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."