The Vicar had undertaken to maintain Carry Brattle at Mrs. Stiggs’s house, in Trotter’s Buildings, for a fortnight, but he found at the end of the fortnight that his responsibility on the poor girl’s behalf was by no means over. The reader knows with what success he had made his visit to Startup, and how far he was from ridding himself of his burden by the aid of the charity and affections of the poor girl’s relatives there. He had shaken the Startup dust, as it were, from his gig-wheels as he drove out of George Brattle’s farmyard, and had declined even the offer of money which had been made. Ten or fifteen pounds! He would make up the amount of that offer out of his own pocket rather than let the brother think that he had bought off his duty to a sister at so cheap a rate. Then he convinced himself that in this way he owed Carry Brattle fifteen pounds, and comforted himself by reflecting that these fifteen pounds would carry the girl on a good deal beyond the fortnight; if only she would submit herself to the tedium of such a life as would be hers if she remained at Mrs. Stiggs’s house. He named a fortnight both to Carry and to Mrs. Stiggs, saying that he himself would either come or send before the end of that time. Then he returned home, and told the whole story to his wife. All this took place before Mr. Quickenham’s arrival at the vicarage.
“My dear Frank,” said his wife to him, “you will get into trouble.”
“What sort of trouble?”
“In the first place, the expense of maintaining this poor girl,—for life, as far as we can see,—will fall upon you.”
“What if it does? But, as a matter of course, she will earn her bread sooner or later. How am I to throw her over? And what am I to do with her?”
“But that is not the worst of it, Frank.”
“Then what is the worst of it? Let us have it at once.”
“People will say that you, a clergyman and a married man, go to see a pretty young woman at Salisbury.”
“You believe that people will say that?”
“I think you should guard against it, for the sake of the parish.”
“What sort of people will say it?”
“Lord Trowbridge, and his set.”
“On my honour, Janet, I think that you wrong Lord Trowbridge. He is a fool, and to a certain extent a vindictive fool; and I grant you that he has taken it into his silly old head to hate me unmercifully; but I believe him to be a gentleman, and I do not think that he would condescend to spread a damnably malicious report of which he did not believe a word himself.”
“But, my dear, he will believe it.”
“Why? How? On what evidence? He couldn’t believe it. Let a man be ever such a fool, he can’t believe a thing without some reason. I dislike Lord Trowbridge very much; and you might just as well say that because I dislike him I shall believe that he is a hard landlord. He is not a hard landlord; and were he to stick dissenting chapels all about the county, I should be a liar and a slanderer were I to say that he was.”
“But then, you see, you are not a fool, Frank.”
This brought the conversation to an end. The Vicar was willing enough to turn upon his heel and say nothing more on a matter as to which he was by no means sure that he was in the right; and his wife felt a certain amount of reluctance in urging any arguments upon such a subject. Whatever Lord Trowbridge might say or think, her Frank must not be led to suppose that any unworthy suspicion troubled her own mind. Nevertheless, she was sure that he was imprudent.
When the fortnight was near at an end, and nothing had been done, he went again over to Salisbury. It was quite true that he had business there, as a gentleman almost always does have business in the county town where his banker lives, whence tradesmen supply him, and in which he belongs to some club. And our Vicar, too, was a man fond of seeing his bishop, and one who loved to move about in the precincts of the cathedral, to shake hands with the dean, and to have a little subrisive fling at Mr. Chamberlaine, or such another as Mr. Chamberlaine, if the opportunity came in his way. He was by no means indisposed to go into Salisbury in the ordinary course of things; and on this occasion absolutely did see Mr. Chamberlaine, the dean, his saddler, and the clerk at the Fire Insurance Office,—as well as Mrs. Stiggs and Carry Brattle. If, therefore, anyone had said that on this day he had gone into Salisbury simply to see Carry Brattle, such person would have maligned him. He reduced the premium on his Fire Insurance by 5s. 6d. a year, and he engaged Mr. Chamberlaine to meet Mr. Quickenham, and he borrowed from the dean an old book about falconry; so that in fact the few minutes which he spent at Mrs. Stiggs’s house were barely squeezed in among the various affairs of business which he had to transact at Salisbury.
All that he could say to Carry Brattle was this,—that hitherto he had settled nothing. She must stay in Trotter’s Buildings for another week or so. He had been so busy, in consequence of the time of the year, preparing for Easter and the like, that he had not been able to look about him. He had a plan; but would say nothing about it till he had seen whether it could be carried out. When Carry murmured something about the cost of her living the Vicar boldly declared that she need not fret herself about that, as he had money of hers in hand. He would some day explain all about that, but not now. Then he interrogated Mrs. Stiggs as to Carry’s life. Mrs. Stiggs expressed her belief that Carry wouldn’t stand it much longer. The hours had been inexpressibly long, and she had declared more than once that the best thing she could do was to go out and kill herself. Nevertheless, Mrs. Stiggs’s report as to her conduct was favourable. Of Sam Brattle, the Vicar, though he inquired, could learn nothing. Carry declared that she had not heard from him since he left her all bruised and bleeding after his fight at the Three Honest Men.
