb her happiness on that night by the task of telling her
engagement to her aunt. It must, of course, be told, and that at
once; and it must be told also to Parson John; and a letter must be
written to Janet; and another, which would be very difficult in the
writing, to Mr. Gilmore; and she must be prepared to bear a certain
amount of opposition from all her friends; but for the present
moment, she would free herself from these troubles. To-morrow, after
breakfast, she would tell her aunt. To-morrow, at lunch-time, Walter
would come up to the lane as her accepted lover. And then, after
lunch, after due consultation with him and with Aunt Sarah, the
letter should be written.

She had solved, at any rate, one doubt, and had investigated one
mystery. While conscious of her own coldness towards Mr. Gilmore, she
had doubted whether she was capable of loving a man, of loving him as
Janet Fenwick loved her husband. Now she would not admit to herself
that any woman that ever lived adored a man more thoroughly than she
adored Walter Marrable. It was sweet to her to see and to remember
the motions of his body. When walking by his side she could hardly
forbear to touch him with her shoulder. When parting from him it was
a regret to her to take her hand from his. And she told herself that
all this had come to her in the course of one morning's walk, and
wondered at it,--that her heart should be a thing capable of being
given away so quickly. It had, in truth, been given away quickly
enough, though the work had not been done in that one morning's walk.
She had been truly honest, to herself and to others, when she said
that her cousin Walter was and should be a brother to her; but had
her new brother, in his brotherly confidence, told her that his
heart was devoted to some other woman, she would have suffered a
blow, though she would never have confessed even to herself that
she suffered. On that evening, when she reached home, she said very
little.

She was so tired. Might she go to bed? "What, at nine o'clock?" asked
Aunt Sarah.

"I'll stay up, if you wish it," said Mary.

But before ten she was alone in her own chamber, sitting in her own
chair, with her arms folded, feeling, rather than thinking, how
divine a thing it was to be in love. What could she not do for him?
What would she not endure to have the privilege of living with him?
What other good fortune in life could be equal to this good fortune?
Then she thought of her relations with Mr. Gilmore, and shuddered
as she remembered how near she had been to accepting him. "It would
have been so wrong. And yet I did not see it! With him I am sure that
it is right, for I feel that in going to him I can be every bit his
own."

So she thought, and so she dreamed; and then the morning came, and
she had to go down to her aunt. She ate her breakfast almost in
silence, having resolved that she would tell her story the moment
breakfast was over. She had, over night, and while she was in bed,
studiously endeavoured not to con any mode of telling it. Up to
the moment at which she rose her happiness was, if possible, to be
untroubled. But while she dressed herself, she endeavoured to arrange
her plans. She at last came to the conclusion that she could do it
best without any plan.

As soon as Aunt Sarah had finished her breakfast, and just as she
was about to proceed, according to her morning custom, down-stairs
to the kitchen, Mary spoke. "Aunt Sarah, I have something to tell
you. I may as well bring it out at once. I am engaged to marry Walter
Marrable." Aunt Sarah immediately let fall the sugar-tongs, and stood
speechless. "Dear aunt, do not look as if you were displeased. Say a
kind word to me. I am sure you do not think that I have intended to
deceive you."

"No; I do not think that," said Aunt Sarah.

"And is that all?"

"I am very much surprised. It was yesterday that you told me, when
I hinted at this, that he was no more to you than a cousin,--or a
brother."

"And so I thought; indeed I did. But when he told me how it was with
him, I knew at once that I had only one answer to give. No other
answer was possible. I love him better than anyone else in all the
world. I feel that I can promise to be his wife without the least
reserve or fear. I don't know why it should be so; but it is. I
know I am right in this." Aunt Sarah still stood silent, meditating.
"Don't you think I was right, feeling as I do, to tell him so? I had
before become certain, quite, quite certain that it was impossible to
give any other answer but one to Mr. Gilmore. Dearest aunt, do speak
to me."

"I do not know what you will have to live upon."

"It is settled, you know, that he will save four or five thousand
pounds out of his money, and I have got twelve hundred. It is not
much, but it will be just something. Of course he will remain in the
army, and I shall be a soldier's wife. I shall think nothing of going
out to India, if he wishes it; but I don't think he means that. Dear
Aunt Sarah, do say one word of congratulation."

Aunt Sarah did not know how to congratulate her niece. It seemed to
her that any congratulation must be false and hypocritical. To her
thinking, it would be a most unfitting match. It seemed to her that
such an engagement had been most foolish. She was astonished at
Mary's weakness, and was indignant with Walter Marrable. As regarded
Mary, though she had twice uttered a word or two, intended as a
caution, yet she had never thought it possible that a girl so steady
in her ordinary demeanour, so utterly averse to all flirtation, so
little given to the weakness of feminine susceptibility, would fall
at once into such a quagmire of indiscreet love-troubles. The caution
had been intended, rather in regard to outward appearances, and
perhaps with the view of preventing the possibility of some slight
heart-scratches, than with the idea that danger of this nature was to
be dreaded. As Mr. Gilmore was there as an acknowledged suitor,--a
suitor, as to whose ultimate success Aunt Sarah had her strong
opinions,--it would be well those cousinly-brotherly associations
and confidences should not become so close as to create possible
embarrassment. Such had been the nature of Aunt Sarah's caution; and
now,--in the course of a week or two,--when the young people were
in truth still strangers to each other,--when Mr. Gilmore was still
waiting for his answer,--Mary came to her, and told her that the
engagement was a thing completed! How could she utter a word of
congratulation?

"You mean, then, to say that you disapprove of it?" said Mary, almost
sternly.

"I cannot say that I think it wise."

"I am not speaking of wisdom. Of course, Mr. Gilmore is very much
richer, and all that."

"You know, Mary, that I would not counsel you to marry a man because
he was rich."

"That is what you mean when you tell me I am not wise. I tried
it,--with all the power of thought and calculation that I could give
to it, and I found that I could not marry Mr. Gilmore."

"I am not speaking about that now."

"You mean that Walter is so poor, that he never should be allowed to
marry."

"I don't care twopence about Walter."

"But I do, Aunt Sarah. I care more about him than all the world
beside. I had to think for him."

"You did not take much time to think."

"Hardly a minute--and yet it was sufficient." Then she paused,
waiting for her aunt; but it seemed that her aunt had nothing further
to say. "Well," continued Mary, "if it must be so, it must. If you
cannot wish me joy--"

"Dearest, you know well enough that I wish you all happiness."

"This is my happiness." It seemed to the bewildered old lady that the
whole nature of the girl was altered. Mary was speaking now as might
have spoken some enthusiastic young female who had at last succeeded
in obtaining for herself the possession,--more or less permanent,--of
a young man, after having fed her imagination on novels for the last
five years; whereas Mary Lowther had hitherto, in all moods of her
life, been completely opposite to such feminine ways and doings.
"Very well," continued Mary; "we will say nothing more about it at
present. I am greatly grieved that I have incurred your displeasure;
but I cannot wish it otherwise."

"I have said nothing of displeasure."

"Walter is to be up after lunch, and I will only ask that he may not
be received with black looks. If it must be visited as a sin, let it
be visited on me."

"Mary, that is unkind and ungenerous."

"If you knew, Aunt Sarah, how I have longed during the night for your
kind voice,--for your sympathy and approval!"

Aunt Sarah paused again for a moment, and then went down to her
domestic duties without another word.

In the afternoon Walter came, but Aunt Sarah did not see him. When
Mary went to her the old lady declared that, for the present, it
would be better so. "I do not know what to say to him at present. I
must think of it, and speak to his uncle, and try to find out what
had best be done."

She was sitting as she said this up in her own room, without even a
book in her hand; in very truth, passing an hour in an endeavour to
decide what, in the present emergency, she ought to say or do. Mary
stooped over her and kissed her, and the aunt returned her niece's
caresses.

"Do not let you and me quarrel, at any rate," said Miss Marrable.
"Who else is there that I care for? Whose happiness is anything to me
except yours?"

"Then come to him, and tell him that he also shall be dear to you."

"No; at any rate, not now. Of course you can marry, Mary, without any
sanction from me. I do not pretend that you owe to me that obedience
which would be due to a mother. But I cannot say,--at least, not
yet,--that such sanction as I have to give can be given to this
engagement. I have a dread that it will come to no good. It grieves
me. I do not forbid you to receive him; but for the present it would
be better that I should not see him."

"What is her objection?" demanded Walter, with grave indignation.

"She thinks we shall be poor."

"Shall we ask her for anything? Of course we shall be poor. For the
present there will be but £300 a year, or thereabouts, beyond my
professional income. A few years back, if so much had been secured,
friends would have thought that everything necessary had been done.
If you are afraid, Mary--"

"You know I am not afraid."

"What is it to her, then? Of course we shall be poor,--very poor. But
we can live."

There did come upon Mary Lowther a feeling that Walter spoke of the
necessity of a comfortable income in a manner very different from
that in which he had of late been discussing the same subject ever
since she had known him. He had declared that it was impossible that
he should exist in England as a bachelor on his professional income,
and yet surely he would be poorer as a married man with that £300
a year added to it, than he would have been without it, and also
without a wife. But what girl that loves a man can be angry with him
for such imprudence and such inconsistency? She had already told him
that she would be ready, if it were necessary, to go with him to
India. She had said so before she went up to her aunt's room. He had
replied that he hoped no such sacrifice would be demanded from her.
"There can be no sacrifice on my part," she had replied, "unless I
am required to give up you." Of course he had taken her in his arms
and kissed her. There are moments in one's life in which not to be
imprudent, not to be utterly, childishly forgetful of all worldly
wisdom, would be to be brutal, inhuman, and devilish. "Had he told
Parson John?" she asked.

"Oh, yes!"

"And what does he say?"

"Just nothing. He raised his eyebrows, and suggested 'that I had
changed my ideas of life.' 'So I have,' I said. 'All right!' he
replied. 'I hope that Block and Curling won't have made any mistake
about the £5000.' That was all he said. No doubt he thinks we're two
fools; but then one's folly won't embarrass him."

"Nor will it embarrass Aunt Sarah," said Mary.

"But there is this difference. If we come to grief, Parson John will
eat his dinner without the slightest interference with his appetite
from our misfortunes; but Aunt Sarah would suffer on your account."

"She would, certainly," said Mary.

"But we will not come to grief. At any rate, darling, we cannot
consent to be made wise by the prospect of her possible sorrows on
our behalf."

It was agreed that on that afternoon Mary should write both to Mr.
Gilmore and to Janet Fenwick. She offered to keep her letters, and
show them, when written, to her lover; but he declared that he would
prefer not to see them. "It is enough for me that I triumph," he
said, as he left her. When he had gone, she at once told her aunt
that she would write the letters, and bring that to Mr. Gilmore to be
read by her when they were finished.

"I would postpone it for awhile, if I were you," said Aunt Sarah.

But Mary declared that any such delay would be unfair to Mr. Gilmore.
She did write the letters before dinner, and they were as follows:--


   MY DEAR MR. GILMORE,

   When last you came down to the Vicarage to see me I
   promised you, as you may perhaps remember, that if it
   should come to pass that I should engage myself to any
   other man, I would at once let you know that it was so. I
   little thought then that I should so soon be called upon
   to keep my promise. I will not pretend that the writing of
   this letter is not very painful to me; but I know that it
   is my duty to write it, and to put an end to a suspense
   which you have been good enough to feel on my account. You
   have, I think, heard the name of my cousin, Captain Walter
   Marrable, who returned from India two or three months ago.
   I found him staying here with his uncle, the clergyman,
   and now I am engaged to be his wife.

   Perhaps it would be better that I should say nothing more
   than this, and that I should leave myself and my character
   and name to your future kindness,--or unkindness,--without
   any attempt to win the former or to decry the latter; but
   you have been to me ever so good and noble that I cannot
   bring myself to be so cold and short. I have always felt
   that your preference for me has been a great honour to
   me. I have appreciated your esteem most highly, and have
   valued your approbation more than I have been able to say.
   If it could be possible that I should in future have your
   friendship, I should value it more than that of any other
   person. God bless you, Mr. Gilmore. I shall always hope
   that you may be happy, and I shall hear with delight any
   tidings which may seem to show that you are so.

   Pray believe that I am
   Your most sincere friend,

   MARY LOWTHER.

   I have thought it best to tell Janet Fenwick what I have
   done.


   Loring, Thursday.

   DEAREST JANET,

   I wonder what you will say to my news? But you must not
   scold me. Pray do not scold me. It could never, never have
   been as you wanted. I have engaged myself to marry my
   cousin, Captain Walter Marrable, who is a nephew of Sir
   Gregory Marrable, and a son of Colonel Marrable. We shall
   be very poor, having not more than £300 a-year above his
   pay as a captain; but if he had nothing, I think I should
   do the same. Do you remember how I used to doubt whether I
   should ever have that sort of love for a man for which I
   used to envy you? I don't envy you any longer, and I don't
   regard Mr. Fenwick as being nearly so divine as I used to
   do. I have a Jupiter of my own now, and need envy no woman
   the reality of her love.

   I have written to Mr. Gilmore by the same post as will
   take this, and have just told him the bare truth. What
   else could I tell him? I have said something horribly
   stilted about esteem and friendship, which I would have
   left out, only that my letter seemed to be heartless
   without it. He has been to me as good as a man could be;
   but was it my fault that I could not love him? If you knew
   how I tried,--how I tried to make believe to myself that I
   loved him; how I tried to teach myself that that sort of
   very chill approbation was the nearest approach to love
   that I could ever reach; and how I did this because you
   bade me;--if you could understand all this, then you would
   not scold me. And I did almost believe that it was so. But
   now--! Oh, dear! how would it have been if I had engaged
   myself to Mr. Gilmore, and that then Walter Marrable had
   come to me! I get sick when I think how near I was to
   saying that I would love a man whom I never could have
   loved.

   Of course I used to ask myself what I should do with
   myself. I suppose every woman living has to ask and to
   answer that question. I used to try to think that it would
   be well not to think of the outer crust of myself. What
   did it matter whether things were soft to me or not?
   I could do my duty. And as this man was good, and a
   gentleman, and endowed with high qualities and appropriate
   tastes, why should he not have the wife he wanted? I
   thought that I could pretend to love him, till, after some
   fashion, I should love him; but as I think of it now, all
   this seems to be so horrid! I know now what to do with
   myself. To be his from head to foot! To feel that nothing
   done for him would be mean or distasteful! To stand at
   a washtub and wash his clothes, if it were wanted. Oh,
   Janet, I used to dread the time in which he would have to
   put his arm round me and kiss me! I cannot tell you what I
   feel now about that other he.

   I know well how provoked you will be,--and it will all
   come of love for me; but you cannot but own that I am
   right. If you have any justice in you, write to me and
   tell me that I am right.

   Only that Mr. Gilmore is your great friend, and that,
   therefore, just at first, Walter will not be your friend,
   I would tell you more about him,--how handsome he is, how
   manly, and how clever. And then his voice is like the
   music of the spheres. You won't feel like being his friend
   at first, but you must look forward to his being your
   friend; you must love him--as I do Mr. Fenwick; and you
   must tell Mr. Fenwick that he must open his heart for the
   man who is to be my husband. Alas, alas! I fear it will be
   long before I can go to Bullhampton. How I do wish that he
   would find some nice wife to suit him!

   Good bye, dearest Janet. If you are really good, you will
   write me a sweet, kind, loving letter, wishing me joy.
   You must know all. Aunt Sarah has refused to congratulate
   me, because the income is so small. Nevertheless, we have
   not quarrelled. But the income will be nothing to you,
   and I do look forward to a kind word. When everything is
   settled, of course I will tell you.

   Your most affectionate friend,

   MARY LOWTHER.


The former letter of the two was shown to Miss Marrable. That lady
was of opinion that it should not be sent; but would not say that, if
to be sent, it could be altered for the better.




CHAPTER XXI.

WHAT PARSON JOHN THINKS ABOUT IT.


[Illustration]

On that same Thursday, the Thursday on which Mary Lowther wrote her
two despatches to Bullhampton, Miss Marrable sent a note down to
Parson John, requesting that she might have an interview with him.
If he were at home and disengaged, she would go down to him that
evening, or he might, if he pleased, come to her. The former she
thought would be preferable. Parson John assented, and very soon
after dinner the private brougham came round from the Dragon, and
conveyed Miss Marrable down to the rectory at Lowtown.

"I am going down to Parson John," said she to Mary. "I think it best
to speak to him about the engagement."

Mary received the information with a nod of her head that was
intended to be gracious, and Aunt Sarah proceeded on her way. She
found her cousin alone in his study, and immediately opened the
subject which had brought her down the hill. "Walter, I believe, has
told you about this engagement, Mr. Marrable."

"Never was so astonished in my life! He told me last night. I had
begun to think that he was getting very fond of her, but I didn't
suppose it would come to this."

"Don't you think it very imprudent?"

"Of course it's imprudent, Sarah. It don't require any thinking to
be aware of that. It's downright stupid;--two cousins with nothing
a year between them, when no doubt each of them might do very well.
They're well-born, and well-looking, and clever, and all that. It's
absurd, and I don't suppose it will ever come to anything."

"Did you tell Walter what you thought?"

"Why should I tell him? He knows what I think without my telling him;
and he wouldn't care a pinch of snuff for my opinion. I tell you
because you ask me."

"But ought not something to be done to prevent it?"

"What can we do? I might tell him that I wouldn't have him here
any more, but I shouldn't like to do that. Perhaps she'll do your
bidding."

"I fear not, Mr. Marrable."

"Then you may be quite sure he won't do mine. He'll go away and
forget her. That'll be the end of it. It'll be as good as a year gone
out of her life, and she'll lose this other lover of hers at--what's
the name of the place? It's a pity, but that's what she'll have to go
through."

"Is he so light as that?" asked Aunt Sarah, shocked.

"He's about the same as other men, I take it; and she'll be the same
as other girls. They like to have their bit of fun now, and there'd
be no great harm,--only such fun costs the lady so plaguy dear. As
for their being married, I don't think Walter will ever be such a
fool as that."

There was something in this that was quite terrible to Aunt Sarah.
Her Mary Lowther was to be treated in this way;--to be played with
as a plaything, and then to be turned off when the time for playing
came to an end! And this little game was to be played for Walter
Marrable's delectation, though the result of it would be the ruin of
Mary's prospects in life!

"I think," said she, "that if I believed him to be so base as that, I
would send him out of the house."

"He does not mean to be base at all. He's just like the rest of 'em,"
said Parson John.

Aunt Sarah used every argument in her power to show that something
should be done; but all to no purpose. She thought that if Sir
Gregory were brought to interfere, that perhaps might have an effect;
but the old clergyman laughed at this. What did Captain Walter
Marrable, who had been in the army all his life, and who had no
special favour to expect from his uncle, care about Sir Gregory? Head
of the family, indeed! What was the head of the family to him? If
a girl would be a fool, the girl must take the result of her folly.
That was Parson John's doctrine,--that and a confirmed assurance
that this engagement, such as it was, would lead to nothing. He was
really very sorry for Mary, in whose praise he said ever so many
good-natured things; but she had not been the first fool, and she
would not be the last. It was not his business, and he could do no
good by interfering. At last, however, he did promise that he would
himself speak to Walter. Nothing would come of it, but, as his cousin
asked him, he would speak to his nephew.

He waited for four-and-twenty hours before he spoke, and during that
time was subject to none of those terrors which were now making Miss
Marrable's life a burden to her. In his opinion it was almost a
pity that a young fellow like Walter should be interrupted in his
amusement. According to his view of life, very much wisdom was not
expected from ladies, young or old. They, for the most part, had
their bread found for them; and were not required to do anything,
whether they were rich or poor. Let them be ever so poor, the
disgrace of poverty did not fall upon them as it did upon men. But
then, if they would run their heads into trouble, trouble came harder
upon them than on men; and for that they had nobody to blame but
themselves. Of course it was a very nice thing to be in love. Verses
and pretty speeches and easy-spoken romance were pleasant enough in
their way. Parson John had no doubt tried them himself in early life,
and had found how far they were efficacious for his own happiness.
But young women were so apt to want too much of the excitement! A
young man at Bullhampton was not enough without another young man at
Loring. That, we fear, was the mode in which Parson John looked at
the subject,--which mode of looking at it, had he ever ventured to
explain it to Mary Lowther, would have brought down upon his head
from that young woman an amount of indignant scorn which would have
been very disagreeable to Parson John. But then he was a great deal
too wise to open his mind on such a subject to Mary Lowther.

"I think, sir, I'd better go up and see Curling again next week,"
said the Captain.

"I dare say. Is anything not going right?"

"I suppose I shall get the money, but I shall like to know when. I am
very anxious, of course, to fix a day for my marriage."

"I should not be over quick about that, if I were you," said Parson
John.

"Why not? Situated as I am, I must be quick. I must make up my mind
at any rate where we're to live."

"You'll go back to your regiment, I suppose, next month?"

"Yes, sir. I shall go back to my regiment next month, unless we may
make up our minds to go out to India."

"What, you and Mary?"

"Yes, I and Mary."

"As man and wife?" said Parson John, with a smile.

"How else should we go?"

"Well, no. If she goes with you, she must go as Mrs. Captain
Marrable, of course. But if I were you, I would not think of anything
so horrible."

"It would be horrible," said Walter Marrable.

"I should think it would. India may be very well when a man is quite
young, and if he can keep himself from beer and wine; but to go back
there at your time of life with a wife, and to look forward to a
dozen children there, must be an unpleasant prospect, I should say."

Walter Marrable sat silent and black.

"I should give up all idea of India," continued his uncle.

"What the deuce is a man to do?" asked the Captain.

The parson shrugged his shoulders.

"I'll tell you what I've been thinking of," said the Captain. "If I
could get a farm of four or five hundred acres--"

"A farm!" exclaimed the parson.

"Why not a farm? I know that a man can do nothing with a farm unless
he has capital. He should have £10 or £12 an acre for his land, I
suppose. I should have that and some trifle of an income besides if
I sold out. I suppose my uncle would let me have a farm under him?"

"He'd see you--further first."

"Why shouldn't I do as well with a farm as another?"

"Why not turn shoemaker? Because you have not learned the business.
Farmer, indeed! You'd never get the farm, and if you did, you would
not keep it for three years. You've been in the army too long to be
fit for anything else, Walter."

