The letter from Mrs. Fenwick, which the reader has just seen, was the immediate effect of a special visit which Mr. Gilmore had made to her. On the 10th of March he had come to her with a settled purpose, pointing out to her that he had now waited a certain number of months since he had heard of the rupture between Mary and her cousin, naming the exact period which Mrs. Fenwick had bade him wait before he should move again in the matter, and asking her whether he might not now venture to take some step. Mrs. Fenwick had felt it to be unfair that her very words should be quoted against her, as to the three or four months, feeling that she had said three or four instead of six or seven to soften the matter to her friend; but, nevertheless, she had been induced to write to Mary Lowther.
“I was thinking that perhaps you might ask her to come to you again,” Mr. Gilmore had said when Mrs. Fenwick rebuked him for his impatience. “If you did that, the thing might come on naturally.”
“But she wouldn’t come if I did ask her.”
“Because she hates me so much that she will not venture to come near me?”
“What nonsense that is, Harry. It has nothing to do with hating. If I thought that she even disliked you, I should tell you so, believing that it would be for the best. But of course if I asked her here just at present, she could not but remember that you are our nearest neighbour, and feel that she was pressed to come with some reference to your hopes.”
“And therefore she would not come?”
“Exactly; and if you will think of it, how could it be otherwise? Wait till he is in India. Wait at any rate till the summer, and then Frank and I will do our best to get her here.”
“I will wait,” said Mr. Gilmore, and immediately took his leave, as though there were no other subject of conversation now possible to him.
Since his return from Loring, Mr. Gilmore’s life at his own house had been quite secluded. Even the Fenwicks had hardly seen him, though they lived so near to him. He had rarely been at church, had seen no company at home since his uncle, the prebendary, had left him, and had not dined even at the Vicarage more than once or twice. All this had of course been frequently discussed between Mr. and Mrs. Fenwick, and had made the Vicar very unhappy. He had expressed a fear that his friend would be driven half crazy by a foolish indulgence in a hopeless passion, and had suggested that it might perhaps be for the best that Gilmore should let his place and travel abroad for two or three years, so that, in that way, his disappointment might be forgotten. But Mrs. Fenwick still hoped better things than this. She probably thought more of Mary Lowther than she did of Harry Gilmore, and still believed that a cure for both their sorrows might be found, if one would only be patient, and the other would not despair.
Mr. Gilmore had promised that he would wait, and then Mrs. Fenwick had written her letter. To this there came a very quick answer. In respect to the trouble about the chapel, Mary Lowther was sympathetic and droll, as she would have been had there been upon her the weight of no love misfortune. “She had trust,” she said, “in Mr. Quickenham, who no doubt would succeed in harassing the enemy, even though he might be unable to obtain ultimate conquest. And then there seemed to be a fair prospect that the building would fall of itself, which surely would be a great triumph. And, after all, might it not fairly be hoped that the pleasantness of the Vicarage garden, which Mr. Puddleham must see every time he visited his chapel, might be quite as galling and as vexatious to him as would be the ugliness of the Methodist building to the Fenwicks?
“You should take comfort in the reflection that his sides will be quite as full of thorns as your own,” said Mary; “and perhaps there may come some blessed opportunity for crushing him altogether by heaping hot coals of fire on his head. Offer him the use of the Vicarage lawn for one of his school tea-parties, and that, I should think, would about finish him.”
This was all very well, and was written on purpose to show to Mrs. Fenwick that Mary could still be funny in spite of her troubles; but the pith of the letter, as Mrs. Fenwick well understood, lay in the few words of the last paragraph.
“Don’t suppose, dear, that I am going to die of a broken heart. I mean to live and to be as happy as any of you. But you must let me go on in my own way. I am not at all sure that being married is not more trouble than it is worth.”
That she was deceiving herself in saying this Mary knew well enough; and Mrs. Fenwick, too, guessed that it was so. Nevertheless, it was plain enough that nothing more could be said about Mr. Gilmore just at present.
“You ought to blow him up, and make him come to us,” Mrs. Fenwick said to her husband.
“It is all very well to say that, but one man can’t blow another up, as women do. Men don’t talk to each other about the things that concern them nearly,—unless it be about money.”
“What do they talk about, then?”
“About matters that don’t concern them nearly;—game, politics, and the state of the weather. If I were to mention Mary’s name to him, he would feel it to be an impertinence. You can say what you please.”
