The Tuesday’s magistrates’ meeting had come off at Heytesbury, and Sam Brattle had been discharged. Mr. Jones had on this occasion indignantly demanded that his client should be set free without bail; but to this the magistrates would not assent. The attorney attempted to demonstrate to them that they could not require bail for the reappearance of an accused person, when that accused person was discharged simply because there was no evidence against him. But to this exposition of the law Sir Thomas and his brother magistrates would not listen. “If the other persons should at last be taken, and Brattle should not then be forthcoming, justice would suffer,” said Sir Thomas. County magistrates, as a rule, are more conspicuous for common sense and good instincts than for sound law; and Mr. Jones may, perhaps, have been right in his view of the case. Nevertheless bail was demanded, and was not forthcoming without considerable trouble. Mr. Jay, the ironmonger at Warminster, declined. When spoken to on the subject by Mr. Fenwick, he declared that the feeling among the gentry was so strong against his brother-in-law, that he could not bring himself to put himself forward. He couldn’t do it for the sake of his family. When Fenwick promised to make good the money risk, Jay declared that the difficulty did not lie there. “There’s the Marquis, and Sir Thomas, and Squire Greenthorne, and our parson, all say, sir, as how he shouldn’t be bailed at all. And then, sir, if one has a misfortune belonging to one, one doesn’t want to flaunt it in everybody’s face, sir.” And there was trouble, too, with George Brattle from Fordingbridge. George Brattle was a prudent, hard-headed, hard-working man, not troubled with much sentiment, and caring very little what any one could say of him as long as his rent was paid; but he had taken it into his head that Sam was guilty, that he was at any rate a thoroughly bad fellow who should be turned out of the Brattle nest, and that no kindness was due to him. With the farmer, however, Mr. Fenwick did prevail, and then the parson became the other bondsman himself. He had been strongly advised,—by Gilmore, by Gilmore’s uncle, the prebendary at Salisbury, and by others,—not to put himself forward in this position. The favour which he had shown to the young man had not borne good results either for the young man or for himself; and it would be unwise,—so said his friends,—to subject his own name to more remark than was necessary. He had so far assented as to promise not to come forward himself, if other bailsmen could be procured. But, when the difficulty came, he offered himself, and was, of necessity, accepted.

When Sam was released, he was like a caged animal who, when liberty is first offered to him, does not know how to use it. He looked about him in the hall of the Court House, and did not at first seem disposed to leave it. The constable had asked him whether he had means of getting home, to which he replied, that “it wasn’t no more than a walk.” Dinner was offered to him by the constable, but this he refused, and then he stood glaring about him. After a while Gilmore and Fenwick came up to him, and the Squire was the first to speak. “Brattle,” he said, “I hope you will now go home, and remain there working with your father for the present.”

“I don’t know nothing about that,” said the lad, not deigning to look at the Squire.

“Sam, pray go home at once,” said the parson. “We have done what we could for you, and you should not oppose us.”

“Mr. Fenwick, if you tells me to go to—to—to,”—he was going to mention some very bad place, but was restrained by the parson’s presence,—“if you tells me to go anywheres, I’ll go.”

“That’s right. Then I tell you to go to the mill.”

“I don’t know as father’ll let me in,” said he, almost breaking into sobs as he spoke.

“That he will, heartily. Do you tell him that you had a word or two with me here, and that I’ll come up and call on him to-morrow.” Then he put his hand into his pocket, and whispering something, offered the lad money. But Sam turned away, and shook his head, and walked off. “I don’t believe that that fellow had any more to do with it than you or I,” said Fenwick.

“I don’t know what to believe,” said Gilmore. “Have you heard that the Marquis is in the town? Greenthorne just told me so.”

“Then I had better get out of it, for Heytesbury isn’t big enough for the two of us. Come, you’ve done here, and we might as well jog home.”

Gilmore dined at the Vicarage that evening, and of course the day’s work was discussed. The quarrel, too, which had taken place at the farmhouse had only yet been in part described to Mrs. Fenwick. “Do you know I feel half triumphant and half frightened,” Mrs. Fenwick said to the Squire. “I know that the Marquis is an old fool, imperious, conceited, and altogether unendurable when he attempts to interfere. And yet I have a kind of feeling that because he is a Marquis, and because he owns two thousand and so many acres in the parish, and because he lives at Turnover Park, one ought to hold him in awe.”

“Frank didn’t hold him in awe yesterday,” said the Squire.

“He holds nothing in awe,” said the wife.

“You wrong me there, Janet. I hold you in great awe, and every lady in Wiltshire more or less;—and I think I may say every woman. And I would hold him in a sort of awe, too, if he didn’t drive me beyond myself by his mixture of folly and pride.”

“He can do us a great deal of mischief, you know,” said Mrs. Fenwick.

“What he can do, he will do,” said the parson. “He even gave me a bad name, no doubt; but I fancy he was generous enough to me in that way before yesterday. He will now declare that I am the Evil One himself, and people won’t believe that. A continued persistent enmity, always at work, but kept within moderate bounds, is more dangerous now-a-days, than a hot fever of revengeful wrath. The Marquis can’t send out his men-at-arms and have me knocked on the head, or cast into a dungeon. He can only throw mud at me, and the more he throws at once, the less will reach me.”

As to Sam, they were agreed that, whether he were innocent or guilty, the old miller should be induced to regard him as innocent, as far as their joint exertion in that direction might avail.

“He is innocent before the law till he has been proved to be guilty,” said the Squire.

“Then of course there can be nothing wrong in telling his father that he is innocent,” said the lady.

The Squire did not quite admit this, and the parson smiled as he heard the argument; but they both acknowledged that it would be right to let it be considered throughout the parish that Sam was to be regarded as blameless for that night’s transaction. Nevertheless, Mr. Gilmore’s mind on the subject was not changed.

“Have you heard from Loring?” the Squire asked Mrs. Fenwick as he got up to leave the Vicarage.

“Oh, yes,—constantly. She is quite well, Mr. Gilmore.”

“I sometimes think that I’ll go off and have a look at her.”

“I’m sure both she and her aunt would be glad to see you.”

“But would it be wise?”

“If you ask me, I am bound to say that I think it would not be wise. If I were you, I would leave her for awhile. Mary is as good as gold, but she is a woman; and, like other women, the more she is sought, the more difficult she will be.”

“It always seems to me,” said Mr. Gilmore, “that to be successful ............