Captain Marrable looked black and angry at being so counselled; but
he believed what was said to him, and had no answer to make to it.

"You must stick to the army," continued the old man; "and if you'll
take my advice, you'll do so without the impediment of a wife."

"That's quite out of the question."

"Why is it out of the question?"

"How can you ask me, Uncle John? Would you have me go back from an
engagement after I have made it?"

"I would have you go back from anything that was silly."

"And tell a girl, after I have asked her to be my wife, that I don't
want to have anything more to do with her?"

"I should not tell her that; but I should make her understand, both
for her own sake and for mine, that we had been too fast, and that
the sooner we gave up our folly the better for both of us. You can't
marry her, that's the truth of it."

"You'll see if I can't."

"If you choose to wait ten years, you may."

"I won't wait ten months, nor, if I can have my own way, ten weeks."
What a pity that Mary could not have heard him. "Half the fellows in
the army are married without anything beyond their pay; and I'm to
be told that we can't get along with £300 a year? At any rate, we'll
try."

"Marry in haste, and repent at leisure," said Uncle John.

"According to the doctrines that are going now-a-days," said the
Captain, "it will be held soon that a gentleman can't marry unless
he has got £3000 a year. It is the most heartless, damnable teaching
that ever came up. It spoils the men, and makes women, when they do
marry, expect ever so many things that they ought never to want."

"And you mean to teach them better, Walter?"

"I mean to act for myself, and not be frightened out of doing what I
think right, because the world says this and that."

As he so spoke, the angry Captain got up to leave the room.

"All the same," rejoined the parson, firing the last shot; "I'd think
twice about it, if I were you, before I married Mary Lowther."

"He's more of an ass, and twice as headstrong as I thought him," said
Parson John to Miss Marrable the next day; "but still I don't think
it will come to anything. As far as I can observe, three of these
engagements are broken off for one that goes on. And when he comes to
look at things he'll get tired of it. He's going up to London next
week, and I shan't press him to come back. If he does come I can't
help it. If I were you, I wouldn't ask him up the hill, and I should
tell Miss Mary a bit of my mind pretty plainly."

Hitherto, as far as words went, Aunt Sarah had told very little of
her mind to Mary Lowther on the subject of her engagement, but she
had spoken as yet no word of congratulation; and Mary knew that the
manner in which she proposed to bestow herself was not received with
favour by any of her relatives at Loring.




CHAPTER XXII.

WHAT THE FENWICKS THOUGHT ABOUT IT.


Bullhampton unfortunately was at the end of the postman's walk, and
as the man came all the way from Lavington, letters were seldom
received much before eleven o'clock. Now this was a most pernicious
arrangement, in respect to which Mr. Fenwick carried on a perpetual
feud with the Post-office authorities, having put forward a great
postal doctrine that letters ought to be rained from heaven on to
everybody's breakfast-table exactly as the hot water is brought in
for tea. He, being an energetic man, carried on a long and angry
correspondence with the authorities aforesaid; but the old man
from Lavington continued to toddle into the village just at eleven
o'clock. It was acknowledged that ten was his time; but, as he argued
with himself, ten and eleven were pretty much of a muchness. The
consequence of this was, that Mary Lowther's letters to Mrs. Fenwick
had been read by her two or three hours before she had an opportunity
of speaking on the subject to her husband. At last, however, he
returned, and she flew at him with the letter in her hand. "Frank,"
she said, "Frank, what do you think has happened?"

"The Bank of England must have stopped, from the look of your face."

"I wish it had, with all my heart, sooner than this. Mary has gone
and engaged herself to her cousin, Walter Marrable."

"Mary Lowther!"

"Yes; Mary Lowther! Our Mary! And from what I remember hearing about
him, he is anything but nice."

"He had a lot of money left to him the other day."

"It can't have been much, because Mary owns that they will be very
poor. Here is her letter. I am so unhappy about it. Don't you
remember hearing about that Colonel Marrable who was in a horrible
scrape about somebody's wife?"

"You shouldn't judge the son from the father."

"They've been in the army together, and they're both alike. I hate
the army. They are almost always no better than they should be."

"That's true, my dear, certainly of all services, unless it be the
army of martyrs; and there may be a doubt on the subject even as to
them. May I read it?"

"Oh, yes; she has been half ashamed of herself every word she has
written. I know her so well. To think that Mary Lowther should have
engaged herself to any man after two days' acquaintance!"

Mr. Fenwick read the letter through attentively, and then handed it
back.

"It's a good letter," he said.

"You mean that it's well written?"

"I mean that it's true. There are no touches put in to make effect.
She does love the one man, and she doesn't love the other. All I can
say is, that I'm very sorry for it. It will drive Gilmore out of the
place."

"Do you mean it?"

"I do, indeed. I never knew a man to be at the same time so strong
and so weak in such a matter. One would say that the intensity of his
affection would be the best pledge of his future happiness if he were
to marry the girl; but seeing that he is not to marry her, one cannot
but feel that a man shouldn't stake his happiness on a thing beyond
his reach."

"You think it is all up, then;--that she really will marry this man?"

"What else can I think?"

"These things do go off sometimes. There can't be much money,
because, you see, old Miss Marrable opposes the whole thing on
account of there not being income enough. She is anything but rich
herself, and is the last person of all the world to make a fuss about
money. If it could be broken off--."

"If I understand Mary Lowther," said Mr. Fenwick, "she is not the
woman to have her match broken off for her by any person. Of course I
know nothing about the man; but if he is firm, she'll be as firm."

"And then she has written to Mr. Gilmore," said Mrs. Fenwick.

"It's all up with Harry as far as this goes," said Mr. Fenwick.

The Vicar had another matter of moment to discuss with his wife. Sam
Brattle, after having remained hard at work at the mill for nearly a
fortnight,--so hard at work as to induce his father to declare that
he'd bet a guinea there wasn't a man in the three parishes who could
come nigh his Sam for a right down day's work;--after all this,
Sam had disappeared, had been gone for two days, and was said by
the constable to have been seen at night on the Devizes side, from
whence was supposed to come the Grinder, and all manner of Grinder's
iniquities. Up to this time no further arrest had been made on
account of Mr. Trumbull's murder, nor had any trace been found of the
Grinder, or of that other man who had been his companion. The leading
policeman, who still had charge of the case, expressed himself as
sure that the old woman at Pycroft Common knew nothing of her son's
whereabouts; but he had always declared, and still continued to
declare, that Sam Brattle could tell them the whole story of the
murder if he pleased, and there had been a certain amount of watching
kept on the young man, much to his own disgust, and to that of his
father. Sam had sworn aloud in the village--so much aloud that he had
shown his determination to be heard by all men--that he would go to
America, and see whether anyone would dare to stop him. He had been
told of his bail, and had replied that he would demand to be relieved
of his bail;--that his bail was illegal, and that he would have it
all tried in a court of law. Mr. Fenwick had heard of this, and had
replied that as far as he was concerned he was not in the least
afraid. He believed that the bail was illegal, and he believed also
that Sam would stay where he was. But now Sam was gone, and the
Bullhampton constable was clearly of opinion that he had gone to join
the Grinder. "At any rate, he's off somewhere," said Mr. Fenwick,
"and his mother doesn't know where he's gone. Old Brattle, of course,
won't say a word."

"And will it hurt you?"

"Not unless they get hold of those other fellows and require Sam's
appearance. I don't doubt but that he'd turn up in that case."

"Then it does not signify?"

"It signifies for him. I've an idea that I know where he's gone, and
I think I shall go after him."

"Is it far, Frank?"

"Something short of Australia, luckily."

"Oh, Frank!"

"I'll tell you the truth. It's my belief that Carry Brattle is living
about twenty miles off, and that he's gone to see his sister."

"Carry Brattle!--down here!"

"I don't know it, and I don't want to hear it mentioned; but I fancy
it is so. At any rate, I shall go and see."

"Poor, dear, bright little Carry! But how is she living, Frank?"

"She's not one of the army of martyrs, you may be sure. I daresay
she's no better than she should be."

"You'll tell me if you see her?"

"Oh, yes."

"Shall I send her anything?"

"The only thing to send her is money. If she is in want, I'll relieve
her,--with a very sparing hand."

"Will you bring her back,--here?"

"Ah, who can say? I should tell her mother, and I suppose we should
have to ask her father to receive her. I know what his answer will
be."

"He'll refuse to see her."

"No doubt. Then we should have to put our heads together, and the
chances are that the poor girl will be off in the meantime,--back to
London and the Devil. It is not easy to set crooked things straight."

In spite, however, of this interruption, Mary Lowther and her
engagement to Captain Marrable was the subject of greatest interest
at the Vicarage that day and through the night. Mrs. Fenwick half
expected that Gilmore would come down in the evening; but the Vicar
declared that his friend would be unwilling to show himself after the
blow which he would have received. They knew that he would know that
they had received the news, and that therefore he could not come
either to tell it, or with the intention of asking questions without
telling it. If he came at all, he must come like a beaten cur with
his tail between his legs. And then there arose the question whether
it would not be better that Mary's letter should be answered before
Mr. Gilmore was seen. Mrs. Fenwick, whose fingers were itching for
pen and paper, declared at last that she would write at once; and did
write, as follows, before she went to bed:--


   The Vicarage, Friday.

   DEAREST MARY,

   I do not know how to answer your letter. You tell me to
   write pleasantly, and to congratulate you; but how is one
   to do that so utterly in opposition to one's own interests
   and wishes? Oh dear, oh dear! how I do so wish you had
   stayed at Bullhampton! I know you will be angry with me
   for saying so, but how can I say anything else? I cannot
   picture you to myself going about from town to town and
   living in country-quarters. And as I never saw Captain
   Marrable, to the best of my belief, I cannot interest
   myself about him as I do about one whom I know and love
   and esteem. I feel that this is not a nice way of writing
   to you, and indeed I would be nice if I could. Of course
   I wish you to be full of joy;--of course I wish with all
   my heart that you may be happy if you marry your cousin;
   but the thing has come so suddenly that we cannot bring
   ourselves to look upon it as a reality.


"You should speak for yourself, Janet," said Mr. Fenwick, when he
came to this part of the letter. He did not, however, require that
the sentence should be altered.


   You talk so much of doing what is right! Nobody has ever
   doubted that you were right both in morals and sentiment.
   The only regret has been that such a course should be
   right, and that the other thing should be wrong. Poor man!
   we have not seen him yet, nor heard from him. Frank says
   that he will take it very badly. I suppose that men do
   always get over that kind of thing much quicker than women
   do. Many women never can get over it at all; and Harry
   Gilmore, though there is so little about him that seems to
   be soft, is in this respect more like a woman than a man.
   Had he been otherwise, and had only half cared for you,
   and asked you to be his wife as though your taking him
   were a thing he didn't much care about, and were quite
   a matter of course, I believe you would have been up at
   Hampton Privets this moment, instead of going soldiering
   with a captain.

   Frank bids me send you his kindest love and his best
   wishes for your happiness. Those are his very words, and
   they seem to be kinder than mine. Of course you have my
   love and my best wishes; but I do not know how to write as
   though I could rejoice with you. Your husband will always
   be dear to us, whoever he may be, if he be good to you.
   At present I feel very, very angry with Captain Marrable;
   as though I wish he had had his head blown off in battle.
   However, if he is to be the happy man, I will open my
   heart to him;--that is, if he be good.

   I know this is not nice, but I cannot make it nicer now.
   God bless you, dearest Mary.

   Ever your most affectionate friend,

   JANET FENWICK.


The letter was not posted till the hour for despatch on the following
day; but, up to that hour, nothing had been seen at the Vicarage of
Mr. Gilmore.




CHAPTER XXIII.

WHAT MR. GILMORE THOUGHT ABOUT IT.


Mr. Gilmore was standing on the doorsteps of his own house when
Mary's letter was brought to him. It was a modest-sized country
gentleman's residence, built of variegated uneven stones, black and
grey and white, which seemed to be chiefly flint; but the corners
and settings of the windows and of the door-ways, and the chimneys,
were of brick. There was something sombre about it, and many perhaps
might call it dull of aspect; but it was substantial, comfortable,
and unassuming. It was entered by broad stone steps, with iron
balustrades curving outwards as they descended, and there was an open
area round the house, showing that the offices were in the basement.
In these days it was a quiet house enough, as Mr. Gilmore was a man
not much given to the loudness of bachelor parties. He entertained
his neighbours at dinner perhaps once a month, and occasionally
had a few guests staying with him. His uncle, the prebendary from
Salisbury, was often with him, and occasionally a brother who was in
the army. For the present, however, he was much more inclined, when
in want of society, to walk off to the Vicarage than to provide it
for himself at home. When Mary's letter was handed to him with his
"Times" and other correspondence, he looked, as everybody does, at
the address, and at once knew that it came from Mary Lowther. He
had never hitherto received a letter from her, but yet he knew her
handwriting well. Without waiting a moment, he turned upon his heel,
and went back into his house, and through the hall to the library.
When there, he first opened three other letters, two from tradesmen
in London, and one from his uncle, offering to come to him on the
next Monday. Then he opened the "Times," and cut it, and put it down
on the table. Mary's letter meanwhile was in his hand, and anyone
standing by might have thought that he had forgotten it. But he
had not forgotten it, nor was it out of his mind for a moment.
While looking at the other letters, while cutting the paper, while
attempting, as he did, to read the news, he was suffering under the
dread of the blow that was coming. He was there for twenty minutes
before he dared to break the envelope; and though during the whole of
that time he pretended to deceive himself by some employment, he knew
that he was simply postponing an evil thing that was coming to him.
At last he cut the letter open, and stood for some moments looking
for courage to read it. He did read it, and then sat himself down in
his chair, telling himself that the thing was over, and that he would
bear it as a man. He took up his newspaper, and began to study it. It
was the time of the year when newspapers are not very interesting,
but he made a rush at the leading articles, and went through two of
them. Then he turned over to the police reports. He sat there for an
hour, and read hard during the whole time. Then he got up and shook
himself, and knew that he was a crippled man, with every function out
of order, disabled in every limb. He walked from the library into the
hall, and thence to the dining-room, and so, backwards and forwards,
for a quarter of an hour. At last he could walk no longer, and,
closing the door of the library behind him, he threw himself on a
sofa and cried like a woman.

What was it that he wanted, and why did he want it? Were there not
other women whom the world would say were as good? Was it ever known
that a man had died, or become irretrievably broken and destroyed by
disappointed love? Was it not one of those things that a man should
shake off from him, and have done with it? He asked himself these,
and many such-like questions, and tried to philosophise with himself
on the matter. Had he no will of his own, by which he might conquer
this enemy? No; he had no will of his own, and the enemy would not be
conquered. He had to tell himself that he was so poor a thing that he
could not stand up against the evil that had fallen on him.

He walked out round his shrubberies and paddocks, and tried to take
an interest in the bullocks and the horses. He knew that if every
bullock and horse about the place had been struck dead it would not
enhance his misery. He had not had much hope before, but now he would
have seen the house of Hampton Privets in flames, just for the chance
that had been his yesterday. It was not only that he wanted her, or
that he regretted the absence of some recognised joys which she would
have brought to him; but that the final decision on her part seemed
to take from him all vitality, all power of enjoyment, all that
inward elasticity which is necessary for an interest in worldly
affairs.

He had as yet hardly thought of anything but himself;--had hardly
observed the name of his successful rival, or paid any attention to
aught but the fact that she had told him that it was all over. He
had not attempted to make up his mind whether anything could still
be done, whether he might yet have a chance, whether it would be
well for him to quarrel with the man; whether he should be indignant
with her, or remonstrate once again in regard to her cruelty. He had
thought only of the blow, and of his inability to support it. Would
it not be best that he should go forth, and blow out his brains, and
have done with it?

He did not look at the letter again till he had returned to the
library. Then he took it from his pocket, and read it very carefully.
Yes, she had been quick about it. Why; how long had it been since she
had left their parish? It was still October, and she had been there
just before the murder--only the other day! Captain Walter Marrable!
No; he didn't think he had ever heard of him. Some fellow with a
moustache and a military strut--just the man that he had always
hated; one of a class which, with nothing real to recommend it, is
always interfering with the happiness of everybody. It was in some
such light as this that Mr. Gilmore at present regarded Captain
Marrable. How could such a man make a woman happy,--a fellow who
probably had no house nor home in which to make her comfortable?
Staying with his uncle the clergyman! Poor Gilmore expressed a
wish that the uncle the clergyman had been choked before he had
entertained such a guest. Then he read the concluding sentence of
poor Mary's letter, in which she expressed a hope that they might be
friends. Was there ever such cold-blooded trash? Friends indeed! What
sort of friendship could there be between two persons, one of whom
had made the other so wretched,--so dead as was he at present!

For some half-hour he tried to comfort himself with an idea that he
could get hold of Captain Marrable and maul him; that it would be a
thing permissible for him, a magistrate, to go forth with a whip and
flog the man, and then perhaps shoot him, because the man had been
fortunate in love where he had been unfortunate. But he knew the
world in which he lived too well to allow himself long to think that
this could really be done. It might be that it would be a better
world were such revenge practicable in it; but, as he well knew, it
was not practicable now, and if Mary Lowther chose to give herself to
this accursed Captain, he could not help it. There was nothing that
he could do but to go away and chafe at his suffering in some part of
the world in which nobody would know that he was chafing.

When the evening came, and he found that his solitude was terribly
oppressive to him, he thought that he would go down to the Vicarage.
He had been told by that false one that her tidings had been sent to
her friend. He took his hat and sauntered out across the fields, and
did walk as far as the churchyard gate close to poor Mr. Trumbull's
farm, the very spot on which he had last seen Mary Lowther; but when
he was there he could not endure to go through to the Vicarage. There
is something mean to a man in the want of success in love. If a
man lose a venture of money he can tell his friend; or if he be
unsuccessful in trying for a seat in parliament; or be thrown out of
a run in the hunting-field; or even if he be blackballed for a club;
but a man can hardly bring himself to tell his dearest comrade that
his Mary has preferred another man to himself. This wretched fact
the Fenwicks already knew as to poor Gilmore's Mary; and yet, though
he had come down there, hoping for some comfort, he did not dare to
face them. He went back all alone, and tumbled and tossed and fretted
through the miserable night.

And the next morning was as bad. He hung about the place till about
four, utterly crushed by his burden. It was a Saturday, and when the
postman called no letter had yet been even written in answer to his
uncle's proposition. He was moping about the grounds, with his hands
in his pockets, thinking of this, when suddenly Mrs. Fenwick appeared
in the path before him. There had been another consultation that
morning between herself and her husband, and this visit was the
result of it. He dashed at the matter immediately.

"You have come," he said, "to talk to me about Mary Lowther."

"I have come to say a word, if I can, to comfort you. Frank bade me
to come."


[Illustration: "I have come to say a word, if I can, to
comfort you."]


"There isn't any comfort," he replied.

"We knew that it would be hard to bear, my friend," she said, putting
her hand within his arm; "but there is comfort."

"There can be none for me. I had set my heart upon it so that I
cannot forget it."

"I know you had, and so had we. Of course there will be sorrow, but
it will wear off." He shook his head without speaking. "God is too
good," she continued, "to let such troubles remain with us long."

"You think, then," he said, "that there is no chance?"

What could she say to him? How, under the circumstances of Mary's
engagement, could she encourage his love for her friend?

"I know that there is none," he continued. "I feel, Mrs. Fenwick,
that I do not know what to do with myself or how to hold myself. Of
course it is nonsense to talk about dying, but I do feel as though if
I didn't die I should go crazy. I can't settle my mind to a single
thing."

"It is fresh with you yet, Harry," she said. She had never called him
Harry before, though her husband did so always, and now she used the
name in sheer tenderness.

"I don't know why such a thing should be different with me than with
other people," he said; "only perhaps I am weaker. But I've known
from the very first that I have staked everything upon her. I have
never questioned to myself that I was going for all or nothing.
I have seen it before me all along, and now it has come. Oh, Mrs.
Fenwick, if God would strike me dead this moment, it would be a
mercy!" And then he threw himself on the ground at her feet. He was
not there a moment before he was up again. "If you knew how I despise
myself for all this, how I hate myself!"

She would not leave him, but stayed there till he consented to come
down with her to the Vicarage. He should dine there, and Frank
should walk back with him at night. As to that question of Mr.
Chamberlaine's visit, respecting which Mrs. Fenwick did not feel
herself competent to give advice herself, it should become matter of
debate between them and Frank, and then a man and horse could be sent
to Salisbury on Sunday morning. As he walked down to the Vicarage
with that pretty woman at his elbow, things perhaps were a little
better with him.




CHAPTER XXIV.

THE REV. HENRY FITZACKERLEY CHAMBERLAINE.


It was decided that evening at the Vicarage that it would be better
for all parties that the reverend uncle from Salisbury should be told
to make his visit, and spend the next week at Hampton Privets; that
is, that he should come on the Monday and stay till the Saturday.
The letter was written down at the Vicarage, as Fenwick feared that
it would never be written if the writing of it were left to the
unassisted energy of the Squire. The letter was written, and the
Vicar, who walked back to Hampton Privets with his friend, took care
that it was given to a servant on that night.

On the Sunday nothing was seen of Mr. Gilmore. He did not come to
church, nor would he dine at the Vicarage. He remained the whole day
in his own house, pretending to write, trying to read, with accounts
before him, with a magazine in his hand, even with a volume of
sermons open on the table before him. But neither the accounts, nor
the magazines, nor the sermons, could arrest his attention for a
moment. He had staked everything on obtaining a certain object, and
that object was now beyond his reach. Men fail often in other things,
in the pursuit of honour, fortune, or power, and when they fail they
can begin again. There was no beginning again for him. When Mary
Lowther should have married this captain, she would be a thing lost
to him for ever;--and was she not as bad as married to this man
already? He could do nothing to stop her marriage.

