THE MILLER TELLS HIS TROUBLES.
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."
[Illustration: "It's in here, Muster Fenwick,--in here."]
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.