MRS. BRATTLE'S JOURNEY.
[Illustration]
Mrs. Brattle was waiting at the stile opposite to Mr. Gilmore's gate
as Mr. Fenwick drove up to the spot. No doubt the dear old woman
had been there for the last half-hour, thinking that the walk would
take her twice as long as it did, and fearing that she might keep
the Vicar waiting. She had put on her Sunday clothes and her Sunday
bonnet, and when she climbed up into the vacant place beside her
friend she found her position to be so strange that for a while she
could hardly speak. He said a few words to her, but pressed her with
no questions, understanding the cause of her embarrassment. He could
not but think that of all his parishioners no two were so unlike
each other as were the miller and his wife. The one was so hard and
invincible;--the other so soft and submissive! Nevertheless it had
always been said that Brattle had been a tender and affectionate
husband. By degrees the woman's awe at the horse and gig and
strangeness of her position wore off, and she began to talk of her
daughter. She had brought a little bundle with her, thinking that she
might supply feminine wants, and had apologised humbly for venturing
to come so laden. Fenwick, who remembered what Carry had said about
money that she still had, and who was nearly sure that the murderers
had gone to Pycroft Common after the murder had been committed, had
found a difficulty in explaining to Mrs. Brattle that her child was
probably not in want. The son had been accused of the murder of the
man, and now the Vicar had but little doubt that the daughter was
living on the proceeds of the robbery. "It's a hard life she must be
living, Mr. Fenwick, with an old 'ooman the likes of that," said Mrs.
Brattle. "Perhaps if I'd brought a morsel of some'at to eat--"
"I don't think they're pressed in that way, Mrs. Brattle."
"Ain't they now? But it's a'most worse, Mr. Fenwick, when one thinks
where it's to come from. The Lord have mercy on her, and bring her
out of it!"
"Amen," said the Vicar.
"And is she bright at all, and simple still? She was the brightest,
simplest lass in all Bull'ompton, I used to think. I suppose her old
ways have a'most left her, Mr. Fenwick?"
"I thought her very like what she used to be."
"'Deed now, did you, Mr. Fenwick? And she wasn't mopish and
slatternly like?"
"She was tidy enough. You wouldn't wish me to say that she was
happy?"
"I suppose not, Mr. Fenwick. I shouldn't ought;--ought I, now? But,
Mr. Fenwick, I'd give my left hand she should be happy and gay once
more. I suppose none but a mother feels it, but the sound of her
voice through the house was ever the sweetest music I know'd on.
It'll never have the same ring again, Mr. Fenwick."
He could not tell her that it would. That sainted sinner of whom he
had reminded Mr. Puddleham, though she had attained to the joy of the
Lord,--even she had never regained the mirth of her young innocence.
There is a bloom on the flower which may rest there till the
flower has utterly perished, if the handling of it be sufficiently
delicate;--but no care, nothing that can be done by friends on earth,
or even by better friendship from above, can replace that when once
displaced. The sound of which the mother was thinking could never be
heard again from Carry Brattle's voice. "If we could only get her
home once more," said the Vicar, "she might be a good daughter to you
still."
"I'd be a good mother to her, Mr. Fenwick;--but I'm thinking he'll
never have it so. I never knew him to change on a thing like that,
Mr. Fenwick. He felt it that keenly, it nigh killed 'im. Only that he
took it out o' hisself in thrashing that wicked man, I a'most think
he'd a' died o' it."
Again the Vicar drove to the Bald-faced Stag, and again he walked
along the road and over the common. He offered his arm to the old
woman, but she wouldn't accept it; nor would she upon any entreaty
allow him to carry her bundle. She assured him that his doing so
would make her utterly wretched, and at last he gave up the point.
She declared that she suffered nothing from fatigue, and that her two
miles' walk would not be more than her Sunday journey to church and
back. But as she drew near to the house she became uneasy, and once
asked to be allowed to pause for a moment. "May be, then," said she,
"after all, my girl'd rather that I wouldn't trouble her." He took
her by the arm and led her along, and comforted her,--assuring her
that if she would take her child in her arms Carry would for the
moment be in a heaven of happiness. "Take her into my arms, Mr.
Fenwick? Why,--isn't she in my very heart of hearts at this moment?
And I won't say not a word sharp to her;--not now, Mr. Fenwick. And
why would I say sharp words at all? I suppose she understands it
all."
"I think she does, Mrs. Brattle."
They had now reached the door, and the Vicar knocked. No answer came
at once; but such had been the case when he knocked before. He had
learned to understand that in such a household it might not be wise
to admit all comers without consideration. So he knocked again,--and
then again. But still there came no answer. Then he tried the door,
and found that it was locked. "May be she's seen me coming," said the
mother, "and now she won't let me in." The Vicar then went round the
cottage, and found that the back door also was closed. Then he looked
in at one of the front windows, and became aware that no one was
sitting, at least in the kitchen. There was an upstairs room, but of
that the window was closed.
