"No;--I don't mean that. I was only thinking how quickly a woman may recover from such a hurt."
"Frank, don't be ill-natured. She will be doing what all her friends advise."
"If I were to die, your friends would advise you not to grieve; but they would think you very unfeeling if you did not."
"Are you going to turn against her?"
"No."
"Then why do you say such things? Is it not better that she should make the effort than lie there helpless and motionless, throwing her whole life away? Will it not be much better for Harry Gilmore?"
"Very much better for him, because he'll go crazy if she don't."
"And for her too. We can't tell what is going on inside her breast.
I believe that she is making a great effort because she thinks it is right. You will be kind to her when she comes?"
"Certainly I will,--for Harry's sake--and her own."
But in truth the Vicar at this moment was not in a good humour.
He was becoming almost tired of his efforts to set other people straight, so great were the difficulties that came in his way. As he had driven into his own gate he had met Mr. Puddleham, standing in the road just in front of the new chapel. He had made up his mind to accept the chapel, and now he said a pleasant word to the minister.
Mr. Puddleham turned up his eyes and his nose, bowed very stiffly, and then twisted himself round, without answering a word. How was it possible for a man to live among such people in good humour and Christian charity?
In the evening he was sitting with his wife in the drawing-room discussing all these troubles, when the maid came in to say that Constable Toffy was at the door.
Constable Toffy was shown into his study, and then the Vicar followed him. He had not spoken to the constable now for some months,--not since the time at which Sam had been liberated; but he had not a moment's doubt when he was thus summoned, that something was to be said as to the murder of Mr. Trumbull. The constable put his hand up to his head, and sat down at the Vicar's invitation, before he began to speak.
"What is it, Toffy?" said the Vicar.
"We've got 'em at last, I think," said Mr. Toffy, in a very low, soft voice.
"Got whom;--the murderers?"
"Just so, Mr. Fenwick; all except Sam Brattle,--whom we want."
"And who are the men?"
"Them as we supposed all along,--Jack Burrows, as they call the Grinder, and Lawrence Acorn as was along with him. He's a Birmingham chap, is Acorn. He's know'd very well at Birmingham. And then, Mr.
Fenwick, there's Sam. That's all as seems to have been in it. We shall want Sam, Mr. Fenwick."
"You don't mean to tell me that he was one of the murderers?"
"We shall want him, Mr. Fenwick."
"Where did you find the other men?"
"They did get as far as San Francisco,--did the others. They haven't had a bad game of it,--have they, Mr. Fenwick? They've had more than seven months of a run. It was the 31st of August as Mr. Trumbull was murdered, and here's the 15th of April, Mr. Fenwick. There ain't a many runs as long as that. You'll have Sam Brattle for us all right, no doubt, Mr. Fenwick?" The Vicar told the constable that he would see to it, and get Sam Brattle to come forward as soon as he could.
"I told you all through, Mr. Fenwick, as Sam was one of them as was in it, but you wouldn't believe me."
"I don't believe it now," said the Vicar.
CHAPTER XLVII.
SAM BRATTLE IS WANTED.
The next week was one of considerable perturbation, trouble, and excitement at Bullhampton, and in the neighbourhood of Warminster and Heytesbury. It soon became known generally that Jack the Grinder and Lawrence Acorn were in Salisbury gaol, and that Sam Brattle--was wanted. The perturbation and excitement at Bullhampton were, of course, greater than elsewhere. It was necessary that the old miller should be told,--necessary also that the people at the mill should be asked as to Sam's present whereabouts. If they did not know it, they might assist the Vicar in discovering it. Fenwick went to the mill, taking the Squire with him; but they could obtain no information. The miller was very silent, and betrayed hardly any emotion when he was told that the police again wanted his son.
"They can come and search," he said. "They can come and search."
And then he walked slowly away into the mill. There was a scene, of course, with Mrs. Brattle and Fanny, and the two women were in a sad way.
"Poor boy,--wretched boy!" said the unfortunate mother, who sat sobbing with her apron over her face.
"We know nothing of him, Mr. Gilmore, or we would tell at once," said Fanny.
