Fenwick took a large, red apple from the dresser, and began to munch, it, declaring that they had none such in their orchard. And then, when the apple was finished, he had to begin his story.
“Mrs. Brattle, I’m sorry that I have something to say that will vex you.”
“Eh, Mr. Fenwick! Bad news? ’Deed and I think there’s but little good news left to us now—little that comes from the tongues of men. It’s bad news that is always coming here. Mr. Fenwick—what is it, sir?”
Then he repeated the question he had before put to the miller about Sam. Where was Sam last night?—She only shook her head. Did he sleep at home?—She shook her head again. Had he breakfasted at home?
“ ’Deed no, sir. I haven’t set eyes on him since before yesterday.”
“But how does he live? His father does not give him money, I suppose?”
“There’s little enough to give him, Mr. Fenwick. When he is at the mill his father do pay him a some’at over and above his keep. It isn’t much, sir. Young men must have a some’at in their pockets at times.”
“He has too much in his pockets, I fear. I wish he had nothing, so that he needs must come home for his meals. He works at the mill, doesn’t he?”
“At times, sir; and there isn’t a lad in all Bullumpton,”—for so the name was ordinarily pronounced—“who can do a turn of work to beat him.”
“Do he and his father agree pretty well?”
“At times, sir. Times again his father don’t say much to him. The master ain’t given to much talking in the mill, and Sam, when he’s there, works with a will. There’s times when his father softens down to him, and then to see ’em, you’d think they was all in all to each other. There’s a stroke of the master about Sam hisself, at times, Mr. Fenwick, and the old man’s eyes gladden to see it. There’s none so near his heart now as poor Sam.”
“If he were as honest a man as his father, I could forgive all the rest,” said Mr. Fenwick slowly, meaning to imply that he was not there now to complain of church observances neglected, or of small irregularities of life. The paganism of the old miller had often been the subject of converse between the parson and Mrs. Brattle, it being a matter on which she had many an unhappy thought. He, groping darkly among subjects which he hardly dared to touch in her presence lest he should seem to unteach that in private which he taught in public, had subtlely striven to make her believe that though she, through her faith, would be saved, he, the husband, might yet escape that doom of everlasting fire, which to her was so stern a reality that she thought of its fury with a shudder whenever she heard of the world’s wickedness. When Parson Fenwick had first made himself intimate at the mill Mrs. Brattle had thought that her husband’s habits of life would have been to him as wormwood and gall—that he would be unable not to chide, and well she knew that her husband would bear no chiding. By degrees she had come to understand that this new parson was one who talked more of life with its sorrows, and vices, and chances of happiness, and possibilities of goodness, than he did of the requirements of his religion. For herself inwardly she had grieved at this, and, possibly, also for him; but, doubtless, there had come to her some comfort, which she did not care to analyse, from the manner in which “the master,” as she called him, Pagan as he was, had been treated by her clergyman. She wondered that it should be so, but yet it was a relief to her to know that God’s messenger should come to her, and yet say never a word of his message to that hard lord, whom she so feared and so loved, and who was, as she well knew, too stubborn to receive it. And Fenwick had spoken—still spoke to her, so tenderly of her erring, fallen child, never calling her a castaway, talking of her as Carry, who might yet be worthy of happiness here and of all joy hereafter; that when she thought of him as a minister of God, whose duty it was to pronounce God’s threats to erring human beings, she was almost alarmed. She could hardly understand his leniency—his abstinence from reproof; but entertained a vague, wandering, unformed wish that, as he never opened the vials of his wrath on them, he would pour it out upon her—on her who would bear it for their sake so meekly. If there was such a wish it was certainly doomed to disappointment. At this moment Fanny came in and curtseyed as she gave her hand to the parson.
“Was Sam at home last night, Fan?” asked the mother, in a sad, low voice.
“Yes, mother. He slept in his bed.”
“You are sure?” said the parson.
“Quite sure. I heard him this morning as he went out. It was about five. He spoke to me, and I answered him.”
“What did he say?”
“That he must go over to Lavington, and wouldn’t be home till nightfall. I told him where he would find bread and cheese, and he took it.”
“But you didn’t see him last night?”
“No, sir. He comes in at all hours, when he pleases. He was at dinner before yesterday, but I haven’t seen him since. He didn’t go nigh the mill after dinner that day.”
Then Mr. Fenwick considered how much he would tell to the mother and sister, and how much he would keep back. He did not in his heart believe that Sam Brattle had intended to enter his house and rob it; but he did believe that
