The Vicar of Bullhampton

to her feet, and had made her way into the garden and had heard her mother and sister as they talked together at the open window. Any idea which she had hitherto entertained of not making herself known to them at the mill⁠—of not making herself known at any rate to her mother and sister⁠—left her at once at that moment. There had been upon her a waking dream, a horrid dream, that the waters of the mill-stream might flow over her head, and hide her wickedness and her misery from the eyes of men; and she had stood and shuddered as she saw the river; but she had never really thought that her own strength would suffice for that termination to her sorrows. It was more probable that she would be doomed to lie during the night beneath a hedge, and then perish of the morning cold! But now, as she heard the voices at the window, there could be no choice for her but that she should make herself known⁠—not though her father should kill her.

Even Fanny was driven beyond the strength of her composure by the strangeness of this advent. “Carry! Carry!” she exclaimed over and over again, not aloud⁠—and indeed her voice was never loud⁠—but with bated wonder. The two sisters held each other by the hand, and Carry’s other hand still grasped her mother’s arm. “Oh, mother, I am so tired,” said the girl. “Oh, mother, I think that I shall die.”

“My child;⁠—my poor child. What shall we do, Fan?”

“Bring her in, of course,” said Fanny.

“But your father⁠—”

“We couldn’t turn her away from the very window, and she like that, mother.”

“Don’t turn me away, Fanny. Dear Fanny, do not turn me away,” said Carry, striving to take her sister by the other hand.

“No, Carry, we will not,” said Fanny, trying to settle her mind to some plan of action. Any idea of keeping the thing long secret from her father she knew that she could not entertain; but for this night she resolved at last that shelter should be given to the discarded daughter without the father’s knowledge. But even in doing this there would be difficulty. Carry must be brought in through the window, as any disturbance at the front of the house would arouse the miller. And then Mrs. Brattle must be made to go to her own room, or her absence would create suspicion and confusion. Fanny, too, had terrible doubts as to her mother’s powers of going to her bed and lying there without revealing to her husband that some cause of great excitement had arisen. And then it might be that the miller would come to his daughter’s room, and insist that the outcast should be made an outcast again, even in the middle of the night. He was a man so stern, so obstinate, so unforgiving, so masterful, that Fanny, though she would face any danger as regarded herself, knew that terrible things might happen. It seemed to her that Carry was very weak. If their father came to them in his wrath, might she not die in her despair? Nevertheless it was necessary that something should be done. “We must let her get in at the window, mother,” she said. “It won’t do, nohow, to unbar the door.”

“But what if he was to kill her outright! Oh, Carry; oh, my child. I dunna know as she can get in along of her weakness.” But Carry was not so tired as that. She had been in and out of that window scores of times; and now, when she heard that the permission was accorded to her, she was not long before she was in her mother’s arms. “My own Carry, my own bairn;⁠—my girl, my darling.” And the poor mother satisfied the longings of her heart with infinite caresses.

Fanny in the meantime had crept out to the kitchen, and now returned with food in a plate and cold tea. “My girl,” she said, “you must eat a bit, and then we will have you to bed. When the morn comes, we must think about it.”

“Fanny, you was always the best that there ever was,” said Carry, speaking from her mother’s bosom.

“And now, mother,” continued Fanny, “you must creep off. Indeed you must, or of course father’ll wake up. And mother, don’t say a word tomorrow when he rises. I’ll go to him in the mill myself. That’ll be best.” Then, with longings that could hardly be repressed, with warm, thick, clinging kisses, with a hot, rapid, repeated assurance that everything⁠—everything had been forgiven, that her own Carry was once more her own, own Carry, the poor mother allowed herself to be banished. There seemed to her to be such a world of cruelty in the fact that Fanny might remain for the whole of that night with the dear one who had returned to them, while she must be sent away⁠—perhaps not to see her again if the storm in the morning should rise too loudly! Fanny, with great craft, accompanied her mother to her room, so that if the old man should speak she might be there to answer;⁠—but the miller slept soundly after his day of labour, and never stirred.

“What will he do to me, Fan?” the wanderer asked as soon as her sister returned.

“Don’t think of it now, my pet,” said Fanny, softened almost as her mother was softened by the sight of her sister.

“Will he kill me, Fan?”

“No, dear; he will not lay a hand upon you. It is his words that are so rough! Carry, Carry, will you be good?”

“I will, dear; indeed I will. I have not been bad since Mr. Fenwick came.”

“My sister⁠—if you will be good, I will never leave you. My heart’s darling, my beauty, my pretty one! Carry, you shall be the same to me as always, if you’ll be good. I’ll never cast it up again you, if you’ll be good.” Then she, too, filled herself full, and