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A Changed Man And Other Tales
By
Thomas Hardy
Contents
CHAPTER I.--SHE MISSE=
S HER
SISTER
CHAPTER II.--NEWS INT=
ERESTING
AND SERIOUS
CHAPTER III.--HER GLO=
OM
LIGHTENS A LITTLE
CHAPTER IV.--SHE BEHO=
LDS THE
ATTRACTIVE STRANGER
CHAPTER V.--HER SITUA=
TION IS
A TRYING ONE
CHAPTER VI.--HER INGE=
NUITY
INSTIGATES HER
CHAPTER VII.--A SURPR=
ISE
AWAITS HER
CHAPTER VIII.--SHE TR=
AVELS IN
PURSUIT
CHAPTER IX.--SHE WITN=
ESSES
THE END
CHAPTER X.--SHE ADDS =
A NOTE
LONG AFTER
=
The
person who, next to the actors themselves, chanced to know most of their st=
ory,
lived just below 'Top o' Town' (as the spot was called) in an old substanti=
ally-built
house, distinguished among its neighbours by having an oriel window on the
first floor, whence could be obtained a raking view of the High Street, west
and east, the former including Laura's dwelling, the end of the Town Avenue
hard by (in which were played the odd pranks hereafter to be mentioned), the
Port-Bredy road rising westwards, and the turning that led to the cavalry
barracks where the Captain was quartered.&=
nbsp;
Looking eastward down the town from the same favoured gazebo, the lo=
ng
perspective of houses declined and dwindled till they merged in the highway
across the moor. The white ri=
band
of road disappeared over Grey's Bridge a quarter of a mile off, to plunge i=
nto
innumerable rustic windings, shy shades, and solitary undulations up hill a=
nd
down dale for one hundred and twenty miles till it exhibited itself at Hyde
Park Corner as a smooth bland surface in touch with a busy and fashionable
world.
To the barracks aforesaid had recently arrived=
the
---th Hussars, a regiment new to the locality. Almost before any acquaintance wit=
h its members
had been made by the townspeople, a report spread that they were a 'crack' =
body
of men, and had brought a splendid band.&n=
bsp;
For some reason or other the town had not been used as the headquart=
ers
of cavalry for many years, the various troops stationed there having consis=
ted
of casual detachments only; so that it was with a sense of honour that ever=
ybody--even
the small furniture-broker from whom the married troopers hired tables and
chairs--received the news of their crack quality.
In those days the Hussar regiments still wore =
over
the left shoulder that attractive attachment, or frilled half-coat, hanging
loosely behind like the wounded wing of a bird, which was called the peliss=
e,
though it was known among the troopers themselves as a 'sling-jacket.' It added amazingly to their
picturesqueness in women's eyes, and, indeed, in the eyes of men also.
The burgher who lived in the house with the or=
iel
window sat during a great many hours of the day in that projection, for he =
was
an invalid, and time hung heavily on his hands unless he maintained a const=
ant interest
in proceedings without. Not m=
ore
than a week after the arrival of the Hussars his ears were assailed by the
shout of one schoolboy to another in the street below.
'Have 'ee heard this about the Hussars? They are haunted! Yes--a ghost troubles 'em; he has
followed 'em about the world for years.'
A haunted regiment: that was a new idea for ei=
ther
invalid or stalwart. The listener in the oriel came to the conclusion that
there were some lively characters among the ---th Hussars.
He made Captain Maumbry's acquaintance in an
informal manner at an afternoon tea to which he went in a wheeled chair--on=
e of
the very rare outings that the state of his health permitted. Maumbry showed himself to be a han=
dsome
man of twenty-eight or thirty, with an attractive hint of wickedness in his
manner that was sure to make him adorable with good young women. The large dark eyes that lit his p=
ale
face expressed this wickedness strongly, though such was the adaptability of
their rays that one could think they might have expressed sadness or
seriousness just as readily, if he had had a mind for such.
An old and deaf lady who was present asked Cap=
tain
Maumbry bluntly: 'What's this we hear about you? They say your regiment is haunted.=
'
The Captain's face assumed an aspect of grave,
even sad, concern. 'Yes,' he
replied, 'it is too true.'
Some younger ladies smiled till they saw how
serious he looked, when they looked serious likewise.
'Really?' said the old lady.
