when mr. fenwick entered the kitchen, mrs. brattle was sitting there alone. her daughter was away, disposing of the remnants and utensils of the dinner-table. the old lady, with her spectacles on her nose, was sitting as usual with a stocking over her left arm. on the round table was a great open bible, and, lying on the bible, were sundry large worsted hose, which always seemed to mr. fenwick as though they must have undarned themselves as quickly as they were darned. her bible and her stockings furnished the whole of mrs. brattle’s occupation from her dinner to her bed. in the morning, she would still occupy herself in matters of cookery, would peel potatoes, and prepare apples for puddings, and would look into the pot in which the cabbage was being boiled. but her stockings and her bible shared together the afternoons of her week-days. on the sundays there would only be the bible, and then she would pass many hours of the day asleep. on every other sunday morning she still walked to church and back,—going there always alone. there was no one now to accompany her. her husband never went,—never had gone,—to church, and her son now had broken away from his good practices. on alternate mornings fanny went, and also on every sunday afternoon. wet or dry, storm or sunshine, she always went; and her father, who was an old pagan, loved her for her zeal. mrs. brattle was a slight-made old woman, with hair almost white peering out modestly from under her clean cap, dressed always in a brown stuff gown that never came down below her ankle. her features were still pretty, small, and débonnaire, and there was a sweetness in her eyes that no observer could overlook. she was a modest, pure, high-minded woman,—whom we will not call a lady, because of her position in life, and because she darned stockings in a kitchen. in all other respects she deserved the name.
“i heard your voice outside with the master,” she said, rising from her chair to answer the parson’s salutation, and putting down her stockings first, and then her spectacles upon the book, so that the bible was completely hidden; “and i knew you would not go without saying a word to the old woman.”
“i believe i came mostly to see you to-day, mrs. brattle.”
“did you then? it’s kind of you, i’m sure, mr. fenwick, this hot weather,—and you with so many folk to mind too. will you take an apple, mr. fenwick? i don’t know that we’ve anything else to offer, but the quarantines are rare this year, they say;—though, no doubt, you have them better at the vicarage?”
fenwick took a large, red apple from the dresser, and began to munch, it, declaring that they had none such in their orchard. and then, when the apple was finished, he had to begin his story.
“mrs. brattle, i’m sorry that i have something to say that will vex you.”
“eh, mr. fenwick! bad news? ‘deed and i think there’s but little good news left to us now,—little that comes from the tongues of men. it’s bad news that is always coming here. mr. fenwick,—what is it, sir?”
then he repeated the question he had before put to the miller about sam. where was sam last night?—she only shook her head. did he sleep at home?—she shook her head again. had he breakfasted at home?
“‘deed no, sir. i haven’t set eyes on him since before yesterday.”
“but how does he live? his father does not give him money, i suppose?”
“there’s little enough to give him, mr. fenwick. when he is at the mill his father do pay him a some’at over and above his keep. it isn’t much, sir. young men must have a some’at in their pockets at times.”
“he has too much in his pockets, i fear. i wish he had nothing, so that he needs must come home for his meals. he works at the mill, doesn’t he?”
“at times, sir; and there isn’t a lad in all bullumpton,”—for so the name was ordinarily pronounced,—“who can do a turn of work to beat him.”
“do he and his father agree pretty well?”
“at times, sir. times again his father don’t say much to him. the master ain’t given to much talking in the mill, and sam, when he’s there, works with a will. there’s times when his father softens down to him, and then to see ’em, you’d think they was all in all to each other. there’s a stroke of the master about sam hisself, at times, mr. fenwick, and the old man’s eyes gladden to see it. there’s none so near his heart now as poor sam.”
“if he were as honest a man as his father, i could forgive all the rest,” said mr. fenwick slowly, meaning to imply that he was not there now to complain of church observances neglected, or of small irregularities of life. the paganism of the old miller had often been the subject of converse between the parson and mrs. brattle, it being a matter on which she had many an unhappy thought. he, groping darkly among subjects which he hardly dared to touch in her presence lest he should seem to unteach that in private which he taught in public, had subtlely striven to make her believe that though she, through her faith, would be saved, he, the husband, might yet escape that doom of everlasting fire, which to her was so stern a reality that she thought of its fury with a shudder whenever she heard of the world’s wickedness. when parson fenwick had first made himself intimate at the mill mrs. brattle had thought that her husband’s habits of life would have been to him as wormwood and gall,—that he would be unable not to chide, and well she knew that her husband would bear no chiding. by degrees she had come to understand that this new parson was one who talked more of life with its sorrows, and vices, and chances of happiness, and possibilities of goodness, than he did of the requirements of his religion. for herself inwardly she had grieved at this, and, possibly, also for him; but, doubtless, there had come to her some comfort, which she did not care to analyse, from the manner in which “the master,” as she called him, pagan as he was, had been treated by her clergyman. she wondered that it should be so, but yet it was a relief to her to know that god’s messenger should come to her, and yet say never a word of his message to that hard lord, whom she so feared and so loved, and who was, as she well knew, too stubborn to receive it. and fenwick had spoken,—still spoke to her, so tenderly of her erring, fallen child, never calling her a castaway, talking of her as carry, who might yet be worthy of happiness here and of all joy hereafter; that when she thought of him as a minister of god, whose duty it was to pronounce god’s threats to erring human beings, she was almost alarmed. she could hardly understand his leniency,—his abstinence from reproof; but entertained a vague, wandering, unformed wish that, as he never opened the vials of his wrath on them, he would pour it out upon her,—on her who would bear it for their sake so meekly. if there was such a wish it was certainly doomed to disappointment. at this moment fanny came in and curtseyed as she gave her hand to the parson.
