"Why should I care how much she is annoyed?"
"Just so;—but everyone who saw the letter would know that it was pretence and bombast. Of course you will do nothing of the kind."
They were together pretty nearly the whole day. Gilmore, no doubt, would have avoided the Vicar in the morning had it been possible; but now that he had been caught, and had been made to undergo his friend's lectures, he was rather grateful than otherwise for something in the shape of society. It was Fenwick's desire to induce him to return to Bullhampton. If this could not be done, it would no doubt be well that some authority should be obtained from him as to the management of the place. But this subject had not been mooted as yet, because Fenwick felt that if he once acknowledged that the runaway might continue to be a runaway, his chance of bringing the man back to his own home would be much lessened. As yet, however, he had made no impression in that direction. At last they parted on an understanding that they were to breakfast together the next morning at Fenwick's hotel, and then go to the eleven o'clock Sunday service at a certain noted metropolitan church. At breakfast, and during the walk to church, Fenwick said not a word to his friend about Bullhampton. He talked of church services, of ritual, of the quietness of a Sunday in London, and of the Sunday occupations of three millions of people not a fourth of whom attend divine service. He chose any subject other than that of which Gilmore was thinking. But as soon as they were out of church he made another attack upon him. "After that, Harry, don't you feel like trying to do your duty?"
"I feel that I can't fly because my wing is broken," said the Squire.
They spent the whole of the afternoon and evening together, but no good was done. Gilmore, as far as he had a plan, intended to go abroad, travel to the East, or to the West,—or to the South, if so it came about. The Privets might be let if any would choose to take the place. As far as he was concerned his income from his tenants would be more than he wanted. "As for doing them any good, I never did them any good," he said, as he parted from the Vicar for the night. "If they can't live on the land without my being at home, I am sure they won't if I stay there."
CHAPTER LXIX.
THE TRIAL.
The miller, as he was starting from his house door, had called his daughter by her own name for the first time since her return home,—and Carry had been comforted. But no further comfort came to her during her journey to Salisbury from her father's speech. He hardly spoke the whole morning, and when he did say a word as to any matter on the work they had in hand, his voice was low and melancholy. Carry knew well, as did every one at Bullhampton, that her father was a man not much given to conversation, and she had not expected him to talk to her; but the silence, together with the load at her heart as to the ordeal of her examination, was very heavy on her. If she could have asked questions, and received encouragement, she could have borne her position comparatively with ease.
The instructions with which the miller was furnished required that Carry Brattle should present herself at a certain office in Salisbury at a certain hour on that Wednesday. Exactly at that hour she and her father were at the place indicated, already having visited their lodgings at Mrs. Stiggs'. They were then told that they would not be again wanted on that day, but that they must infallibly be in the Court the next morning at half-past nine. The attorney's clerk whom they saw, when he learned that Sam Brattle was not yet in Salisbury, expressed an opinion as to that young man's iniquity which led Carry to think that he was certainly in more danger than either of the prisoners. As they left the office, she suggested to her father that a message should be immediately sent to Bullhampton after Sam. "Let 'un be," said the miller; and it was all that he did say. On that evening they retired to the interior of one of the bedrooms at Trotter's Buildings, at four o'clock in the afternoon, and did not leave the house again. Anything more dreary than those hours could not be imagined. The miller, who was accustomed to work hard all day and then to rest, did not know what to do with his limbs. Carry, seeing his misery, and thinking rather of that than her own, suggested to him that they should go out and walk round the town. "Bide as thee be," said the miller; "it ain't no time now for showing theeself." Carry took the rebuke without a word, but turned her head to hide her tears.