AT THE MILL.
The presence of Carry Brattle was required in Salisbury for the trial
of John Burrows and Lawrence Acorn on Wednesday the 22nd of August.
Our Vicar, who had learned that the judges would come into the city
only late on the previous evening, and that the day following their
entrance would doubtless be so fully occupied with other matters as
to render it very improbable that the affair of the murder would
then come up, had endeavoured to get permission to postpone Carry's
journey; but the little men in authority are always stern on such
points, and witnesses are usually treated as persons who are not
entitled to have any views as to their own personal comfort or
welfare. Lawyers, who are paid for their presence, may plead other
engagements, and their pleas will be considered; and if a witness be
a lord, it may perhaps be thought very hard that he should be dragged
away from his amusements. But the ordinary commonplace witness must
simply listen and obey--at his peril. It was thus decided that Carry
must be in Salisbury on the Wednesday, and remain there, hanging
about the Court, till her services should be wanted. Fenwick, who had
been in Salisbury, had seen that accommodation should be provided for
her and for the miller at the house of Mrs. Stiggs.
The miller had decided upon going with his daughter. The Vicar did
not go down to the mill again; but Mrs. Fenwick had seen Brattle, and
had learned that such was to be the case. The old man said nothing to
his own people about it till the Monday afternoon, up to which time
Fanny was prepared to accompany her sister. He was then told, when he
came in from the mill for his tea, that word had come down from the
vicarage that there would be two bed-rooms for them at Mrs. Stiggs'
house. "I don't know why there should be the cost of a second room,"
said Fanny; "Carry and I won't want two beds."
Up to this time there had been no reconciliation between the miller
and his younger daughter. Carry would ask her father whether she
should do this or that, and the miller would answer her as a surly
master will answer a servant whom he does not like; but the father,
as a father, had never spoken to the child; nor, up to this moment,
had he said a word even to his wife of his intended journey to
Salisbury. But now he was driven to speak. He had placed himself in
the arm chair, and was sitting with his hands on his knees gazing
into the empty fire-grate. Carry was standing at the open window,
pulling the dead leaves off three or four geraniums which her mother
kept there in pots. Fanny was passing in and out from the back
kitchen, in which the water for their tea was being boiled, and Mrs.
Brattle was in her usual place with her spectacles on, and a darning
needle in her hand. A minute was allowed to pass by before the miller
answered his eldest daughter.
"There'll be two beds wanted," he said; "I told Muster Fenwick as I'd
go with the girl myself;--and so I wull."
Carry started so that she broke the flower which she was touching.
Mrs. Brattle immediately stopped her needle, and withdrew her
spectacles from her nose. Fanny, who was that instant bringing the
tea-pot out of the back kitchen, put it down among the tea cups, and
stood still to consider what she had heard.
"Dear, dear, dear!" said the mother.
"Father," said Fanny, coming up to him, and just touching him with
her hand; "'twill be best for you to go, much best. I am heartily
glad on it, and so will Carry be."
"I knows nowt about that," said the miller; "but I mean to go, and
that's all about it. I ain't a been to Salsbry these fifteen year and
more, and I shan't be there never again."
"There's no saying that, father," said Fanny.
"And it ain't for no pleasure as I'm agoing now. Nobody 'll s'pect
that of me. I'd liever let the millstone come on my foot."
There was nothing more said about it that evening, nothing more at
least in the miller's hearing. Carry and her sister were discussing
it nearly the whole night. It was very soon plain to Fanny that Carry
had heard the tidings with dismay. To be alone with her father for
two, three, or perhaps four days, seemed to her to be so terrible,
that she hardly knew how to face the misery and gloom of his
company,--in addition to the fears she had as to what they would say
and do to her in the Court. Since she had been home, she had learned
almost to tremble at the sound of her father's foot; and yet she had
known that he would not harm her, would hardly notice her, would not
do more than look at her. But now, for three long frightful days to
come, she would be subject to his wrath during every moment of her
life.
"Will he speak to me, Fanny, d'ye think?" she asked.
"Of course he'll speak to you, child."
"But he hasn't, you know,--not since I've been home; not once; not as
he does to you and mother. I know he hates me, and wishes I was dead.
And, Fanny, I wishes it myself every day of my life."
"He wishes nothing of the kind, Carry."
"Why don't he say one kind word to me, then? I know I've been bad.
But I ain't a done a single thing since I've been home as 'd a' made
him angry if he seed it, or said a word as he mightn't a' heard."
"I don't think you have, dear."
"Then why can't he come round, if it was ever so little? I'd sooner
he'd beat me; that I would."
"He'll never do that, Carry. I don't know as he ever laid a hand upon
one of us since we was little things."
"It 'd be better than never speaking to a girl. Only for you and
mother, Fan, I'd be off again."
"You would not. You know you would not. How dare you say that?"
"But why shouldn't he say a word to one, so that one shouldn't go
about like a dead body in the house?"
