“I do not say that. Wait till the summer comes; and then, if I can influence her, we will have her here. If you find that remaining at the Privets all alone is wearisome to you—”
“Of course it is wearisome.”
“Then go up to London—or abroad—or anywhere for a change. Take some occupation in hand and stick to it.”
“That is so easily said, Mrs. Fenwick.”
“No man ever did anything by moping; and you mope. I know I am speaking plainly, and you may be angry with me, if you please.”
“I am not at all angry with you; but I think you hardly understand.”
“I do understand,” said Mrs. Fenwick, speaking with all the energy she could command; “and I am most anxious to do all that you wish. But it cannot be done in a day. If I were to ask her now, she would not come; and if she came it would not be for your good. Wait till the summer. You may be sure that no harm will be done by a little patience.”
Then he went away, declaring again that he would wait with patience; but saying, at the same time, that he would remain at home. “As for going to London,” he said, “I should do nothing there. When I find that there is no chance left, then probably I shall go abroad.”
“It is my belief,” said the Vicar, that evening, when his wife told him what had occurred, “that she will never have him; not because she does not like him, or could not learn to like him if he were as other men are, but simply because he is so unreasonably unhappy about her. No woman was ever got by that sort of puling and whining love. If it were not that I think him crazy, I should say that it was unmanly.”
“But he is crazy.”
“And will be still worse before he has done with it. Anything would be good now which would take him away from Bullhampton. It would be a mercy that his house should be burned down, or that some great loss should fall upon him. He sits there at home, and does nothing. He will not even look after the farm. He pretends to read, but I don’t believe that he does even that.”
“And all because he is really in love, Frank.”
“I am very glad that I have never been in love with the same reality.”
“You never had any need, sir. The plums fell into your mouth too easily.”
“Plums shouldn’t be too difficult,” said the Vicar, “or they lose their sweetness.”
A few days after this Mr. Fenwick was standing at his own gate, watching the building of the chapel and talking to the men, when Fanny Brattle from the mill came up to him. He would stand there by the hour at a time, and had made quite a friendship with the foreman of the builder from Salisbury, although the foreman, like his master, was a Dissenter, and had come into the parish as an enemy. All Bullhampton knew how infinite was the disgust of the Vicar at what was being done; and that Mrs. Fenwick felt it so strongly, that she would not even go in and out of her own gate. All Bullhampton was aware that Mr. Puddleham spoke openly of the Vicar as his enemy—in spite of the peaches and cabbages on which the young Puddlehams had been nourished; and that the Methodist minister had, more than once within the last month or two, denounced his brother of the Established Church from his own pulpit. All Bullhampton was talking of the building of the chapel—some abusing the Marquis and Mr. Puddleham and the Salisbury builder; others, on the other hand, declaring that it was very good that the Establishment should have a fall. Nevertheless there Mr. Fenwick would stand and chat with the men, fascinated after a fashion by the misfortune which had come upon him. Mr. Packer, the Marquis’s steward, had seen him there, and had endeavoured to slink away unobserved—for Mr. Packer was somewhat ashamed of the share he had had in the matter—but Mr. Fenwick had called to him, and had spoken to him of the progress of the building.
“Grimes never could have done it so fast,” said the Vicar.
“Well—not so fast, Mr. Fenwick, certainly.”
“I suppose it won’t signify about the frost?” said the Vicar. “I should be inclined to think that the mortar will want repointing.”
Mr. Packer had nothing to say to this. He was not responsible for the building. He endeavoured to explain that the Marquis had nothing to do with the work, and had simply given the land.
“Which was all that he could do,” said the Vicar, laughing.
It was on the same day and while Packer was still standing close to him, that Fanny Brattle accosted him. When he had greeted the young woman and perceived that she wished to speak to him, he withdrew within his own gate, and asked her whether there was anything that he could do for her. She had a letter in her hand, and after a little hesitation she asked him to read it. It was from her brother, and had reached her by private means. A young man had brought it to her when her father was in the mill, and had then gone off, declining to wait for any answer.
“Father, sir, knows nothing about it as yet,” she said.
Mr. Fenwick took the letter and read it. It was as follows:—
Dear Sister,
I want you to help me a little, for things is very bad with me. And it is not for me neither, or I’d sooner starve nor ax for a sixpence from the mill. But Carry is bad too, and if you’ve got a trifle or so, I think you’d be of a mind to send it. But don’t tell father, on no account. I looks to you not to tell father. Tell mother, if you will; but I looks to her not
