When the Vicar went on his unhappy mission to the Squire’s house Carry Brattle had been nearly two months at the mill. During that time both Mr. and Mrs. Fenwick had seen her more than once, and at last she had been persuaded to go to church with her sister. On the previous Sunday she had crept through the village at Fanny’s side, and had taken a place provided for her in the dark corner of a dark pew under the protection of a thick veil. Fanny walked with her boldly across the village street, as though she were not in any slightest degree ashamed of her companion, and sat by her side, and then conveyed her home. On the next Sunday the sacrament would be given, and this was done in preparation for that day.
Things had not gone very pleasantly at the mill. Up to this moment old Brattle had expressed no forgiveness towards his daughter, had uttered no word of affection to her, had made no sign that he had again taken her to his bosom as his own child. He had spoken to her, because in the narrow confines of their home it was almost impossible that he should live in the house with her without doing so. Carry had gradually fallen into the way of doing her share of the daily work. She cooked, and baked, and strove hard that her presence in the house should be found to be a comfort. She was useful, and the very fact of her utility brought her father into a certain state of communion with her; but he never addressed her specially, never called her by her name, and had not yet even acknowledged to his wife or to Fanny that he recognised her as one of the family. They had chosen to bring her in against his will, and he would not turn their guest from the door. It was thus that he seemed to regard his daughter’s presence in the mill-house.
Under this treatment Carry was becoming restive and impatient. On such an occasion as that of going to church and exposing herself to the eyes of those who had known her as an innocent, laughing, saucy girl, she could not but be humble, quiet, and awestruck; but at home she was beginning again gradually to assert her own character. “If father won’t speak to me, I’d better go,” she said to Fanny.
“And where will you go to, Carry?”
“I dun’ know;—into the mill-pond would be best for them as belongs to me. I suppose there ain’t anybody as ‘d have me?”
“Nobody can have you as will love you as we do, Carry.”
“Why won’t father come round and speak to me? You can’t tell what it is to have him looking at one that way. I sometimes feels like getting up and telling him to turn me out if he won’t speak a word to me.” But Fanny had softened her, and encouraged her, bidding her wait still again, explaining the sorrow that weighed upon their father’s heart as well as she could without saying a single cruel word as to Carry’s past life. Fanny’s task was not easy, and it was made the harder by their mother’s special tenderness towards Carry. “The less she says and the more she does, the better for her,” said Fanny to her mother. “You shouldn’t let her talk about father.” Mrs. Brattle did not attempt to argue the matter with her elder daughter, but she found it to be quite out of her power to restrain Carry’s talking.
During these two months old Brattle had not even seen either his landlord or the Vicar. They had both been at the mill, but the miller had kept himself up among his grist, and had not condescended to come down to them. Nor had he even, since Carry’s return, been seen in Bullhampton, or even up on the high road leading to it. He held no communion with men other than was absolutely necessary for his business, feeling himself to be degraded, not so much by his daughter’s fall as by his concession to his fallen daughter. He would sit out in the porch of an evening, and smoke his pipe; but if he heard a footstep on the lane he would retreat, and cross the plank and get among the wheels of his mill, or out into the orchard. Of Sam nothing had been heard. He was away, it was believed in Durham, working at some colliery engine. He gave no sign of himself to his mother or sister; but it was understood that he would appear at the assizes, towards the end of the present month, as he had been summoned there as a witness at the trial of the two men for the murder of Mr. Trumbull.
And Carry, also, was to be a witness at the assizes; and, as it was believed, a witness much more material than her brother. Indeed, it was beginning to be thought that after all Sam would have no evidence to give. If, indeed, he had had nothing to do with the murder, it was not probable that any of the circumstances of the murder would have been confided to him. He had, it seemed, been on intimate terms with the man Acorn,—and, through Acorn, had known Burrows and the old woman who lived at Pycroft Common, the mother of Burrows. He had been in their company when they first visited Bullhampton, and had, as we know, invited them into the Vicar’s garden,—much to the damage of Mr. Burrows’ shoulder-blade; but it was believed that beyond this he could say nothing as to the murder. But Carry Brattle was presumed to have a closer knowledge of at least one of the men. She had now confessed to her sister that, after leaving Bullhampton, she had consented to become Acorn’s wife. She had known then but little of his mode of life or past history; but he was young, good-looking, fairly well-dressed, and had promised to marry her. By him she was taken to the cottage on Pycroft Common, and by him she had certainly been visited on the morning after the murder. He had visited her and given her money;—and since that, according to her own story, she had neither seen him nor heard from him. She had never cared for him, she told her sister; but what was that to one such as her as long as he would make her an honest woman? All this was repeated by Fanny Brattle to Mrs. Fenwick;—and now the assizes were at hand, and how was Carry to demean herself there? Who would take her? Who would stand near her and support her, and save her from falling into that abyss of self-abasement and almost of self-annihilation which would be her doom, unless there were some one there to give her strength and aid?