"Carry dear, listen to this. If you'll manage well; if you'll be good
to him, and patient while you are with him; if you'll bear with him,
and yet be gentle when he--"
"I am gentle,--always,--now."
"You are, dear; but when he speaks, as he'll have to speak when
you're all alone like, be very gentle. Maybe, Carry, when you've come
back, he will be gentle with you."
They had ever so much more to discuss. Would Sam be at the trial?
And, if so, would he and his father speak to each other? They had
both been told that Sam had been summoned, and that the police would
enforce his attendance; but they were neither of them sure whether
he would be there in custody or as a free man. At last they went to
sleep, but Carry's slumbers were not very sound. As has been told
before, it was the miller's custom to be up every morning at five.
The two girls would afterwards rise at six, and then, an hour after
that, Mrs. Brattle would be instructed that her time had come. On
the Tuesday morning, however, the miller was not the first of the
family to leave his bed. Carry crept out of hers by the earliest
dawn of daylight, without waking her sister, and put on her clothes
stealthily. Then she made her way silently to the front door, which
she opened, and stood there outside waiting till her father should
come. The morning, though it was in August, was chill, and the time
seemed to be very long. She had managed to look at the old clock as
she passed, and had seen that it wanted a quarter to five. She knew
that her father was never later than five. What, if on this special
morning he should not come, just because she had resolved, after many
inward struggles, to make one great effort to obtain his pardon.
At last he was coming. She heard his step in the passage, and then
she was aware that he had stopped when he found the fastenings of
the door unloosed. She perceived too that he delayed to examine the
lock,--as it was natural that he should do; and she had forgotten
that he would be arrested by the open door. Thinking of this in the
moment of time that was allowed to her, she hurried forward and
encountered him.
"Father," she said; "it is I."
He was angry that she should have dared to unbolt the door, or to
withdraw the bars. What was she, that she should be trusted to open
or to close the house? And there came upon him some idea of wanton
and improper conduct. Why was she there at that hour? Must it be that
he should put her again from the shelter of his roof?
Carry was clever enough to perceive in a moment what was passing in
the old man's mind. "Father," she said, "it was to see you. And I
thought,--perhaps,--I might say it out here." He believed her at
once. In whatever spirit he might accept her present effort, that
other idea had already vanished. She was there that they two might be
alone together in the fresh morning air, and he knew that it was so.
"Father," she said, looking up into his face. Then she fell on the
ground at his feet, and embraced his knees, and lay there sobbing.
She had intended to ask him for forgiveness, but she was not able to
say a word. Nor did he speak for awhile; but he stooped and raised
her up tenderly; and then, when she was again standing by him, he
stepped on as though he were going to the mill without a word. But he
had not rebuked her, and his touch had been very gentle. "Father,"
she said, following him, "if you could forgive me! I know I have been
bad, but if you could forgive me!"
He went to the very door of the mill before he turned; and she, when
she saw that he did not come back to her, paused upon the bridge. She
had used all her eloquence. She knew no other words with which to
move him. She felt that she had failed, but she could do no more. But
he stopped again without entering the mill.
"Child," he said at last, "come here, then." She ran at once to meet
him. "I will forgive thee. There. I will forgive thee, and trust thou
may'st be a better girl than thou hast been."
She flew to him and threw her arms round his neck and kissed his face
and breast. "Oh, father," she said, "I will be good. I will try to be
good. Only you will speak to me."
[Illustration: "Oh, father," she said, "I will be good."]
"Get thee into the house now. I have forgiven thee." So saying he
passed on to his morning's work.
Carry, running into the house, at once roused her sister. "Fanny,"
she exclaimed, "he has forgiven me at last; he has said that he will
forgive me."
But to the miller's mind, and to his sense of justice, the
forgiveness thus spoken did not suffice. When he returned to
breakfast, Mrs. Brattle had, of course, been told of the morning's
work, and had rejoiced greatly. It was to her as though the greatest
burden of her life had now been taken from her weary back. Her girl,
to her loving motherly heart, now that he who had in all things been
the lord of her life had vouchsafed his pardon to the poor sinner,
would be as pure as when she had played about the mill in all her
girlish innocence. The mother had known that her child was still
under a cloud, but the cloud to her had consisted in the father's
wrath rather than in the feeling of any public shame. To her a sin
repented was a sin no more, and her love for her child made her sure
of the sincerity of that repentance. But there could be no joy over
the sinner in this world till the head of the house should again have
taken her to his heart. When the miller came in to his breakfast the
three women were standing together, not without some outward marks of
contentment. Mrs. Brattle's cap was clean, and even Fanny, who was
ever tidy and never smart, had managed in some way to add something
bright to her appearance. Where is the woman who, when she has been
pleased, will not show her pleasure by some sign in her outward
garniture? But still there was anxiety. "Will he call me Carry?" the
girl had asked. He had not done so when he pronounced her pardon
at the mill door. Though they were standing together they had not
decided on any line of action. The pardon had been spoken and they
were sure that it would not be revoked; but how it would operate at
first none of them had even guessed.