"I begin to fear," he said, "that neither of them is at home."
At this moment he heard the voice of a woman calling to him from the
door of the nearest cottage,--one of the two brick tenements which
stood together,--and from her he learned that Mrs. Burrows had gone
into Devizes, and would not probably be home till the evening. Then
he asked after Carry, not mentioning her name, but speaking of her as
the young woman who lived with Mrs. Burrows. "Her young man come and
took her up to Lon'on o' Saturday," said the woman.
Fenwick heard the words, but Mrs. Brattle did not hear them. It did
not occur to him not to believe the woman's statement, and all his
hopes about the poor creature were at once dashed to the ground. His
first feeling was no doubt one of resentment, that she had broken
her word to him. She had said that she would not go within a month
without letting him know that she was going; and there is no fault,
no vice, that strikes any of us so strongly as falsehood or injustice
against ourselves. And then the nature of the statement was so
terrible! She had gone back into utter degradation and iniquity. And
who was the young man? As far as he could obtain a clue, through the
information which had reached him from various sources, this young
man must be the companion of the Grinder in the murder and robbery of
Mr. Trumbull. "She has gone away, Mrs. Brattle," said he, with as sad
a voice as ever a man used.
"And where be she gone to, Mr. Fenwick? Cannot I go arter her?" He
simply shook his head and took her by the arm to lead her away. "Do
they know nothing of her, Mr. Fenwick?"
"She has gone away; probably to London. We must think no more about
her, Mrs. Brattle--at any rate for the present. I can only say that I
am very, very sorry that I brought you here."
The drive back to Bullhampton was very silent and very sad. Mrs.
Brattle had before her the difficulty of explaining her journey to
her husband, together with the feeling that the difficulty had been
incurred altogether for nothing. As for Fenwick, he was angry with
himself for his own past enthusiasm about the girl. After all, Mr.
Chamberlaine had shown himself to be the wiser man of the two. He
had declared it to be no good to take up special cases, and the
Vicar as he drove himself home notified to himself his assent with
the Prebendary's doctrine. The girl had gone off the moment she
had ascertained that her friends were aware of her presence and
situation. What to her had been the kindness of her clerical friend,
or the stories brought to her from her early home, or the dirt and
squalor of the life which she was leading? The moment that there was
a question of bringing her back to the decencies of the world, she
escaped from her friends and hurried back to the pollution which, no
doubt, had charms for her. He had allowed himself to think that in
spite of her impurity, she might again be almost pure, and this was
his reward! He deposited the poor woman at the spot at which he had
taken her up, almost without a word, and then drove himself home with
a heavy heart. "I believe it will be best to be like her father, and
never to name her again," said he to his wife.
"But what has she done, Frank?"
"Gone back to the life which I suppose she likes best. Let us say no
more about it,--at any rate for the present. I'm sick at heart when I
think of it."
Mrs. Brattle, when she got over the stile close to her own home, saw
her husband standing at the mill door. Her heart sank within her, if
that could be said to sink which was already so low. He did not move,
but stood there with his eyes fixed upon her. She had hoped that she
might get into the house unobserved by him, and learn from Fanny what
had taken place; but she felt so like a culprit that she hardly dared
to enter the door. Would it not be best to go to him at once, and ask
his pardon for what she had done? When he spoke to her, which he did
at last, his voice was a relief to her. "Where hast been, Maggie?" he
asked. She went up to him, put her hand on the lappet of his coat and
shook her head. "Best go in and sit easy, and hear what God sends,"
he said. "What's the use of scouring about the country here and
there?"
"There has been no use in it to-day, feyther," she said.
"There arn't no use in it,--not never," he said; and after that there
was no more about it. She went into the house and handed the bundle
to Fanny, and sat down on the bed and cried. On the following morning
Frank Fenwick received the following letter:--
London, Sunday.
HONOURED SIR,
I told you that I would write if it came as I was going
away, but I've been forced to go without writing. There
was nothing to write with at the cottage. Mrs. Burrows
and me had words, and I thought as she would rob me, and
perhaps worse. She is a bad woman, and I could stand it no
longer, so I just come up here, as there was nowhere else
for me to find a place to lie down in. I thought I'd just
write and tell you, because of my word; but I know it
isn't no use.
I'd send my respects and love to father and mother, if I
dared. I did think of going over; but I know he'd kill me,
and so he ought. I'd send my respects to Mrs. Fenwick,
only that I isn't fit to name her;--and my love to sister
Fanny. I've come away here, and must just wait till I die.
Yours humbly, and most unfortunate,
CARRY.
If it's any good to be sorry, nobody can be more sorry
than me, and nobody more unhappy. I did try to pray when
you was gone, but it only made me more ashamed. If there
was only anywhere to go to, I'd go.