'Yes.
We naturally don't wish to say much about it.'
'No, no; of course not. But--how haunted?'
'Well; the--thing, as I'll call it, follows
us. In country quarters or to=
wn,
abroad or at home, it's just the same.'
'How do you account for it?'
'H'm.'
Maumbry lowered his voice.
'Some crime committed by certain of our regiment in past years, we
suppose.'
'Dear me . . . How very horrid, and singular!'=
'But, as I said, we don't speak of it much.'
'No . . . no.'
When the Hussar was gone, a young lady, disclo=
sing
a long-suppressed interest, asked if the ghost had been seen by any of the
town.
The lawyer's son, who always had the latest
borough news, said that, though it was seldom seen by any one but the Hussa=
rs
themselves, more than one townsman and woman had already set eyes on it, to=
his
or her terror. The phantom mo=
stly
appeared very late at night, under the dense trees of the town-avenue neare=
st
the barracks. It was about te=
n feet
high; its teeth chattered with a dry naked sound, as if they were those of a
skeleton; and its hip-bones could be heard grating in their sockets.
During the darkest weeks of winter several tim=
id
persons were seriously frightened by the object answering to this cheerful =
description,
and the police began to look into the matter. Whereupon the appearances grew less
frequent, and some of the Boys of the regiment thankfully stated that they =
had
not been so free from ghostly visitation for years as they had become since
their arrival in Casterbridge.
This playing at ghosts was the most innocent of
the amusements indulged in by the choice young spirits who inhabited the
lichened, red-brick building at the top of the town bearing 'W.D.' and a br=
oad
arrow on its quoins. Far more=
serious
escapades--levities relating to love, wine, cards, betting--were talked of,
with no doubt more or less of exaggeration. That the Hussars, Captain Maumbry
included, were the cause of bitter tears to several young women of the town=
and
country is unquestionably true, despite the fact that the gaieties of the y=
oung
men wore a more staring colour in this old-fashioned place than they would =
have
done in a large and modern city.
=
Regularly
once a week they rode out in marching order.
Returning up the town on one of these occasion=
s,
the romantic pelisse flapping behind each horseman's shoulder in the soft
south-west wind, Captain Maumbry glanced up at the oriel. A mutual nod was exchanged between=
him
and the person who sat there reading.
The reader and a friend in the room with him followed the troop with
their eyes all the way up the street, till, when the soldiers were opposite=
the
house in which Laura lived, that young lady became discernible in the balco=
ny.
'They are engaged to be married, I hear,' said=
the
friend.
'Who--Maumbry and Laura? Never--so soon?'
'Yes.'
'He'll never marry. Several girls have been mentioned =
in
connection with his name. I am
sorry for Laura.'
'Oh, but you needn't be. They are excellently matched.'
'She's only one more.'
'She's one more, and more still. She has regularly caught him. She is a born player of the game of
hearts, and she knew how to beat him in his own practices. If there is one woman in the town =
who
has any chance of holding her own and marrying him, she is that woman.'
This was true, as it turned out. By natural proclivity Laura had fr=
om the
first entered heart and soul into military romance as exhibited in the plots
and characters of those living exponents of it who came under her notice. From her earliest young womanhood
civilians, however promising, had no chance of winning her interest if the
meanest warrior were within the horizon.&n=
bsp;
It may be that the position of her uncle's house (which was her home=
) at
the corner of West Street nearest the barracks, the daily passing of the
troops, the constant blowing of trumpet-calls a furlong from her windows,
coupled with the fact that she knew nothing of the inner realities of milit=
ary
life, and hence idealized it, had also helped her mind's original bias for
thinking men-at-arms the only ones worthy of a woman's heart.
Captain Maumbry was a typical prize; one whom =
all
surrounding maidens had coveted, ached for, angled for, wept for, had by her
judicious management become subdued to her purpose; and in addition to the
pleasure of marrying the man she loved, Laura had the joy of feeling herself
hated by the mothers of all the marriageable girls of the neighbourhood.