The Vicar had told Carry Brattle that he had a plan,—but, in truth, he had no plan. He had an idea that he might overcome the miller by taking his daughter straight into his house, and placing the two face to face together; but it was one in which he himself put so little trust, that he could form no plan out of it. In the first place, would he be justified in taking such a step? Mrs. George Brattle had told him that people knew what was good for them without being dictated to by clergymen; and the rebuke had come home to him. He was the last man in the world to adopt a system of sacerdotal interference. “I could do it so much better if I was not a clergyman,” he would say to himself. And then, if old Brattle chose to turn his daughter out of the house, on such provocation as the daughter had given him, what was that to him, Fenwick, whether priest or layman? The old man knew what he was about, and had shown his determination very vigorously.
“I’ll try the ironmonger at Warminster,” he said, to his wife.
“I’m afraid it will be of no use.”
“I don’t think it will. Ironmongers are probably harder than millers or farmers,—and farmers are very hard. That fellow, Jay, would not even consent to be bail for Sam Brattle. But something must be done.”
“She should be put into a reformatory.”
“It would be too late now. That should have been done at once. At any rate, I’ll go to Warminster. I want to call on old Dr. Dickleburg, and I can do that at the same time.”
He did go to Warminster. He did call on the Doctor, who was not at home;—and he did call also upon Mr. Jay, who was at home.
With Mr. Jay himself his chance was naturally much less than it would be with George Brattle. The ironmonger was connected with the unfortunate young woman only by marriage; and what brother-in-law would take such a sister-in-law to his bosom? And of Mrs. Jay he thought that he knew that she was puritanical, stiff, and severe. Mr. Jay he found in his shop along with an apprentice, but he had no difficulty in leading the master ironmonger along with him through a vista of pots, grates and frying pans, into a small recess at the back of the establishment, in which requests for prolonged credit were usually made, and urgent appeals for speedy payment as often put forth.
“Know the story of Caroline Brattle? Oh yes! I know it, sir,” said Mr. Jay. “We had to know it.” And as he spoke he shook his head, and rubbed his hands together, and looked down upon the ground. There was, however, a humility about the man, a confession on his part, that in talking to an undoubted gentleman he was talking to a superior being, which gave to Fenwick an authority which he had felt himself to want in his intercourse with the farmer.
“I am sure, Mr. Jay, you will agree with me in that she should be saved if possible.”
“As to her soul, sir?” asked the ironmonger.
“Of course, as to her soul. But we must get at that by saving her in this world first.”
Mr. Jay was a slight man, of middle height, with very respectable iron-grey hair that stood almost upright upon his head, but with a poor, inexpressive, thin face below it. He was given to bowing a good deal, rubbing his hands together, smiling courteously, and to the making of many civil little speeches; but his strength as a leading man in Warminster lay in his hair, and in the suit of orderly well-brushed black clothes which he wore on all occasions. He was, too, a man fairly prosperous, who went always to church, paid his way, attended sedulously to his business, and hung his bells, and sold his pots in such a manner as not actually to drive his old customers away by default of work. “Jay is respectable, and I don’t like to leave him,” men would say, when their wives declared that the backs of his grates fell out, and that his nails never would stand hammering. So he prospered; but, perhaps, he owed his prosperity mainly to his hair. He rubbed his hands, and smiled, and bowed his head about, as he thought what answer he might best make. He was quite willing that poor Carry’s soul should be saved. That would naturally be Mr. Fenwick’s affair. But as to saving her body, with any co-operation from himself or Mrs. Jay,—he did not see his way at all through such a job as that.
“I’m afraid she is a bad ’un, Mr. Fenwick; I’m afraid she is,” said Mr. Jay.
“The thing is, whether we can’t put our heads together and make her less bad,” said the Vicar. “She must live somewhere, Mr. Jay.”
“I don’t know whether almost the best thing for ’em isn’t to die,—of course after they have repented, Mr. Fenwick. You see, sir, it is so very low, and so shameful, and they do bring such disgrace on their poor families. There isn’t anything a young man can do that is nearly so bad,—is there, Mr. Fenwick?”
“I’m not at all sure of that, Mr. Jay.”
“Ain’t you now?”
“I’m not going to defend Carry Brattle;—but if you will think how very small an amount of sin may bring a woman to this wretched condition, your heart will be softened. Poor Carry;—she was so bright, and so good and so clever!”
“Clever she was, Mr. Fenwick;—and bright, too, as you call it. But—”
“Of course we know all that. The question now is, what can we do to help her? She is living now at this present moment, an orderly, sober life; but without occupation, or means, or friends. Will your wife let her come to her,—for a month or so, just to try her?”
“Come and live here!” exclaimed the ironmonger.
“That is what I would suggest. Who is to give her the shelter of a roof, if a sister will not?”
“I don’t think that Mrs. Jay would undertake that,” said the ironmonger, who had ceased to rub his hands and to bow, and whose face had now become singularly long and lugubrious.
“May I ask her?”
“It wouldn’t do any good, Mr. Fenwick;—it wouldn’t indeed.”
“It ought to do good. May I try?”