“I would not go to Salisbury at all during the assizes, if I were you,” Mrs. Fenwick had said to her husband. The Vicar understood thoroughly what was meant. Because of the evil things which had been said of him by that stupid old Marquis whom he had been cheated into forgiving, he was not to be allowed to give a helping hand to his parishioner! Nevertheless, he acknowledged his wife’s wisdom,—tacitly, as is fitting when such acknowledgments have to be made; and he contented himself with endeavouring to find for her some other escort. It had been hoped from day to day that the miller would yield, that he would embrace poor Carry, and promise her that she should again be to him as a daughter. If this could be brought about, then,—so thought the Vicar and Fanny too,—the old man would steel himself to bear the eyes of the whole county, and would accompany the girl himself. But now the day was coming on, and Brattle seemed to be as far from yielding as ever. Fanny had dropped a word or two in his hearing about the assizes, but he had only glowered at her, taking no other notice whatever of her hints.
When the Vicar left his friend Gilmore, as has been told in the last chapter, he did not return to the vicarage across the fields, but took the carriage road down to the lodge, and from thence crossed the stile that led into the path down to the mill. This was on the 15th of August, a Wednesday, and Carry was summoned to be at Salisbury on that day week. As the day drew near she became very nervous. At the Vicar’s instance Fanny had written to her brother George, asking him whether he would be good to his poor sister, and take her under his charge. He had written back,—or rather his wife had written for him,—sending Carry a note for ￡20 as a present, but declining, on the score of his own children, to be seen with her in Salisbury on the occasion. “I shall go with her myself, Mr. Fenwick,” Fanny had said to the Vicar; “it’ll just be better than nobody at all to be along with her.” The Vicar was now going down to the mill to give his assent to this. He could see nothing better. Fanny at any rate would be firm; would not be prevented by false shame from being a very sister to her sister; and would perhaps be admitted where a brother’s attendance might be refused. He had promised to see the women at the mill as early in the week as he could, and now he went thither intent on giving them advice as to their proceedings at Salisbury. It would doubtless be necessary that they should sleep there, and he hoped that they might be accommodated by Mrs. Stiggs.
As he stepped out from the field path on to the lane, almost immediately in front of the mill, he came directly upon the miller. It was between twelve and one o’clock, and old Brattle was wandering about for a minute or two waiting for his dinner. The two men met so that it was impossible that they should not speak; and on this occasion the miller did not seem to avoid his visitor. “Muster Fenwick,” said he, as he took the Vicar’s hand, “I am bound to say as I’m much obliged to ye for all y’ have done for that poor lass in there.”
“Don’t say a word about that, Mr. Brattle.”
“But I must say a word. There’s money owing as I knows. There was ten shilling a week for her keep all that time she was at Salsbry yonder.”
“I will not hear a word as to any money.”
“Her brother George has sent her a gift, Muster Fenwick,—twenty pound.”
“I am very glad to hear it.”
“George is a well-to-do man, they tell me,” continued the father, “and can afford to part with his money. But he won’t come forward to help the girl any other gait. I’ll thank you just to take what’s due, Muster Fenwick, and you can give her sister the change. Our Fanny has got the note as George sent.”
Then there was a dispute about the money, as a matter of course. Fenwick swore that nothing was due, and the miller protested that as the money was there all his daughter’s expenses at Salisbury should be repaid. And the miller at last got the best of it. Fenwick promised that he would look to his book, see how much he had paid, and mention the sum to Fanny at some future time. He positively refused to take the note at present, protesting that he had no change, and that he would not burden himself with the responsibility of carrying so much money about with him in his pocket. Then he asked whether, if he went into the house, he would be able to say a word or two to the women before dinner. He had made up his mind that he would make no further attempt at reconciling the father to his daughter. He had often declared to his wife that there could be nothing so hateful to a man as the constant interference of a self-constituted adviser. “I so often feel that I am making myself odious when I am telling them to do this or that; and then I ask myself what I should say if anybody were to come and advise me how to manage you and the bairns.” And he had told his wife more than once how very natural and reasonable had been the expression of the lady’s wrath at Startup, when he had taken upon himself to give her advice. “People know what is good for them to do, well enough, without being dictated to by a clergyman!” He had repeated the words to himself and to his wife a dozen times, and talked of having them put up in big red letters over the fire-place in his own study. He had therefore quite determined to say never another word to old Brattle in reference to his daughter Carry. But now the miller himself began upon the subject.
“You can see ’em, Muster Fenwick, in course. It don’t make no odds about dinner. But I was wanting just to say a word to you about that poor young ooman there.” This he said in a slow, half-hesitating voice, as though he could hardly bring himself to speak of the unfortunate one to whom he alluded. The Vicar muttered some word of assent, and then the miller went on. “You knows, of course, as how she be back here at the mill?”
“Certainly I do. I’ve seen her more than once.”