The man in the oriel went to the wedding; not =
as a
guest, for at this time he was but slightly acquainted with the parties; but
mainly because the church was close to his house; partly, too, for a reason
which moved many others to be spectators of the ceremony; a subconsciousness
that, though the couple might be happy in their experiences, there was suff=
icient
possibility of their being otherwise to colour the musings of an onlooker w=
ith
a pleasing pathos of conjecture. He
could on occasion do a pretty stroke of rhyming in those days, and he begui=
led
the time of waiting by pencilling on a blank page of his prayer-book a few
lines which, though kept private then, may be given here:-
AT A HASTY WEDDING
(Triolet)
If hours be years the twain are blest, For n=
ow
they solace swift desire By lifelong ties that t=
ether
zest If ho=
urs be
years. The twain are blest Do eastern suns slope n=
ever
west, Nor p=
allid
ashes follow fire. If
hours be years the twain are blest For n=
ow
they solace swift desire.
As if, however, to falsify all prophecies, the
couple seemed to find in marriage the secret of perpetuating the intoxicati=
on
of a courtship which, on Maumbry's side at least, had opened without serious
intent. During the winter following they were the most popular pair in and
about Casterbridge--nay in South Wessex itself. No smart dinner in the country hou=
ses of
the younger and gayer families within driving distance of the borough was
complete without their lively presence; Mrs. Maumbry was the blithest of the
whirling figures at the county ball; and when followed that inevitable inci=
dent
of garrison-town life, an amateur dramatic entertainment, it was just the
same. The acting was for the
benefit of such and such an excellent charity--nobody cared what, provided =
the
play were played--and both Captain Maumbry and his wife were in the piece, =
having
been in fact, by mutual consent, the originators of the performance. And so with laughter, and
thoughtlessness, and movement, all went merrily. There was a little backwardness in=
the
bill-paying of the couple; but in justice to them it must be added that soo=
ner
or later all owings were paid.
=
At the
chapel-of-ease attended by the troops there arose above the edge of the pul=
pit
one Sunday an unknown face. T=
his
was the face of a new curate. He
placed upon the desk, not the familiar sermon book, but merely a Bible. The person who tells these things =
was
not present at that service, but he soon learnt that the young curate was
nothing less than a great surprise to his congregation; a mixed one always,=
for
though the Hussars occupied the body of the building, its nooks and corners
were crammed with civilians, whom, up to the present, even the least unchar=
itable
would have described as being attracted thither less by the services than by
the soldiery.
Now there arose a second reason for squeezing =
into
an already overcrowded church. The
persuasive and gentle eloquence of Mr. Sainway operated like a charm upon t=
hose
accustomed only to the higher and dryer styles of preaching, and for a time=
the
other churches of the town were thinned of their sitters.
At this point in the nineteenth century the se=
rmon
was the sole reason for churchgoing amongst a vast body of religious
people. The liturgy was a for=
mal
preliminary, which, like the Royal proclamation in a court of assize, had t=
o be
got through before the real interest began; and on reaching home the questi=
on
was simply: Who preached, and how did he handle his subject? Even had an archbishop officiated =
in the
service proper nobody would have cared much about what was said or sung.
One day when Captain Maumbry entered his wife's
drawing-room, filled with hired furniture, she thought he was somebody else,
for he had not come upstairs humming the most catching air afloat in musical
circles or in his usual careless way.
'What's the matter, Jack?' she said without
looking up from a note she was writing.
'Well--not much, that I know.'
'O, but there is,' she murmured as she wrote.<= o:p>
'Why--this cursed new lath in a sheet--I mean =
the
new parson! He wants us to st=
op the
band-playing on Sunday afternoons.'
Laura looked up aghast.
'Why, it is the one thing that enables the few
rational beings hereabouts to keep alive from Saturday to Monday!'
'He says all the town flock to the music and d=
on't
come to the service, and that the pieces played are profane, or mundane, or
inane, or something--not what ought to be played on Sunday. Of course 'tis Lautmann who settles
those things.'
Lautmann was the bandmaster.
The barrack-green on Sunday afternoons had,
indeed, become the promenade of a great many townspeople cheerfully incline=
d,
many even of those who attended in the morning at Mr. Sainway's service; and
little boys who ought to have been listening to the curate's afternoon lect=
ure
were too often seen rolling upon the grass and making faces behind the more=
dignified
listeners.
Laura heard no more about the matter, however,=
for
two or three weeks, when suddenly remembering it she asked her husband if a=
ny
further objections had been raised.
'O--Mr. Sainway. I forgot to tell you. I've made his acquaintance. He is not a bad sort of man.'
