Mrs. Brattle, when she heard her daughter’s voice, was so confounded, dismayed, and frightened, that for awhile she could give no direction as to what should be done. She had screamed at first, having some dim idea in her mind that the form she saw was not of living flesh and blood. And Carry herself had been hardly more composed or mistress of herself than her mother. She had strayed thither, never having quite made up her mind to any settled purpose. From the spot in which she had hidden herself under the bridge when the policeman passed her she had started when the evening sun was setting, and had wandered on slowly till the old familiar landmarks of the parish were reached. And then she came to the river, and looking across could just see the eaves of the mill through the willows by the last gloaming of the sunlight. Then she stood and paused, and every now and again had crept on a few feet as her courage came to her, and at last, by the well known little path, she had crept down behind the mill, crossing the stream by the board which had once been so accustomed to her feet, and had made her way into the garden and had heard her mother and sister as they talked together at the open window. Any idea which she had hitherto entertained of not making herself known to them at the mill,—of not making herself known at any rate to her mother and sister,—left her at once at that moment. There had been upon her a waking dream, a horrid dream, that the waters of the mill-stream might flow over her head, and hide her wickedness and her misery from the eyes of men; and she had stood and shuddered as she saw the river; but she had never really thought that her own strength would suffice for that termination to her sorrows. It was more probable that she would be doomed to lie during the night beneath a hedge, and then perish of the morning cold! But now, as she heard the voices at the window, there could be no choice for her but that she should make herself known,—not though her father should kill her.
Even Fanny was driven beyond the strength of her composure by the strangeness of this advent. “Carry! Carry!” she exclaimed over and over again, not aloud,—and indeed her voice was never loud,—but with bated wonder. The two sisters held each other by the hand, and Carry’s other hand still grasped her mother’s arm. “Oh, mother, I am so tired,” said the girl. “Oh, mother, I think that I shall die.”
“My child;—my poor child. What shall we do, Fan?”
“Bring her in, of course,” said Fanny.
“But your father—”
“We couldn’t turn her away from the very window, and she like that, mother.”
“Don’t turn me away, Fanny. Dear Fanny, do not turn me away,” said Carry, striving to take her sister by the other hand.
“No, Carry, we will not,” said Fanny, trying to settle her mind to some plan of action. Any idea of keeping the thing long secret from her father she knew that she could not entertain; but for this night she resolved at last that shelter should be given to the discarded daughter without the father’s knowledge. But even in doing this there would be difficulty. Carry must be brought in through the window, as any disturbance at the front of the house would arouse the miller. And then Mrs. Brattle must be made to go to her own room, or her absence would create suspicion and confusion. Fanny, too, had terrible doubts as to her mother’s powers of going to her bed and lying there without revealing to her husband that some cause of great excitement had arisen. And then it might be that the miller would come to his daughter’s room, and insist that the outcast should be made an outcast again, even in the middle of the night. He was a man so stern, so obstinate, so unforgiving, so masterful, that Fanny, though she would face any danger as regarded herself, knew that terrible things might happen. It seemed to her that Carry was very weak. If their father came to them in his wrath, might she not die in her despair? Nevertheless it was necessary that something should be done. “We must let her get in at the window, mother,” she said. “It won’t do, nohow, to unbar the door.”
“But what if he was to kill her outright! Oh, Carry; oh, my child. I dunna know as she can get in along of her weakness.” But Carry was not so tired as that. She had been in and out of that window scores of times; and now, when she heard that the permission was accorded to her, she was not long before she was in her mother’s arms. “My own Carry, my own bairn;—my girl, my darling.” And the poor mother satisfied the longings of her heart with infinite caresses.
Fanny in the meantime had crept out to the kitchen, and now returned with food in a plate and cold tea. “My girl,” she said, “you must eat a bit, and then we will have you to bed. When the morn comes, we must think about it.”
“Fanny, you was always the best that there ever was,” said Carry, speaking from her mother’s bosom.
