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The Vicar of Bullhampton, a novel by Anthony Trollope |
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Chapter 22. What The Fenwicks Thought About It |
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_ CHAPTER XXII. WHAT THE FENWICKS THOUGHT ABOUT IT Bullhampton unfortunately was at the end of the postman's walk, and as the man came all the way from Lavington, letters were seldom received much before eleven o'clock. Now this was a most pernicious arrangement, in respect to which Mr. Fenwick carried on a perpetual feud with the Post-office authorities, having put forward a great postal doctrine that letters ought to be rained from heaven on to everybody's breakfast-table exactly as the hot water is brought in for tea. He, being an energetic man, carried on a long and angry correspondence with the authorities aforesaid; but the old man from Lavington continued to toddle into the village just at eleven o'clock. It was acknowledged that ten was his time; but, as he argued with himself, ten and eleven were pretty much of a muchness. The consequence of this was, that Mary Lowther's letters to Mrs. Fenwick had been read by her two or three hours before she had an opportunity of speaking on the subject to her husband. At last, however, he returned, and she flew at him with the letter in her hand. "Frank," she said, "Frank, what do you think has happened?" "The Bank of England must have stopped, from the look of your face." "I wish it had, with all my heart, sooner than this. Mary has gone and engaged herself to her cousin, Walter Marrable." "Mary Lowther!" "Yes; Mary Lowther! Our Mary! And from what I remember hearing about him, he is anything but nice." "He had a lot of money left to him the other day." "It can't have been much, because Mary owns that they will be very poor. Here is her letter. I am so unhappy about it. Don't you remember hearing about that Colonel Marrable who was in a horrible scrape about somebody's wife?" "You shouldn't judge the son from the father." "They've been in the army together, and they're both alike. I hate the army. They are almost always no better than they should be." "That's true, my dear, certainly of all services, unless it be the army of martyrs; and there may be a doubt on the subject even as to them. May I read it?" "Oh, yes; she has been half ashamed of herself every word she has written. I know her so well. To think that Mary Lowther should have engaged herself to any man after two days' acquaintance!" Mr. Fenwick read the letter through attentively, and then handed it back. "It's a good letter," he said. "You mean that it's well written?" "I mean that it's true. There are no touches put in to make effect. She does love the one man, and she doesn't love the other. All I can say is, that I'm very sorry for it. It will drive Gilmore out of the place." "Do you mean it?" "I do, indeed. I never knew a man to be at the same time so strong and so weak in such a matter. One would say that the intensity of his affection would be the best pledge of his future happiness if he were to marry the girl; but seeing that he is not to marry her, one cannot but feel that a man shouldn't stake his happiness on a thing beyond his reach." "You think it is all up, then;--that she really will marry this man?" "What else can I think?" "These things do go off sometimes. There can't be much money, because, you see, old Miss Marrable opposes the whole thing on account of there not being income enough. She is anything but rich herself, and is the last person of all the world to make a fuss about money. If it could be broken off--." "If I understand Mary Lowther," said Mr. Fenwick, "she is not the woman to have her match broken off for her by any person. Of course I know nothing about the man; but if he is firm, she'll be as firm." "And then she has written to Mr. Gilmore," said Mrs. Fenwick. "It's all up with Harry as far as this goes," said Mr. Fenwick. The Vicar had another matter of moment to discuss with his wife. Sam Brattle, after having remained hard at work at the mill for nearly a fortnight,--so hard at work as to induce his father to declare that he'd bet a guinea there wasn't a man in the three parishes who could come nigh his Sam for a right down day's work;--after all this, Sam had disappeared, had been gone for two days, and was said by the constable to have been seen at night on the Devizes side, from whence was supposed to come the Grinder, and all manner of Grinder's iniquities. Up to this time no further arrest had been made on account of Mr. Trumbull's murder, nor had any trace been found of the Grinder, or of that other man who had been his companion. The leading policeman, who still had charge of the case, expressed himself as sure that the old woman at Pycroft Common knew nothing of her son's whereabouts; but he had always declared, and still continued to declare, that Sam Brattle could tell them the whole story of the murder if he pleased, and there had been a certain amount of watching kept on the young man, much to his own disgust, and to that of his father. Sam had sworn aloud in the village--so much aloud that he had shown his determination to be heard by all men--that he would go to America, and see whether anyone would dare to stop him. He had been told of his bail, and had replied that he would demand to be relieved of his bail;--that his bail was illegal, and that he would have it all tried in a court of law. Mr. Fenwick had heard of this, and had replied that as far as he was concerned he was not in the least afraid. He believed that the bail was illegal, and he believed also that Sam would stay where he was. But now Sam was gone, and the Bullhampton constable was clearly of opinion that he had gone to join the Grinder. "At any rate, he's off somewhere," said Mr. Fenwick, "and his mother doesn't know where he's gone. Old Brattle, of course, won't say a word." "And will it hurt you?" "Not unless they get hold of those other fellows and require Sam's appearance. I don't doubt but that he'd turn up in that case." "Then it does not signify?" "It signifies for him. I've an idea that I know where he's gone, and I think I shall go after him." "Is it far, Frank?" "Something short of Australia, luckily." "Oh, Frank!" "I'll tell you the truth. It's my belief that Carry Brattle is living about twenty miles off, and that he's gone to see his sister." "Carry Brattle!--down here!" "I don't know it, and I don't want to hear it mentioned; but I fancy it is so. At any rate, I shall go and see." "Poor, dear, bright little Carry! But how is she living, Frank?" "She's not one of the army of martyrs, you may be sure. I daresay she's no better than she should be." "You'll tell me if you see her?" "Oh, yes." "Shall I send her anything?" "The only thing to send her is money. If she is in want, I'll relieve her,--with a very sparing hand." "Will you bring her back,--here?" "Ah, who can say? I should tell her mother, and I suppose we should have to ask her father to receive her. I know what his answer will be." "He'll refuse to see her." "No doubt. Then we should have to put our heads together, and the chances are that the poor girl will be off in the meantime,--back to London and the Devil. It is not easy to set crooked things straight." In spite, however, of this interruption, Mary Lowther and her engagement to Captain Marrable was the subject of greatest interest at the Vicarage that day and through the night. Mrs. Fenwick half expected that Gilmore would come down in the evening; but the Vicar declared that his friend would be unwilling to show himself after the blow which he would have received. They knew that he would know that they had received the news, and that therefore he could not come either to tell it, or with the intention of asking questions without telling it. If he came at all, he must come like a beaten cur with his tail between his legs. And then there arose the question whether it would not be better that Mary's letter should be answered before Mr. Gilmore was seen. Mrs. Fenwick, whose fingers were itching for pen and paper, declared at last that she would write at once; and did write, as follows, before she went to bed:-- DEAREST MARY,
Frank bids me send you his kindest love and his best I know this is not nice, but I cannot make it nicer now. JANET FENWICK.
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