“Someone at Salisbury, Muster Fenwick? Is it anyone as I knows?”
“One that you did know well, Mr. Brattle. I’ve seen your sister Carry.” Again there came upon the farmer’s face that heavy look, which was almost a look of grief; but he did not at once utter a word. “Poor young thing!” continued the Vicar. “Poor, dear, unfortunate girl!”
“She brought it on herself, and on all of us,” said the farmer.
“Yes, indeed, my friend. The light, unguarded folly of a moment has ruined her, and brought dreadful sorrow upon you all. But something should be done for her;—eh?”
Still the brother said nothing.
“You will help, I’m sure, to rescue her from the infamy into which she must fall if none help her?”
“If there’s money wanted to get her into any of them places—,” begun the farmer.
“It isn’t that;—it isn’t that, at any rate, as yet.”
“What be it, then?”
“The personal countenance and friendship of some friend that loves her. You love your sister, Mr. Brattle?”
“I don’t know as I does, Muster Fenwick.”
“You used to, and you must still pity her.”
“She’s been and well-nigh broke the hearts of all on us. There wasn’t one of us as wasn’t respectable, till she come up;—and now there’s Sam. But a boy as is bad ain’t never so bad as a girl.”
It must be understood that in the expression of this opinion Mr. Brattle was alluding, not to the personal wickedness of the wicked of the two sexes, but to the effect of their wickedness on those belonging to them.
“And therefore more should be done to help a girl.”
“I’ll stand the money, Muster Fenwick—if it ain’t much.”
“What is wanted is a home in your own house.”
“Here—at Startup?”
“Yes; here, at Startup. Your father will not take her.”
“Neither won’t I. But it ain’t me in such a matter as this. You ask my missus, and see what she’ll say. Besides, Muster Fenwick, it’s clean out of all reason.”
“Out of all reason to help a sister?”
“So it be. Sister, indeed! Why did she go and make—. I won’t say what she’s made of herself. Ain’t she brought trouble and sorrow enough upon us? Have her here! Why, I’m that angry with her, I shouldn’t be keeping my hands off her. Why didn’t she keep herself to herself, and not disgrace the whole family?”
Nevertheless, in spite of these strong expressions of opinion, Mr. Fenwick, by the dint of the bitter words which he spoke in reference to the brother’s duty as a Christian, did get leave from the farmer to make the proposition to Mrs. George Brattle—such permission as would have bound the brother to accept Carry, providing that Mrs. George would also consent to accept her. But even this permission was accompanied by an assurance that it would not have been given had he not felt perfectly convinced that his wife would not listen for a moment to the scheme. He spoke of his wife almost with awe, when Mr. Fenwick left him to make this second attack. “She has never had nothing to say to none sich as that,” said the farmer, shaking his head, as he alluded both to his wife and to his sister; “and I ain’t sure as she’ll be first-rate civil to anyone as mentions sich in her hearing.”
But Mr. Fenwick persevered, in spite even of this caution. When the Vicar reentered the house, Mrs. George Brattle had retired to her parlour, and the kitchen was in the hands of the maidservant. He followed the lady, however, and found that she had been at the trouble, since he had seen her last, of putting on a clean cap on his behalf. He began at once, jumping again into the middle of things by a reference to her husband.
“Mrs. Brattle,” he said, “your husband and I have been talking about his poor sister Carry.”
“The least said the soonest mended about that one, I’m afeared,” said the dame.
“Indeed, I agree with you. Were she once placed in safe and kind hands, the less then said the better. She has left the life she was leading—”
“They never leaves it,” said the dame.
“It is so seldom that an opportunity is given them. Poor Carry is at the present moment most anxious to be placed somewhere out of danger.”
“Mr. Fenwick, if you ask me, I’d rather not talk about her;—I would indeed. She’s been and brought a slur upon us all, the vile thing! If you ask me, Mr. Fenwick, there ain’t nothing too bad for her.”
Fenwick, who, on the other hand, thought that there could be hardly anything too good for his poor penitent, was beginning to be angry with the woman. Of course, he made in his own mind those comparisons which are common to us all on such occasions. What was the great virtue of this fat, well-fed, selfish, ignorant woman before him, that she should turn up her nose at a sister who had been unfortunate? Was it not an abominable case of the Pharisee thanking the Lord that he was not such a one as the Publican;—whereas the Publican was in a fair way to heaven?
“Surely you would have her saved, if it be possible to save her?” said the Vicar.
“I don’t know about saving. If such as them is to be made all’s one as others as have always been decent, I’m sure I don’t know who it is as isn’t to be saved.”
“Have you never read of Mary Magdalen, Mrs. Brattle?”
“Yes, I have, Mr. Fenwick. Perhaps she hadn’t got no father, nor brothers, and sisters, and sisters-in-law, as would be pretty well brokenhearted when her vileness would be cast up again’ ’em. Perhaps she hadn’t got no decent house over her head afore she begun. I don’t know how that was.”
“Our Saviour’s tender mercy, then, would not have been wide enough for such sin as that.” This the Vicar