“And now, mother,” continued Fanny, “you must creep off. Indeed you must, or of course father’ll wake up. And mother, don’t say a word to-morrow when he rises. I’ll go to him in the mill myself. That’ll be best.” Then, with longings that could hardly be repressed, with warm, thick, clinging kisses, with a hot, rapid, repeated assurance that everything,—everything had been forgiven, that her own Carry was once more her own, own Carry, the poor mother allowed herself to be banished. There seemed to her to be such a world of cruelty in the fact that Fanny might remain for the whole of that night with the dear one who had returned to them, while she must be sent away,—perhaps not to see her again if the storm in the morning should rise too loudly! Fanny, with great craft, accompanied her mother to her room, so that if the old man should speak she might be there to answer;—but the miller slept soundly after his day of labour, and never stirred.
“What will he do to me, Fan?” the wanderer asked as soon as her sister returned.
“Don’t think of it now, my pet,” said Fanny, softened almost as her mother was softened by the sight of her sister.
“Will he kill me, Fan?”
“No, dear; he will not lay a hand upon you. It is his words that are so rough! Carry, Carry, will you be good?”
“I will, dear; indeed I will. I have not been bad since Mr. Fenwick came.”
“My sister,—if you will be good, I will never leave you. My heart’s darling, my beauty, my pretty one! Carry, you shall be the same to me as always, if you’ll be good. I’ll never cast it up again you, if you’ll be good.” Then she, too, filled herself full, and satisfied the hungry craving of her love with the warmth of her caresses. “But thee’ll be famished, lass. I’ll see thee eat a bit, and then I’ll put thee comfortable to bed.”
Poor Carry Brattle was famished, and ate the bread and bacon which were set before her, and drank the cold tea, with an appetite which was perhaps unbecoming the romance of her position. Her sister stood over her, cutting a slice now and then from the loaf, telling her that she had taken nothing, smoothing her hair, and wishing for her sake that the fire were better. “I’m afeard of father, Fan,—awfully; but for all that, it’s the sweetest meal as I’ve had since I left the mill.” Then Fanny was on her knees beside the returned profligate, covering even the dear one’s garments with her kisses.
It was late before Fanny laid herself down by her sister’s side that night. “Carry,” she whispered when her sister was undressed, “will you kneel here and say your prayers as you used to?” Carry, without a word, did as she was bidden, and hid her face upon her hands in her sister’s lap. No word was spoken out loud, but Fanny was satisfied that her sister had been in earnest. “Now sleep, my darling;—and when I’ve just tidied your things for the morning, I will be with you.” The wanderer again obeyed, and in a few moments the work of the past two days befriended her, and she was asleep. Then the sister went to her task with the soiled frock and the soiled shoes, and looked up things clean and decent for the morrow. It would be at any rate well that Carry should appear before her father without the stain of the road upon her.
As the lost one lay asleep there, with her soft ringlets all loose upon the pillow, still beautiful, still soft, lovely though an outcast from the dearest rights of womanhood, with so much of innocence on her brow, with so much left of the grace of childhood though the glory of the flower had been destroyed by the unworthy hand that had ravished its sweetness, Fanny, sitting in the corner of the room over her work, with her eye from moment to moment turned upon the sleeper, could not keep her mind from wandering away in thoughts on the strange destiny of woman. She knew that there had been moments in her life in which her great love for her sister had been tinged with envy. No young lad had ever waited in the dusk to hear the sound of her footfall; no half-impudent but half-bashful glances had ever been thrown after her as she went through the village on her business. To be a homely, household thing, useful indeed in this world, and with high hopes for the future,—but still to be a drudge; that had been her destiny. There was never a woman to whom the idea of being loved was not the sweetest thought that her mind could produce. Fate had made her plain, and no man had loved her. The same chance had made Carry pretty,—the belle of the village, the acknowledged beauty of Bullhampton. And there she lay, a thing said to be so foul that even a father could not endure to have her name mentioned in his ears! And yet, how small had been her fault compared with other crimes for which men and women are forgiven speedily, even if it has been held that pardon has ever been required.
