“Get me my breakfast, girl,” he said to her. But before he had moved Carry had thrown herself weeping on his bosom. “That will do,” he said. “That will do. Sit down and eat thy victuals.” Then there was not another word said, and the breakfast passed off in silence.
Though the women talked of what had occurred throughout the day, not a word more dropped from the miller’s mouth upon the subject. When he came in to dinner he took his food from Carry’s hand and thanked her—as he would have thanked his elder daughter—but he did not call her by her name. Much had to be done in preparing for the morrow’s journey, and for the days through which they two might be detained at the assizes. The miller had borrowed a cart in which he was to drive himself and his daughter to the Bullhampton road station, and, when he went to bed, he expressed his determination of starting at nine, so as to catch a certain train into Salisbury. They had been told that it would be sufficient if they were in the city that day at one o’clock.
On the next morning the miller was in his mill as usual in the morning. He said nothing about the work, but the women knew that it must in the main stand still. Everything could not be trusted to one man, and that man a hireling. But nothing was said of this. He went into his mill, and the women prepared his breakfast, and the clean shirt and the tidy Sunday coat in which he was to travel. And Carry was ready dressed for the journey;—so pretty, with her bright curls and sweet dimpled cheeks, but still with that look of fear and sorrow which the coming ordeal could not but produce. The miller returned, dressed himself as he was desired, and took his place at the table in the kitchen; when the front door was again opened—and Sam Brattle stood among them!
“Father,” said he, “I’ve turned up just in time.”
Of course the consternation among them was great; but no reference was made to the quarrel which had divided the father and son when last they had parted. Sam explained that he had come across the country from the north, travelling chiefly by railway, but that he had walked from the Swindon station to Marlborough on the preceding evening, and from thence to Bullhampton that morning. He had come by Birmingham and Gloucester, and thence to Swindon.
“And now, mother, if you’ll give me a mouthful of some’at to eat, you won’t find that I’m above eating of it.”
He had been summoned to Salisbury, he said, for that day, but nothing should induce him to go there till the Friday. He surmised that he knew a thing or two, and as the trial wouldn’t come off before Friday at the earliest, he wouldn’t show his face in Salisbury before that day. He strongly urged Carry to be equally sagacious, and used some energetic arguments to the same effect on his father, when he found that his father was also to be at the assizes; but the miller did not like to be taught by his son, and declared that as the legal document said Wednesday, on the Wednesday his daughter should be there.
“And what about the mill?” asked Sam. The miller only shook his head. “Then there’s only so much more call for me to stay them two days,” said Sam. “I’ll be at it hammer and tongs, father, till it’s time for me to start o’ Friday. You tell ’em as how I’m coming. I’ll be there afore they want me. And when they’ve got me they won’t get much out of me, I guess.”
To all this the miller made no reply, not forbidding his son to work the mill, nor thanking him for the offer. But Mrs. Brattle and Fanny, who could read every line in his face, knew that he was well-pleased.
And then there was the confusion of the start. Fanny, in her solicitude for her father, brought out a little cushion for his seat. “I don’t want no cushion to sit on,” said he; “give it here to Carry.” It was the first time that he had called her by her name, and it was not lost on the poor girl.
LXVII
Sir Gregory Marrable Has a Headache
Mary Lowther, in her letter to her aunt, had in one line told the story of her rupture with Mr. Gilmore. This line had formed a postscript, and the writer had hesitated much before she added it. She had not intended to write to her aunt on this subject; but she had remembered at the last moment how much easier it would be to tell the remainder of her story on her arrival at Loring, if so much had already been told beforehand. Therefore it was that she had added these words. “Everything has been broken off between me and Mr. Gilmore—forever.”
This was a terrible blow upon poor Miss Marrable, who, up to the moment of her receiving that letter, thought that her niece was disposed of in the manner that had seemed most desirable to all her friends. Aunt Sarah loved her niece dearly, and by no means looked forward to improved happiness in her own old age when she should be left alone in the house at Uphill; but she entertained the view about young women which is usual with old women who have young women under their charge, and she thought it much best that this special young woman should get herself married. The old women are right
