When the Vicar left his friend Gilmore, as has been told in the last chapter, he did not return to the vicarage across the fields, but took the carriage road down to the lodge, and from thence crossed the stile that led into the path down to the mill. This was on the 15th of August, a Wednesday, and Carry was summoned to be at Salisbury on that day week. As the day drew near she became very nervous. At the Vicar’s instance Fanny had written to her brother George, asking him whether he would be good to his poor sister, and take her under his charge. He had written back—or rather his wife had written for him—sending Carry a note for £20 as a present, but declining, on the score of his own children, to be seen with her in Salisbury on the occasion. “I shall go with her myself, Mr. Fenwick,” Fanny had said to the Vicar; “it’ll just be better than nobody at all to be along with her.” The Vicar was now going down to the mill to give his assent to this. He could see nothing better. Fanny at any rate would be firm; would not be prevented by false shame from being a very sister to her sister; and would perhaps be admitted where a brother’s attendance might be refused. He had promised to see the women at the mill as early in the week as he could, and now he went thither intent on giving them advice as to their proceedings at Salisbury. It would doubtless be necessary that they should sleep there, and he hoped that they might be accommodated by Mrs. Stiggs.
As he stepped out from the field path on to the lane, almost immediately in front of the mill, he came directly upon the miller. It was between twelve and one o’clock, and old Brattle was wandering about for a minute or two waiting for his dinner. The two men met so that it was impossible that they should not speak; and on this occasion the miller did not seem to avoid his visitor. “Muster Fenwick,” said he, as he took the Vicar’s hand, “I am bound to say as I’m much obliged to ye for all y’ have done for that poor lass in there.”
“Don’t say a word about that, Mr. Brattle.”
“But I must say a word. There’s money owing as I knows. There was ten shilling a week for her keep all that time she was at Salsbry yonder.”
“I will not hear a word as to any money.”
“Her brother George has sent her a gift, Muster Fenwick—twenty pound.”
“I am very glad to hear it.”
“George is a well-to-do man, they tell me,” continued the father, “and can afford to part with his money. But he won’t come forward to help the girl any other gait. I’ll thank you just to take what’s due, Muster Fenwick, and you can give her sister the change. Our Fanny has got the note as George sent.”
Then there was a dispute about the money, as a matter of course. Fenwick swore that nothing was due, and the miller protested that as the money was there all his daughter’s expenses at Salisbury should be repaid. And the miller at last got the best of it. Fenwick promised that he would look to his book, see how much he had paid, and mention the sum to Fanny at some future time. He positively refused to take the note at present, protesting that he had no change, and that he would not burden himself with the responsibility of carrying so much money about with him in his pocket. Then he asked whether, if he went into the house, he would be able to say a word or two to the women before dinner. He had made up his mind that he would make no further attempt at reconciling the father to his daughter. He had often declared to his wife that there could be nothing so hateful to a man as the constant interference of a self-constituted adviser. “I so often feel that I am making myself odious when I am telling them to do this or that; and then I ask myself what I should say if anybody were to come and advise me how to manage you and the bairns.” And he had told his wife more than once how very natural and reasonable had been the expression of the lady’s wrath at Startup, when he had taken upon himself to give her advice. “People know what is good for them to do, well enough, without being dictated to by a clergyman!” He had repeated the words to himself and to his wife a dozen times, and talked of having them put up in big red letters over the fireplace in his own study. He had therefore quite determined to say never another word to old Brattle in reference to his daughter Carry. But now the miller himself began upon the subject.
“You can see ’em, Muster Fenwick, in course. It don’t make no odds about dinner. But I was wanting just to say a word to you about that poor young ooman there.” This he said in a slow, half-hesitating voice, as though he could hardly bring himself to speak of the unfortunate one to whom he alluded. The Vicar muttered some word of assent, and then the miller went on. “You knows, of course, as how she be back here at the mill?”
“Certainly I do. I’ve seen her more than once.”
“Muster Fenwick, I don’t suppose as anyone as asn’t tried it knows what