Early in the afternoon of Monday the Rev. Henry Fitzackerley
Chamberlaine reached Hampton Privets. He came with his own carriage
and a pair of post-horses, as befitted a prebendary of the good
old times. Not that Mr. Chamberlaine was a very old man, but that
it suited his tastes and tone of mind to adhere to the well-bred
ceremonies of life, so many of which went out of fashion when
railroads came in. Mr. Chamberlaine was a gentleman of about
fifty-five years of age, unmarried, possessed of a comfortable
private independence, the incumbent of a living in the fens of
Cambridgeshire, which he never visited,--his health forbidding him
to do so,--on which subject there had been a considerable amount of
correspondence between him and a certain right rev. prelate, in which
the prebendary had so far got the better in the argument as not to be
disturbed in his manner of life; and he was, as has been before said,
the owner of a stall in Salisbury Cathedral. His lines had certainly
fallen to him in very pleasant places. As to that living in the
fens, there was not much to prick his conscience, as he gave up the
parsonage house and two-thirds of the income to his curate, expending
the other third on local charities. Perhaps the argument which
had most weight in silencing the bishop was contained in a short
postscript to one of his letters. "By-the-by," said the postscript,
"perhaps I ought to inform your lordship that I have never drawn
a penny of income out of Hardbedloe since I ceased to live there."
"It's a bishop's living," said the happy holder of it, "to one or two
clerical friends, and Dr. ---- thinks the patronage would be better
in his hands than in mine. I disagree with him, and he'll have to
write a great many letters before he succeeds." But his stall was
worth £800 a year and a house, and Mr. Chamberlaine, in regard to his
money matters, was quite in clover.

He was a very handsome man, about six feet high, with large light
grey eyes, a straight nose, and a well cut chin. His lips were thin,
but his teeth were perfect,--only that they had been supplied by a
dentist. His grey hair encircled his head, coming round upon his
forehead in little wavy curls, in a manner that had conquered the
hearts of spinsters by the dozen in the cathedral. It was whispered,
indeed, that married ladies would sometimes succumb, and rave about
the beauty, and the dignity, and the white hands, and the deep
rolling voice of the Rev. Henry Fitzackerley Chamberlaine. Indeed,
his voice was very fine when it would be heard from the far-off end
of the choir during the communion service, altogether trumping the
exertion of the other second-rate clergyman who would be associated
with him at the altar. And he had, too, great gifts of preaching,
which he would exercise once a week during thirteen weeks of the
year. He never exceeded twenty-five minutes; every word was audible
throughout the whole choir, and there was a grace about it that was
better than any doctrine. When he was to be heard the cathedral was
always full, and he was perhaps justified in regarding himself as one
of the ecclesiastical stars of the day. Many applications were made
to him to preach here and there, but he always refused. Stories
were told of how he had declined to preach before the Queen at
St. James's, averring that if Her Majesty would please to visit
Salisbury, every accommodation should be provided for her. As to
preaching at Whitehall, Westminster, and St. Paul's, it was not
doubted that he had over and over again declared that his appointed
place was in his own stall, and that he did not consider that he was
called to holding forth in the market-place. He was usually abroad
during the early autumn months, and would make sundry prolonged
visits to friends; but his only home was his prebendal residence in
the Close. It was not much of a house to look at from the outside,
being built with the plainest possible construction of brick; but
within it was very pleasant. All that curtains, and carpets, and
armchairs, and books, and ornaments could do, had been done lavishly,
and the cellar was known to be the best in the city. He always used
post-horses, but he had his own carriage. He never talked very much,
but when he did speak people listened to him. His appetite was
excellent, but he was a feeder not very easy to please; it was
understood well by the ladies of Salisbury that if Mr. Chamberlaine
was expected to dinner, something special must be done in the way of
entertainment. He was always exceedingly well dressed. What he did
with his hours nobody knew, but he was supposed to be a man well
educated at all points. That he was such a judge of all works of
art, that not another like him was to be found in Wiltshire, nobody
doubted. It was considered that he was almost as big as the bishop,
and not a soul in Salisbury would have thought of comparing the dean
to him. But the dean had seven children, and Mr. Chamberlaine was
quite unencumbered.

Henry Gilmore was a little afraid of his uncle, but would always
declare that he was not so. "If he chooses to come over here he is
welcome," the nephew would say; "but he must live just as I do."
Nevertheless, though there was but little left of the '47 Lafitte in
the cellar of Hampton Privets, a bottle was always brought up when
Mr. Chamberlaine was there, and Mrs. Bunker, the cook, did not
pretend but that she was in a state of dismay from the hour of his
coming to that of his going. And yet, Mrs. Bunker and the other
servants liked him to be there. His presence honoured the Privets.
Even the boy who blacked his boots felt that he was blacking the
boots of a great man. It was acknowledged throughout the household
that the Squire having such an uncle, was more of a Squire than he
would have been without him. The clergyman, being such as he was, was
greater than the country gentleman. And yet Mr. Chamberlaine was only
a prebendary, was the son of a country clergyman who had happened
to marry a wife with money, and had absolutely never done anything
useful in the whole course of his life. It is often very curious to
trace the sources of greatness. With Mr. Chamberlaine, I think it
came from the whiteness of his hands, and from a certain knack he
had of looking as though he could say a great deal, though it suited
him better to be silent, and say nothing. Of outside deportment, no
doubt, he was a master.

Mr. Fenwick always declared that he was very fond of Mr.
Chamberlaine, and greatly admired him. "He is the most perfect
philosopher I ever met," Fenwick would say, "and has gone to the very
centre depth of contemplation. In another ten years he will be the
great Akinetos. He will eat and drink, and listen, and be at ease,
and desire nothing. As it is, no man that I know disturbs other
people so little." On the other hand, Mr. Chamberlaine did not
profess any great admiration for Mr. Fenwick, who he designated
as one of the smart "windbag tribe, clever, no doubt, and perhaps
conscientious, but shallow and perhaps a little conceited." The
Squire, who was not clever and not conceited, understood them both,
and much preferred his friend the Vicar to his uncle the prebendary.

Gilmore had once consulted his uncle,--once in an evil moment, as
he now felt,--whether it would not be well for him to marry Miss
Lowther. The uncle had expressed himself as very adverse to the
marriage, and would now, on this occasion, be sure to ask some
question about it. When the great man arrived the Squire was out,
still wandering round among the bullocks and sheep; but the evening
after dinner would be very long. On the following day Mr. and Mrs.
Fenwick, with Mr. and Mrs. Greenthorne, were to dine at the Privets.
If this first evening were only through, Gilmore thought that
he could get some comfort, even from his uncle. As he came near
the house, he went into the yard, and saw the Prebendary's grand
carriage, which was being washed. No; as far as the groom knew, Mr.
Chamberlaine had not gone out; but was in the house then. So Gilmore
entered, and found his uncle in the library.

His first questions were about the murder. "You did catch one man,
and let him go?" said the Prebendary.

"Yes; a tenant of mine; but there was no evidence against him. He was
not the man."

"I would not have let him go," said Mr. Chamberlaine.

"You would not have kept a man that was innocent?" said Gilmore.

"I would not have let the young man go."

"But the law would not support us in detaining him."

"Nevertheless, I would not have let him go," said Mr. Chamberlaine.
"I heard all about it."

"From whom did you hear?"

"From Lord Trowbridge. I certainly would not have let him go." It
appeared, however, that Lord Trowbridge's opinion had been given to
the Prebendary prior to that fatal meeting which had taken place in
the house of the murdered man.

The uncle drank his claret in silence on this evening. He said
nothing, at least, about Mary Lowther.

"I don't know where you got it, Harry, but that is not a bad glass of
wine."

"We think there's none better in the country, sir," said Harry.

"I should be very sorry to commit myself so far; but it is a good
glass of wine. By the bye, I hope your chef has learned to make a
cup of coffee since I was here in the spring. I think we will try it
now." The coffee was brought, and the Prebendary shook his head,--the
least shake in the world,--and smiled blandly.

"Coffee is the very devil in the country," said Harry Gilmore, who
did not dare to say that the mixture was good in opposition to his
uncle's opinion.

After the coffee, which was served in the library, the two men sat
silent together for half an hour, and Gilmore was endeavouring to
think what it was that made his uncle come to Bullhampton. At last,
before he had arrived at any decision on this subject, there came
first a little nod, then a start and a sweet smile, then another nod
and a start without the smile, and, after that, a soft murmuring of a
musical snore, which gradually increased in deepness till it became
evident that the Prebendary was extremely happy. Then it occurred to
Gilmore that perhaps Mr. Chamberlaine might become tired of going to
sleep in his own house, and that he had come to the Privets, as he
could not do so with comfortable self-satisfaction in the houses
of indifferent friends. For the benefit of such a change it might
perhaps be worth the great man's while to undergo the penalty of a
bad cup of coffee.

And could not he, too, go to sleep,--he, Gilmore? Could he not fall
asleep,--not only for a few moments on such an occasion as this,--but
altogether, after the Akinetos fashion, as explained by his friend
Fenwick? Could he not become an immoveable one, as was this divine
uncle of his? No Mary Lowther had ever disturbed that man's
happiness. A good dinner, a pretty ring, an easy chair, a china
tea-cup, might all be procured with certainty, as long as money
lasted. Here was a man before him superbly comfortable, absolutely
happy, with no greater suffering than what might come to him from a
chance cup of bad coffee, while he, Harry Gilmore himself, was as
miserable a devil as might be found between the four seas, because a
certain young woman wouldn't come to him and take half of all that he
owned! If there were any curative philosophy to be found, why could
not he find it? The world might say that the philosophy was a low
philosophy; but what did that matter, if it would take away out
of his breast that horrid load which was more than he could bear?
He declared to himself that he would sell his heart with all its
privileges for half-a-farthing, if he could find anybody to take it
with all its burden. Here, then, was a man who had no burden. He was
snoring with almost harmonious cadence,--slowly, discreetly,--one
might say, artistically, quite like a gentleman; and the man who so
snored could not but be happy. "Oh, d----n it!" said Gilmore, in a
private whisper, getting up and leaving the room; but there was more
of envy than of anger in the exclamation.

"Ah! you've been out," said Mr. Chamberlaine, when his nephew
returned.

"Been to look at the horses made up."

"I never can see the use of that; but I believe a great many men
do it. I suppose it's an excuse for smoking generally." Now, Mr.
Chamberlaine did not smoke.

"Well; I did light my pipe."

"There's not the slightest necessity for telling me so, Harry. Let us
see if Mrs. Bunker's tea is better than her coffee." Then the bell
was rung, and Mr. Chamberlaine desired that he might have a cup of
black tea, not strong, but made with a good deal of tea, and poured
out rapidly, without much decoction. "If it be strong and harsh I
can't sleep a wink," he said. The tea was brought, and sipped very
leisurely. There was then a word or two said about certain German
baths from which Mr. Chamberlaine had just returned; and Mr. Gilmore
began to believe that he should not be asked to say anything about
Mary Lowther that night.

But the Fates were not so kind. The Prebendary had arisen with the
intention of retiring for the night, and was already standing before
the fire, with his bedroom candle in his hand, when something,--the
happiness probably of his own position in life, which allowed him to
seek the blessings of an undivided couch,--brought to his memory the
fact that his nephew had spoken to him about some young woman, some
young woman who had possessed not even the merit of a dowry.

"By the bye," said he, "what has become of that flame of yours,
Harry?" Harry Gilmore became black and glum. He did not like to hear
Mary spoken of as a flame. He was standing at this moment with his
back to his uncle, and so remained, without answering him. "Do you
mean to say that you did not ask her, after all?" asked the uncle.
"If there be any scrape, Harry, you had better let me hear it."

"I don't know what you call a scrape," said Harry. "She's not going
to marry me."

"Thank God, my boy!" Gilmore turned round, but his uncle did
not probably see his face. "I can assure you," continued Mr.
Chamberlaine, "that the idea made me quite uncomfortable. I set some
inquiries on foot, and she was not the sort of girl that you should
marry."

"By G----," said Gilmore, "I'd give every acre I have in the world,
and every shilling, and every friend, and twenty years of my life, if
I could only be allowed at this moment to think it possible that she
would ever marry me!"

"Good heavens!" said Mr. Chamberlaine. While he was saying it, Harry
Gilmore walked off, and did not show himself to his uncle again that
night.




CHAPTER XXV.

CARRY BRATTLE.


On the day after the dinner-party at Hampton Privets Mr. Fenwick made
his little excursion out in the direction towards Devizes, of which
he had spoken to his wife. The dinner had gone off very quietly, and
there was considerable improvement in the coffee. There was some
gentle sparring between the two clergymen, if that can be called
sparring in which all the active pugnacity was on one side. Mr.
Fenwick endeavoured to entrap Mr. Chamberlaine into arguments, but
the Prebendary escaped with a degree of skill,--without the shame of
sullen refusal,--that excited the admiration of Mr. Fenwick's wife.
"After all, he is a clever man," she said, as she went home, "or he
could never slip about as he does, like an eel, and that with so very
little motion."

On the next morning the Vicar started alone in his gig. He had
at first said that he would take with him a nondescript boy, who
was partly groom, partly gardener, and partly shoeblack, and who
consequently did half the work of the house; but at last he decided
that he would go alone. "Peter is very silent, and most meritoriously
uninterested in everything," he said to his wife. "He wouldn't tell
much, but even he might tell something." So he got himself into
his gig, and drove off alone. He took the Devizes road, and passed
through Lavington without asking a question; but when he was half way
between that place and Devizes, he stopped his horse at a lane that
led away to the right. He had been on the road before, but he did
not know that lane. He waited awhile till an old woman whom he saw
coming to him, reached him, and asked her whether the lane would take
him across to the Marlborough Road. The old woman knew nothing of
the Marlborough Road, and looked as though she had never heard of
Marlborough. Then he asked the way to Pycroft Common. Yes; the lane
would take him to Pycroft Common. Would it take him to the Bald-faced
Stag? The old woman said it would take him to Rump End Corner,
"but she didn't know nowt o' t'other place." He took the lane,
however, and without much difficulty made his way to the Bald-faced
Stag,--which, in the days of the glory of that branch of the Western
Road, used to supply beer to at least a dozen coaches a-day, but
which now, alas! could slake no drowth but that of the rural
aborigines. At the Bald-faced Stag, however, he found that he could
get a feed of corn, and here he put up his horse,--and saw the corn
eaten.

Pycroft Common was a mile from him, and to Pycroft Common he walked.
He took the road towards Marlborough for half a mile, and then broke
off across the open ground to the left. There was no difficulty in
finding this place, and now it was his object to discover the cottage
of Mrs. Burrows without asking the neighbours for her by name. He had
obtained a certain amount of information, and thought that he could
act on it. He walked on to the middle of the common, and looked for
his points of bearing. There was the beer-house, and there was the
lane that led away to Pewsey, and there were the two brick cottages
standing together. Mrs. Burrows lived in the little white cottage
just behind. He walked straight up to the door, between the
sunflowers and the rose-bush, and, pausing for a few moments to think
whether or no he would enter the cottage unannounced, knocked at the
door. A policeman would have entered without doing so,--and so would
a poacher knock over a hare on its form; but whatever creature a
gentleman or a sportsman be hunting, he will always give it a chance.
He rapped, and immediately heard that there were sounds within. He
rapped again, and in about a minute was told to enter. Then he opened
the door, and found but one person within. It was a young woman, and
he stood for a moment looking at her before he spoke.

"Carry Brattle," he said, "I am glad that I have found you."

"Laws, Mr. Fenwick!"

"Carry, I am so glad to see you;"--and then he put out his hand to
her.

"Oh, Mr. Fenwick, I ain't fit for the likes of you to touch," she
said. But as his hand was still stretched out she put her own into
it, and he held it in his grasp for a few seconds. She was a poor,
sickly-looking thing now, but there were the remains of great beauty
in the face,--or rather, the presence of beauty, but of beauty
obscured by flushes of riotous living and periods of want, by
ill-health, harsh usage, and, worst of all, by the sharp agonies of
an intermittent conscience. It was a pale, gentle face, on which
there were still streaks of pink,--a soft, laughing face it had been
once, and still there was a gleam of light in the eyes that told of
past merriment, and almost promised mirth to come, if only some great
evil might be cured. Her long flaxen curls still hung down her face,
but they were larger, and, as Fenwick thought, more tawdry than of
yore; and her cheeks were thin, and her eyes were hollow; and then
there had come across her mouth that look of boldness which the use
of bad, sharp words, half-wicked and half-witty, will always give.
She was dressed decently, and was sitting in a low chair, with a
torn, disreputable-looking old novel in her hand. Fenwick knew that
the book had been taken up on the spur of the moment, as there had
certainly been someone there when he had knocked at the door.

And yet, though vice had laid its heavy hand upon her, the glory
and the brightness, and the sweet outward flavour of innocence, had
not altogether departed from her. Though her mouth was bold, her
eyes were soft and womanly, and she looked up into the face of the
clergyman with a gentle, tamed, beseeching gaze, which softened and
won his heart at once. Not that his heart had ever been hard against
her. Perhaps it was a fault with him that he never hardened his heart
against a sinner, unless the sin implied pretence and falsehood.
At this moment, remembering the little Carry Brattle of old, who
had sometimes been so sweetly obedient, and sometimes so wilful,
under his hands, whom he had petted, and caressed, and scolded, and
loved,--whom he had loved undoubtedly in part because she had been so
pretty,--whom he had hoped that he might live to marry to some good
farmer, in whose kitchen he would ever be welcome, and whose children
he would christen;--remembering all this, he would now, at this
moment, have taken her in his arms and embraced her, if he dared,
showing her that he did not account her to be vile, begging her to
become more good, and planning some course for her future life.

"I have come across from Bullhampton, Carry, to find you," he said.

"It's a poor place you're come to, Mr. Fenwick. I suppose the police
told you of my being here?"

"I had heard of it. Tell me, Carry, what do you know of Sam?"

"Of Sam?"

"Yes--of Sam. Don't tell me an untruth. You need tell me nothing, you
know, unless you like. I don't come to ask as having any authority,
only as a friend of his, and of yours."

She paused a moment before she replied. "Sam hasn't done any harm to
nobody," she said.

"I don't say he has. I only want to know where he is. You can
understand, Carry, that it would be best that he should be at home."

She paused again, and then she blurted out her answer. "He went out
o' that back door, Mr. Fenwick, when you came in at t'other." The
Vicar immediately went to the back door, but Sam, of course, was not
to be seen.

"Why should he be hiding if he has done no harm?" said the Vicar.

"He thought it was one of them police. They do be coming here a'most
every day, till one's heart faints at seeing 'em. I'd go away if I'd
e'er a place to go to."

"Have you no place at home, Carry?"

"No, sir; no place."

This was so true that he couldn't tell himself why he had asked the
question. She certainly had no place at home till her father's heart
should be changed towards her.

"Carry," said he, speaking very slowly, "they tell me that you are
married. Is that true?"

She made him no answer.

"I wish you would tell me, if you can. The state of a married woman
is honest at any rate, let her husband be who he may."

"My state is not honest."

"You are not married, then?"

"No, sir."

He hardly knew how to go on with this interrogation, or to ask
questions about her past and present life, without expressing a
degree of censure which, at any rate for the present, he wished to
repress.

"You are living here, I believe, with old Mrs. Burrows?" he said.

"Yes, sir."

"I was told that you were married to her son."

"They told you untrue, sir. I know nothing of her son, except just to
have see'd him."

"Is that true, Carry?"

"It is true. It wasn't he at all."

"Who was it, Carry?"

"Not her son;--but what does it signify? He's gone away, and I shall
see un no more. He wasn't no good, Mr. Fenwick, and if you please we
won't talk about un."

"He was not your husband?"

"No, Mr. Fenwick; I never had a husband, nor never shall, I suppose.
What man would take the likes of me? I have just got one thing to do,
and that's all."

"What thing is that, Carry?"

"To die and have done with it," she said, bursting out into loud
sobs. "What's the use o' living? Nobody 'll see me, or speak to me.
Ain't I just so bad that they'd hang me if they knew how to catch
me?"

"What do you mean, girl?" said Fenwick, thinking for the moment that
from her words she, too, might have had some part in the murder.

"Ain't the police coming here after me a'most every day? And when
they hauls about the place, and me too, what can I say to 'em? I have
got that low that a'most everybody can say what they please to me.
And where can I go out o' this? I don't want to be living here always
with that old woman."

"Who is the old woman, Carry?"

"I suppose you knows, Mr. Fenwick?"

"Mrs. Burrows, is it?" She nodded her head. "She is the mother of the
man they call the Grinder?" Again she nodded her head. "It is he whom
they accuse of the murder?" Yet again she nodded her head. "There was
another man?" She nodded it again. "And they say that there was a
third," he said,--"your brother Sam."

"Then they lie," she shouted, jumping up from her seat. "They lie
like devils. They are devils; and they'll go, oh, down into the fiery
furnace for ever and ever." In spite of the tragedy of the moment,
Mr. Fenwick could not help joining this terribly earnest threat and
the Marquis of Trowbridge together in his imagination. "Sam hadn't no
more to do with it than you had, Mr. Fenwick."

"I don't believe he had," said Mr. Fenwick.

"Yes; because you're good, and kind, and don't think ill of poor folk
when they're a bit down. But as for them, they're devils."

"I did not come here, however, to talk about the murder, Carry. If I
thought you knew who did it, I shouldn't ask you. That is business
for the police, not for me. I came here partly to look after Sam. He
ought to be at home. Why has he left his home and his work while his
name is thus in people's mouths?"

"It ain't for me to answer for him, Mr. Fenwick. Let 'em say what
they will, they can't make the white of his eye black. But as for
me, I ain't no business to speak of nobody. How should I know why he
comes and why he goes? If I said as how he'd come to see his sister,
it wouldn't sound true, would it, sir, she being what she is?"

He got up and went to the front door, and opened it, and looked about
him. But he was looking for nothing. His eyes were full of tears, and
he didn't care to wipe the drops away in her presence.

"Carry," he said, coming back to her, "it wasn't all for him that I
came."


[Illustration: "Carry," he said, coming back to her, "it
wasn't all for him that I came."]


"For who else, then?"

"Do you remember how we loved you when you were young, Carry? Do you
remember my wife, and how you used to come and play with the children
on the lawn? Do you remember, Carry, where you sat in church, and the
singing, and what trouble we had together with the chaunts? There are
one or two at Bullhampton who never will forget it?"

"Nobody loves me now," she said, talking at him over her shoulder,
which was turned to him.

He thought for a moment that he would tell her that the Lord loved
her; but there was something human at his heart, something perhaps
too human, which made him feel that were he down low upon the ground,
some love that was nearer to him, some love that was more easily
intelligible, which had been more palpably felt, would in his frailty
and his wickedness be of more immediate avail to him than the love
even of the Lord God.