Laura asked if either Maumbry or some others of
the officers did not give the presumptuous curate a good setting down for h=
is
interference.
'O well--we've forgotten that. He's a stunning preacher, they tel=
l me.'
The acquaintance developed apparently, for the
Captain said to her a little later on, 'There's a good deal in Sainway's
argument about having no band on Sunday afternoons. After all, it is close to his
church. But he doesn't press =
his
objections unduly.'
'I am surprised to hear you defend him!'
'It was only a passing thought of mine. We naturally don't wish to offend =
the
inhabitants of the town if they don't like it.'
'But they do.'
The invalid in the oriel never clearly gathered
the details of progress in this conflict of lay and clerical opinion; but s=
o it
was that, to the disappointment of musicians, the grief of out-walking love=
rs,
and the regret of the junior population of the town and country round, the
band- playing on Sunday afternoons ceased in Casterbridge barrack-square.
By this time the Maumbrys had frequently liste=
ned
to the preaching of the gentle if narrow-minded curate; for these
light-natured, hit-or-miss, rackety people went to church like others for
respectability's sake. None so
orthodox as your unmitigated worldling.&nb=
sp;
A more remarkable event was the sight to the man in the window of
Captain Maumbry and Mr. Sainway walking down the High Street in earnest
conversation. On his mentioni=
ng this
fact to a caller he was assured that it was a matter of common talk that th=
ey
were always together.
The observer would soon have learnt this with =
his
own eyes if he had not been told.
They began to pass together nearly every day. Hitherto Mrs. Maumbry, in fashiona=
ble
walking clothes, had usually been her husband's companion; but this was less
frequent now. The close and
singular friendship between the two men went on for nearly a year, when Mr.=
Sainway
was presented to a living in a densely-populated town in the midland
counties. He bade the parishi=
oners
of his old place a reluctant farewell and departed, the touching sermon he =
preached
on the occasion being published by the local printer. Everybody was sorry to lose him; a=
nd it
was with genuine grief that his Casterbridge congregation learnt later on t=
hat
soon after his induction to his benefice, during some bitter weather, he ha=
d fallen
seriously ill of inflammation of the lungs, of which he eventually died.
We now get below the surface of things. Of all who had known the dead cura=
te,
none grieved for him like the man who on his first arrival had called him a
'lath in a sheet.' Mrs. Maumb=
ry had
never greatly sympathized with the impressive parson; indeed, she had been
secretly glad that he had gone away to better himself. He had considerably diminished the
pleasures of a woman by whom the joys of earth and good company had been ap=
preciated
to the full. Sorry for her hu=
sband
in his loss of a friend who had been none of hers, she was yet quite unprep=
ared
for the sequel.
'There is something that I have wanted to tell=
you
lately, dear,' he said one morning at breakfast with hesitation. 'Have you guessed what it is?'
She had guessed nothing.
'That I think of retiring from the army.'
'What!'
'I have thought more and more of Sainway since=
his
death, and of what he used to say to me so earnestly. And I feel certain I shall be righ=
t in obeying
a call within me to give up this fighting trade and enter the Church.'
'What--be a parson?'
'Yes.'
'But what should I do?'
'Be a parson's wife.'
'Never!' she affirmed.
'But how can you help it?'
'I'll run away rather!' she said vehemently;
'No, you mustn't,' Maumbry replied, in the ton=
e he
used when his mind was made up.
'You'll get accustomed to the idea, for I am constrained to carry it
out, though it is against my worldly interests. I am forced on by a Hand outside m=
e to
tread in the steps of Sainway.'
'Jack,' she asked, with calm pallor and round
eyes; 'do you mean to say seriously that you are arranging to be a curate
instead of a soldier?'
'I might say a curate is a soldier--of the chu=
rch
militant; but I don't want to offend you with doctrine. I distinctly say, yes.'
Late one evening, a little time onward, he cau=
ght
her sitting by the dim firelight in her room. She did not know he had entered; a=
nd he
found her weeping. 'What are =
you
crying about, poor dearest?' he said.
She started.&=
nbsp;
'Because of what you have told me!'=
The Captain grew very unhappy; but he was undeterred.
In due time the town learnt, to its intense
surprise, that Captain Maumbry had retired from the ---th Hussars and gone =
to
Fountall Theological College to prepare for the ministry.