The miller, when he had entered the room and come among them, stood
with his two hands resting on the round table, and thus he addressed
them: "It was a bad time with us when the girl, whom we had all loved
a'most too well, forgot herself and us, and brought us to shame,--we
who had never known shame afore,--and became a thing so vile as I
won't name it. It was well nigh the death o' me, I know."
"Oh, father!" exclaimed Fanny.
"Hold your peace, Fanny, and let me say my say out. It was very
bad then; and when she come back to us, and was took in, so that
she might have her bit to eat under an honest roof, it was bad
still;--for she was a shame to us as had never been shamed afore. For
myself I felt so, that though she was allays near me, my heart was
away from her, and she was not one with me, not as her sister is one,
and her mother, who never know'd a thought in her heart as wasn't fit
for a woman to have there." By this time Carry was sobbing on her
mother's bosom, and it would be difficult to say whose affliction was
the sharpest. "But them as falls may right themselves, unless they be
chance killed as they falls. If my child be sorry for her sin--"
"Oh, father, I am sorry."
"I will bring myself to forgive her. That it won't stick here," and
the miller struck his heart violently with his open palm, "I won't be
such a liar as to say. For there ain't no good in a lie. But there
shall be never a word about it more out o' my mouth,--and she may
come to me again as my child."
There was a solemnity about the old man's speech which struck them
all with so much awe that none of them for a while knew how to move
or to speak. Fanny was the first to stir, and she came to him and put
her arm through his and leaned her head upon his shoulder.
"Get me my breakfast, girl," he said to her. But before he had moved
Carry had thrown herself weeping on his bosom. "That will do," he
said. "That will do. Sit down and eat thy victuals." Then there was
not another word said, and the breakfast passed off in silence.
Though the women talked of what had occurred throughout the day, not
a word more dropped from the miller's mouth upon the subject. When
he came in to dinner he took his food from Carry's hand and thanked
her,--as he would have thanked his elder daughter,--but he did not
call her by her name. Much had to be done in preparing for the
morrow's journey, and for the days through which they two might be
detained at the assizes. The miller had borrowed a cart in which
he was to drive himself and his daughter to the Bullhampton road
station, and, when he went to bed, he expressed his determination of
starting at nine, so as to catch a certain train into Salisbury. They
had been told that it would be sufficient if they were in the city
that day at one o'clock.
On the next morning the miller was in his mill as usual in the
morning. He said nothing about the work, but the women knew that it
must in the main stand still. Everything could not be trusted to one
man, and that man a hireling. But nothing was said of this. He went
into his mill, and the women prepared his breakfast, and the clean
shirt and the tidy Sunday coat in which he was to travel. And Carry
was ready dressed for the journey;--so pretty, with her bright curls
and sweet dimpled cheeks, but still with that look of fear and sorrow
which the coming ordeal could not but produce. The miller returned,
dressed himself as he was desired, and took his place at the table in
the kitchen; when the front door was again opened,--and Sam Brattle
stood among them!
"Father," said he, "I've turned up just in time."
Of course the consternation among them was great; but no reference
was made to the quarrel which had divided the father and son when
last they had parted. Sam explained that he had come across the
country from the north, travelling chiefly by railway, but that he
had walked from the Swindon station to Marlborough on the preceding
evening, and from thence to Bullhampton that morning. He had come by
Birmingham and Gloucester, and thence to Swindon.
"And now, mother, if you'll give me a mouthful of some'at to eat, you
won't find that I'm above eating of it."
He had been summoned to Salisbury, he said, for that day, but nothing
should induce him to go there till the Friday. He surmised that he
knew a thing or two, and as the trial wouldn't come off before Friday
at the earliest, he wouldn't show his face in Salisbury before that
day. He strongly urged Carry to be equally sagacious, and used some
energetic arguments to the same effect on his father, when he found
that his father was also to be at the assizes; but the miller did not
like to be taught by his son, and declared that as the legal document
said Wednesday, on the Wednesday his daughter should be there.
"And what about the mill?" asked Sam. The miller only shook his head.
"Then there's only so much more call for me to stay them two days,"
said Sam. "I'll be at it hammer and tongs, father, till it's time for
me to start o' Friday. You tell 'em as how I'm coming. I'll be there
afore they want me. And when they've got me they won't get much out
of me, I guess."
To all this the miller made no reply, not forbidding his son to work
the mill, nor thanking him for the offer. But Mrs. Brattle and Fanny,
who could read every line in his face, knew that he was well-pleased.
And then there was the confusion of the start. Fanny, in her
solicitude for her father, brought out a little cushion for his
seat. "I don't want no cushion to sit on," said he; "give it here to
Carry." It was the first time that he had called her by her name, and
it was not lost on the poor girl.