Soon after this, Gilmore came again to the Vicarage; but he was careful to come when the Vicar would not be there. He sauntered into the garden by the little gate from the churchyard, and showed himself at the drawing-room window, without going round to the front door. “I never go to the front now,” said Mrs. Fenwick; “I have only once been through the gate since they began to build.”
“Is not that very inconvenient?”
“Of course it is. When we came home from dining at Sir Thomas’s the other day, I had myself put down at the church gate, and walked all the way round, though it was nearly pitch dark. Do come in, Harry.”
Then Mr. Gilmore came in, and seated himself before the fire. Mrs. Fenwick understood his moods so well, that she would not say a word to hurry him. If he chose to talk about Mary Lowther, she knew very well what she would say to him; but she would not herself introduce the subject. She spoke for awhile about the Brattles, saying that the old man had suffered much since his son had gone from him. Sam had left Bullhampton at the end of January, never having returned to the mill after his visit to the Vicar, and had not been heard of since. Gilmore, however, had not been to see his tenant; and though he expressed an interest about the Brattles, had manifestly come to the Vicarage with the object of talking upon matters more closely interesting to himself.
“Did you write to Loring, Mrs. Fenwick?” he asked at last.
“I wrote to Mary soon after you were last here.”
“And has she answered you?”
“Yes; she wrote again almost at once. She could not but write, as I had said so much to her about the chapel.”
“She did not allude to—anything else, then?”
“I can’t quite say that, Harry. I had written to her out of a very full heart, telling her what I thought as to her future life generally, and just alluding to our wishes respecting you.”
“Well?”
“She said just what might have been expected,—that for the present she would rather be let alone.”
“I have let her alone. I have neither spoken to her nor written to her. She does not mean to say that I have troubled her?”
“Of course you have not troubled her,—but she knows what we all mean.”
“I have waited all the winter, Mrs. Fenwick, and have said not a word. How long was it that she knew her cousin before she was engaged to him?”
“What has that to do with it? You know what our wishes are; but, indeed, indeed, nothing can be done by hurrying her.”
“She was engaged to that man, and the engagement broken off all within a month. It was no more than a dream.”
“But the remembrance of such dreams will not fade away quickly. Let us hope that hereafter it may be as a dream;—but time must be allowed to efface the idea of its reality.”
“Time;—yes; but cannot we arrange some plan for the future? Cannot something be done? I thought you said you would ask her to come here?”
“So I did,—but not yet.”
“Why shouldn’t she come now? You needn’t ask because I am here. There is no saying whom she may meet, and then my chance will be gone again.”
“Is that all you know about women, Harry? Do you think that the girl whom you love so dearly will take up with one man after another in that fashion?”
“Who can say? She was not very long in taking up, as you call it, with Captain Marrable. I should be happier if she were here, even if I did not see her.”
“Of course you would see her, and of course you would propose again,—and of course she would refuse you.”
“Then there is no hope?”
“I do not say that. Wait till the summer comes; and then, if I can influence her, we will have her here. If you find that remaining at the Privets all alone is wearisome to you—”
“Of course it is wearisome.”
“Then go up to London—or abroad—or anywhere for a change. Take some occupation in hand and stick to it.”
“That is so easily said, Mrs. Fenwick.”
“No man ever did anything by moping; and you mope. I know I am speaking plainly, and you may be angry with me, if you please.”
“I am not at all angry with you; but I think you hardly understand.”
“I do understand,” said Mrs. Fenwick, speaking with all the energy she could command; “and I am most anxious to do all that you wish. But it cannot be done in a day. If I were to ask her now, she would not come; and if she came it would not be for your good. Wait till the summer. You may be sure that no harm will be done by a little patience.”
Then he went away, declaring again that he would wait with patience; but saying, at the same time, that he would remain at home. “As for going to London,” he said, “I should do nothing there. When I find that there is no chance left, then probably I shall go abroad.”
“It is my belief,” said the Vicar, that evening, when his wife told him what had occurred, “that she will never have him; not because she does not like him, or could not learn to like him if he were as other men are, but simply because he is so unreasonably unhappy about her. No woman was ever got by that sort of puling and whining love. If it were not that I think him crazy, I should say that it was unmanly.”
“But he is crazy.”