"Why should you think that, Carry?"

"Because I am bad."

"If we were to love only the good, we should love very few. I love
you, Carry, truly. My wife loves you dearly."

"Does she?" said the girl, breaking into low sobs. "No, she don't. I
know she don't. The likes of her couldn't love the likes of me. She
wouldn't speak to me. She wouldn't touch me."

"Come and try, Carry."

"Father would kill me," she said.

"Your father is full of wrath, no doubt. You have done that which
must make a father angry."

"Oh, Mr. Fenwick, I wouldn't dare to stand before his eye for a
minute. The sound of his voice would kill me straight. How could I go
back?"

"It isn't easy to make crooked things straight, Carry, but we may
try; and they do become straighter if one tries in earnest. Will you
answer me one question more?"

"Anything about myself, Mr. Fenwick?"

"Are you living in sin now, Carry?" She sat silent, not that she
would not answer him, but that she did not comprehend the extent
of the meaning of his question. "If it be so, and if you will not
abandon it, no honest person can love you. You must change yourself,
and then you will be loved."

"I have got the money which he gave me, if you mean that," she said.

Then he asked no further questions about herself, but reverted to the
subject of her brother. Could she bring him in to say a few words to
his old friend? But she declared that he was gone, and that she did
not know whither; that he might probably return this very day to the
mill, having told her that it was his purpose to do so soon. When he
expressed a hope that Sam held no consort with those bad men who had
murdered and robbed Mr. Trumbull, she answered him with such naïve
assurance that any such consorting was out of the question, that he
became at once convinced that the murderers were far away, and that
she knew that such was the case. As far as he could learn from her,
Sam had really been over to Pycroft with the view of seeing his
sister, taking probably a holiday of a day or two on the way. Then he
again reverted to herself, having as he thought obtained a favourable
answer to that vital question which he had asked her.

"Have you nothing to ask of your mother?" he said.

"Sam has told me of her and of Fan."

"And would you not care to see her?"

"Care, Mr. Fenwick! Wouldn't I give my eyes to see her? But how can
I see her? And what could she say to me? Father 'd kill her if she
spoke to me. Sometimes I think I'll walk there all the day, and so
get there at night, and just look about the old place, only I know
I'd drown myself in the mill-stream. I wish I had. I wish it was
done. I've seed an old poem in which they thought much of a poor girl
after she was drowned, though nobody wouldn't think nothing at all
about her before."

"Don't drown yourself, Carry, and I'll care for you. Keep your
hands clean. You know what I mean, and I will not rest till I find
some spot for your weary feet. Will you promise me?" She made him
no answer. "I will not ask you for a spoken promise, but make it
yourself, Carry, and ask God to help you to keep it. Do you say your
prayers, Carry?"

"Never a prayer, sir."

"But you don't forget them. You can begin again. And now I must ask
for a promise. If I send for you will you come?"

"What--to Bull'ompton?"

"Wheresoever I may send for you? Do you think that I would have you
harmed?"

"Perhaps it'd be--for a prison; or to live along with a lot of
others. Oh, Mr. Fenwick, I could not stand that."

He did not dare to proceed any further lest he should be tempted to
make promises which he himself could not perform; but she did give
him an assurance before he went that if she left her present abode
within a month, she would let him know whither she was going.

He went to the Bald-faced Stag and got his gig; and on his way home,
just as he was leaving the village of Lavington, he overtook Sam
Brattle. He stopped and spoke to the lad, asking him whether he was
returning home, and offering him a seat in the gig. Sam declined the
seat, but said that he was going straight to the mill.

"It is very hard to make crooked things straight," said Mr. Fenwick
to himself as he drove up to his own hall-door.




CHAPTER XXVI.

THE TURNOVER CORRESPONDENCE.


It is hoped that the reader will remember that the Marquis of
Trowbridge was subjected to very great insolence from Mr. Fenwick
during the discussion which took place in poor old farmer Trumbull's
parlour respecting the murder. Our friend, the Vicar, did not content
himself with personal invective, but made allusion to the Marquis's
daughters. The Marquis, as he was driven home in his carriage, came
to sundry conclusions about Mr. Fenwick. That the man was an infidel
he had now no matter of doubt whatever; and if an infidel, then also
a hypocrite, and a liar, and a traitor, and a thief. Was he not
robbing the parish of the tithes, and all the while entrapping the
souls of men and women? Was it not to be expected that with such a
pastor there should be such as Sam Brattle and Carry Brattle in the
parish? It was true that as yet this full blown iniquity had spread
itself only among the comparatively small number of tenants belonging
to the objectionable "person," who unfortunately owned a small number
of acres in his lordship's parish;--but his lordship's tenant had
been murdered! And with such a pastor in the parish, and such an
objectionable person, owning acres, to back the pastor, might it not
be expected that all his tenants would be murdered? Many applications
had already been made to the Marquis for the Church Farm; but as it
happened that the applicant whom the Marquis intended to favour, had
declared that he did not wish to live in the house because of the
murder, the Marquis felt himself justified in concluding that if
everything about the parish were not changed very shortly, no decent
person would be found willing to live in any of his houses. And now,
when they had been talking of murderers, and worse than murderers,
as the Marquis said to himself, shaking his head with horror in the
carriage as he thought of such iniquity, this infidel clergyman had
dared to allude to his lordship's daughters! Such a man had no right
even to think of women so exalted. The existence of the Ladies Stowte
must no doubt be known to such men, and among themselves probably
some allusion in the way of faint guesses might be made as to their
modes of life, as men guess at kings and queens, and even at gods and
goddesses. But to have an illustration, and a very base illustration,
drawn from his own daughters in his own presence, made with the
object of confuting himself,--this was more than the Marquis could
endure. He could not horsewhip Mr. Fenwick; nor could he send out
his retainers to do so; but, thank God, there was a bishop! He did
not quite see his way, but he thought that Mr. Fenwick might be made
at least to leave that parish. "Turn my daughters out of my house,
because--oh, oh!" He almost put his fist through the carriage window
in the energy of his action as he thought of it.

As it happened, the Marquis of Trowbridge had never sat in the House
of Commons, but he had a son who sat there now. Lord St. George was
member for another county in which Lord Trowbridge had an estate,
and was a man of the world. His father admired him much, and trusted
him a good deal, but still had an idea that his son hardly estimated
in the proper light the position in the world which he was called
to fill. Lord St. George was now at home at the Castle, and in the
course of that evening the father, as a matter of course, consulted
the son. He considered that it would be his duty to write to the
bishop, but he would like to hear St. George's idea on the subject.
He began, of course, by saying that he did not doubt but that St.
George would agree with him.

"I shouldn't make any fuss about it," said the son.

"What! pass it over?"

"Yes; I think so."

"Do you understand the kind of allusion that was made to your
sisters?"

"It won't hurt them, my lord; and people make allusion to everything
now-a-days. The bishop can't do anything. For aught you know he and
Fenwick may be bosom friends."

"The bishop, St. George, is a most right-thinking man."

"No doubt. The bishops, I believe, are all right-thinking men, and it
is well for them that they are so very seldom called on to go beyond
thinking. No doubt he'll think that this fellow was indiscreet; but
he can't go beyond thinking. You'll only be raising a blister for
yourself."

"Raising a what?"

"A blister, my lord. The longer I live the more convinced I become
that a man shouldn't keep his own sores open."

There was something in the tone of his son's conversation which
pained the Marquis much; but his son was known to be a wise and
prudent man, and one who was rising in the political world. The
Marquis sighed, and shook his head, and murmured something as to the
duty which lay upon the great to bear the troubles incident to their
greatness;--by which he meant that sores and blisters should be
kept open, if the exigencies of rank so required. But he ended the
discussion at last by declaring that he would rest upon the matter
for forty-eight hours. Unfortunately before those forty-eight hours
were over Lord St. George had gone from Turnover Castle, and the
Marquis was left to his own lights. In the meantime, the father and
son and one or two friends, had been shooting over at Bullhampton;
so that no further steps of warfare had been taken when Mr. and Mrs.
Fenwick met the Marquis on the pathway.

On the following day his lordship sat in his own private room
thinking of his grievance. He had thought of it and of little else
for now nearly sixty hours. "Suggest to me to turn out my daughters!
Heaven and earth! My daughters!" He was well aware that, though he
and his son often differed, he could never so safely keep himself out
of trouble as by following his son's advice. But surely this was a
matter per se, standing altogether on its own bottom, very different
from those ordinary details of life on which he and his son were wont
to disagree. His daughters! The Ladies Sophie and Carolina Stowte! It
had been suggested to him to turn them out of his house because-- Oh!
oh! The insult was so great that no human marquis could stand it.
He longed to be writing a letter to the bishop. He was proud of his
letters. Pen and paper were at hand, and he did write.


   RIGHT REV. AND DEAR LORD BISHOP,

   I think it right to represent to your lordship the
   conduct,--I believe I may be justified in saying the
   misconduct,--of the Reverend ---- Fenwick, the vicar of
   Bullhampton.


He knew our friend's Christian name very well, but he did not choose
to have it appear that his august memory had been laden with a thing
so trifling.


   You may have heard that there has been a most horrid
   murder committed in the parish on one of my tenants; and
   that suspicion is rife that the murder was committed in
   part by a young man, the son of a miller who lives under
   a person who owns some land in the parish. The family is
   very bad, one of the daughters being, as I understand,
   a prostitute. The other day I thought it right to visit
   the parish with the view of preventing, if possible, the
   sojourn there among my people of these objectionable
   characters. When there I was encountered by Mr. Fenwick,
   not only in a most unchristian spirit, but in a bearing so
   little gentlemanlike, that I cannot describe it to you.
   He had obtruded himself into my presence, into one of my
   own houses, the very house of the murdered man, and there,
   when I was consulting with the person to whom I have
   alluded as to the expediency of ridding ourselves of these
   objectionable characters, he met me with ribaldry and
   personal insolence. When I tell your lordship that he
   made insinuations about my own daughters, so gross that
   I cannot repeat them to you, I am sure that I need go no
   further. There were present at this meeting Mr. Puddleham,
   the Methodist minister, and Mr. Henry Gilmore, the
   landlord of the persons in question.

   Your lordship has probably heard the character, in a
   religious point of view, of this gentleman. It is not for
   me to express an opinion of the motives which can induce
   such a one to retain his position as an incumbent of a
   parish. But I do believe that I have a right to ask from
   your lordship for some inquiry into the scene which I have
   attempted to describe, and to expect some protection for
   the future. I do not for a moment doubt that your lordship
   will do what is right in the matter.

   I have the honour to be,
   Right Reverend and dear Lord Bishop,
   Your most obedient and faithful Servant,

   TROWBRIDGE.


He read this over thrice, and became so much in love with the
composition, that on the third reading he had not the slightest doubt
as to the expediency of sending it. Nor had he much doubt but that
the bishop would do something to Mr. Fenwick, which would make the
parish too hot to hold that disgrace to the Church of England.

When Fenwick came home from Pycroft Common he found a letter from the
bishop awaiting him. He had driven forty miles on that day, and was
rather late for dinner. His wife, however, came upstairs with him in
order that she might hear something of his story, and brought his
letters with her. He did not open that from the bishop till he was
half dressed, and then burst out into loud laughter as he read it.

"What is it, Frank?" asked his wife, through the open door of her own
room.

"Here's such a game," said he. "Never mind; let's have dinner, and
then you shall see it." The reader, however, may be quite sure that
Mrs. Fenwick did not wait till dinner was served before she knew the
nature of the game.

The bishop's letter to the Vicar was very short and very rational,
and it was not that which made the Vicar laugh; but inside the
bishop's letter was that from the Marquis. "My dear Mr. Fenwick,"
said the bishop,


   after a good deal of consideration, I have determined to
   send you the enclosed. I do so because I have made it a
   rule never to receive an accusation against one of my
   clergy without sending it to the person accused. You will,
   of course, perceive that it alludes to some matter which
   lies outside of my control and right of inquiry; but
   perhaps you will allow me, as a friend, to suggest to you
   that it is always well for a parish clergyman to avoid
   controversy and quarrel with his neighbours; and that it
   is especially expedient that he should be on good terms
   with those who have influence in his parish. Perhaps
   you will forgive me if I add that a spirit of pugnacity,
   though no doubt it may lead to much that is good, has its
   bad tendencies if not watched closely.

   Pray remember that Lord Trowbridge is a worthy man, doing
   his duty on the whole well; and that his position, though
   it be entitled to no veneration, is entitled to much
   respect. If you can tell me that you will feel no grudge
   against him for what has taken place, I shall be very
   happy.

   You will observe that I have been careful that this letter
   shall have no official character.

   Yours very faithfully,

   &c., &c., &c.


The letter was answered that evening, but before the answer was
written, the Marquis of Trowbridge was discussed between the husband
and wife, not in complimentary terms. Mrs. Fenwick on the occasion
was more pugnacious than her husband. She could not forgive the man
who had hinted to the bishop that her husband held his living from
unworthy motives, and that he was a bad clergyman.

"My dear girl," said Fenwick, "what can you expect from an ass but
his ears?"

"I don't expect downright slander from such a man as the Marquis of
Trowbridge, and if I were you I should tell the bishop so."

"I shall tell him nothing of the kind. I shall write about the
Marquis with the kindliest feelings."

"But you don't feel kindly?"

"Yes, I do. The poor old idiot has nobody to keep him right, and does
the best he can according to his lights. I have no doubt he thinks
that I am everything that is horrid. I am not a bit angry with him,
and would be as civil to him to-morrow as my nature would allow me,
if he would only be civil to me."

Then he wrote his letter which will complete the correspondence, and
which he dated for the following day:--


   Bullhampton Vicarage, Oct. 23, 186--.

   MY DEAR LORD BISHOP,

   I return the Marquis's letter with many thanks. I can
   assure you that I take in proper spirit your little hints
   as to my pugnacity of disposition, and will endeavour
   to profit by them. My wife tells me that I am given to
   combativeness, and I have no doubt that she is right.

   As to Lord Trowbridge, I can assure your lordship that I
   will not bear any malice against him, or even think ill of
   him because of his complaint. He and I probably differ in
   opinion about almost everything, and he is one of those
   who pity the condition of all who are so blinded as to
   differ from him. The next time that I am thrown into his
   company I shall act exactly as though no such letter had
   been written, and as if no such meeting had taken place as
   that which he describes.

   I hope I may be allowed to assure your lordship, without
   any reference to my motives for keeping it, that I shall
   be very slow to give up a living in your lordship's
   diocese. As your letter to me is unofficial,--and I thank
   you heartily for sending it in such form,--I have ventured
   to reply in the same strain.

   I am, my dear Lord Bishop,
   Your very faithful servant,

   FRANCIS FENWICK.


"There," said he, as he folded it, and handed it to his wife, "I
shall never see the remainder of the series. I would give a shilling
to know how the bishop gets out of it in writing to the Marquis,
and half-a-crown to see the Marquis's rejoinder." The reader shall
be troubled with neither, as he would hardly price them so high as
did the Vicar. The bishop's letter really contained little beyond
an assurance on his part that Mr. Fenwick had not meant anything
wrong, and that the matter was one with which he, the bishop, had no
concern; all which was worded with most complete episcopal courtesy.
The rejoinder of the Marquis was long, elaborate, and very pompous.
He did not exactly scold the bishop, but he expressed very plainly
his opinion that the Church of England was going to the dogs, because
a bishop had not the power of utterly abolishing any clergyman who
might be guilty of an offence against so distinguished a person as
the Marquis of Trowbridge.

But what was to be done about Carry Brattle? Mrs. Fenwick, when
she had expressed her anger against the Marquis, was quite ready
to own that the matter of Carry's position was to them of much
greater moment than the wrath of the peer. How were they to put
out their hands and save that brand from the burning? Fenwick, in
his ill-considered zeal, suggested that she might be brought to
the Vicarage; but his wife at once knew that such a step would be
dangerous in every way. How could she live, and what would she do?
And what would the other servants think of it?

"Why would the other servants mind it?" asked Fenwick. But his wife
on such a matter could have a way of her own, and that project was
soon knocked on the head. No doubt her father's house was the proper
place for her, but then her father was so dour a man.

"Upon my word," said the Vicar, "he is the only person in the world
of whom I believe myself to be afraid. When I get at him I do not
speak to him as I would to another; and of course he knows it."

Nevertheless, if anything was to be done for Carry Brattle, it seemed
as though it must be done by her father's permission and assistance.
"There can be no doubt that it is his duty," said Mrs. Fenwick.

"I will not say that as a certainty," said the husband. "There is a
point at which, I presume, a father may be justified in disowning a
child. The possession of such a power, no doubt, keeps others from
going wrong. What one wants is that a father should be presumed
to have the power; but that when the time comes, he should never
use it. It is the comfortable doctrine which we are all of us
teaching;--wrath, and abomination of the sinner, before the sin;
pardon and love after it. If you were to run away from me, Janet--"

"Frank, do not dare to speak of anything so horrible."

"I should say now probably that were you to do so, I would never
blast my eyes by looking at you again; but I know that I should run
after you, and implore you to come back to me."

"You wouldn't do anything of the kind; and it isn't proper to talk
about it; and I shall go to bed."

"It is very difficult to make crooked things straight," said the
Vicar, as he walked about the room after his wife had left him. "I
suppose she ought to go into a reformatory. But I know she wouldn't;
and I shouldn't like to ask her after what she said."

It is probably the case that Mr. Fenwick would have been able to do
his duty better, had some harsher feeling towards the sinner been
mixed with his charity.




CHAPTER XXVII.

"I NEVER SHAMED NONE OF THEM."


"Something must be done about Carry Brattle at once." The Vicar felt
that he had pledged himself to take some steps for her welfare, and
it seemed to him, as he thought of the matter, that there were only
two steps possible. He might intercede with her father, or he might
use his influence to have her received into some house of correction,
some retreat, in which she might be kept from evil and disciplined
for good. He knew that the latter would be the safer plan, if it
could be brought to bear; and it would certainly be the easier for
himself. But he thought that he had almost pledged himself to the
girl not to attempt it, and he felt sure that she would not accede
to it. In his doubt he went up to his friend Gilmore, intending to
obtain the light of his friend's wisdom. He found the Squire and the
Prebendary together, and at once started his subject.

"You'll do no good, Mr. Fenwick," said Mr. Chamberlaine, after the
two younger men had been discussing the matter for half an hour.

"Do you mean that I ought not to try to do any good?"

"I mean that such efforts never come to anything."

"All the unfortunate creatures in the world, then, should be left to
go to destruction in their own way."

"It is useless, I think, to treat special cases in an exceptional
manner. When such is done, it is done from enthusiasm, and enthusiasm
is never useful."

"What ought a man to do, then, for the assistance of such
fellow-creatures as this poor girl?" asked the Vicar.

"There are penitentiaries and reformatories, and it is well, no
doubt, to subscribe to them," said the Prebendary. "The subject is so
full of difficulty that one should not touch it rashly. Henry, where
is the last Quarterly?"

"I never take it, sir."

"I ought to have remembered," said Mr. Chamberlaine, smiling blandly.
Then he took up the Saturday Review, and endeavoured to content
himself with that.

Gilmore and Fenwick walked down to the mill together, it being
understood that the Squire was not to show himself there. Fenwick's
difficult task, if it were to be done at all, must be done by himself
alone. He must beard the lion in his den, and make the attack without
any assistant. Gilmore had upon the whole been disposed to think
that no such attack should be made. "He'll only turn upon you with
violence, and no good will be done," said he. "He can't eat me,"
Fenwick had replied, acknowledging, however, that he approached the
undertaking with fear and trembling. Before they were far from the
house Gilmore had changed the conversation and fallen back upon his
own sorrows. He had not answered Mary's letter, and now declared
that he did not intend to do so. What could he say to her? He
could not write and profess friendship; he could not offer her
his congratulations; he could not belie his heart by affecting
indifference. She had thrown him over, and now he knew it. Of what
use would it be to write to her and tell her that she had made him
miserable for ever? "I shall break up the house and get away," said
he.

"Don't do that rashly, Harry. There can be no spot in the world in
which you can be so useful as you are here."

"All my usefulness has been dragged out of me. I don't care about the
place or about the people. I am ill already, and shall become worse.
I think I will go abroad for four or five years. I've an idea I shall
go to the States."

"You'll become tired of that, I should think."

"Of course I shall. Everything is tiresome to me. I don't think
anything else can be so tiresome as my uncle, and yet I dread his
leaving me,--when I shall be alone. I suppose if one was out among
the Rocky Mountains, one wouldn't think so much about it."

"Atra Cura sits behind the horseman," said the Vicar. "I don't know
that travelling will do it. One thing certainly will do it."

"And what is that?"

"Hard work. Some doctor told his patient that if he'd live on
half-a-crown a day and earn it, he'd soon be well. I'm sure that the
same prescription holds good for all maladies of the mind. You can't
earn the half-crown a day, but you may work as hard as though you
did."

"What shall I do?"

"Read, dig, shoot, look after the farm, and say your prayers. Don't
allow yourself time for thinking."

"It's a fine philosophy," said Gilmore, "but I don't think any man
ever made himself happy by it. I'll leave you now."

"I'd go and dig, if I were you," said the Vicar.

"Perhaps I will. Do you know, I've half an idea that I'll go to
Loring."

"What good will that do?"

"I'll find out whether this man is a blackguard. I believe he is. My
uncle knows something about his father, and says that a bigger scamp
never lived."

"I don't see what good you can do, Harry," said the Vicar. And so
they parted.