She came over, and knelt down and kissed her sister on her brow; and as she did so she swore to herself that by her, even in the inmost recesses of her bosom, Carry should never be held to be evil, to be a castaway, to be one of whom, as her sister, it would behove her to be ashamed. She had told Carry that she would “never cast it up against her.” She now resolved that there should be no such casting up even in her own judgment. Had she, too, been fair, might not she also have fallen?
At five o’clock on the following morning the miller went out from the house to his mill, according to his daily practice. Fanny heard his heavy step, heard the bar withdrawn, heard the shutters removed from the kitchen window, and knew that her father was as yet in ignorance of the inmate who had been harboured. Fanny at once arose from her bed, careful not to disturb her companion. She had thought it all out, whether she would have Carry ready dressed for an escape, should it be that her father would demand imperiously that she should be sent adrift from the mill, or whether it might not be better that she should be able to plead at the first moment that her sister was in bed, tired, asleep,—at any rate undressed,—and that some little time must be allowed. Might it not be that even in that hour her father’s heart might be softened? But she must lose no time in going to him. The hired man who now tended the mill with her father came always at six, and that which she had to say to him must be said with no ear to hear her but his own. It would have been impossible even for her to remind him of his daughter before a stranger. She slipped her clothes on, therefore, and within ten minutes of her father’s departure followed him into the mill.
The old man had gone aloft, and she heard his slow, heavy feet as he was moving the sacks which were above her head. She considered for a moment, and thinking it better that she should not herself ascend the little ladder,—knowing that it might be well that she should have the power of instant retreat to the house,—she called to him from below. “What’s wanted now?” demanded the old man as soon as he heard her. “Father, I must speak to you,” she said. “Father, you must come down to me.” Then he came down slowly, without a word, and stood before her waiting to hear her tidings. “Father,” she said, “there is some one in the house, and I have come to tell you.”
“Sam has come, then?” said he; and she could see that there was a sparkle of joy in his eye as he spoke. Oh, if she could only make the return of that other child as grateful to him as would have been the return of his son!
“No, father; it isn’t Sam.”
“Who be it, then?” The tone of his voice, and the colour and bearing of his face were changed as he asked the question. She saw at once that he had guessed the truth. “It isn’t—it isn’t—?”
“Yes, father; it is Carry.” As she spoke she came close to him, and strove to take his hand; but he thrust both his hands into his pockets and turned himself half away from her. “Father, she is our flesh and blood; you will not turn against her now that she has come back to us, and is sorry for her faults.”
“She is a—” But his other daughter had stopped his mouth with her hand before the word had been uttered.
“Father, who among us has not done wrong at times?”
“She has disgraced my gray hairs, and made me a reproach and a shame. I will not see her. Bid her begone. I will not speak to her or look at her. How came she there? When did she come?”
Then Fanny told her father the whole story,—everything as it occurred, and did not forget to add her own conviction that Carry’s life had been decent in all respects since the Vicar had found a home for her in Salisbury. “You would not have it go on like that, father. She is naught to our parson.”
“I will pay. As long as there is a shilling left, I will pay for her. She shall not live on the charity of any man, whether parson or no parson. But I will not see her. While she be here you may just send me my vittels to the mill. If she be not gone afore night, I will sleep here among the sacks.”
She stayed with him till the labourer came, and then she returned to the house, having failed as yet to touch his heart. She went back and told her story to her mother, and then a part of it to Carry who was still in bed. Indeed, she had found her mother by Carry’s bedside, and had to wait till she could separate them before she could tell any story to either. “What does he say of me, Fan?” asked the poor sinner. “Does he say that I must go? Will he never speak to me again? I will just throw myself into the mill-race and have done with it.” Her sister bade her to rise and dress herself, but to remain where she was. It could not be expected, she said, but that their father would be hard to persuade. “I know that he will kill me when he sees me,” said Carry.
