The Marquis by this time was on his feet, and was calling for Packer—was calling for his carriage and horses—was calling on the very gods to send down their thunder to punish such insolence as this. He had never heard of the like in all his experience. His daughters! And then there came across his dismayed mind an idea that his daughters had been put upon a par with that young murderer, Sam Brattle—perhaps even on a par with something worse than this. And his daughters were such august persons—old and ugly, it is true, and almost dowerless in consequence of the nature of the family settlements and family expenditure. It was an injury and an insult that Mr. Fenwick should make the slightest allusion to his daughters; but to talk of them in such a way as this, as though they were mere ordinary human beings, was not to be endured! The Marquis had hitherto had his doubts, but now he was quite sure that Mr. Fenwick was an infidel. “And a very bad sort of infidel, too,” as he said to Lady Carolina on his return home. “I never heard of such conduct in all my life,” said Lord Trowbridge, walking down to his carriage. “Who can be surprised that there should be murderers and prostitutes in the parish?”
“My lord, they don’t sit under me,” said Mr. Puddleham.
“I don’t care who they sit under,” said his lordship.
As they walked away together, Mr. Fenwick had just a word to say to Mr. Puddleham. “My friend,” he said, “you were quite right about his lordship’s acres.”
“Those are the numbers,” said Mr. Puddleham.
“I mean that you were quite right to make the observation. Facts are always valuable, and I am sure Lord Trowbridge was obliged to you. But I think you were a little wrong as to another statement.”
“What statement, Mr. Fenwick?”
“What you said about poor Carry Brattle. You don’t know it as a fact.”
“Everybody says so.”
“How do you know she has not married, and become an honest woman?”
“It is possible, of course. Though as for that—when a young woman has once gone astray—”
“As did Mary Magdalene, for instance!”
“Mr. Fenwick, it was a very bad case.”
“And isn’t my case very bad—and yours? Are we not in a bad way—unless we believe and repent? Have we not all so sinned as to deserve eternal punishment?”
“Certainly, Mr. Fenwick.”
“Then there can’t be much difference between her and us. She can’t deserve more than eternal punishment. If she believes and repents, all her sins will be white as snow.”
“Certainly, Mr. Fenwick.”
“Then speak of her as you would of any other sister or brother—not as a thing that must be always vile because she has fallen once. Women will so speak—and other men. One sees something of a reason for it. But you and I, as Christian ministers, should never allow ourselves to speak so thoughtlessly of sinners. Good morning, Mr. Puddleham.”
XVIII
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Early in October Captain Marrable was called up to town by letters from Messrs. Block and Curling, and according to promise wrote various letters to Mary Lowther, telling her of the manner in which his business progressed. All of these letters were shown to Aunt Sarah—and would have been shown to Parson John were it not that Parson John declined to read them. But though the letters were purely cousinly—just such letters as a brother might write—yet Miss Marrable thought that they were dangerous. She did not say so; but she thought that they were dangerous. Of late Mary had spoken no word of Mr. Gilmore; and Aunt Sarah, through all this silence, was able to discover that Mr. Gilmore’s prospects were not becoming brighter. Mary herself, having quite made up her mind that Mr. Gilmore’s prospects, so far as she was concerned, were all over, could not decide how and when she should communicate the resolve to her lover. According to her present agreement with him, she was to write to him at once should she accept any other offer; and was to wait for six months if this should not be the case. Certainly, there was no rival in the field, and therefore she did not quite know whether she ought or ought not to write at once in her present circumstances of assured determination. She soon told herself that in this respect also she would go to her newfound brother for advice. She would ask him, and do just as he might bid her. Had he not already proved how fit a person he was to give advice on such a subject?
After an absence of ten days he came home, and nothing could exceed Mary’s anxiety as to the tidings which he should bring with him. She endeavoured not to be selfish about the matter; but she could not but acknowledge that, even as regarded herself, the difference between his going to India or staying at home was so great as to affect the whole colour of her life. There was, perhaps, something of the feeling of being subject to desertion about her, as she remembered that in giving up Mr. Gilmore she must also give up the Fenwicks. She could not hope to go to Bullhampton again, at least for many a long day. She would be very much alone if her new brother were to leave her now. On the morning after his arrival he came up to them at Uphill, and told them that the matter was almost settled. Messrs. Block and Curling had declared that it was as good as settled; the money would be saved, and there would be, out of the £20,000 which he had inherited, something over £4,000 for him; so that he need not return to India. He was in very high spirits, and did not speak a word of his father’s iniquities.
“Oh, Walter, what a joy!” said Mary, with the tears streaming from