Fenwick was about half a mile from the mill when Gilmore left him,
and he wished that it were a mile and a half. He knew well that an
edict had gone forth at the mill that no one should speak to the old
man about his daughter. With the mother the Vicar had often spoken
of her lost child, and had learned from her how sad it was to her
that she could never dare to mention Carry's name to her husband. He
had cursed his child, and had sworn that she should never more have
part in him or his. She had brought sorrow and shame upon him, and
he had cut her off with a steady resolve that there should be no
weak backsliding on his part. Those who knew him best declared that
the miller would certainly keep his word, and hitherto no one had
dared to speak of the lost one in her father's hearing. All this Mr.
Fenwick knew, and he knew also that the man was one who could be very
fierce in his anger. He had told his wife that old Brattle was the
only man in the world before whom he would be afraid to speak his
mind openly, and in so saying he had expressed a feeling that was
very general throughout all Bullhampton. Mr. Puddleham was a very
meddlesome man, and he had once ventured out to the mill to say a
word, not indeed about Carry, but touching some youthful iniquity of
which Sam was supposed to have been guilty. He never went near the
mill again, but would shudder and lift up his hands and his eyes when
the miller's name was mentioned. It was not that Brattle used rough
language, or became violently angry when accosted; but there was a
sullen sternness about the man, and a capability of asserting his own
mastery and personal authority, which reduced those who attacked him
to the condition of vanquished combatants, and repulsed them, so that
they would retreat as beaten dogs. Mr. Fenwick, indeed, had always
been well received at the mill. The women of the family loved him
dearly, and took great comfort in his visits. From his first arrival
in the parish he had been on intimate terms with them, though the old
man had never once entered his church. Brattle himself would bear
with him more kindly than he would with his own landlord, who might
at any day have turned him out of his holding. But even Fenwick had
been so answered more than once as to have been forced to retreat
with that feeling of having his tail, like a cur, between his legs.
"He can't eat me," he said to himself, as the low willows round the
mill came in sight. When a man is reduced to that consolation, as
many a man often is, he may be nearly sure that he will be eaten.

When he got over the stile into the lane close to the mill-door,
he found that the mill was going. Gilmore had told him that it
might probably be so, as he had heard that the repairs were nearly
finished. Fenwick was sure that after so long a period of enforced
idleness Brattle would be in the mill, but he went at first into
the house and there found Mrs. Brattle and Fanny. Even with them he
hardly felt himself to be at home, but after a while managed to ask a
few questions about Sam. Sam had come back, and was now at work, but
he had had some terribly hard words with his father. The old man had
desired to know where his son had been. Sam had declined to tell, and
had declared that if he was to be cross-questioned about his comings
and goings he would leave the mill altogether. His father had told
him that he had better go. Sam had not gone, but the two had been
working on together since without interchanging a word. "I want to
see him especially," said Mr. Fenwick.

"You mean Sam, sir?" asked the mother.

"No; his father. I will go out into the lane, and perhaps Fanny will
ask him to come to me." Mrs. Brattle immediately became dismayed by a
troop of fears, and looked up into his face with soft, supplicating,
tearful eyes. So much of sorrow had come to her of late! "There is
nothing wrong, Mrs. Brattle," he said.

"I thought perhaps you had heard something of Sam."

"Nothing but what has made me surer than ever that he had no part in
what was done at Mr. Trumbull's farm."

"Thank God for that!" said the mother, taking him by the hand. Then
Fanny went into the mill, and the Vicar followed her out of the
house, on to the lane. He stood leaning against a tree till the old
man came to him. He then shook the miller's hand, and made some
remark about the mill. They had begun again that morning, the miller
said. Sam had been off again, or they might have been at work on
yesterday forenoon.

"Do not be angry with him; he has been on a good work," said the
Vicar.

"Good or bad, I know nowt of it," said the miller.

"I know, and if you wish I will tell you; but there is another
thing I must say first. Come a little way down the lane with me, Mr.
Brattle."

The Vicar had assumed a tone which was almost one of rebuke,--not
intending it, but falling into it from want of histrionic power in
his attempt to be bold and solemn at the same time. The miller at
once resented it. "Why should I come down the lane?" said he. "You're
axing me to come out at a very busy moment, Muster Fenwick."

"Nothing can be so important as that which I have to say. For the
love of God, Mr. Brattle,--for the love you bear your wife and
children, endure with me for ten minutes." Then he paused, and walked
on, and Mr. Brattle was still at his elbow. "My friend, I have seen
your daughter."

"Which daughter?" said the miller, arresting his step.

"Your daughter Carry, Mr. Brattle." Then the old man turned round and
would have hurried back to the mill without a word; but the Vicar
held him by his coat. "If I have ever been a friend to you or yours
listen to me now one minute."

"Do I come to your house and tell you of your sorrows and your shame?
Let me go!"

"Mr. Brattle, if you will stretch forth your hand, you may save her.
She is your own child--your flesh and blood. Think how easy it is for
a poor girl to fall,--how great is the temptation and how quick, and
how it comes without knowledge of the evil that is to follow! How
small is the sin, and how terrible the punishment! Your friends, Mr.
Brattle, have forgiven you worse sins than ever she has committed."

"I never shamed none of them," said he, struggling on his way back to
the mill.

"It is that, then;--your own misfortune and not the girl's sin that
would harden your heart against your own child? You will let her
perish in the streets, not because she has fallen, but because she
has hurt you in her fall! Is that to be a father? Is that to be a
man? Mr. Brattle, think better of yourself, and dare to obey the
instincts of your heart."

But by this time the miller had escaped, and was striding off in
furious silence to the mill. The Vicar, oppressed by a sense of utter
failure, feeling that his interference had been absolutely valueless,
that the man's wrath and constancy were things altogether beyond his
reach, stood where he had been left, hardly daring to return to the
mill and say a word or two to the women there. But at last he did
go back. He knew well that Brattle himself would not be seen in the
house till his present mood was over. After any encounter of words
he would go and work in silence for half a day, and would seldom or
never refer again to what had taken place; he would never, so thought
the Vicar, refer to the encounter which had just taken place; but he
would remember it always, and it might be that he would never again
speak in friendship to a man who had offended him so deeply.

After a moment's thought he determined to tell the wife, and informed
her and Fanny that he had seen Carry over at Pycroft Common. The
mother's questions as to what her child was doing, how she was
living, whether she were ill or well, and, alas! whether she were
happy or miserable, who cannot imagine?

"She is anything but happy, I fear," said Mr. Fenwick.

"My poor Carry!"

"I should not wish that she should be happy till she be brought back
to the decencies of life. What shall we do to bring her back?"

"Would she come if she were let to come?" asked Fanny.

"I believe she would. I feel sure that she would."

"And what did he say, Mr. Fenwick?" asked the mother. The Vicar only
shook his head. "He's very good; to me he's ever been good as gold.
But, oh, Mr. Fenwick, he is so hard."

"He will not let you speak of her?"

"Never a word, Mr. Fenwick. He'd look at you, sir, so that the gleam
of his eyes would fall on you like a blow. I wouldn't dare;--nor yet
wouldn't Fanny, who dares more with him than any of us."

"If it'd serve her, I'd speak," said Fanny.

"But couldn't I see her, Mr. Fenwick? Couldn't you take me in the
gig with you, sir? I'd slip out arter breakfast up the road, and he
wouldn't be no wiser, at least till I war back again. He wouldn't ax
no questions then, I'm thinking. Would he, Fan?"

"He'd ask at dinner; but if I said you were out for the day along
with Mr. Fenwick, he wouldn't say any more, maybe. He'd know well
enough where you was gone to."

Mr. Fenwick said that he would think of it, and let Fanny know on
the following Sunday. He would not make a promise now, and at any
rate he could not go before Sunday. He did not like to pledge himself
suddenly to such an adventure, knowing that it would be best that he
should first have his wife's ideas on the matter. Then he took his
leave, and as he went out of the house he saw the miller standing at
the door of the mill. He raised his hand and said, "Good-bye," but
the miller quickly turned his back to him and retreated into his
mill.

As he walked up to his house through the village he met Mr.
Puddleham. "So Sam Brattle is off again, sir," said the minister.

"Off what, Mr. Puddleham?"

"Gone clean away. Out of the country."

"Who has told you that, Mr. Puddleham?"

"Isn't it true, sir? You ought to know, Mr. Fenwick, as you're one of
the bailsmen."

"I've just been at the mill, and I didn't see him."

"I don't think you'll ever see him at the mill again, Mr. Fenwick;
nor yet in Bullhampton, unless the police have to bring him here."

"As I was saying, I didn't see him at the mill, Mr. Puddleham,
because I didn't go in; but he's working there at this moment, and
has been all the day. He's all right, Mr. Puddleham. You go and have
a few words with him, or with his father, and you'll find they're
quite comfortable at the mill now."

"Constable Hicks told me that he was out of the country," said Mr.
Puddleham, walking away in considerable disgust.

Mrs. Fenwick's opinion was, upon the whole, rather in favour of the
second expedition to Pycroft Common, as she declared that the mother
should at any rate be allowed to see her child. She indeed would not
submit to the idea of the miller's indomitable powers. If she were
Mrs. Brattle, she said, she'd pull the old man's ears, and make him
give way.

"You go and try," said the Vicar.

On the Sunday morning following, Fanny was told that on Wednesday
Mr. Fenwick would drive her mother over to Pycroft Common. He had no
doubt, he said, but that Carry would still be found living with Mrs.
Burrows. He explained that the old woman had luckily been absent
during his visit, but would probably be there when they went again.
As to that they must take their chance. And the whole plan was
arranged. Mr. Fenwick was to be on the road in his gig at Mr.
Gilmore's gate at ten o'clock, and Mrs. Brattle was to meet him there
at that hour.




CHAPTER XXVIII.

MRS. BRATTLE'S JOURNEY.


[Illustration]

Mrs. Brattle was waiting at the stile opposite to Mr. Gilmore's gate
as Mr. Fenwick drove up to the spot. No doubt the dear old woman
had been there for the last half-hour, thinking that the walk would
take her twice as long as it did, and fearing that she might keep
the Vicar waiting. She had put on her Sunday clothes and her Sunday
bonnet, and when she climbed up into the vacant place beside her
friend she found her position to be so strange that for a while she
could hardly speak. He said a few words to her, but pressed her with
no questions, understanding the cause of her embarrassment. He could
not but think that of all his parishioners no two were so unlike
each other as were the miller and his wife. The one was so hard and
invincible;--the other so soft and submissive! Nevertheless it had
always been said that Brattle had been a tender and affectionate
husband. By degrees the woman's awe at the horse and gig and
strangeness of her position wore off, and she began to talk of her
daughter. She had brought a little bundle with her, thinking that she
might supply feminine wants, and had apologised humbly for venturing
to come so laden. Fenwick, who remembered what Carry had said about
money that she still had, and who was nearly sure that the murderers
had gone to Pycroft Common after the murder had been committed, had
found a difficulty in explaining to Mrs. Brattle that her child was
probably not in want. The son had been accused of the murder of the
man, and now the Vicar had but little doubt that the daughter was
living on the proceeds of the robbery. "It's a hard life she must be
living, Mr. Fenwick, with an old 'ooman the likes of that," said Mrs.
Brattle. "Perhaps if I'd brought a morsel of some'at to eat--"

"I don't think they're pressed in that way, Mrs. Brattle."

"Ain't they now? But it's a'most worse, Mr. Fenwick, when one thinks
where it's to come from. The Lord have mercy on her, and bring her
out of it!"

"Amen," said the Vicar.

"And is she bright at all, and simple still? She was the brightest,
simplest lass in all Bull'ompton, I used to think. I suppose her old
ways have a'most left her, Mr. Fenwick?"

"I thought her very like what she used to be."

"'Deed now, did you, Mr. Fenwick? And she wasn't mopish and
slatternly like?"

"She was tidy enough. You wouldn't wish me to say that she was
happy?"

"I suppose not, Mr. Fenwick. I shouldn't ought;--ought I, now? But,
Mr. Fenwick, I'd give my left hand she should be happy and gay once
more. I suppose none but a mother feels it, but the sound of her
voice through the house was ever the sweetest music I know'd on.
It'll never have the same ring again, Mr. Fenwick."

He could not tell her that it would. That sainted sinner of whom he
had reminded Mr. Puddleham, though she had attained to the joy of the
Lord,--even she had never regained the mirth of her young innocence.
There is a bloom on the flower which may rest there till the
flower has utterly perished, if the handling of it be sufficiently
delicate;--but no care, nothing that can be done by friends on earth,
or even by better friendship from above, can replace that when once
displaced. The sound of which the mother was thinking could never be
heard again from Carry Brattle's voice. "If we could only get her
home once more," said the Vicar, "she might be a good daughter to you
still."

"I'd be a good mother to her, Mr. Fenwick;--but I'm thinking he'll
never have it so. I never knew him to change on a thing like that,
Mr. Fenwick. He felt it that keenly, it nigh killed 'im. Only that he
took it out o' hisself in thrashing that wicked man, I a'most think
he'd a' died o' it."

Again the Vicar drove to the Bald-faced Stag, and again he walked
along the road and over the common. He offered his arm to the old
woman, but she wouldn't accept it; nor would she upon any entreaty
allow him to carry her bundle. She assured him that his doing so
would make her utterly wretched, and at last he gave up the point.
She declared that she suffered nothing from fatigue, and that her two
miles' walk would not be more than her Sunday journey to church and
back. But as she drew near to the house she became uneasy, and once
asked to be allowed to pause for a moment. "May be, then," said she,
"after all, my girl'd rather that I wouldn't trouble her." He took
her by the arm and led her along, and comforted her,--assuring her
that if she would take her child in her arms Carry would for the
moment be in a heaven of happiness. "Take her into my arms, Mr.
Fenwick? Why,--isn't she in my very heart of hearts at this moment?
And I won't say not a word sharp to her;--not now, Mr. Fenwick. And
why would I say sharp words at all? I suppose she understands it
all."

"I think she does, Mrs. Brattle."

They had now reached the door, and the Vicar knocked. No answer came
at once; but such had been the case when he knocked before. He had
learned to understand that in such a household it might not be wise
to admit all comers without consideration. So he knocked again,--and
then again. But still there came no answer. Then he tried the door,
and found that it was locked. "May be she's seen me coming," said the
mother, "and now she won't let me in." The Vicar then went round the
cottage, and found that the back door also was closed. Then he looked
in at one of the front windows, and became aware that no one was
sitting, at least in the kitchen. There was an upstairs room, but of
that the window was closed.

"I begin to fear," he said, "that neither of them is at home."

At this moment he heard the voice of a woman calling to him from the
door of the nearest cottage,--one of the two brick tenements which
stood together,--and from her he learned that Mrs. Burrows had gone
into Devizes, and would not probably be home till the evening. Then
he asked after Carry, not mentioning her name, but speaking of her as
the young woman who lived with Mrs. Burrows. "Her young man come and
took her up to Lon'on o' Saturday," said the woman.

Fenwick heard the words, but Mrs. Brattle did not hear them. It did
not occur to him not to believe the woman's statement, and all his
hopes about the poor creature were at once dashed to the ground. His
first feeling was no doubt one of resentment, that she had broken
her word to him. She had said that she would not go within a month
without letting him know that she was going; and there is no fault,
no vice, that strikes any of us so strongly as falsehood or injustice
against ourselves. And then the nature of the statement was so
terrible! She had gone back into utter degradation and iniquity. And
who was the young man? As far as he could obtain a clue, through the
information which had reached him from various sources, this young
man must be the companion of the Grinder in the murder and robbery of
Mr. Trumbull. "She has gone away, Mrs. Brattle," said he, with as sad
a voice as ever a man used.

"And where be she gone to, Mr. Fenwick? Cannot I go arter her?" He
simply shook his head and took her by the arm to lead her away. "Do
they know nothing of her, Mr. Fenwick?"

"She has gone away; probably to London. We must think no more about
her, Mrs. Brattle--at any rate for the present. I can only say that I
am very, very sorry that I brought you here."

The drive back to Bullhampton was very silent and very sad. Mrs.
Brattle had before her the difficulty of explaining her journey to
her husband, together with the feeling that the difficulty had been
incurred altogether for nothing. As for Fenwick, he was angry with
himself for his own past enthusiasm about the girl. After all, Mr.
Chamberlaine had shown himself to be the wiser man of the two. He
had declared it to be no good to take up special cases, and the
Vicar as he drove himself home notified to himself his assent with
the Prebendary's doctrine. The girl had gone off the moment she
had ascertained that her friends were aware of her presence and
situation. What to her had been the kindness of her clerical friend,
or the stories brought to her from her early home, or the dirt and
squalor of the life which she was leading? The moment that there was
a question of bringing her back to the decencies of the world, she
escaped from her friends and hurried back to the pollution which, no
doubt, had charms for her. He had allowed himself to think that in
spite of her impurity, she might again be almost pure, and this was
his reward! He deposited the poor woman at the spot at which he had
taken her up, almost without a word, and then drove himself home with
a heavy heart. "I believe it will be best to be like her father, and
never to name her again," said he to his wife.

"But what has she done, Frank?"

"Gone back to the life which I suppose she likes best. Let us say no
more about it,--at any rate for the present. I'm sick at heart when I
think of it."

Mrs. Brattle, when she got over the stile close to her own home, saw
her husband standing at the mill door. Her heart sank within her, if
that could be said to sink which was already so low. He did not move,
but stood there with his eyes fixed upon her. She had hoped that she
might get into the house unobserved by him, and learn from Fanny what
had taken place; but she felt so like a culprit that she hardly dared
to enter the door. Would it not be best to go to him at once, and ask
his pardon for what she had done? When he spoke to her, which he did
at last, his voice was a relief to her. "Where hast been, Maggie?" he
asked. She went up to him, put her hand on the lappet of his coat and
shook her head. "Best go in and sit easy, and hear what God sends,"
he said. "What's the use of scouring about the country here and
there?"

"There has been no use in it to-day, feyther," she said.

"There arn't no use in it,--not never," he said; and after that there
was no more about it. She went into the house and handed the bundle
to Fanny, and sat down on the bed and cried. On the following morning
Frank Fenwick received the following letter:--


   London, Sunday.

   HONOURED SIR,

   I told you that I would write if it came as I was going
   away, but I've been forced to go without writing. There
   was nothing to write with at the cottage. Mrs. Burrows
   and me had words, and I thought as she would rob me, and
   perhaps worse. She is a bad woman, and I could stand it no
   longer, so I just come up here, as there was nowhere else
   for me to find a place to lie down in. I thought I'd just
   write and tell you, because of my word; but I know it
   isn't no use.

   I'd send my respects and love to father and mother, if I
   dared. I did think of going over; but I know he'd kill me,
   and so he ought. I'd send my respects to Mrs. Fenwick,
   only that I isn't fit to name her;--and my love to sister
   Fanny. I've come away here, and must just wait till I die.

   Yours humbly, and most unfortunate,

   CARRY.

   If it's any good to be sorry, nobody can be more sorry
   than me, and nobody more unhappy. I did try to pray when
   you was gone, but it only made me more ashamed. If there
   was only anywhere to go to, I'd go.




CHAPTER XXIX.

THE BULL AT LORING.


Gilmore had told his friend that he would do two things,--that he
would start off and travel for four or five years, and that he would
pay a visit to Loring. Fenwick had advised him to do neither, but to
stay at home and dig and say his prayers. But in such emergencies
no man takes his friend's advice; and when Mr. Chamberlaine had
left him, Gilmore had made up his mind that he would at any rate go
to Loring. He went to church on the Sunday morning, and was half
resolved to tell Mrs. Fenwick of his purpose; but chance delayed her
in the church, and he sauntered away home without having mentioned
it. He let half the next week pass by without stirring beyond his
own ground. During those three days he changed his mind half a dozen
times; but at last, on the Thursday, he had his portmanteau packed
and started on his journey. As he was preparing to leave the house
he wrote one line to Fenwick in pencil. "I am this moment off to
Loring.--H. G." This he left in the village as he drove through to
the Westbury station.

He had formed no idea in his own mind of any definite purpose in
going. He did not know what he should do or what say when he got to
Loring. He had told himself a hundred times that any persecution of
the girl on his part would be mean and unworthy of him. And he was
also aware that no condition in which a man could place himself was
more open to contempt than that of a whining, pining, unsuccessful
lover. A man is bound to take a woman's decision against him, bear
it as he may, and say as little against it as possible. He is bound
to do so when he is convinced that a woman's decision is final; and
there can be no stronger proof of such finality than the fact that
she has declared a preference for some other man. All this Gilmore
knew, but he would not divest himself of the idea that there might
still be some turn in the wheel of fortune. He had heard a vague
rumour that Captain Marrable, his rival, was a very dangerous man.
His uncle was quite sure that the Captain's father was thoroughly
bad, and had thrown out hints against the son, which Gilmore in his
anxiety magnified till he felt convinced that the girl whom he loved
with all his heart was going to throw herself into the arms of a
thorough scamp. Could he not do something, if not for his own sake,
then for hers? Might it not be possible for him to deliver her from
her danger? What, if he should discover some great iniquity;--would
she not then in her gratitude be softened towards him? It was on
the cards that this reprobate was married already, and was about
to commit bigamy. It was quite probable that such a man should be
deeply in debt. As for the fortune that had been left to him, Mr.
Chamberlaine had already ascertained that that amounted to nothing.
It had been consumed to the last shilling in paying the joint debts
of the father and son. Men such as Mr. Chamberlaine have sources of
information which are marvellous to the minds of those who are more
secluded, and not the less marvellous because the information is
invariably false. Gilmore in this way almost came to a conviction
that Mary Lowther was about to sacrifice herself to a man utterly
unworthy of her, and he taught himself, not to think,--but to believe
it to be possible that he might save her. Those who knew him would
have said that he was the last man in the world to be carried away
by a romantic notion;--but he had his own idea of romance as plainly
developed in his mind as was ever the case with a knight of old, who
went forth for the relief of a distressed damsel. If he could do
anything towards saving her, he would do it, or try to do it, though
he should be brought to ruin in the attempt. Might it not be that at
last he would have the reward which other knights always attained?
The chance in his favour was doubtless small, but the world was
nothing to him without this chance.

He had never been at Loring before, but he had learned the way. He
went to Chippenham and Swindon, and then by the train to Loring. He
had no very definite plan formed for himself. He rather thought that
he would call at Miss Marrable's house,--call if possible when Mary
Lowther was not there,--and learn from the elder lady something of
the facts of the case. He had been well aware for many weeks past,
from early days in the summer, that old Miss Marrable had been in
favour of his claim. He had heard too that there had been family
quarrels among the Marrables, and a word had been dropped in his
hearing by Mrs. Fenwick, which had implied that Miss Marrable was
by no means pleased with the match which her niece Mary Lowther was
proposing to herself. Everything seemed to show that Captain Marrable
was a most undesirable person.