“And will be still worse before he has done with it. Anything would be good now which would take him away from Bullhampton. It would be a mercy that his house should be burned down, or that some great loss should fall upon him. He sits there at home, and does nothing. He will not even look after the farm. He pretends to read, but I don’t believe that he does even that.”
“And all because he is really in love, Frank.”
“I am very glad that I have never been in love with the same reality.”
“You never had any need, sir. The plums fell into your mouth too easily.”
“Plums shouldn’t be too difficult,” said the Vicar, “or they lose their sweetness.”
A few days after this Mr. Fenwick was standing at his own gate, watching the building of the chapel and talking to the men, when Fanny Brattle from the mill came up to him. He would stand there by the hour at a time, and had made quite a friendship with the foreman of the builder from Salisbury, although the foreman, like his master, was a Dissenter, and had come into the parish as an enemy. All Bullhampton knew how infinite was the disgust of the Vicar at what was being done; and that Mrs. Fenwick felt it so strongly, that she would not even go in and out of her own gate. All Bullhampton was aware that Mr. Puddleham spoke openly of the Vicar as his enemy,—in spite of the peaches and cabbages on which the young Puddlehams had been nourished; and that the Methodist minister had, more than once within the last month or two, denounced his brother of the Established Church from his own pulpit. All Bullhampton was talking of the building of the chapel,—some abusing the Marquis and Mr. Puddleham and the Salisbury builder; others, on the other hand, declaring that it was very good that the Establishment should have a fall. Nevertheless there Mr. Fenwick would stand and chat with the men, fascinated after a fashion by the misfortune which had come upon him. Mr. Packer, the Marquis’s steward, had seen him there, and had endeavoured to slink away unobserved,—for Mr. Packer was somewhat ashamed of the share he had had in the matter,—but Mr. Fenwick had called to him, and had spoken to him of the progress of the building.
“Grimes never could have done it so fast,” said the Vicar.
“Well,—not so fast, Mr. Fenwick, certainly.”
“I suppose it won’t signify about the frost?” said the Vicar. “I should be inclined to think that the mortar will want repointing.”
Mr. Packer had nothing to say to this. He was not responsible for the building. He endeavoured to explain that the Marquis had nothing to do with the work, and had simply given the land.
“Which was all that he could do,” said the Vicar, laughing.
It was on the same day and while Packer was still standing close to him, that Fanny Brattle accosted him. When he had greeted the young woman and perceived that she wished to speak to him, he withdrew within his own gate, and asked her whether there was anything that he could do for her. She had a letter in her hand, and after a little hesitation she asked him to read it. It was from her brother, and had reached her by private means. A young man had brought it to her when her father was in the mill, and had then gone off, declining to wait for any answer.
“Father, sir, knows nothing about it as yet,” she said.
Mr. Fenwick took the letter and read it. It was as follows:—
Dear Sister,
I want you to help me a little, for things is very bad with me. And it is not for me neither, or I’d sooner starve nor ax for a sixpence from the mill. But Carry is bad too, and if you’ve got a trifle or so, I think you’d be of a mind to send it. But don’t tell father, on no account. I looks to you not to tell father. Tell mother, if you will; but I looks to her not to mention it to father. If it be so you have two pounds by you, send it to me in a letter, to the care of
Muster Thomas Craddock,
Number 5, Crooked Arm Yard,
Cowcross Street,
City of London.
My duty to mother, but don’t say a word to father, whatever you do. Carry don’t live nowhere there, nor they don’t know her.
Your affectionate brother,
Sam Brattle.
“Have you told your father, Fanny?”
“Not a word, sir.”
“Nor your mother?”
“Oh yes, sir. She has read the letter, and thinks I had better come to you to ask what we should do.”
“Have you got the money, Fanny?”
Fanny Brattle explained that she had in her pocket something over the sum named, but that money was so scarce with them now at the mill, that she could hardly send it without her father’s knowledge. She would not, she said, be afraid to send it and then to tell her father afterwards. The Vicar considered the matter for some time, standing with the open letter in his hand, and then he gave his advice.
“Come into the house, Fanny,” he said, “and write a line to your brother, and then get a money order at the post-office for four pounds, and send it to your brother; and tell him that I lend it to him till times shall be better with him. Do not give him your father’s money without your father’s leave. Sam will pay me some day, unless I be mistaken in him.”
Then Fanny Brattle with many grateful thanks did as the Vicar bade her.