At eight o’clock Fanny took the old man his breakfast to the mill, while Mrs. Brattle waited on Carry, as though she had deserved all the good things which a mother could do for a child. The miller sat upon a sack at the back of the building, while the hired man took his meal of bread and cheese in the front, and Fanny remained close at his elbow. While the old man was eating she said nothing to him. He was very slow, and sat with his eyes fixed upon the morsel of sky which was visible through the small aperture, thinking evidently of anything but the food that he was swallowing. Presently he returned the empty bowl and plate to his daughter, as though he were about at once to resume his work. Hitherto he had not uttered a single word since she had come to him.
“Father,” she said, “think of it. Is it not good to have mercy and to forgive? Would you drive your girl out again upon the streets?”
The miller still did not speak, but turned his face round upon his daughter with a gaze of such agony that she threw herself on the sack beside him, and clung to him with her arms round his neck.
“If she were such as thee, Fan,” he said. “Oh, if she were such as thee!” Then again he turned away his face that she might not see the tear that was forcing itself into the corner of his eye.
She remained with him an hour before he moved. His companion in the mill did not come near them, knowing, as the poor do know on such occasions, there was something going on which would lead them to prefer that he should be absent. The words that were said between them were not very many; but at the end of the hour Fanny returned to the house.
“Carry,” she said, “father is coming in.”
“If he looks at me, it will kill me,” said Carry.
Mrs. Brattle was so lost in her hopes and fears that she knew not what to do, or how to bestow herself. A minute had hardly passed when the miller’s step was heard, and Carry knew that she was in the presence of her father. She had been sitting, but now she rose, and went to him and knelt at his feet.
“Father,” she said, “if I may bide with you,—if I may bide with you—.” But her voice was lost in sobbing, and she could make no promise as to her future conduct.
“She may stay with us,” the father said, turning to his eldest daughter; “but I shall never be able to show my face again about the parish.”
He had uttered no words of forgiveness to his daughter, nor had he bestowed upon her any kiss. Fanny had raised her when she was on the ground at his feet, and had made her seat herself apart.
“In all the whole warld,” he said, looking round upon his wife and his elder child, raising his hand as he uttered the words, and speaking with an emphasis that was terrible to the hearers, “there is no thing so vile as a harlot.” All the dreaded fierceness of his manner had then come back to him, and neither of them had dared to answer him. After that he at once went back to the mill, and to Fanny who followed him he vouchsafed to repeat the permission that his daughter should be allowed to remain beneath his roof.
Between twelve and one she again went to fetch him to his dinner. At first he declared that he would not come, that he was busy, and that he would eat a morsel, where he was, in the mill. But Fanny argued the matter with him.
“Is it always to be so, father?”
“I do not know. What matters it, so as I have strength to do a turn of work?”
“It must not be that her presence should drive you from the house. Think of mother, and what she will suffer. Father, you must come.”
Then he allowed himself to be led into the house, and he sat in his accustomed chair, and ate his dinner in gloomy silence. But after dinner he would not smoke.
“I tell ‘ee, lass, I do not want the pipe to-day. Now’t has got itself done. D’ye think as grist’ll grind itself without hands?”
When Carry said that it would be better than this that she should go again, Fanny told her to remember that evil things could not be cured in a day. With the mother that afternoon was, on the whole, a happy time, for she sat with her lost child’s hand within her own. Late in the evening, when the miller returned to his rest, Carry moved about the house softly, resuming some old task to which in former days she had been accustomed; and as she did so the miller’s eyes would wander round the room after her; but he did not speak to her on that day, nor did he pronounce her name.
Two other circumstances which bear upon our story occurred at the mill that afternoon. After their tea, at which the miller did not make his appearance, Fanny Brattle put on her bonnet and ran across the fields to the vicarage. After all the trouble that Mr. Fenwick had taken, it was, she thought, necessary that he should be told what had happened.
“That is the best news,” said he, “that I have heard this many a day.”