=
'O,
the pity of it! Such a dashing
soldier--so popular--such an acquisition to the town--the soul of social li=
fe
here! And now! . . . One shou=
ld not
speak ill of the dead, but that dreadful Mr. Sainway--it was too cruel of h=
im!'
This is a summary of what was said when Captai=
n,
now the Reverend, John Maumbry was enabled by circumstances to indulge his
heart's desire of returning to the scene of his former exploits in the capa=
city
of a minister of the Gospel. =
A low-lying
district of the town, which at that date was crowded with impoverished
cottagers, was crying for a curate, and Mr. Maumbry generously offered hims=
elf
as one willing to undertake labours that were certain to produce little res=
ult,
and no thanks, credit, or emolument.
Let the truth be told about him as a clergyman=
; he
proved to be anything but a brilliant success. Painstaking, single-minded, deeply=
in
earnest as all could see, his delivery was laboured, his sermons were dull =
to listen
to, and alas, too, too long. =
Even
the dispassionate judges who sat by the hour in the bar-parlour of the White
Hart--an inn standing at the dividing line between the poor quarter aforesa=
id
and the fashionable quarter of Maumbry's former triumphs, and hence affordi=
ng a
position of strict impartiality--agreed in substance with the young ladies =
to
the westward, though their views were somewhat more tersely expressed: 'Sur=
ely,
God A'mighty spwiled a good sojer to make a bad pa'son when He shifted Cap'n
Ma'mbry into a sarpless!'
The latter knew that such things were said, bu= t he pursued his daily' labours in and out of the hovels with serene unconcern.<= o:p>
It was about this time that the invalid in the
oriel became more than a mere bowing acquaintance of Mrs. Maumbry's. She had returned to the town with =
her
husband, and was living with him in a little house in the centre of his cir=
cle
of ministration, when by some means she became one of the invalid's
visitors. After a general
conversation while sitting in his room with a friend of both, an incident l=
ed
up to the matter that still rankled deeply in her soul. Her face was now paler and thinner=
than
it had been; even more attractive, her disappointments having inscribed the=
mselves
as meek thoughtfulness on a look that was once a little frivolous. The two ladies had called to be al=
lowed
to use the window for observing the departure of the Hussars, who were leav=
ing
for barracks much nearer to London.
The troopers turned the corner of Barrack Road
into the top of High Street, headed by their band playing 'The girl I left
behind me' (which was formerly always the tune for such times, though it is=
now
nearly disused). They came and
passed the oriel, where an officer or two, looking up and discovering Mrs.
Maumbry, saluted her, whose eyes filled with tears as the notes of the band
waned away. Before the little=
group
had recovered from that sense of the romantic which such spectacles impart,=
Mr.
Maumbry came along the pavement. He
probably had bidden his former brethren-in-arms a farewell at the top of the
street, for he walked from that direction in his rather shabby clerical
clothes, and with a basket on his arm which seemed to hold some purchases he
had been making for his poorer parishioners. Unlike the soldiers he went along =
quite
unconscious of his appearance or of the scene around.
The contrast was too much for Laura. With lips that now quivered, she a=
sked
the invalid what he thought of the change that had come to her.
It was difficult to answer, and with a wilfuln=
ess
that was too strong in her she repeated the question.
'Do you think,' she added, 'that a woman's hus=
band
has a right to do such a thing, even if he does feel a certain call to it?'=
Her listener sympathized too largely with both=
of
them to be anything but unsatisfactory in his reply. Laura gazed longingly out of the w=
indow towards
the thin dusty line of Hussars, now smalling towards the Mellstock Ridge. 'I,' she said, 'who should have be=
en in
their van on the way to London, am doomed to fester in a hole in Durnover
Lane!'
Many events had passed and many rumours had be=
en
current concerning her before the invalid saw her again after her leave-tak=
ing
that day.
=
Casterbridge
had known many military and civil episodes; many happy times, and times les=
s happy;
and now came the time of her visitation.&n=
bsp;
The scourge of cholera had been laid on the suffering country, and t=
he
low- lying purlieus of this ancient borough had more than their share of th=
e infliction. Mixen Lane, in the Durnover quarte=
r, and
in Maumbry's parish, was where the blow fell most heavily. Yet there was a certain mercy in i=
ts
choice of a date, for Maumbry was the man for such an hour.