“Muster Fenwick, I don’t suppose as any one as asn’t tried it knows what it is. I hopes you mayn’t never know it; nor it ain’t likely. Muster Fenwick, I’d sooner see her dead body stretched afore me,—and I loved her a’most as well as any father ever loved his da’ter,—I’d sooner a see’d her brought home to the door stiff and stark than know her to be the thing she is.” His hesitation had now given way to emphasis, and he raised his hand as he spoke. The Vicar caught it and held it in his own, and strove to find some word to say as the old man paused in his speech. But to Jacob Brattle it was hard for a clergyman to find any word to say on such an occasion. Of what use could it be to preach of repentance to one who believed nothing; or to tell of the opportunity which forgiveness by an earthly parent might afford to the sinner of obtaining lasting forgiveness elsewhere? But let him have said what he might, the miller would not have listened. He was full of that which lay upon his own heart. “If they only know’d what them as cares for ’em ‘d has to bear, maybe they’d think a little. But it ain’t natural they should know, Muster Fenwick, and one’s a’most tempted to say that a man ‘d better have no child at all.”
“Think of your son George, Mr. Brattle, and of Mrs. Jay.”
“What’s them to me? He sends the girl a twenty-pun’-note, and I wish he’d a kep’ it. As for t’other, she wouldn’t let the girl inside her door! It’s here she has to come.”
“What comfort would you have, Mr. Brattle, without Fanny?”
“Fanny! I’m not saying nothing against Fanny. Not but what she hadn’t no business to let the girl into the house in the middle of the night without saying a word to me.”
“Would you have had her leave her sister outside in the cold and damp all night?”
“Why didn’t she come and ax? All the same, I ain’t a saying nowt again Fanny. But, Muster Fenwick, if you ever come to have one foot bad o’ the gout, it won’t make you right to know that the other ain’t got it. Y’ll have the pain a gnawing of you from the bad foot till you clean forget all the rest o’ your body. It’s so with me, I knows.”
“What can I say to you, Mr. Brattle? I do feel for you. I do,—I do.”
“Not a doubt on it, Muster Fenwick. They all on ’em feels for me. They all on ’em knows as how I’m bruised and mangled a’most as though I’d fallen through into that water-wheel. There ain’t one in all Bull’ompton as don’t know as Jacob Brattle is a broken man along of his da’ter that is a—”
“Silence, Mr. Brattle. You shall not say it. She is not that;—at any rate not now. Have you no knowledge that sin may be left behind and deserted as well as virtue?”
“It ain’t easy to leave disgrace behind, any ways. For ought I knows a girl may be made right arter a while; but as for her father, nothing’ll ever make him right again. It’s in here, Muster Fenwick,—in here. There’s things as is hard on us; but when they comes one can’t send ’em away just because they is hardest of all to bear. I’d a put up with aught, only this, and defied all Bull’ompton to say as it broke me;—but I’m about broke now. If I hadn’t more nor a crust at home, nor a decent coat to my back, I’d a looked ’em all square in the face as ever I did. But I can’t look no man square in the face now;—and as for other folk’s girls, I can’t bear ’em near me,—no how. They makes me think of my own.” Fenwick had now turned his back to the miller, in order that he might wipe away his tears without showing them. “I’m thinking of her always, Muster Fenwick;—day and night. When the mill’s agoing, it’s all the same. It’s just as though there warn’t nothing else in the whole world as I minded to think on. I’ve been a man all my life, Muster Fenwick; and now I ain’t a man no more.”
Our friend the Vicar never before felt himself so utterly unable to administer comfort in affliction. There was nothing on which he could take hold. He could tell the man, no doubt, that beyond all this there might be everlasting joy, not only for him, but for him and the girl together;—joy which would be sullied by no touch of disgrace. But there was a stubborn strength in the infidelity of this old Pagan which was utterly impervious to any adjuration on that side. That which he saw and knew and felt, he would believe; but he would believe nothing else. He knew now that he was wounded and sore and wretched, and he understood the cause. He knew that he must bear his misery to the last, and he struggled to make his back broad for the load. But even the desire for ease, which is natural to all men, would not make him flinch in his infidelity. As he would not believe when things went well with him, and when the comfort of hope for the future was not imperatively needed for his daily solace,—so would he not believe now, when his need for such comfort was so pressing.
The upshot of it all was, that the miller thought that he would take his own daughter into Salisbury, and was desirous of breaking the matter in this way to the friend of his family. The Vicar, of course, applauded him much. Indeed, he applauded too much;—for the miller turned on him and declared that he was by no means certain that he was doing right. And when the Vicar asked him to be gentle with the girl, he turned upon him again.
“Why ain’t she been gentle along of me? I hates such gentility, Muster Fenwick. I’ll be honest with her, any way.” But he thought better of it before he let the Vicar go. “I shan’t do her no hurt, Muster Fenwick. Bad as she’s been, she’s my own flesh and blood still.”
After what he had heard, Mr. Fenwick declined going into the mill-house, and returned home without seeing Mrs. Brattle and her daughters. The miller’s determination should be told by himself; and the Vicar felt that he could hardly keep the secret were he now to see the women.