When he reached the station at Loring it was incumbent on him to go
somewhither at once. He must provide for himself for the night. He
found two omnibuses at the station, and two inn servants competing
with great ardour for his carpet bag. There were the Dragon and the
Bull fighting for him. The Bull in the Lowtown was commercial and
prosperous. The Dragon at Uphill was aristocratic, devoted to county
purposes, and rather hard set to keep its jaws open and its tail
flying. Prosperity is always becoming more prosperous, and the
allurements of the Bull prevailed. "Are you a going to rob the gent
of his walise?" said the indignant Boots of the Bull as he rescued
Mr. Gilmore's property from the hands of his natural enemy, as soon
as he had secured the entrance of Mr. Gilmore into his own vehicle.
Had Mr. Gilmore known that the Dragon was next door but one to Miss
Marrable's house, and that the Bull was nearly equally contiguous
to that in which Captain Marrable was residing, his choice probably
would not have been altered. In such cases, the knight who is to be
the deliverer desires above all things that he may be near to his
enemy.

He was shown up to a bedroom, and then ushered into the commercial
room of the house. Loring, though it does a very pretty trade as a
small town, and now has for some years been regarded as a thriving
place in its degree, is not of such importance in the way of business
as to support a commercial inn of the first class. At such houses the
commercial room is as much closed against the uninitiated as is a
first-class club in London. In such rooms a non-commercial man would
be almost as much astray as is a non-broker in Capel Court, or an
attorney in a bar mess-room. At the Bull things were a little mixed.
The very fact that the words "Commercial Room" were painted on the
door proved to those who understood such matters that there was a
doubt in the case. They had no coffee room at the Bull, and strangers
who came that way were of necessity shown into that in which the
gentlemen of the road were wont to relax themselves. Certain
commercial laws are maintained in such apartments. Cigars are not
allowed before nine o'clock, except upon some distinct arrangement
with the waiter. There is not, as a rule, a regular daily commercial
repast; but when three or more gentlemen dine together at five
o'clock, the dinner becomes a commercial dinner, and the commercial
laws as to wine, &c., are enforced, with more or less restriction as
circumstances may seem to demand. At the present time there was but
one occupant of the chamber to greet Mr. Gilmore when he entered,
and this greeting was made with all the full honours of commercial
courtesy. The commercial gentleman is of his nature gregarious, and
although he be exclusive to a strong degree, more so probably than
almost any other man in regard to the sacred hour of dinner, when
in the full glory of his confraternity, he will condescend, when
the circumstances of his profession have separated him from his
professional brethren, to be festive with almost any gentleman whom
chance may throw in his way. Mr. Cockey had been alone for a whole
day when Gilmore arrived, having reached Loring just twenty-four
hours in advance of our friend, and was contemplating the sadly
diminished joys of a second solitary dinner at the Bull, when fortune
threw this stranger in his way. The waiter, looking at the matter in
a somewhat similar light, and aware that a combined meal would be for
the advantage of all parties, very soon assisted Mr. Cockey in making
his arrangements for the evening. Mr. Gilmore would no doubt want to
dine. Dinner would be served at five o'clock. Mr. Cockey was going to
dine, and Mr. Gilmore, the waiter thought, would probably be glad to
join him. Mr. Cockey expressed himself as delighted, and would only
be too happy. Now men in love, let their case be ever so bad, must
dine or die. So much no doubt is not admitted by the chroniclers
of the old knights who went forth after their ladies; but the
old chroniclers, if they soared somewhat higher than do those
of the present day, are admitted to have been on the whole less
circumstantially truthful. Our knight was very sad at heart, and
would have done according to his prowess as much as any Orlando of
them all for the lady whom he loved,--but nevertheless he was an
hungered; the mention of dinner was pleasant to him, and he accepted
the joint courtesies of Mr. Cockey and the waiter with gratitude.

The codfish and beefsteak, though somewhat woolly and tough, were
wholesome; and the pint of sherry which at Mr. Cockey's suggestion
was supplied to them, if not of itself wholesome, was innocent
by reason of its dimensions. Mr. Cockey himself was pleasant and
communicative, and told Mr. Gilmore a good deal about Loring. Our
friend was afraid to ask any leading questions as to the persons in
the place who interested himself, feeling conscious that his own
subject was one which would not bear touch from a rough hand. He did
at last venture to make inquiry about the clergyman of the parish.
Mr. Cockey, with some merriment at his own wit, declared that the
church was a house of business at which he did not often call for
orders. Though he had been coming to Loring now for four years, he
had never heard anything of the clergyman; but the waiter no doubt
would tell them. Gilmore rather hesitated, and protested that he
cared little for the matter; but the waiter was called in and
questioned, and was soon full of stories about old Mr. Marrable. He
was a good sort of man in his way, the waiter thought, but not much
of a preacher. The people liked him because he never interfered with
them. "He don't go poking his nose into people's 'ouses like some
of 'em," said the waiter, who then began to tell of the pertinacity
in that respect of a younger clergyman at Uphill. Yes; Parson
Marrable had a relation living at Uphill; an old lady. "No; not
his grandmother." This was in answer to a joke on the part of Mr.
Cockey. Nor yet a daughter. The waiter thought she was some kind of
a cousin, though he did not know what kind. A very grand lady was
Miss Marrable, according to his showing, and much thought of by the
quality. There was a young lady living with her, though the waiter
did not know the young lady's name.

"Does the Rev. Mr. Marrable live alone?" asked Gilmore. "Well, yes;
for the most part quite alone. But just at present he had a visitor."
Then the waiter told all that he knew about the Captain. The most
material part of this was that the Captain had returned from London
that very evening;--had come in by the Express while the two "gents"
were at dinner, and had been taken to the Lowtown parsonage by the
Bull 'bus. "Quite the gentleman," was the Captain, according to the
waiter, and one of the "handsomest gents as ever he'd set his eyes
upon." "D---- him," said poor Harry Gilmore to himself. Then he
ventured upon another question. Did the waiter know anything of
Captain Marrable's father? The waiter only knew that the Captain's
father was "a military gent, and was high up in the army." From all
which the only information which Gilmore received was the fact that
the match between Marrable and Mary Lowther had not as yet become the
talk of the town. After dinner Mr. Cockey proposed a glass of toddy
and a cigar, remarking that he would move a bill for dispensing
with the smoking rule for that night only, and to this also Gilmore
assented. Now that he was at Loring he did not know what to do with
himself better than drinking toddy with Mr. Cockey. Mr. Cockey
declared the bill to be carried nem. con., and the cigars and toddy
were produced. Mr. Cockey remarked that he had heard of Sir Gregory
Marrable, of Dunripple Park. He travelled in Warwickshire, and was in
the habit, as he said, of fishing up little facts. Sir Gregory wasn't
much of a man, according to his account. The estate was small and,
as Mr. Cockey fancied, a little out at elbows. Mr. Cockey thought it
all very well to be a country gentleman and a "barrow knight," as he
called it, as long as you had an estate to follow; but he thought
very little of a title without plenty of stuff. Commerce, according
to his notions, was the back bone of the nation;--and that the corps
of travelling commercial gentlemen was the back bone of trade, every
child knew. Mr. Cockey became warm and friendly as he drank his
toddy. "Now, I don't know what you are, sir," said he.

"I'm not very much of anything," said Gilmore.

"Perhaps not, sir. Let that be as it may. But a man, sir, that feels
that he's one of the supports of the commercial supremacy of this
nation ain't got much reason to be ashamed of himself."

"Not on that account, certainly."

"Nor yet on no other account, as long as he's true to his employers.
Now you talk of country gentlemen."

"I didn't talk of them," said Gilmore.

"Well,--no,--you didn't; but they do, you know. What does a country
gentleman know, and what does he do? What's the country the better of
him? He 'unts, and he shoots, and he goes to bed with his skin full
of wine, and then he gets up and he 'unts and he shoots again, and
'as his skin full once more. That's about all."

"Sometimes he's a magistrate."

"Yes, justices' justice! we know all about that. Put an old man in
prison for a week because he looks into his 'ay-field on a Sunday; or
send a young one to the treadmill for two months because he knocks
over a 'are! All them cases ought to be tried in the towns, and there
should be beaks paid as there is in London. I don't see the good of a
country gentleman. Buying and selling;--that's what the world has to
go by."

"They buy and sell land."

"No; they don't. They buy a bit now and then when they're screws, and
they sell a bit now and then when the eating and drinking has gone
too fast. But as for capital and investment, they know nothing about
it. After all, they ain't getting above two-and-a-half per cent. for
their money. We all know what that must come to."

Mr. Cockey had been so mild before the pint of sherry and the glass
of toddy, that Mr. Gilmore was somewhat dismayed by the change. Mr.
Cockey, however, in his altered aspect seemed to be so much the less
gracious, that Gilmore left him and strolled out into the town. He
climbed up the hill and walked round the church and looked up at the
windows of Miss Marrable's house, of which he had learned the site;
but he had no adventure, saw nothing that interested him, and at
half-past nine took himself wearily to bed.

That same day Captain Marrable had run down from London to Loring
laden with terrible news. The money on which he had counted was all
gone! "What do you mean?" said his uncle; "have the lawyers been
deceiving you all through?"

"What is it to me?" said the ruined man. "It is all gone. They have
satisfied me that nothing more can be done." Parson John whistled
with a long-drawn note of wonder. "The people they were dealing with
would be willing enough to give up the money, but it's all gone. It's
spent, and there's no trace of it."

"Poor fellow!"


[Illustration: Parson John and Walter Marrable.]


"I've seen my father, uncle John."

"And what passed?"

"I told him that he was a scoundrel, and then I left him. I didn't
strike him."

"I should hope not that, Walter."

"I kept my hands off him; but when a man has ruined you as he has
me, it doesn't much matter who he is. Your father and any other man
are much the same to you then. He was worn, and old, and pale, or I
should have felled him to the ground."

"And what will you do now?"

"Just go to that hell upon earth on the other side of the globe.
There's nothing else to be done. I've applied for extension of leave,
and told them why."

Nothing more was said that night between the uncle and nephew, and
no word had been spoken about Mary Lowther. On the next morning the
breakfast at the parsonage passed by in silence. Parson John had been
thinking a good deal of Mary, but had resolved that it was best that
he should hold his tongue for the present. From the moment in which
he had first heard of the engagement, he had made up his mind that
his nephew and Mary Lowther would never be married. Seeing what
his nephew was--or rather seeing that which he fancied his nephew
to be,--he was sure that he would not sacrifice himself by such a
marriage. There was always a way out of things, and Walter Marrable
would be sure to find it. The way out of it had been found now with
a vengeance. Immediately after breakfast the Captain took his hat
without a word, and walked steadily up the hill to Uphill Lane. As
he passed the door of the Bull he saw, but took no notice of, a
gentleman who was standing under the covered entrance to the inn, and
who had watched him coming out from the parsonage gate; but Gilmore,
the moment that his eyes fell upon the Captain, declared to himself
that that was his rival. Captain Marrable walked straight up the
hill and knocked at Miss Marrable's door. Was Miss Lowther at home?
Of course Miss Lowther was at home at such an hour. The girl said
that Miss Mary was alone in the breakfast parlour. Miss Marrable had
already gone down to the kitchen. Without waiting for another word,
he walked into the little back room, and there he found his love.
"Walter," she said, jumping up and running to him; "how good of you
to come so soon! We didn't expect you these two days." She had thrown
herself into his arms, but, though he embraced her, he did not kiss
her. "There is something the matter!" she said. "What is it?" As she
spoke she drew away from him and looked up into his face. He smiled
and shook his head, still holding her by the waist. "Tell me, Walter;
I know there is something wrong."

"It is only that dirty money. My father has succeeded in getting it
all."

"All, Walter?" said she, again drawing herself away.

"Every shilling," said he, dropping his arm.

"That will be very bad."

"Not a doubt of it. I felt it just as you do."

"And all our pretty plans are gone."

"Yes;--all our pretty plans."

"And what shall you do now?"

"There is only one thing. I shall go to India again. Of course it is
just the same to me as though I were told that sentence of death had
gone against me;--only it will not be so soon over."

"Don't say that, Walter."

"Why not say it, my dear, when I feel it?"

"But you don't feel it. I know it must be bad for you, but it is not
quite that. I will not think that you have nothing left worth living
for."

"I can't ask you to go with me to that happy Paradise."

"But I can ask you to take me," she said;--"though perhaps it will be
better that I should not."

"My darling!--my own darling!" Then she came back to him and laid her
head upon his shoulders, and lifted his hand till it came again round
her waist. And he kissed her forehead, and smoothed her hair. "Swear
to me," she said, "that whatever happens you will not put me away
from you."

"Put you away, dearest! A man doesn't put away the only morsel he has
to keep him from starving. But yet as I came up here this morning I
resolved that I would put you away."

"Walter!"

"And even now I know that they will tell me that I should do so. How
can I take you out there to such a life as that without having the
means of keeping a house over your head?"

"Officers do marry without fortunes."

"Yes;--and what sort of a time do their wives have? Oh, Mary, my own,
my own, my own!--it is very bad! You cannot understand it all at
once, but it is very bad."

"If it be better for you, Walter,--" she said, again drawing herself
away.

"It is not that, and do not say that it is. Let us at any rate trust
each other."

She gave herself a little shake before she answered him. "I will
trust you in everything;--as God is my judge, in everything. What you
tell me to do, I will do. But, Walter, I will say one thing first.
I can look forward to nothing but absolute misery in any life that
will separate me from you. I know the difference between comfort and
discomfort in money matters, but all that is as a feather in the
balance. You are my god upon earth, and to you I must cling. Whether
you be away from me or with me, I must cling to you the same. If I
am to be separated from you for a time, I can do it with hope. If
I am to be separated from you for ever, I shall still do so,--with
despair. And now I will trust you, and I will do whatever you tell
me. If you forbid me to call you mine any longer,--I will obey, and
will never reproach you."

"I will always be yours," he said, taking her again to his heart.

"Then, dearest, you shall not find me wanting for anything you may
ask of me. Of course you can't decide at present."

"I have decided that I must go to India. I have asked for the
exchange."

"Yes;--I understand; but about our marriage. It may be that you
should go out first. I would not be unmaidenly, Walter; but remember
this--the sooner the better, if I can be a comfort to you;--but I can
bear any delay rather than be a clog upon you."

Marrable, as he had walked up the hill,--and during all his thoughts,
indeed, since he had been convinced that the money was gone from
him,--had been disposed to think that his duty to Mary required him
to give her up. He had asked her to be his wife when he believed his
circumstances to be other than they were; and now he knew that the
life he had to offer to her was one of extreme discomfort. He had
endeavoured to shake off any idea that as he must go back to India it
would be more comfortable for himself to return without than with a
wife. He wanted to make the sacrifice of himself, and had determined
that he would do so. Now, at any rate for the moment, all his
resolves were thrown to the wind. His own love was so strong and was
so gratified by her love, that half his misery was carried away in an
enthusiasm of romantic devotion. Let the worst come to the worst, the
man that was so loved by such a woman could not be of all men the
most miserable.

He left the house, giving to her the charge of telling the bad news
to Miss Marrable; and as he went he saw in the street before the
house the man whom he had seen standing an hour before under the
gateway of the inn. And Gilmore saw him too, and well knew where he
had been.




CHAPTER XXX.

THE AUNT AND THE UNCLE.


Miss Marrable heard the story of the Captain's loss in perfect
silence. Mary told it craftily, with a smile on her face, as though
she were but slightly affected by it, and did not think very much on
the change it might effect in her plans and those of her lover. "He
has been ill-treated; has he not?" she said.

"Very badly treated. I can't understand it, but it seems to me that
he has been most shamefully treated."

"He tried to explain it all to me; but I don't know that he
succeeded."

"Why did the lawyers deceive him?"

"I think he was a little rash there. He took what they told him for
more than it was worth. There was some woman who said that she would
resign her claim; but when they came to look into it, she too had
signed some papers and the money was all gone. He could recover it
from his father by law, only that his father has got nothing."

"And that is to be the end of it."

"That is the end of our five thousand pounds," said Mary, forcing
a little laugh. Miss Marrable for a few moments made no reply. She
sat fidgety in her seat, feeling that it was her duty to explain to
Mary what must, in her opinion, be the inevitable result of this
misfortune, and yet not knowing how to begin her task. Mary was
partly aware of what was coming, and had fortified herself to reject
all advice, to assert her right to do as she pleased with herself,
and to protest that she cared nothing for the prudent views of
worldly-minded people. But she was afraid of what was coming. She
knew that arguments would be used which she would find it very
difficult to answer; and, although she had settled upon certain
strong words which she would speak, she felt that she would be
driven at last to quarrel with her aunt. On one thing she was quite
resolved. Nothing should induce her to give up her engagement,--short
of the expression of a wish to that effect from Walter Marrable
himself.

"How will this affect you, dear?" said Miss Marrable at last.

"I should have been a poor man's wife any how. Now I shall be the
wife of a very poor man. I suppose that will be the effect."

"What will he do?"

"He has, aunt, made up his mind to go to India."

"Has he made up his mind to anything else?"

"Of course, I know what you mean, aunt?"

"Why should you not know? I mean, that a man going out to India, and
intending to live there as an officer on his pay, cannot be in want
of a wife."

"You speak of a wife as if she were the same as a coach-and-four, or
a box at the opera,--a sort of luxury for rich men. Marriage, aunt,
is like death, common to all."

"In our position in life, Mary, marriage cannot be made so common as
to be undertaken without foresight for the morrow. A poor gentleman
is further removed from marriage than any other man."

"One knows, of course, that there will be difficulties."

"What I mean, Mary, is, that you will have to give it up."

"Never, Aunt Sarah. I shall never give it up."

"Do you mean that you will marry him now, at once, and go out to
India with him, as a dead weight round his neck?"

"I mean that he shall choose about that."

"It is for you to choose, Mary. Don't be angry. I am bound to tell
you what I think. You can, of course, act as you please; but I think
that you ought to listen to me. He cannot go back from his engagement
without laying himself open to imputation of bad conduct."

"Nor can I."

"Pardon me, dear. That depends, I think, upon what passes between
you. It is at any rate for you to propose the release to him,--not to
fix him with the burthen of proposing it." Mary's heart quailed as
she heard this, but she did not show her feeling by any expression
on her face. "For a man, placed as he is, about to return to such a
climate as that of India, with such work before him as I suppose men
have there,--the burden of a wife, without the means of maintaining
her according to his views of life and hers--"

"We have no views of life. We know that we shall be poor."

"It is the old story of love and a cottage,--only under the most
unfavourable circumstances. A woman's view of it is, of course,
different from that of a man. He has seen more of the world, and
knows better than she does what poverty and a wife and family mean."

"There is no reason why we should be married at once."

"A long engagement for you would be absolutely disastrous."

"Of course, there is disaster," said Mary. "The loss of Walter's
money is disastrous. One has to put up with disaster. But the worst
of all disasters would be to be separated. I can stand anything but
that."

"It seems to me, Mary, that within the last few weeks your character
has become altogether altered."

"Of course it has."

"You used to think so much more of other people than yourself."

"Don't I think of him, Aunt Sarah?"

"As of a thing of your own. Two months ago you did not know him, and
now you are a millstone round his neck."

"I will never be a millstone round anybody's neck," said Mary,
walking out of the room. She felt that her aunt had been very cruel
to her,--had attacked her in her misery without mercy; and yet she
knew that every word that had been uttered had been spoken in pure
affection. She did not believe that her aunt's chief purpose had been
to save Walter from the fruits of an imprudent marriage. Had she
so believed, the words would have had more effect on her. She saw,
or thought that she saw, that her aunt was trying to save herself
against her own will, and at this she was indignant. She was
determined to persevere; and this endeavour to make her feel that
her perseverance would be disastrous to the man she loved was, she
thought, very cruel. She stalked upstairs with unruffled demeanour;
but when there, she threw herself on her bed and sobbed bitterly.
Could it be that it was her duty, for his sake, to tell him that the
whole thing should be at an end? It was impossible for her to do so
now, because she had sworn to him that she would be guided altogether
by him in his present troubles. She must keep her word to him,
whatever happened; but of this she was quite sure,--that if he should
show the slightest sign of a wish to be free from his engagement,
she would make him free--at once. She would make him free, and would
never allow herself to think for a moment that he had been wrong.
She had told him what her own feelings were very plainly,--perhaps,
in her enthusiasm, too plainly,--and now he must judge for himself
and for her. In respect to her aunt, she would endeavour to avoid
any further conversation on the subject till her lover should have
decided finally what would be best for both of them. If he should
choose to say that everything between them should be over, she would
acquiesce,--and all the world should be over for her at the same
time.

While this was going on in Uphill Lane something of the same kind was
taking place at the Lowtown Parsonage. Parson John became aware that
his nephew had been with the ladies at Uphill, and when the young
man came in for lunch, he asked some question which introduced the
subject. "You've told them of this fresh trouble, no doubt."

"I didn't see Miss Marrable," said the Captain.

"I don't know that Miss Marrable much signifies. You haven't asked
Miss Marrable to be your wife."

"I saw Mary, and I told her."

"I hope you made no bones about it."

"I don't know what you mean, sir."

"I hope you told her that you two had had your little game of play,
like two children, and that there must be an end of it."

"No; I didn't tell her that."

"That's what you have got to tell her in some kind of language, and
the sooner you do it the better. Of course you can't marry her. You
couldn't have done it if this money had been all right, and it's out
of the question now. Bless my soul! how you would hate each other
before six months were over. I can understand that for a strong
fellow like you, when he's used to it, India may be a jolly place
enough."

"It's a great deal more than I can understand."

"But for a poor man with a wife and family;--oh dear! it must be very
bad indeed. And neither of you have ever been used to that kind of
thing."

"I have not," said the Captain.

"Nor has she. That old lady up there is not rich, but she is as proud
as Lucifer, and always lives as though the whole place belonged to
her. She's a good manager, and she don't run in debt;--but Mary
Lowther knows no more of roughing it than a duchess."

"I hope I may never have to teach her."

"I trust you never may. It's a very bad lesson for a young man
to have to teach a young woman. Some women die in the learning.
Some won't learn it at all. Others do, and become dirty and rough
themselves. Now, you are very particular about women."

"I like to see them well turned out."