“If you ask me, Mr. Fenwick, I should say no; indeed I should. Mrs. Jay isn’t any way strong, and the bare mention of that disreputable connexion produces a sickness internally;—it does, indeed, Mr. Fenwick.”
“You will do nothing, then, to save from perdition the sister of your own wife;—and will let your wife do nothing?”
“Now, Mr. Fenwick, don’t be hard on me;—pray don’t be hard on me. I have been respectable, and have always had respectable people about me. If my wife’s family are turning wrong, isn’t that bad enough on me without your coming to say such things as this to me? Really, Mr. Fenwick, if you’d think of it, you wouldn’t be so hard.”
“She may die in a ditch, then, for you?” said the Vicar, whose feeling against the ironmonger was much stronger than it had been against the farmer. He could say nothing further, so he turned upon his heel and marched down the length of the shop, while the obsequious tradesman followed him,—again bowing and rubbing his hands, and attending him to his carriage. The Vicar didn’t speak another word, or make any parting salutation to Mr. Jay. “Their hearts are like the nether millstone,” he said to himself, as he drove away, flogging his horse. “Of what use are all the sermons? Nothing touches them. Do unto others as you think they would do unto you. That’s their doctrine.” As he went home he made up his mind that he would, as a last effort, carry out that scheme of taking Carry with him to the mill;—he would do so, that is, if he could induce Carry to accompany him. In the meantime, there was nothing left to him but to leave her with Mrs. Stiggs, and to pay ten shillings a week for her board and lodging. There was one point on which he could not quite make up his mind;—whether he would or would not first acquaint old Mrs. Brattle with his intention.
He had left home early, and when he returned his wife had received Mary Lowther’s reply to her letter.
“She will come?” asked Frank.
“She just says that and nothing more.”
“Then she’ll be Mrs. Gilmore.”
“I hope so, with all my heart,” said Mrs. Fenwick.
“I look upon it as tantamount to accepting him. She wouldn’t come unless she had made up her mind to take him. You mark my words. They’ll be married before the chapel is finished.”
“You say it as if you thought she oughtn’t to come.”
“No;—I don’t mean that. I was only thinking how quickly a woman may recover from such a hurt.”
“Frank, don’t be ill-natured. She will be doing what all her friends advise.”
“If I were to die, your friends would advise you not to grieve; but they would think you very unfeeling if you did not.”
“Are you going to turn against her?”
“No.”
“Then why do you say such things? Is it not better that she should make the effort than lie there helpless and motionless, throwing her whole life away? Will it not be much better for Harry Gilmore?”
“Very much better for him, because he’ll go crazy if she don’t.”
“And for her too. We can’t tell what is going on inside her breast. I believe that she is making a great effort because she thinks it is right. You will be kind to her when she comes?”
“Certainly I will,—for Harry’s sake—and her own.”
But in truth the Vicar at this moment was not in a good humour. He was becoming almost tired of his efforts to set other people straight, so great were the difficulties that came in his way. As he had driven into his own gate he had met Mr. Puddleham, standing in the road just in front of the new chapel. He had made up his mind to accept the chapel, and now he said a pleasant word to the minister. Mr. Puddleham turned up his eyes and his nose, bowed very stiffly, and then twisted himself round, without answering a word. How was it possible for a man to live among such people in good humour and Christian charity?
In the evening he was sitting with his wife in the drawing-room discussing all these troubles, when the maid came in to say that Constable Toffy was at the door.
Constable Toffy was shown into his study, and then the Vicar followed him. He had not spoken to the constable now for some months,—not since the time at which Sam had been liberated; but he had not a moment’s doubt when he was thus summoned, that something was to be said as to the murder of Mr. Trumbull. The constable put his hand up to his head, and sat down at the Vicar’s invitation, before he began to speak.
“What is it, Toffy?” said the Vicar.
“We’ve got ’em at last, I think,” said Mr. Toffy, in a very low, soft voice.
“Got whom;—the murderers?”
“Just so, Mr. Fenwick; all except Sam Brattle,—whom we want.”
“And who are the men?”
“Them as we supposed all along,—Jack Burrows, as they call the Grinder, and Lawrence Acorn as was along with him. He’s a Birmingham chap, is Acorn. He’s know’d very well at Birmingham. And then, Mr. Fenwick, there’s Sam. That’s all as seems to have been in it. We shall want Sam, Mr. Fenwick.”
“You don’t mean to tell me that he was one of the murderers?”
“We shall want him, Mr. Fenwick.”
“Where did you find the other men?”
“They did get as far as San Francisco,—did the others. They haven’t had a bad game of it,—have they, Mr. Fenwick? They’ve had more than seven months of a run. It was the 31st of August as Mr. Trumbull was murdered, and here’s the 15th of April, Mr. Fenwick. There ain’t a many runs as long as that. You’ll have Sam Brattle for us all right, no doubt, Mr. Fenwick?” The Vicar told the constable that he would see to it, and get Sam Brattle to come forward as soon as he could. “I told you all through, Mr. Fenwick, as Sam was one of them as was in it, but you wouldn’t believe me.”
“I don’t believe it now,” said the Vicar.