The tidings to be made in a pleasant spirit were not long waited for—or, at any rate, the first instalment of them. On the 2nd of September there arrived a large hamper full of partridges, addressed to Mrs. Fenwick in the Earl’s own handwriting. “The very first fruits,” said the Vicar, as he went down to inspect the plentiful provision thus made for the vicarage larder. Well;—it was certainly better to have partridges from Turnover than accusations of immorality and infidelity. The Vicar so declared at once, but his wife would not at first agree with him. “I really should have such pleasure in packing them up and sending them back,” said she.
“Indeed, you shall do nothing of the kind.”
“The idea of a basket of birds to atone for such insults and calumny as that man has heaped on you!”
“The birds will be only a first instalment,” said the Vicar—and then there were more quips and quirks about that. It was presumed by Mr. Fenwick that the second instalment would be the first pheasants shot in October. But the second instalment came before September was over in the shape of the following note:—
Turnover Park, 20th September, 186‒.
The Marquis of Trowbridge and the Ladies Sophie and Carolina Stowte request that Mr. and Mrs. Fenwick will do them the honour of coming to Turnover Park on Monday the 6th October, and staying till Saturday the 11th.
“That’s an instalment indeed,” said Mrs. Fenwick. “And now what on earth are we to do?” The Vicar admitted that it had become very serious. “We must either go, and endure a terrible time of it,” continued Mrs. Fenwick, “or we must show him very plainly that we will have nothing more to do with him. I don’t see why we are to be annoyed, merely because he is a Marquis.”
“It won’t be because he is a Marquis.”
“Why then? You can’t say that you love the old man, or that the Ladies Sophie and Carolina Stowte are the women you’d have me choose for companions, or that that soapy, silky, humbugging Lord St. George is to your taste.”
“I am not sure about St. George. He can be everything to everybody, and would make an excellent bishop.”
“You know you don’t like him, and you know also that you will have a very bad time of it at Turnover.”
“I could shoot pheasants all the week.”
“Yes—with a conviction at the time that the Ladies Sophie and Carolina were calling you an infidel behind your back for doing so. As for myself I feel perfectly certain that I should spar with them.”
“It isn’t because he’s a Marquis,” said the Vicar, carrying on his argument after a long pause. “If I know myself, I think I may say that that has no allurement for me. And, to tell the truth, had he been simply a Marquis, and had I been at liberty to indulge my own wishes, I would never have allowed myself to be talked out of my righteous anger by that soft-tongued son of his. But to us he is a man of the very greatest importance, because he owns the land on which the people live with whom we are concerned. It is for their welfare that he and I should be on good terms together; and therefore if you don’t mind the sacrifice, I think we’ll go.”
“What;—for the whole week, Frank?”
The Vicar was of opinion that the week might be judiciously curtailed by two days; and, consequently, Mrs. Fenwick presented her compliments to the Ladies Sophie and Carolina Stowte, and expressed the great pleasure which she and Mr. Fenwick would have in going to Turnover Park on the Tuesday, and staying till the Friday.
“So that I shall only be shooting two days,” said the Vicar, “which will modify the aspect of my infidelity considerably.”
They went to Turnover Castle. The poor old Marquis had rather a bad time of it for the hour or two previous to their arrival. It had become an acknowledged fact now in the county that Sam Brattle had had nothing to do with the murder of Farmer Trumbull, and that his acquaintance with the murderers had sprung from his desire to see his unfortunate sister settled in marriage with a man whom he at the time did not know to be disreputable. There had therefore been a reaction in favour of Sam Brattle, whom the county now began to regard as something of a hero. The Marquis, understanding all that, had come to be aware that he had wronged the Vicar in that matter of the murder. And then, though he had been told upon very good authority—no less than that of his daughters, who had been so informed by the sisters of a most exemplary neighbouring curate—that Mr. Fenwick was a man who believed “just next to nothing,” and would just as soon associate with a downright Pagan like old Brattle, as with any professing Christian—still there was the fact of the Bishop’s good opinion; and, though the Marquis was a self-willed man, to him a bishop was always a bishop. It was also clear to him that he had been misled in those charges which he had made against the Vicar in that matter of
