“And where be she gone to, Mr. Fenwick? Cannot I go arter her?” He simply shook his head and took her by the arm to lead her away. “Do they know nothing of her, Mr. Fenwick?”
“She has gone away; probably to London. We must think no more about her, Mrs. Brattle—at any rate for the present. I can only say that I am very, very sorry that I brought you here.”
The drive back to Bullhampton was very silent and very sad. Mrs. Brattle had before her the difficulty of explaining her journey to her husband, together with the feeling that the difficulty had been incurred altogether for nothing. As for Fenwick, he was angry with himself for his own past enthusiasm about the girl. After all, Mr. Chamberlaine had shown himself to be the wiser man of the two. He had declared it to be no good to take up special cases, and the Vicar as he drove himself home notified to himself his assent with the Prebendary’s doctrine. The girl had gone off the moment she had ascertained that her friends were aware of her presence and situation. What to her had been the kindness of her clerical friend, or the stories brought to her from her early home, or the dirt and squalor of the life which she was leading? The moment that there was a question of bringing her back to the decencies of the world, she escaped from her friends and hurried back to the pollution which, no doubt, had charms for her. He had allowed himself to think that in spite of her impurity, she might again be almost pure, and this was his reward! He deposited the poor woman at the spot at which he had taken her up, almost without a word, and then drove himself home with a heavy heart. “I believe it will be best to be like her father, and never to name her again,” said he to his wife.
“But what has she done, Frank?”
“Gone back to the life which I suppose she likes best. Let us say no more about it—at any rate for the present. I’m sick at heart when I think of it.”
Mrs. Brattle, when she got over the stile close to her own home, saw her husband standing at the mill door. Her heart sank within her, if that could be said to sink which was already so low. He did not move, but stood there with his eyes fixed upon her. She had hoped that she might get into the house unobserved by him, and learn from Fanny what had taken place; but she felt so like a culprit that she hardly dared to enter the door. Would it not be best to go to him at once, and ask his pardon for what she had done? When he spoke to her, which he did at last, his voice was a relief to her. “Where hast been, Maggie?” he asked. She went up to him, put her hand on the lappet of his coat and shook her head. “Best go in and sit easy, and hear what God sends,” he said. “What’s the use of scouring about the country here and there?”
“There has been no use in it today, feyther,” she said.
“There arn’t no use in it—not never,” he said; and after that there was no more about it. She went into the house and handed the bundle to Fanny, and sat down on the bed and cried. On the following morning Frank Fenwick received the following letter:—
London, Sunday.
Honoured Sir,
I told you that I would write if it came as I was going away, but I’ve been forced to go without writing. There was nothing to write with at the cottage. Mrs. Burrows and me had words, and I thought as she would rob me, and perhaps worse. She is a bad woman, and I could stand it no longer, so I just come up here, as there was nowhere else for me to find a place to lie down in. I thought I’d just write and tell you, because of my word; but I know it isn’t no use.
I’d send my respects and love to father and mother, if I dared. I did think of going over; but I know he’d kill me, and so he ought. I’d send my respects to Mrs. Fenwick, only that I isn’t fit to name her;—and my love to sister Fanny. I’ve come away here, and must just wait till I die.
XXIX
The Bull at Loring
Gilmore had told his friend that he would do two things—that he would start off and travel for four or five years, and that he would pay a visit to Loring. Fenwick had advised him to do neither, but to stay at home and dig and say his prayers. But in such emergencies no man takes his friend’s advice; and when Mr. Chamberlaine had left him, Gilmore had made up his mind that he would at any rate go to Loring. He went to church on the Sunday morning, and was half resolved to tell Mrs. Fenwick of his purpose; but chance delayed her in the church, and he sauntered away home without having mentioned it. He let half the next week pass by without stirring beyond his own ground. During those three days he changed his mind half