"I'm sure you would," said the Vicar. "And you may remember this, Mrs. Brattle; I do not for one moment believe that Sam had any more to do with the murder than you or I. You may tell his father that I say so, if you please."
For saying this the Squire rebuked him as soon as they had left the mill. "I think you go too far in giving such assurance as that," he said.
"Surely you would have me say what I think?"
"Not on such a matter as this, in which any false encouragement may produce so much increased suffering. You, yourself, are so prone to take your own views in opposition to those of others that you should be specially on your guard when you may do so much harm."
"I feel quite sure that he had nothing to do with it."
"You see that you have the police against you after a most minute and prolonged investigation."
"The police are asses," insisted the Vicar.
"Just so. That is, you prefer your own opinion to theirs in regard to a murder. I should prefer yours to theirs on a question of scriptural evidence, but not in such an affair as this. I don't want to talk you over, but I wish to make you careful with other people who are so closely concerned. In dealing with others you have no right to throw over the ordinary rules of evidence."
The Vicar accepted the rebuke and promised to be more careful,--repeating, however, his own opinion about Sam, to which he declared his intention of adhering in regard to his own conduct, let the police and magistrates say what they might. He almost went so far as to declare that he should do so even in opposition to the verdict of a jury; but Gilmore understood that this was simply the natural obstinacy of the man, showing itself in its natural form.
At this moment, which was certainly one of gloom to the parish at large, and of great sorrow at the Vicarage, the Squire moved about with a new life which was evident to all who saw him. He went about his farm, and talked about his trees, and looked at his horses and had come to life again. No doubt many guesses as to the cause of this were made throughout his establishment, and some of them, probably, very near the truth. But, for the Fenwicks there was no need of guessing. Gilmore had been told that Mary Lowther was coming to Bullhampton in the early summer, and had at once thrown off the cloak of his sadness. He had asked no further questions; Mrs. Fenwick had found herself unable to express a caution; but the extent of her friend's elation almost frightened her.
"I don't look at it," she said to her husband, "quite as he does."
"She'll have him now," he answered, and then Mrs. Fenwick said nothing further.
To Fenwick himself, this change was one of infinite comfort. The Squire was his old friend and almost his only near neighbour. In all his troubles, whether inside or outside of the parish, he naturally went to Gilmore; and, although he was a man not very prone to walk by the advice of friends, still it had been a great thing to him to have a friend who would give an opinion, and perhaps the more so, as the friend was one who did not insist on having his opinion taken. During the past winter Gilmore had been of no use whatever to his friend.
His opinions on all matters had gone so vitally astray, that they had not been worth having. And he had become so morose, that the Vicar had found it to be almost absolutely necessary to leave him alone as far as ordinary life was concerned. But now the Squire was himself again, and on this exciting topic of Trumbull's murder, the prisoners in Salisbury gaol, and the necessity for Sam's reappearance, could talk sensibly and usefully.
It was certainly very expedient that Sam should be made to reappear as soon as possible. The idea was general in the parish that the Vicar knew all about him. George Brattle, who had become bail for his brother's reappearance, had given his name on the clear understanding that the Vicar would be responsible. Some half-sustained tidings of Carry's presence in Salisbury and of the Vicar's various visits to the city were current in Bullhampton, and with these were mingled an idea that Carry and Sam were in league together. That Fenwick was chivalrous, perhaps Quixotic, in his friendships for those whom he regarded, had long been felt, and this feeling was now stronger than ever. He certainly could bring up Sam Brattle if he pleased;--or, if he pleased, as might, some said, not improbably be the case, he could keep him away. There would be 400 to pay for the bail-bond, but the Vicar was known to be rich as well as Quixotic, and,--so said the Puddlehamites,--would care very little about that, if he might thus secure for himself his own way.
He was constrained to go over again to Salisbury in order that he might, if possible, learn from Carry how to find some trace to her brother, and of this visit the Puddlehamites also informed themselves. There were men and women in Bullhampton who knew exactly how often the Vicar had visited the young woman at Salisbury, how long he had been with her on each occasion, and how much he paid Mrs.
Stiggs for the accommodation. Gentlemen who are Quixotic in their kindness to young women are liable to have their goings and comings chronicled with much exactitude, if not always with accuracy.