The Vicar of Bullhampton

“You should give him an answer, dear, one way or the other.” These wise words were spoken by Mrs. Fenwick to her friend as they sat together, with their work in their hands, on a garden seat under a cedar tree. It was an August evening after dinner, and the Vicar was out about his parish. The two elder children were playing in the garden, and the two young women were alone together.

“Of course I shall give him an answer. What answer does he wish?”

“You know what answer he wishes. If any man was ever in earnest he is.”

“Am I not doing the best I can for him then in waiting⁠—to see whether I can say yes?”

“It cannot be well for him to be in suspense on such a matter; and, dear Mary, it cannot be well for you either. One always feels that when a girl bids a man to wait, she will take him after a while. It always comes to that. If you had been at home at Loring, the time would not have been much; but, being so near to him, and seeing him every day, must be bad. You must both be in a state of fever.”

“Then I will go back to Loring.”

“No; not now, till you have positively made up your mind, and given him an answer one way or the other. You could not go now and leave him in doubt. Take him at once, and have done with it. He is as good as gold.”

In answer to this, Mary for a while said nothing, but went sedulously on with her work.

It was about eleven o’clock when Gilmore passed through the wicket leading from the vicarage garden to the churchyard. The path he was about to take crossed simply a corner of the church precincts, as it came at once upon a public footway leading from the fields through the churchyard to the town. There was, of course, no stopping the public path, but Fenwick had been often advised to keep a lock on his own gate, as otherwise it almost seemed that the vicarage gardens were open to all Bullhampton. But the lock had never been put on. The gate was the way by which he and his family went to the church, and the parson was accustomed to say that however many keys there might be provided, he knew that there would never be one in his pocket when he wanted it. And he was wont to add, when his wife would tease him on the subject, that they who desired to come in decently were welcome, and that they who were minded to make an entrance indecently would not be debarred by such rails and fences as hemmed in the vicarage grounds. Gilmore, as he passed through the corner of the churchyard, clearly saw a man standing near to the stile leading from the fields. Indeed, this man was quite close to him, although, from the want of light and the posture of the man, the face was invisible to him. But he knew the fellow to be a stranger to Bullhampton.

“Mary,” he said, beginning with words that he had fixed for himself as he came up the garden, “it is six weeks, I think, since I asked you to be my wife; and now I have come to ask you again.”

She made him no immediate answer, but sat as though waiting for some further effort of his eloquence.

“I do not think you doubt my truth, or the warmth of my affection. If you trust in them⁠—”

“I do; I do.”

“Then I don’t know that I can say anything further. Nothing that I can say now will make you love me. I have not that sort of power which would compel a girl to come into my arms.”

“I don’t understand that kind of power⁠—how any man can have it with any girl.”

“They say that it is so; but I do not flatter myself that it is so with me; and I do not think that it would be so with any man over you. Perhaps I may assure you that, as far as I know myself at present, all my future happiness must depend on your answer. It will not kill me⁠—to be refused; at least, I suppose not. But it will make me wish that it would.” Having so spoken he waited for her reply.

She believed every word that he said. And she liked him so well that, for his own sake, she desired that he might be gratified. As far as she knew herself, she had no desire to be Harry Gilmore’s wife.

“What is it, Roger?” he asked.

“For the love of God, sir, get up! They’ve been and murdered Mr. Trumbull.”

Mrs. Fenwick, who heard the tidings, screamed; and Mr. Fenwick was out of bed and into his trousers in half a minute. In another half minute Mrs. Fenwick, clothed in her dressing-gown, was upstairs among her children. No doubt she thought that as soon as the poor farmer had been despatched, the murderers would naturally pass on into her nursery. Mr. Fenwick did not believe the tidings. If a man be hurt in the hunting-field, it is always said that he’s killed. If the kitchen flue be on fire, it is always said that the house is burned down. Something, however, had probably happened at Farmer Trumbull’s; and down went the parson across the garden and orchard, and through the churchyard, as quick as his legs would carry him. In the farmyard he found quite a crowd of men, including the two constables and three or four of the leading tradesmen in the village. The first thing that he saw was the dead body of Bone’m, the dog. He was stiff and stark, and had been poisoned.

“How’s Mr. Trumbull?” he asked, of the nearest bystander.

“Laws, parson, ain’t ye heard?” said the man. “They’ve knocked his skull open with a hammer, and he’s as dead⁠—as dead.”

Hearing this, the parson turned round, and made his way into the house. There was not a doubt about it. The farmer had been murdered during the night, and his money carried off.

The old man had gone aloft, and she heard his slow, heavy feet as he was moving the sacks which were above her head. She considered for a moment, and thinking it better that she should not herself ascend the little ladder⁠—knowing that it might be well that she should have the power of instant retreat to the house⁠—she called to him from below. “What’s wanted now?” demanded the old man as soon as he heard her. “Father, I must speak to you,” she said. “Father, you must come down to me.” Then he came down slowly, without a word, and stood before her waiting to hear her tidings. “Father,” she said, “there is someone in the house, and I have come to tell you.”

“Sam has come, then?” said he; and she could see that there was a sparkle of joy in his eye as he spoke. Oh, if she could only make the return of that other child as grateful to him as would have been the return of his son!

“No, father; it isn’t Sam.”

“Who be it, then?” The tone of his voice, and the colour and bearing of his face were changed as he asked the question. She saw at once that he had guessed the truth. “It isn’t⁠—it isn’t⁠—?”

“Yes, father; it is Carry.” As she spoke she came close to him, and strove to take his hand; but he thrust both his hands into his pockets and turned himself half away from her. “Father, she is our flesh and blood; you will not turn against her now that she has come back to us, and is sorry for her faults.”