The Vicar of Bullhampton

withal. Of late, since the miller had become old, and Sam had grown to be too restive and self-willed to act as desired for the general welfare of the family, but little of pleasure, or profit either, had been forthcoming from the patch of ground. There were a few cabbages there, and rows of untended gooseberry and currant bushes, and down towards the orchard there was a patch of potatoes; but no one took pride now in the garden. As for Fanny, if she could provide that there should always be a sufficient meal on the table for her father and mother, it was as much as she could do. The days were clean gone by in which she had had time and spirits to tend her roses, pinks, and pansies. Now she sat at the open window with her mother, and with bated breath they spoke of the daughter and sister that was lost to them.

“He wouldn’t take it amiss, mother, if I was to go over to Salisbury?”

“If you was to ask him, Fan, he’d bid you not,” said the mother.

“But I wouldn’t ask him. I wouldn’t tell him till I was back. She was to be before the magistrates today. Mr. Fenwick told me so on Sunday.”

“It will about be the death of her.”

“I don’t know, mother. She’s bolder now, mother, I fear, than what she was in old days. And she was always sprightly⁠—speaking up to the quality, with no fear like. Maybe it was what she said that got them to let Sam go. She was never a coward, such as me.”

“Oh, Fan, if she’d only a taken after thee!”

“The Lord, mother, makes us different for purposes of his own. Of all the lasses I ever see, to my eyes she was the comeliest.” The old woman couldn’t speak now, but rubbed her moist cheeks with her raised apron. “I’ll ask Mr. Toffy tomorrow, mother,” continued Fanny, “and if she be still at that place in Salisbury where Mr. Fenwick put her, I’ll just go to her. Father won’t turn me out of the house along of it.”

“Turn thee out, Fan! He’ll never turn thee out. What ’d a do, or what ’d I do if thee was to go away from us? If thou dost go, Fan, take her a few bits of things that are lying there in the big press, and’ll never be used other gait. I warrant the poor child’ll be but badly off for underclothing.”

And then they planned how the journey on the morrow should be made⁠—after the constable should have been questioned, and the Vicar should have been consulted. Fanny would leave home immediately after breakfast, and when the miller should ask after her at dinner his wife should tell him that his daughter had gone to Salisbury. If further question should be asked⁠—and it was thought possible that no further question would be asked, as the father would then guess the errand on which his daughter would have gone⁠—but if the subject were further mooted, Mrs. Brattle, with such courage as she might be able to assume, should acknowledge the business that had taken Fanny to Salisbury. Then there arose questions about money. Mr. Fenwick had owned, thinking that he might thereby ease the mother’s heart, that for the present Carry was maintained by him. To take this task upon themselves the mother and daughter were unable. The money which they had in hand, very small in amount, was, they knew, the property of the head of the family. That they could do no permanent good to Carry was a great grief. But it might be something if they could comfort her for awhile.

“I don’t think but what her heart’ll still be soft to thee, Fan; and who knows but what it may bring her round to see thy face, and hear thy voice.”

At that moment Fanny heard a sound in the garden, and stretched her head and shoulders quickly out of the window. They had been late at the mill that evening, and it was now eleven o’clock. It had been still daylight when the miller had left them at tea; but the night had crept on them as they had sat there. There was no moon, but there was still something left of the reflection of the last colours of the setting sun, and the night was by no means dark. Fanny saw at once the figure of a woman, though she did not at once recognise the person of her sister. “Oh, mother! oh, mother! oh, mother!” said a voice from the night; and in a moment Carry Brattle had stretched herself so far within the window that she had grasped her mother by the arm.

LIII

The Fatted Calf

Mrs. Brattle, when she heard her daughter’s voice, was so confounded, dismayed, and frightened, that for awhile she could give no direction as to what should be done. She had screamed at first, having some dim idea in her mind that the form she saw was not of living flesh and blood. And Carry herself had been hardly more composed or mistress of herself than her mother. She had strayed thither, never having quite made up her mind to any settled purpose. From the spot in which she had hidden herself under the bridge when the policeman passed her she had started when the evening sun was setting, and had wandered on slowly till the old familiar landmarks of the parish were reached. And then she came to the river, and looking across could just see the eaves of the mill through the willows by the last gloaming of the sunlight. Then she stood and paused, and every now and again had crept on a few feet as her courage came to her, and at last, by the well known little path, she had crept down behind the mill, crossing the stream by the board which had once been so accustomed