“was sam at home last night, fan?” asked the mother, in a sad, low voice.
“yes, mother. he slept in his bed.”
“you are sure?” said the parson.
“quite sure. i heard him this morning as he went out. it was about five. he spoke to me, and i answered him.”
“what did he say?”
“that he must go over to lavington, and wouldn’t be home till nightfall. i told him where he would find bread and cheese, and he took it.”
“but you didn’t see him last night?”
“no, sir. he comes in at all hours, when he pleases. he was at dinner before yesterday, but i haven’t seen him since. he didn’t go nigh the mill after dinner that day.”
then mr. fenwick considered how much he would tell to the mother and sister, and how much he would keep back. he did not in his heart believe that sam brattle had intended to enter his house and rob it; but he did believe that the men with whom sam was associated were thieves and housebreakers. if these men were prowling about bullhampton it was certainly his duty to have them arrested if possible, and to prevent probable depredations, for his neighbours’ sake as well as for his own. nor would he be justified in neglecting this duty with the object of saving sam brattle. if only he could entice sam away from them, into his own hands, under the power of his tongue,—there might probably be a chance.
“you think he’ll be home to-night?” he asked.
“he said he would,” replied fanny, who knew that she could not answer for her brother’s word.
“if he does, bid him come to me. make him come to me! tell him that i will do him no harm. god knows how truly it is my object to do him good.”
“we are sure of that, sir,” said the mother.
“he need not be afraid that i will preach to him. i will only talk to him, as i would to a younger brother.”
“but what is it that he has done, sir?”
“he has done nothing that i know. there;—i will tell you the whole. i found him prowling about my garden at near midnight, yesterday. had he been alone i should have thought nothing of it. he thinks he owes me a grudge for speaking to his father; and had i found him paying it by filling his pockets with fruit, i should only have told him that it would be better that he should come and take it in the morning.”
“but he wasn’t—stealing?” asked the mother.
“he was doing nothing; neither were the men. but they were blackguards, and he was in bad hands. he could not have been in worse. i had a tussle with one of them, and i am sure the man was hurt. that, however, has nothing to do with it. what i desire is to get a hold of sam, so that he may be rescued from the hands of such companions. if you can make him come to me, do so.”
fanny promised, and so did the mother; but the promise was given in that tone which seemed to imply that nothing should be expected from its performance. sam had long been deaf to the voices of the women of his family, and, when his father’s anger would be hot against him, he would simply go, and live where and how none of them knew. among such men and women as the brattles, parental authority must needs lie much lighter than it does with those who are wont to give much and to receive much. what obedience does the lad owe who at eighteen goes forth and earns his own bread? what is it to him that he has not yet reached man’s estate? he has to do a man’s work, and the price of it is his own, in his hands, when he has earned it. there is no curse upon the poor heavier than that which comes from the early breach of all ties of duty between fathers and their sons, and mothers and their daughters.
mr. fenwick, as he passed out of the miller’s house, saw jacob brattle at the door of the mill. he was tugging along some load, pulling it in at the door, and prevailing against the weakness of his age by the force of his energy. the parson knew that the miller saw him, but the miller took no notice,—looked rather as though he did not wish to be observed,—and so the parson went on. when at home he postponed his account of what had taken place till he should be alone with his wife; but at night he told her the whole story.
“the long and the short of it is, master sam will turn to housebreaking, if somebody doesn’t get hold of him.”
“to housebreaking, frank?”
“i believe that he is about it.”
“and were they going to break in here?”
“i don’t think he was. i don’t believe he was so minded then. but he had shown them the way in, and they were looking about on their own scores. don’t you frighten yourself. what with the constable and the life-preserver, we’ll be safe. i’ve a big dog coming, a second bone’m. sam brattle is in more danger, i fear, than the silver forks.”
but, in spite of the cheeriness of his speech, the vicar was anxious, and almost unhappy. after all that occurred in reference to himself and to sam brattle,—their former intimacies, the fish they had caught together, the rats they had killed together, the favour which he, the parson of the parish, had shown to this lad, and especially after the evil things which had been said of himself because of this friendship on his part for one so much younger than himself, and so much his inferior in rank,—it would be to him a most grievous misfortune should he be called upon to acknowledge publicly sam brattle’s iniquity, and more grievous still, if the necessity should be forced upon him of bringing sam to open punishment. fenwick knew well that diverse accusations had been made against him in the parish regarding sam. the marquis of trowbridge had said a word. mr. puddleham had said many words. the old miller himself had growled. even gilmore had expressed disapprobation. the vicar, in his pride, had turned a deaf ear to them all. he began to fear now that possibly he had been wrong in the favours shown to sam brattle.