"What would you think of your own wife, nursing perhaps a couple of
babies, dressed nohow when she gets up in the morning, and going on
in the same way till night? That's the kind of life with officers who
marry on their pay. I don't say anything against it. If the man likes
it,--or rather if he's able to put up with it,--it may be all very
well; but you couldn't put up with it. Mary's very nice now, but
you'd come to be so sick of her, that you'd feel half like cutting
her throat,--or your own."

"It would be the latter for choice, sir."

"I dare say it would. But even that isn't a pleasant thing to look
forward to. I'll tell you the truth about it, my boy. When you first
came to me and told me that you were going to marry Mary Lowther, I
knew it could not be. It was no business of mine; but I knew it could
not be. Such engagements always get themselves broken off somehow.
Now and again there are a pair of fools who go through with it;--but
for the most part it's a matter of kissing and lovers' vows for a
week or two."

"You seem to know all about it, Uncle John."

"I haven't lived to be seventy without knowing something, I suppose.
And now here you are without a shilling. I dare say, if the truth
were known, you've a few debts here and there."

"I may owe three or four hundred pounds or so."

"As much as a year's income;--and you talk of marrying a girl without
a farthing."

"She has twelve hundred pounds."

"Just enough to pay your own debts, and take you out to India,--so
that you may start without a penny. Is that the sort of career that
will suit you, Walter? Can you trust yourself to that kind of thing,
with a wife under your arm? If you were a man of fortune, no doubt
Mary would make a very nice wife; but, as it is,--you must give it
up."

Whereupon Captain Marrable lit a pipe and took himself into the
parson's garden, thence into the stables and stable-yard, and again
back to the garden, thinking of all this. There was not a word spoken
by Parson John which Walter did not know to be true. He had already
come to the conclusion that he must go out to India before he
married. As for marrying Mary at once and taking her with him this
winter, that was impossible. He must go and look about him;--and as
he thought of this he was forced to acknowledge to himself that he
regarded the delay as a reprieve. The sooner the better had been
Mary's view with him. Though he was loath enough to entertain the
idea of giving her up, he was obliged to confess that, like the
condemned man, he desired a long day. There was nothing happy before
him in the whole prospect of his life. Of course he loved Mary. He
loved her very dearly. He loved her so dearly, that to have her taken
from him would be to have his heart plucked asunder. So he swore to
himself;--and yet he was in doubt whether it would not be better that
his heart should be plucked asunder, than that she should be made to
live in accordance with those distasteful pictures which his uncle
had drawn for him. Of himself he would not think at all. Everything
must be bad for him. What happiness could a man expect who had been
misused, cheated, and mined by his own father? For himself it did not
much matter what became of him; but he began to doubt whether for
Mary's sake it would not be well that they should be separated. And
then Mary had thrust upon him the whole responsibility of a decision!




CHAPTER XXXI.

MARY LOWTHER FEELS HER WAY.


That afternoon there came down to the parsonage a note from Mary to
the Captain, asking her lover to meet her, and walk with her before
dinner. He met her, and they took their accustomed stroll along the
towing-path and into the fields. Mary had thought much of her aunt's
words before the note was written, and had a fixed purpose of her own
in view. It was true enough that though she loved this man with all
her heart and soul, so loved him that she could not look forward to
life apart from him without seeing that such life would be a great
blank, yet she was aware that she hardly knew him. We are apt to
suppose that love should follow personal acquaintance; and yet love
at third sight is probably as common as any love at all, and it takes
a great many sights before one human being can know another. Years
are wanted to make a friendship, but days suffice for men and women
to get married. Mary was, after a fashion, aware that she had been
too quick in giving away her heart, and that now, when the gift had
been made in full, it became her business to learn what sort of man
was he to whom she had given it. And it was not only his nature as
it affected her, but his nature as it affected himself that she
must study. She did not doubt but that he was good, and true, and
noble-minded; but it might be possible that a man good, true, and
noble-minded, might have lived with so many indulgences around him
as to be unable to achieve the constancy of heart which would be
necessary for such a life as that which would be now before them if
they married. She had told him that he should decide for himself
and for her also,--thus throwing upon him the responsibility, and
throwing upon him also, very probably, the necessity of a sacrifice.
She had meant to be generous and trusting; but it might be that of
all courses that which she had adopted was the least generous. In
order that she might put this wrong right, if there were a wrong,
she had asked him to come and walk with her. They met at the usual
spot, and she put her hand through his arm with her accustomed smile,
leaning upon him somewhat heavily for a minute, as girls do when they
want to show that they claim the arm that they lean on as their own.

"Have you told Parson John?" said Mary.

"Oh, yes."

"And what does he say?"

"Just what a crabbed, crafty, selfish old bachelor of seventy would
be sure to say."

"You mean that he has told you to give up all idea of comforting
yourself with a wife."

"Just that."

"And Aunt Sarah has been saying exactly the same to me. You can't
think how eloquent Aunt Sarah has been. And her energy has quite
surprised me."

"I don't think Aunt Sarah was ever much of a friend of mine," said
the Captain.

"Not in the way of matrimony; in other respects she approves of you
highly, and is rather proud of you as a Marrable. If you were only
heir to the title, or something of that kind, she would think you the
finest fellow going."

"I wish I could gratify her, with all my heart."

"She is such a dear old creature! You don't know her in the least,
Walter. I am told she was ever so pretty when she was a girl; but she
had no fortune of her own at that time, and she didn't care to marry
beneath her position. You mustn't abuse her."

"I've not abused her."

"What she has been saying I am sure is very true; and I dare say
Parson John has been saying the same thing."

"If she has caused you to change your mind, say so at once, Mary. I
shan't complain."

Mary pressed his arm involuntarily, and loved him so dearly for the
little burst of wrath. Was it really true that he, too, had set his
heart upon it?--that all that the crafty old uncle had said had been
of no avail?--that he also loved so well that he was willing to
change the whole course of his life and become another person for the
sake of her? If it were so, she would not say a word that could by
possibility make him think that she was afraid. She would feel her
way carefully, so that he might not be led by a chance phrase to
imagine that what she was about to say was said on her own behalf.
She would be very careful, but at the same time she would be so
explicit that there should be no doubt on his mind but that he had
her full permission to retire from the engagement if he thought it
best to do so. She was quite ready to share the burthens of life with
him, let them be what they might; but she would not be a mill-stone
round his neck. At any rate, he should not be weighted with the
mill-stone, if he himself looked upon a loving wife in that light.

"She has not caused me to change my mind at all, Walter. Of course I
know that all this is very serious. I knew that without Aunt Sarah's
telling me. After all, Aunt Sarah can't be so wise as you ought to
be, who have seen India and who know it well."

"India is not a nice place to live in--especially for women."

"I don't know that Loring is very nice;--but one has to take that as
it comes. Of course it would be nicer if you could live at home and
have plenty of money. I wish I had a fortune of my own. I never cared
for it before, but I do now."

"Things don't come by wishing, Mary."

"No; but things do come by resolving and struggling. I have no doubt
but that you will live yet to do something and to be somebody. I have
that faith in you. But I can well understand that a wife may be a
great impediment in your way."

"I don't want to think of myself at all."

"But you must think of yourself. For a woman, after all, it doesn't
matter much. She isn't expected to do anything particular. A man
of course must look to his own career, and take care that he does
nothing to mar it."

"I don't quite understand what you're driving at," said the Captain.

"Well;--I'm driving at this: that I think that you are bound to
decide upon doing that which you feel to be wisest without reference
to my feelings. Of course I love you better than anything in the
world. I can't be so false as to say it isn't so. Indeed, to tell the
truth, I don't know that I really ever loved anybody else. But if it
is proper that we should be separated, I shall get over it,--in a
way."

"You mean you'd marry somebody else in the process of time."

"No, Walter; I don't mean that. Women shouldn't make protestations;
but I don't think I ever should. But a woman can live and get on very
well without being married, and I should always have you in my heart,
and I should try to comfort myself with remembering that you had
loved me."

"I am quite sure that I shall never marry anyone else," said the
Captain.

"You know what I'm driving at now;--eh, Walter?"

"Partly."

"I want you to know wholly. I told you this morning that I should
leave it to you to decide. I still say the same. I consider myself
for the present as much bound to obey you as though I were your wife
already. But after saying that, and after hearing Aunt Mary's sermon,
I felt that I ought to make you understand that I am quite aware
that it may be impossible for you to keep to your engagement. You
understand all that better than I do. Our engagement was made when
you thought you had money, and even then you felt that there was
little enough."

"It was very little."

"And now there is none. I don't profess to be afraid of poverty
myself, because I don't quite know what it means."

"It means something very unpleasant."

"No doubt; and it would be unpleasant to be parted;--wouldn't it?"

"It would be horrible."

She pressed his arm again as she went on. "You must judge between the
two. What I want you to understand is this, that whatever you may
judge to be right and best, I will agree to it, and will think that
it is right and best. If you say that we will get ourselves married
and try it, I shall feel that not to get ourselves married and not to
try it is a manifest impossibility; and if you say that we should be
wrong to get married and try it, then I will feel that to have done
so was quite a manifest impossibility."

"Mary," said he, "you're an angel."

"No; but I'm a woman who loves well enough to be determined not to
hurt the man she loves if she can help it."

"There is one thing on which I think we must decide."

"What is that?"

"I must at any rate go out before we are married." Mary Lowther felt
this to be a decision in her favour,--to be a decision which for the
time made her happy and light-hearted. She had so dreaded a positive
and permanent separation, that the delay seemed to her to be hardly
an evil.




CHAPTER XXXII.

MR. GILMORE'S SUCCESS.


Harry Gilmore, the prosperous country gentleman, the county
magistrate, the man of acres, the nephew of Mr. Chamberlaine,
respected by all who knew him,--with the single exception of the
Marquis of Trowbridge,--was now so much reduced that he felt himself
to be an inferior being to Mr. Cockey, with whom he breakfasted. He
had come to Loring, and now he was there he did not know what to do
with himself. He had come there, in truth, not because he really
thought he could do any good, but driven out of his home by sheer
misery. He was a man altogether upset, and verging on to a species of
insanity. He was so uneasy in his mind that he could read nothing.
He was half-ashamed of being looked at by those who knew him; and
had felt some relief in the society of Mr. Cockey till Mr. Cockey
had become jovial with wine, simply because Mr. Cockey was so poor a
creature that he felt no fear of him. But as he had come to Loring,
it was necessary that he should do something. He could not come to
Loring and go back again without saying a word to anybody. Fenwick
would ask him questions, and the truth would come out. There came
upon him this morning an idea that he would not go back home;--that
he would leave Loring and go away without giving any reason to any
one. He was his own master. No one would be injured by anything
that he might do. He had a right to spend his income as he pleased.
Everything was distasteful that reminded him of Bullhampton. But
still he knew that this was no more than a madman's idea;--that it
would ill become him so to act. He had duties to perform, and he must
perform them, let them be ever so distasteful. It was only an idea,
made to be rejected; but, nevertheless, he thought of it.

To do something, however, was incumbent on him. After breakfast he
sauntered up the hill and saw Captain Marrable enter the house in
which Mary Lowther lived. He felt thoroughly ashamed of himself
in thus creeping about, and spying things out,--and, in truth, he
had not intended thus to watch his rival. He wandered into the
churchyard, sat there sometime on the tombstones, and then again went
down to the inn. Mr. Cockey was going to Gloucester by an afternoon
train, and invited him to join an early dinner at two. He assented,
though by this time he had come to hate Mr. Cockey. Mr. Cockey
assumed an air of superiority, and gave his opinions about matters
political and social as though his companion were considerably below
him in intelligence and general information. He dictated to poor
Gilmore, and laid down the law as to eating onions with beefsteaks
in a manner that was quite offensive. Nevertheless, the unfortunate
man bore with his tormentor, and felt desolate when he was left
alone in the commercial room, Cockey having gone out to complete
his last round of visits to his customers. "Orders first and money
afterwards," Cockey had said, and Cockey had now gone out to look
after his money.

Gilmore sat for some half-hour helpless over the fire; and then
starting up, snatched his hat, and hurried out of the house. He
walked as quickly as he could up the hill, and rang the bell at Miss
Marrable's house. Had he been there ten minutes sooner, he would have
seen Mary Lowther tripping down the side path to meet her lover. He
rang the bell, and in a few minutes found himself in Miss Marrable's
drawing-room. He had asked for Miss Marrable, had given his name, and
had been shown upstairs. There he remained alone for a few minutes
which seemed to him to be interminable. During these minutes Miss
Marrable was standing in her little parlour downstairs, trying to
think what she would say to Mr. Gilmore,--trying also to think why
Mr. Gilmore should have come to Loring.

After a few words of greeting Miss Marrable said that Miss Lowther
was out walking. "She will be very glad, I'm sure, to hear good news
from her friends at Bullhampton."

"They're all very well," said Mr. Gilmore.

"I've heard a great deal of Mr. Fenwick," said Miss Marrable; "so
much that I seem almost to be acquainted with him."

"No doubt," said Mr. Gilmore.

"Your parish has become painfully known to the public by that
horrible murder," said Miss Marrable.

"Yes, indeed," said Mr. Gilmore.

"I fear that they will hardly catch the perpetrator of it," said Miss
Marrable.

"I fear not," said Mr. Gilmore.

At this period of the conversation Miss Marrable found herself in
great difficulty. If anything was to be said about Mary Lowther, she
could not begin to say it. She had heard a great deal in favour of
Mr. Gilmore. Mrs. Fenwick had written to her about the man; and Mary,
though she would not love him, had always spoken very highly of his
qualities. She knew well that he had gone through Oxford with credit,
that he was a reading man,--so reputed, that he was a magistrate, and
in all respects a gentleman. Indeed, she had formed an idea of him as
quite a pearl among men. Now that she saw him, she could not repress
a feeling of disappointment. He was badly dressed, and bore a sad,
depressed, downtrodden aspect. His whole appearance was what the
world now calls seedy. And he seemed to be almost unable to speak.
Miss Marrable knew that Mr. Gilmore was a man disappointed in his
love, but she did not conceive that love had done him all these
injuries. Love, however, had done them all. "Are you going to stay
long in this neighbourhood?" asked Miss Marrable, almost in despair
for a subject.

Then the man's mouth was opened. "No; I suppose not," he said. "I
don't know what should keep me here, and I hardly know why I'm come.
Of course you have heard of my suit to your niece." Miss Marrable
bowed her courtly little head in token of assent. "When Miss Lowther
left us, she gave me some hope that I might be successful. At least,
she consented that I should ask her once more. She has now written to
tell me that she is engaged to her cousin."

"There is something of the kind," said Miss Marrable.

"Something of the kind! I suppose it is settled; isn't it?"

Miss Marrable was a sensible woman, one not easily led away by
appearances. Nevertheless, it is probable that had Mr. Gilmore been
less lugubrious, more sleek, less "seedy," she would have been more
prone than she now was to have made instant use of Captain Marrable's
loss of fortune on behalf of this other suitor. She would immediately
have felt that perhaps something might be done, and she would have
been tempted to tell him the whole story openly. As it was she could
not so sympathise with the man before her, as to take him into her
confidence. No doubt he was Mr. Gilmore, the favoured friend of the
Fenwicks, the owner of the Privets, and the man of whom Mary had
often said that there was no fault to be found with him. But there
was nothing bright about him, and she did not know how to encourage
him as a lover. "As Mary has told you," she said, "I suppose there
can be no harm in my repeating that they are engaged," said Miss
Marrable.

"Of course they are. I am aware of that. I believe the gentleman is
related to you."

"He is a cousin,--not very near."

"And I suppose he has your good will?"

"As to that, Mr. Gilmore, I don't know that I can do any good by
speaking. Young ladies in these days don't marry in accordance with
the wishes of their old aunts."

"But Miss Lowther thinks so much of you! I don't want to ask any
questions that ought not to be asked. If this match is so settled
that it must go on, why there's an end of it. I'll just tell you the
truth openly, Miss Marrable. I have loved,--I do love your niece with
all my heart. When I received her letter it upset me altogether, and
every hour since has made the feeling worse. I have come here just
to learn whether there may still possibly be a chance. You will not
quarrel with me because I have loved her so well?"

"Indeed no," said Miss Marrable, whose heart was gradually becoming
soft, and who was learning to forget the mud on Mr. Gilmore's boots
and trousers.

"I heard that Captain Marrable was,--at any rate, not a very rich
man; that he could hardly afford to marry his cousin. I did hear,
also, that the match might in other respects not be suitable."

"There is no other objection, Mr. Gilmore."

"It is the case, Miss Marrable, that these things sometimes come
on suddenly and go off suddenly. I won't deny that if I could
have gained Miss Lowther's heart without the interference of any
interloper, it would have been to me a brighter joy than anything
that can now be possible. A man cannot be proud of his position who
seeks to win a woman who owns a preference for another man." Miss
Marrable's heart had now become very soft, and she began to perceive,
of her own knowledge, that Mr. Gilmore was at any rate a gentleman.
"But I would take her in any way that I could get her. Perhaps--that
is to say, it might be--" And then he stopped.

Should she tell him everything? She had a strong idea that it was her
first duty to be true to her own sex and to her own niece. But were
she to tell the man the whole story it would do her niece no harm.
She still believed that the match with Captain Marrable must be
broken off. Even were this done it would be very long, she thought,
before Mary would bring herself to listen with patience to another
suitor. But of course it would be best for them all that this episode
in Mary's life should be forgotten and put out of sight as soon as
possible. Had not this dangerous captain come up, Mary, no doubt,--so
thought Miss Marrable,--would at last have complied with her friends'
advice, and have accepted a marriage which was in all respects
advantageous. If the episode could only get itself forgotten and put
out of sight, she might do so still. But there must be delay. Miss
Marrable, after waiting for half a minute to consider, determined
that she would tell him something. "No doubt," she said, "Captain
Marrable's income is so small that the match is one that Mary's
friends cannot approve."

"I don't think much of money," he said.

"Still it is essential to comfort, Mr. Gilmore."

"What I mean to say is, that I am the last man in the world to insist
upon that kind of thing, or to appear to triumph because my income is
larger than another man's." Miss Marrable was now quite sure that Mr.
Gilmore was a gentleman. "But if the match is to be broken off--"

"I cannot say that it will be broken off."

"But it may be?"

"Certainly it is possible. There are difficulties which may
necessarily separate them."

"If it be so, my feelings will be the same as they have always been
since I first knew her. That is all that I have got to say."

Then she told him pretty nearly everything. She said nothing of the
money which Walter Marrable would have inherited had it not been for
Colonel Marrable's iniquity; but she did tell him that the young
people would have no income except the Captain's pay, and poor Mary's
little fifty pounds a-year; and she went on to explain that, as
far as she was concerned, and as far as her cousin the clergyman
was concerned, everything would be done to prevent a marriage so
disastrous as that in question, and the prospect of a life with so
little of allurement as that of the wife of a poor soldier in India.
At the same time she bade him remember that Mary Lowther was a girl
very apt to follow her own judgment, and that she was for the present
absolutely devoted to her cousin. "I think it will be broken off,"
she said. "That is my opinion. I don't think it can go on. But it is
he that will do it; and for a time she will suffer greatly."

"Then I will wait," said Mr. Gilmore. "I will go home, and wait
again. If there be a chance, I can live and hope."

"God grant that you may not hope in vain!"

"I would do my best to make her happy. I will leave you now, and am
very thankful for your kindness. There would be no good in my seeing
Mary?"

"I think not, Mr. Gilmore."

"I suppose not. She would only feel that I was teasing her. You will
not tell her of my being here, I suppose?"

"It would do no good, I think."

"None in the least. I'll just go home and wait. If there should be
anything to tell me--"

"If the match be broken off, I will take care that you shall hear it.
I will write to Janet Fenwick. I know that she is your friend."

Then Mr. Gilmore left the house, descended the hill without seeing
Mary, packed up his things, and returned by the night train to
Westbury. At seven o'clock in the morning he reached home in a
Westbury gig, very cold, but upon the whole, a much more comfortable
man than when he had left it. He had almost brought himself to think
that even yet he would succeed at last.




CHAPTER XXXIII.

FAREWELL.


Christmas came, and a month beyond Christmas, and by the end of
January Captain Marrable and Miss Lowther had agreed to regard
all their autumn work as null and void,--to look back upon the
love-making as a thing that had not been, and to part as friends.
Both of them suffered much in this arrangement,--the man being the
louder in the objurgations which he made against his ill-fortune, and
in his assurances to himself and others that he was ruined for life.
And, indeed, no man could have been much more unhappy than was Walter
Marrable in these days. To him was added the trouble, which he did
not endeavour to hide from himself or Mary, that all this misery
came to him from his own father. Before the end of November, sundry
renewed efforts were made to save a portion of the money, and the
lawyers descended so low as to make an offer to take £2000. They
might have saved themselves the humiliation, for neither £2000 nor
£200 could have been made to be forthcoming. Walter Marrable, when
the time came, was painfully anxious to fight somebody; but he was
told very clearly by Messrs. Block and Curling, that there was nobody
whom he could fight but his father, and that even by fighting his
father, he would never obtain a penny. "My belief," said Mr. Curling,
"is, that you could put your father in prison, but that probably is
not your object." Marrable was forced to own that that was not his
object; but he did so in a tone which seemed to imply that a prison,
were it even for life, would be the best place for his father. Block
and Curling had been solicitors to the Marrables for ever so many
years; and though they did not personally love the Colonel, they
had a professional feeling that the blackness of a black sheep of a
family should not be made public, at any rate by the family itself
or by the family solicitors. Almost every family has a black sheep,
and it is the especial duty of a family solicitor to keep the family
black sheep from being dragged into the front and visible ranks
of the family. The Captain had been fatally wrong in signing the
paper which he had signed, and must take the consequences. "I don't
think, Captain Marrable, that you would save yourself in any way by
proceeding against the Colonel," said Mr. Curling. "I have not the
slightest intention of proceeding against him," said the Captain, in
great dudgeon,--and then he left the office and shook the dust off
his feet, as against Block and Curling as well as against his father.

After this,--immediately after it,--he had one other interview with
his father. As he told his uncle, the devil prompted him to go down
to Portsmouth to see the man to whom his interests should have been
dearer than to all the world beside, and who had robbed him so
ruthlessly. There was nothing to be gained by such a visit. Neither
money nor counsel, nor even consolation would be forthcoming from
Colonel Marrable. Probably Walter Marrable felt in his anger that
it would be unjust that his father should escape without a word to
remind him from his son's mouth of all that he had done for his son.
The Colonel held some staff office at Portsmouth, and his son came
upon him in his lodgings one evening as he was dressing to go out
to dinner. "Is that you, Walter?" said the battered old reprobate,
appearing at the door of his bed-room; "I am very glad to see you."

