They had both doubted whether Sam would be found at the mill; but there he was, hard at work among the skeleton timbers, when his friends reached the place.
“I am glad to see you at home again, Sam,” said Mrs. Fenwick, with something, however, of an inner feeling that perhaps she might be saluting a murderer.
Sam touched his cap, but did not utter a word, or look away from his work. They passed on amidst the heaps in front of the mill, and came to the porch before the cottage. Here, as had been his wont in all these idle days, the miller was sitting with a pipe in his mouth. When he saw the lady he got up and ducked his head, and then sat down again. “If your wife is here, I’ll just step in, Mr. Brattle,” said Mrs. Fenwick.
“She be there, ma’am,” said the miller, pointing towards the kitchen window with his head. So Mrs. Fenwick lifted the latch and entered. The parson sat himself down by the miller’s side.
“I am heartily glad, Mr. Brattle, that Sam is back with you here once again.”
“He be there, at work among the rest o’ ’em,” said the miller.
“I saw him as I came along. I hope he will remain here now.”
“I can’t say, Muster Fenwick.”
“But he intends to do so?”
“I can’t say, Muster Fenwick.”
“Would it not be well that you should ask him?”
“Not as I knows on, Muster Fenwick.”
It was manifest enough that the old man had not spoken to his son on the subject of the murder, and that there was no confidence—at least, no confidence that had been expressed—between the father and the son. No one had as yet heard the miller utter any opinion as to Sam’s innocence or his guilt. This of itself seemed to the clergyman to be a very terrible condition for two persons who were so closely united, and who were to live together, work together, eat together, and have mutual interests.
“I hope, Mr. Brattle,” he said, “that you give Sam the full benefit of his discharge.”
“He’ll get his vittles and his bed, and a trifle of wages if he works for ’em.”
“I didn’t mean that. I’m quite sure you wouldn’t see him want a comfortable home, as long as you have one to give him.”
“There ain’t much comfort about it now.”
“I was speaking of your own opinion of the deed that was done. My own opinion is that Sam had nothing to do with it.”
“I’m sure I can’t say, Muster Fenwick.”
“But it would be a comfort to you to think that he is innocent.”
“I ain’t no comfort in talking about it—not at all—and I’d rayther not, if it’s all one to you, Muster Fenwick.”
“I will not ask another question, but I’ll repeat my own opinion, Mr. Brattle. I don’t believe that he had anything more to do with the robbery or the murder, than I had.”
“I hope not, Muster Fenwick. Murder is a terrible crime. And now, if you’ll tell me how much it was you paid the lawyer at Heytesbury—”
“I cannot say as yet. It will be some trifle. You need not trouble yourself about that.”
“But I mean to pay ’un, Muster Fenwick. I can pay my way as yet, though it’s hard enough at times.” The parson was obliged to promise that Mr. Jones’s bill of charges should be sent to him, and then he called his wife, and they left the mill. Sam was still up among the timbers, and had not once come down while the visitors were in the cottage. Mrs. Fenwick had been more successful with the women than the parson had been with the father. She had taken upon herself to say that she thoroughly believed Sam to be innocent, and they had thanked her with many protestations of gratitude.
They did not go back by the way they had come, but went up to the road, which they crossed, and thence to some outlying cottages which were not very far from Hampton Privets House. From these cottages there was a path across the fields back to Bullhampton, which led by the side of a small wood belonging to the Marquis. There was a good deal of woodland just here, and this special copse, called Hampton bushes, was known to be one of the best pheasant coverts in that part of the country. Whom should they meet, standing on the path, armed with his gun, and with his keeper behind him armed with another, than the Marquis of Trowbridge himself. They had heard a shot or two, but they had thought nothing of it, or they would have gone back to the road. “Don’t speak,” said the parson, as he walked on quickly with his wife on his arm. The Marquis stood and scowled; but he had the breeding of a gentleman, and when Mrs. Fenwick was close to him, he raised his hat. The parson also raised his, the lady bowed, and then they passed on without a word. “I had no excuse for doing so, or I would certainly have told him that Sam Brattle was comfortably at home with his father,” said the parson.
“How you do like a fight, Frank!”
“If it’s stand up, and all fair, I don’t dislike it.”
XX
I
