The Vicar of Bullhampton

poor Carry Brattle’s residence at Salisbury. Something of the truth of the girl’s history had come to the ears of the Marquis, and he had been made to believe that he had been wrong. Then there was the affair of the chapel, in which, under his son’s advice, he was at this moment expending £700 in rectifying the mistake which he had made. In giving the Marquis his due we must acknowledge that he cared but little about the money. Marquises, though they may have large properties, are not always in possession of any number of loose hundreds which they can throw away without feeling the loss. Nor was the Marquis of Trowbridge so circumstanced now. But that trouble did not gall him nearly so severely as the necessity which was on him to rectify an error made by himself. He had done a foolish thing. Under no circumstances should the chapel have been built on that spot. He knew it now, and he knew that he must apologise. Noblesse oblige. The old lord was very stupid, very wrongheaded, and sometimes very arrogant; but he would not do a wrong if he knew it, and nothing on earth would make him tell a wilful lie. The epithet indeed might have been omitted; for a lie is not a lie unless it be wilful.

Lord Trowbridge passed the hours of this Tuesday morning under the frightful sense of the necessity for apologising;⁠—and yet he remembered well the impudence of the man, how he had ventured to allude to the Ladies Stowte, likening them to⁠—to⁠—to⁠—! It was terrible to be thought of. And his lordship remembered, too, how this man had written about the principal entrance to his own mansion as though it had been no more than the entrance to any other man’s house! Though the thorns still rankled in his own flesh, he had to own that he himself had been wrong.

And he did it⁠—with an honesty that was beyond the reach of his much more clever son. When the Fenwicks arrived, they were taken into the drawing-room, in which were sitting the Ladies Sophie and Carolina with various guests already assembled at the Castle. In a minute or two the Marquis shuffled in and shook hands with the two newcomers. Then he shuffled about the room for another minute or two, and at last got his arm through that of the Vicar, and led him away into his own sanctum. “Mr. Fenwick,” he said, “I think it best to express my regret at once for two things that have occurred.”

“It does not signify, my lord.”

“But it does signify to me, and if you will listen to me for a moment I shall take your doing so as a favour added to that which you have conferred upon me in coming here.” The Vicar could only bow and listen. “I am sorry, Mr. Fenwick, that I should have written to the bishop of this diocese in reference to your conduct.” Fenwick found it very difficult to hold his tongue when this was said. He imagined that the Marquis was going to excuse himself about the chapel⁠—and about the chapel he cared nothing at all. But as to that letter to the bishop, he did feel that the less said about it the better. He restrained himself, however, and the Marquis went on. “Things had been told me, Mr. Fenwick;⁠—and I thought that I was doing my duty.”

“It did me no harm, my lord.”

“I believe not. I had been misinformed⁠—and I apologise.” The Marquis paused, and the Vicar bowed. It is probable that the Vicar did not at all know how deep at that moment were the sufferings of the Marquis. “And now as to the chapel,” continued the Marquis.

“My lord, that is such a trifle that you must let me say that it is not and has not been of the slightest consequence.”

“I was misled as to that bit of ground.”

“I only wish, my lord, that the chapel could stand there.”

“That is impossible. The land has been appropriated to other purposes, and though we have all been a little in the dark about our own rights, right must be done. I will only add that I have the greatest satisfaction in seeing you and Mrs. Fenwick at Turnover, and that I hope the satisfaction may often be repeated.” Then he led the way back into the drawing-room, and the evil hour had passed over his head.

Upon the whole, things went very well with both the Vicar and his wife during their visit. He did go out shooting one day, and was treated very civilly by the Turnover gamekeeper, though he was prepared with no five-pound note at the end of his day’s amusement. When he returned to the house, his host congratulated him on his performance just as cordially as though he had been one of the laity. On the next day he rode over with Lord St. George to see the County Hunt kennels, which were then at Charleycoats, and nobody seemed to think him very wicked because he ventured to have an opinion about hounds. Mrs. Fenwick’s amusements were, perhaps, less exciting, but she went through them with equanimity. She was taken to see the parish schools, and was walked into the parish church⁠—in which the Stowte family were possessed of an enormous recess called a pew, but which was in truth a room, with a fireplace in it. Mrs. Fenwick thought it did not look very much like a church; but as the Ladies Stowte were clearly very proud of it she held her peace as to that idea. And so the visit to Turnover Park was made, and the Fenwicks were driven home.

“After all, there’s nothing like burying the hatchet,” said he.

“But who sharpened the hatchet?” asked Mrs. Fenwick.

“Never mind who sharpened it. We’ve buried it.”

LXXIII

Conclusion

There is nothing further left to be told of this story of the village of Bullhampton