"I don't believe it," said the son.

"Well;--what would you have me say? If you'll only behave decently, I
shall be glad to see you."

"You've given me an example in that way, sir; have you not? Decency
indeed!"

"Now, Walter, if you're going to talk about that horrid money, I tell
you at once, that I won't listen to you."

"That's kind of you, sir."

"I've been unfortunate. As soon as I can repay it, or a part of it,
I will. Since you've been back, I've done everything in my power to
get a portion of it for you,--and should have got it, but for those
stupid people in Bedford Row. After all, the money ought to have been
mine, and that's what I suppose you felt when you enabled me to draw
it."

"By heavens, that's cool!"

"I mean to be cool;--I'm always cool. The cab will be here to take
me to dinner in a very few minutes. I hope you will not think I am
running away from you?"

"I don't mean you to go till you've heard what I've got to say," said
the Captain.

"Then, pray say it quickly." Upon this, the Colonel stood still and
faced his son; not exactly with a look of anger, but assuming an
appearance as though he were the person injured. He was a thin old
man, who wore padded coats, and painted his beard and his eyebrows,
and had false teeth, and who, in spite of chronic absence of means,
always was possessed of clothes apparently just new from the hands of
a West-end tailor. He was one of those men who, through their long,
useless, ill-flavoured lives, always contrive to live well, to eat
and drink of the best, to lie softly, and to go about in purple
and fine linen,--and yet, never have any money. Among a certain
set Colonel Marrable, though well known, was still popular. He was
good-tempered, well-mannered, sprightly in conversation, and had not
a scruple in the world. He was over seventy, had lived hard, and must
have known that there was not much more of it for him. But yet he
had no qualms, and no fears. It may be doubted whether he knew that
he was a bad man,--he, than whom you could find none worse though
you were to search the country from one end to another. To lie, to
steal,--not out of tills or pockets, because he knew the danger; to
cheat--not at the card-table, because he had never come in the way
of learning the lesson; to indulge every passion, though the cost to
others might be ruin for life; to know no gods but his own bodily
senses, and no duty but that which he owed to those gods; to eat all,
and produce nothing; to love no one but himself; to have learned
nothing but how to sit at table like a gentleman; to care not at all
for his country, or even for his profession; to have no creed, no
party, no friend, no conscience, to be troubled with nothing that
touched his heart;--such had been, was, and was to be the life of
Colonel Marrable. Perhaps it was accounted to him as a merit by some
that he did not quail at any coming fate. When his doctor warned him
that he must go soon, unless he would refrain from this and that
and the other,--so wording his caution that the Colonel could not
but know and did know, that let him refrain as he would he must go
soon,--he resolved that he would refrain, thinking that the charms
of his wretched life were sweet enough to be worth such sacrifice;
but in no other respect did the caution affect him. He never asked
himself whether he had aught even to regret before he died, or to
fear afterwards.

There are many Colonel Marrables about in the world, known well to be
so at clubs, in drawing-rooms, and by the tradesmen who supply them.
Men give them dinners and women smile upon them. The best of coats
and boots are supplied to them. They never lack cigars nor champagne.
They have horses to ride, and servants to wait upon them more
obsequious than the servants of other people. And men will lend them
money too,--well knowing that there is no chance of repayment. Now
and then one hears a horrid tale of some young girl who surrenders
herself to such a one, absolutely for love! Upon the whole the
Colonel Marrables are popular. It is hard to follow such a man quite
to the end and to ascertain whether or no he does go out softly at
last, like the snuff of a candle,--just with a little stink.

"I will say it as quickly as I can," said the Captain. "I can gain
nothing I know by staying here in your company."

"Not while you are so very uncivil."

"Civil, indeed! I have to-day made up my mind, not for your sake, but
for that of the family, that I will not prosecute you as a criminal
for the gross robbery which you have perpetrated."

"That is nonsense, Walter, and you know it as well as I do."

"I am going back to India in a few weeks, and I trust I may never be
called upon to see you again. I will not, if I can help it. It may
be a toss-up which of us may die first, but this will be our last
meeting. I hope you may remember on your death-bed that you have
utterly ruined your son in every relation of life. I was engaged to
marry a girl,--whom I loved; but it is all over, because of you."

"I had heard of that, Walter, and I really congratulate you on your
escape."

"I can't strike you--"

"No; don't do that."

"Because of your age, and because you are my father. I suppose you
have no heart, and that I cannot make you feel it."

"My dear boy, I have an appetite, and I must go and satisfy it." So
saying the Colonel escaped, and the Captain allowed his father to
make his way down the stairs and into the cab before he followed.

Though he had thus spoken to his father of his blasted hopes in
regard to Mary Lowther, he had not as yet signified his consent to
the measure by which their engagement was to be brought altogether
to an end. The question had come to be discussed widely among their
friends, as is the custom with such questions in such circumstances,
and Mary had been told from all sides that she was bound to give it
up,--that she was bound to give it up for her own sake, and more
especially for his; that the engagement, if continued, would never
lead to a marriage, and that it would in the meantime be absolutely
ruinous to her,--and to him. Parson John came up and spoke to her
with a strength for which she had not hitherto given Parson John
credit. Her Aunt Sarah was very gentle with her, but never veered
from her opinion that the engagement must of necessity be abandoned.
Mr. Fenwick wrote to her a letter full of love and advice, and Mrs.
Fenwick made a journey to Loring to discuss the matter with her. The
discussion between them was very long. "If you are saying this on my
account," said Mary, "it is quite useless."

"On what other account? Mr. Gilmore? Indeed, indeed, I am not
thinking of him. He is out of my mind altogether. I say it because I
know it is impossible that you and your cousin should be married, and
because such an engagement is destructive to both the parties."

"For myself," said Mary, "it can make no difference."

"It will make the greatest difference. It would wear you to pieces
with a deferred hope. There is nothing so killing, so terrible, so
much to be avoided. And then for him!-- How is a man, thrown about on
the world as he will be, to live in such a condition."

The upshot of it all was that Mary wrote a letter to her cousin
proposing to surrender her engagement, and declaring that it would be
best for them both that he should agree to accept her surrender. That
plan which she had adopted before, of leaving all the responsibility
to him, would not suffice. She had come to perceive during these
weary discussions that if a way out of his bondage was to be given to
Walter Marrable it must come from her action and not from his. She
had intended to be generous when she left everything to him; but it
was explained to her, both by her aunt and Mrs. Fenwick, that her
generosity was of a kind which he could not use. It was for her to
take the responsibility upon herself; it was for her to make the
move; it was, in short, for her to say that the engagement should be
over.

The very day that Mrs. Fenwick left her she wrote the letter, and
Captain Marrable had it in his pocket when he went down to bid a
last farewell to his father. It had been a sad, weary, tear-laden
performance,--the writing of that letter. She had resolved that
no sign of a tear should be on the paper, and she had rubbed the
moisture away from her eyes a dozen times during the work lest it
should fall. There was but little of intended pathos in it; there
were no expressions of love till she told him at the end that she
would always love him dearly; there was no repining,--no mention of
her own misery. She used all the arguments which others had used to
her, and then drew her conclusion. She remembered that were she to
tell him that she would still be true to him, she would in fact be
asking for some such pledge back from him; and she said not a word
of any such constancy on her own part. It was best for both of them
that the engagement should be broken off; and, therefore, broken off
it was, and should be now and for ever. That was the upshot of Mary
Lowther's letter.


[Illustration: Mary Lowther writes to Walter Marrable.]


Captain Marrable when he received it, though he acknowledged the
truth of all the arguments, loved the girl far too well to feel that
this release gave him any comfort. He had doubtless felt that the
engagement was a burthen on him,--that he would not have entered into
it had he not felt sure of his diminished fortune, and that there
was a fearful probability that it might never result in their being
married; but not the less did the breaking up of it make him very
wretched. An engagement for marriage can never be so much to a man as
it is to a woman,--marriage itself can never be so much, can never
be so great a change, produce such utter misery, or of itself be
efficient for such perfect happiness,--but his love was true and
steadfast, and when he learned that she was not to be his, he was as
a man who had been robbed of his treasure. Her letter was long and
argumentative. His reply was short and passionate;--and the reader
shall see it.


   Duke Street, January, 186--.

   DEAREST MARY,

   I suppose you are right. Everybody tells me so, and no
   doubt everybody tells you the same. The chances are that
   I shall get bowled over; and as for getting back again, I
   don't know when I can hope for it. In such a condition it
   would I believe be very wrong and selfish were I to go and
   leave you to think of me as your future husband. You would
   be waiting for that which would never come.

   As for me, I shall never care for any other woman. A
   soldier can get on very well without a wife, and I shall
   always regard myself now as one of those useless but
   common animals who are called "not marrying men." I shall
   never marry. I shall always carry your picture in my
   heart, and shall not think that I am sinning against you
   or any one else when I do so after hearing that you are
   married.

   I need not tell you that I am very wretched. It is not
   only that I am separated from you, my own dear, dearest
   girl, but that I cannot refrain from thinking how it has
   come to pass that it is so. I went down to see my father
   yesterday. I did see him, and you may imagine of what
   nature was the interview. I sometimes think, when I lie in
   bed, that no man was ever so ill-treated as I have been.

   Dearest love, good-bye. I could not have brought myself to
   say what you have said, but I know that you are right. It
   has not been my fault, dear. I did love you, and do love
   you as truly as any man ever loved a woman.

   Yours with all my heart,

   WALTER MARRABLE.

   I should like to see you once more before I start. Is
   there any harm in this? I must run down to my uncle's, but
   I will not go up to you if you think it better not. If you
   can bring yourself to see me, pray, pray do.


In answer to this Mary wrote to him to say that she would certainly
see him when he came. She knew no reason, she said, why they should
not meet. When she had written her note she asked her aunt's opinion.
Aunt Sarah would not take upon herself to say that no such meeting
ought to take place, but it was very evident that she thought that it
would be dangerous.

Captain Marrable did come down to Loring about the end of January,
and the meeting did take place. Mary had stipulated that she should
be alone when he called. He had suggested that they should walk out
together, as had been their wont; but this she had declined, telling
him that the sadness of such a walk would be too much for her, and
saying to her aunt with a smile that were she once again out with him
on the towing-path, there would be no chance of their ever coming
home. "I could not ask him to turn back," she said, "when I should
know that it would be for the last time." It was arranged, therefore,
that the meeting should take place in the drawing-room at Uphill
Lane.

He came into the room with a quick, uneasy step, and when he reached
her he put his arm round her and kissed her. She had formed certain
little resolutions on this subject. He should kiss her, if he
pleased, once again when he went,--and only once. And now, almost
without a motion on her part that was perceptible, she took herself
out of his arms. There should be no word about that if she could help
it,--but she was bound to remember that he was nothing to her now but
a distant cousin. He must cease to be her lover, though she loved
him. Nay,--he had so ceased already. There must be no more laying of
her head upon his shoulder, no more twisting of her fingers through
his locks, no more looking into his eyes, no more amorous pressing
of her lips against his own. Much as she loved him she must remember
now that such outward signs of love as these would not befit her.
"Walter," she said, "I am so glad to see you! And yet I do not know
but what it would have been better that you should have stayed away."

"Why should it have been better? It would have been unnatural not to
have met each other."

"So I thought. Why should not friends endure to say good-bye, even
though their friendship be as dear as ours? I told Aunt Sarah that
I should be angry with myself afterwards if I feared to tell you to
come."

"There is nothing to fear,--only that it is so wretched an ending,"
said he.

"In one way I will not look on it as an ending. You and I cannot be
married, Walter; but I shall always have your career to look to, and
shall think of you as my dearest friend. I shall expect you to write
to me;--not at first, but after a year or so. You will be able to
write to me then as though you were my brother."

"I shall never be able to do that."

"Oh yes;--that is, if you will make the effort for my sake. I do not
believe but what people can manage and mould their own wills if they
will struggle hard enough. You must not be unhappy, Walter."

"I am not so wise or self-confident as you, Mary. I shall be unhappy.
I should be deceiving myself if I were to tell myself otherwise.
There is nothing before me to make me happy. When I came home there
was very little that I cared for, though I had the prospect of this
money and thought that my cares in that respect were over. Then I
met you, and the whole world seemed altered. I was happy even when
I found how badly I had been treated. Now all that has gone, and I
cannot think that I shall be happy again."

"I mean to be happy, Walter."

"I hope you may, dear."

"There are gradations in happiness. The highest I ever came to yet
was when you told me that you loved me." When she said that, he
attempted to take her hand, but she withdrew from him, almost without
a sign that she was doing so. "I have not quite lost that yet," she
continued, "and I do not mean to lose it altogether. I shall always
remember that you loved me; and you will not forget that I too loved
you."

"Forget it?--no, I don't exactly think that I shall forget it."

"I don't know why it should make us altogether unhappy. For a time, I
suppose, we shall be down-hearted."

"I shall, I know. I can't pretend to such strength as to say that I
can lose what I want, and not feel it."

"We shall both feel it, Walter;--but I do not know that we must be
miserable. When do you leave England?"

"Nothing is settled. I have not had the heart to think of it. It will
not be for a month or two yet. I suppose I shall stay out my regular
Indian time."

"And what shall you do with yourself?"

"I have no plans at all, Mary. Sir Gregory has asked me to Dunripple,
and I shall remain there probably till I am tired of it. It will be
so pleasant, talking to my uncle of my father."

"Do not talk of him at all, Walter. You will best forgive him by not
talking of him. We shall hear, I suppose, of what you do from Parson
John."

She had seated herself a little away from him, and he did not attempt
to draw near to her again till at her bidding he rose to leave her.
He sat there for nearly an hour, and during that time much more was
said by her than by him. She endeavoured to make him understand that
he was as free as air, and that she would hope some day to hear that
he was married. In reply to this, he asserted very loudly that he
would never call any woman his wife, unless unexpected circumstances
should enable him to return and again ask for her hand. "Not that you
are to wait for me, Mary," he said. She smiled, but made no definite
answer to this. She had told herself that it would not be for his
welfare that she should allude to the possibility of a renewed
engagement, and she did not allude to it.

"God bless you, Walter," she said at last, coming to him and offering
him her hand.

"God bless you, for ever and ever, dearest Mary," he said, taking her
in his arms and kissing her again and again. It was to be the last,
and she did not seem to shun him. Then he left her, went as far as
the door,--and returned again. "Dearest, dearest Mary. You will give
me one more kiss?"

"It shall be the last, Walter," she said. Then she did kiss him,
as she would have kissed her brother that was going from her, and
escaping from his arms she left the room.

He had come to Loring late on the previous evening, and on that same
day he returned to London. No doubt he dined at his club, drank a
pint of wine and smoked a cigar or two, though he did it all after a
lugubrious fashion. Men knew that he had fallen into great trouble in
the matter of his inheritance, and did not expect him to be joyful
and of pleasant countenance. "By George!" said little Captain Boodle,
"if it was my governor, I'd go very near being hung for him; I would,
by George!" Which remark obtained a good deal of general sympathy in
the billiard-room of that military club. In the meantime Mary Lowther
at Loring had resolved that she would not be lugubrious, and she sat
down to dinner opposite to her aunt with a pleasant smile on her
face. Before the evening was over, however, she had in some degree
broken down. "I fear I can't get along with novels, Aunt Sarah," she
said. "Don't you think I could find something to do." Then the old
lady came round the room and kissed her niece;--but she made no other
reply.




CHAPTER XXXIV.

BULLHAMPTON NEWS.


When the matter was quite settled at Loring,--when Miss Marrable not
only knew that the engagement had been surrendered on both sides, but
that it had been so surrendered as to be incapable of being again
patched up, she bethought herself of her promise to Mr. Gilmore.
This did not take place for a fortnight after the farewell which
was spoken in the last chapter,--at which time Walter Marrable was
staying with his uncle, Sir Gregory, at Dunripple. Miss Marrable
had undertaken that Mr. Gilmore should be informed as soon as the
engagement was brought to an end, and had been told that this
information should reach him through Mrs. Fenwick. When a fortnight
had passed, Miss Marrable was aware that Mary had not herself written
to her friend at Bullhampton; and though she felt herself to be shy
of the subject, though she entertained a repugnance to make any
communication based on a hope that Mary might after a while receive
her old lover graciously,--for time must of course be needed before
such grace could be accorded,--she did write a few lines to Mrs.
Fenwick. She explained that Captain Marrable was to return to India,
and that he was to go as a free man. Mary, she said, bore her burden
well. Of course, it must be some time before the remembrance of her
cousin would cease to be a burden to her; but she went about her
heavy task with a good will,--so said Miss Marrable,--and would no
doubt conquer her own unhappiness after a time by the strength of her
personal character. Not a word was spoken of Mr. Gilmore, but Mrs.
Fenwick understood it all. The letter, she knew well, was a message
to Mr. Gilmore;--a message which it would be her duty to give as soon
as possible, that he might extract from it such comfort as it would
contain for him,--though it would be his duty not to act upon it for,
at any rate, many months to come. "And it will be a comfort to him,"
said her husband when he read Miss Marrable's letter.

"Of all the men I know, he is the most constant," said Mrs. Fenwick,
"and best deserves that his constancy should be rewarded."

"It is the man's nature," said the parson. "Of course, he will get
her at last; and when he has got her, he will be quite contented with
the manner in which he has won her. There's nothing like going on
with a thing. I believe I might be a bishop if I set my heart on it."

"Why don't you, then?"

"I am not sure that the beauty of the thing is so well-defined to me
as is Mary Lowther's to poor Harry. In perseverance and success of
that kind the man's mind should admit of no doubt. Harry is quite
clear of this,--that in spite of Mary's preference for her cousin, it
would be the grandest thing in the world to him that she should marry
him. The certainty of his condition will pull him through at last."

Two days after this Mrs. Fenwick put Miss Marrable's letter into Mr.
Gilmore's hand,--having perceived that it was specially written that
it might be so treated. She kept it in her pocket till she should
chance to see him, and at last handed it to him as she met him
walking on his own grounds. "I have a letter from Loring," she said.

"From Mary?"

"No;--from Mary's aunt. I have it here, and I think you had better
read it. To tell you the truth, Harry, I have been looking for you
ever since I got it. Only you must not make too much of it."

Then he read the letter. "What do you mean," he asked, "by making too
much of it?"

"You must not suppose that Mary is the same as before she saw this
cousin of hers."

"But she is the same."

"Well;--yes, in body and in soul, no doubt. But such an experience
leaves a mark which cannot be rubbed out quite at once."

"You mean that I must wait before I ask her again."

"Of course you must wait. The mark must be rubbed out first, you
know."

"I will wait; but as for the rubbing out of the mark, I take it that
will be altogether beyond me. Do you think, Mrs. Fenwick, that no
woman should ever, under any circumstances, marry one man when she
loves another?"

She could not bring herself to tell him that in her opinion Mary
Lowther would of all women be the least likely to do so. "That is one
of those questions," she said, "which it is almost impossible for a
person to answer. In the first place, before answering it, we should
have a clear definition of love."

"You know what I mean well enough."

"I do know what you mean, but I hardly do know how to answer you. If
you went to Mary Lowther now, she would take it almost as an insult;
and she would feel it in that light, because she is aware that you
know of this story of her cousin."

"Of course I shall not go to her at once."

"She will never forget him altogether."

"Such things cannot be forgotten," said Gilmore.

"Nevertheless," said Mrs. Fenwick, "it is probable that Mary will be
married some day. These wounds get themselves cured as do others."

"I shall never be cured of mine," said he, laughing. "As for Mary,
I hardly know what to think. I suppose girls do marry without caring
very much for the men they take. One sees it every day; and then
afterwards, they love their husbands. It isn't very romantic, but it
seems to me that it is so."

"Don't think of it too much, Harry," said Mrs. Fenwick. "If you still
are devoted to her--"

"Indeed I am."

"Then wait awhile, and we will have her at Bullhampton again. You
know at any rate what our wishes are."

Everything had been very quiet at Bullhampton during the last three
months. The mill was again in regular work, and Sam had remained at
home with fair average regularity. The Vicar had heard nothing more
of Carry Brattle, and had been unable to trace her or to learn where
she was living. He had taken various occasions to mention her name to
her mother, but Mrs. Brattle knew nothing of her, and believed that
Sam was equally ignorant with herself. Both she and the Vicar found
it impossible to speak to Sam on the subject, though they knew that
he had been with his sister more than once when she was living at
Pycroft Common. As for the miller himself, no one had mentioned
Carry's name to him since the day on which the Vicar had made his
attempt. And from that day to the present there had been, if not ill
blood, at least cold blood between Mr. Fenwick and old Brattle. The
Vicar had gone down to the mill as often as usual, having determined
that what had occurred should make no difference with him; and the
intercourse with Mrs. Brattle and Fanny had been as kind on each side
as usual;--but the miller had kept out of his way, retreating from
him openly, going from the house to the mill as soon as he appeared,
never speaking to him, and taking no other notice of him beyond a
slight touch of the hat. "Your husband is still angry with me," he
said one day to Mrs. Brattle. She shook her head and smiled sadly,
and said that it would pass over some day,--only that Jacob was so
persistent. With Sam, the Vicar held little or no communication.
Sam in these days never went to church, and though he worked at the
mill pretty constantly, he would absent himself from the village
occasionally for a day or two together, and tell no one where he had
been.

The strangest and most important piece of business going on at
this time in Bullhampton was the building of a new chapel or
tabernacle,--the people called it a Salem,--for Mr. Puddleham. The
first word as to the erection reached Mr. Fenwick's ears from Grimes,
the builder and carpenter, who, meeting him in Bullhampton Street,
pointed out to him a bit of spare ground just opposite the vicarage
gates,--a morsel of a green on which no building had ever yet stood,
and told him that the Marquis had given it for a chapel. "Indeed,"
said Fenwick. "I hope it may be convenient and large enough for them.
All the same, I wish it had been a little farther from my gate." This
he said in a cheery tone, showing thereby considerable presence of
mind. That such a building should be so placed was a trial to him,
and he knew at once that the spot must have been selec