“I knew that you would be glad to hear that the poor child has found her home again.” Then Fanny told the whole story,—how Carry had escaped from Salisbury, being driven to do so by fear of the law proceedings at which she had been summoned to attend, how her father had sworn that he would not yield, and how at length he had yielded. When Fanny told the Vicar and Mrs. Fenwick that the old man had as yet not spoken to his daughter, they both desired her to be of good cheer.
“That will come, Fanny,” said Mrs. Fenwick, “if she once be allowed to sit at table with him.”
“Of course it will come,” said the Vicar. “In a week or two you will find that she is his favourite.”
“She was the favourite with us all, sir, once,” said Fanny, “and may God send that it shall be so again. A winsome thing like her is made to be loved. You’ll come and see her, Mr. Fenwick, some day?” Mr. Fenwick promised that he would, and Fanny returned to the mill.
The other circumstance was the arrival of Constable Toffy at the mill during Fanny’s absence. In the course of the day news had travelled into the village that Carry Brattle was again at the mill;—and Constable Toffy, who in regard to the Brattle family, was somewhat discomfited by the transactions of the previous day at Heytesbury, heard the news. He was aware,—being in that respect more capable than Lord Trowbridge of receiving enlightenment,—that the result of all the inquiries made, in regard to the murder, did, in truth, contain no tittle of evidence against Sam. As constables go, Constable Toffy was a good man, and he would be wronged if it were to be said of him that he regretted Sam’s escape; but his nature was as is the nature of constables, and he could not rid himself of that feeling of disappointment which always attends baffled efforts. And though he saw that there was no evidence against Sam, he did not, therefore, necessarily think that the young man was innocent. It may be doubted whether, to the normal policeman’s mind, any man is ever altogether absolved of any crime with which that man’s name has been once connected. He felt, therefore, somewhat sore against the Brattles;—and then there was the fact that Carry Brattle, who had been regularly “subp?naed,” had kept herself out of the way,—most flagitiously, illegally and damnably. She had run off from Salisbury, just as though she were a free person to do as she pleased with herself, and not subject to police orders! When, therefore, he heard that Carry was at the mill,—she having made herself liable to some terribly heavy fine by her contumacy,—it was manifestly his duty to see after her and let her know that she was wanted.
At the mill he saw only the miller himself, and his visit was not altogether satisfactory. Old Brattle, who understood very little of the case, but who did understand that his own son had been made clear in reference to that accusation, had no idea that his daughter had any concern with that matter, other than what had fallen to her lot in reference to her brother. When, therefore, Toffy inquired after Caroline Brattle, and desired to know whether she was at the mill, and also was anxious to be informed why she had not attended at Heytesbury in accordance with the requirements of the law, the miller turned upon him and declared that if anybody said a word against Sam Brattle in reference to the murder,—the magistrates having settled that matter,—he, Jacob Brattle, old as he was, would “see it out” with that malignant slanderer. Constable Toffy did his best to make the matter clear to the miller, but failed utterly. Had he a warrant to search for anybody? Toffy had no warrant. Toffy only desired to know whether Caroline Brattle was or was not beneath her father’s roof. The old miller, declaring to himself that, though his child had shamed him, he would not deny her now that she was again one of the family, acknowledged so much, but refused the constable admittance to the house.
“But, Mr. Brattle,” said the constable, “she was subp?naed.”
“I know now’t o’ that,” answered the miller, not deigning to turn his face round to his antagonist.
“But you know, Mr. Brattle, the law must have its course.”
“No, I don’t. And it ain’t law as you should come here a hindering o’ me; and it ain’t law as you should walk that unfortunate young woman off with you to prison.”
“But she’s wanted, Mr. Brattle;—not in the way of going to prison, but before the magistrates.”
“There’s a deal of things is wanted as ain’t to be had. Anyways, you ain’t no call to my house now, and as them as is there is in trouble, I’ll ax you to be so kind as—as just to leave us alone.”
Toffy, pretending that he was satisfied with the information received, and merely adding that Caroline Brattle must certainly, at some future time, be made to appear before the magistrates at Heytesbury, took his departure with more good-humour than the miller deserved from him, and returned to the village.