The spread of the epidemic was so rapid that m=
any
left the town and took lodgings in the villages and farms. Mr. Maumbry's house was close to t=
he most
infected street, and he himself was occupied morn, noon, and night in
endeavours to stamp out the plague and in alleviating the sufferings of the
victims. So, as a matter of
ordinary precaution, he decided to isolate his wife somewhere away from him=
for
a while.
She suggested a village by the sea, near Budmo=
uth
Regis, and lodgings were obtained for her at Creston, a spot divided from t=
he
Casterbridge valley by a high ridge that gave it quite another atmosphere,
though it lay no more than six miles off.
Thither she went. While she was rusticating in this =
place
of safety, and her husband was slaving in the slums, she struck up an
acquaintance with a lieutenant in the ---st Foot, a Mr. Vannicock, who was =
stationed
with his regiment at the Budmouth infantry barracks. As Laura frequently sat on the she=
lving
beach, watching each thin wave slide up to her, and hearing, without heedin=
g,
its gnaw at the pebbles in its retreat, he often took a walk that way.
The acquaintance grew and ripened. Her situation, her history, her be=
auty,
her age--a year or two above his own--all tended to make an impression on t=
he
young man's heart, and a reckless flirtation was soon in blithe progress up=
on
that lonely shore.
It was said by her detractors afterwards that =
she
had chosen her lodging to be near this gentleman, but there is reason to
believe that she had never seen him till her arrival there. Just now Casterbridge was so deeply
occupied with its own sad affairs--a daily burying of the dead and destruct=
ion
of contaminated clothes and bedding--that it had little inclination to
promulgate such gossip as may have reached its ears on the pair. Nobody long considered Laura in the
tragic cloud which overhung all.
Meanwhile, on the Budmouth side of the hill the
very mood of men was in contrast.
The visitation there had been slight and much earlier, and normal
occupations and pastimes had been resumed.=
Mr. Maumbry had arranged to see Laura twice a week in the open air, =
that
she might run no risk from him; and, having heard nothing of the faint rumo=
ur,
he met her as usual one dry and windy afternoon on the summit of the dividi=
ng
hill, near where the high road from town to town crosses the old Ridge-way =
at right
angles.
He waved his hand, and smiled as she approache=
d,
shouting to her: 'We will keep this wall between us, dear.' (Walls formed the field-fences her=
e.) 'You mustn't be endangered. It won't be for long, with God's h=
elp!'
'I will do as you tell me, Jack. But you are running too much risk =
yourself,
aren't you? I get little news=
of
you; but I fancy you are.'
'Not more than others.'
Thus somewhat formally they talked, an insulat=
ing
wind beating the wall between them like a mill-weir.
'But you wanted to ask me something?' he added=
.
'Yes.
You know we are trying in Budmouth to raise some money for your suff=
erers;
and the way we have thought of is by a dramatic performance. They want me to
take a part.'
His face saddened. 'I have known so much of that sort=
of
thing, and all that accompanies it!
I wish you had thought of some other way.'
She said lightly that she was afraid it was all
settled. 'You object to my ta=
king a
part, then? Of course--'
He told her that he did not like to say he
positively objected. He wishe=
d they
had chosen an oratorio, or lecture, or anything more in keeping with the
necessity it was to relieve.
'But,' said she impatiently, 'people won't com=
e to
oratorios or lectures! They will crowd to comedies and farces.'
'Well, I cannot dictate to Budmouth how it sha=
ll
earn the money it is going to give us.&nbs=
p;
Who is getting up this performance?'
'The boys of the ---st.'
'Ah, yes; our old game!' replied Mr. Maumbry.<=
span
style=3D'mso-spacerun:yes'> 'The grief of Casterbridge is the =
excuse
for their frivolity. Candidly=
, dear
Laura, I wish you wouldn't play in it.&nbs=
p;
But I don't forbid you to. =
span>I
leave the whole to your judgment.'
The interview ended, and they went their ways
northward and southward. Time disclosed to all concerned that Mrs. Maumbry
played in the comedy as the heroine, the lover's part being taken by Mr.
Vannicock.
=
Thus
was helped on an event which the conduct of the mutually-attracted ones had
been generating for some time.
It is unnecessary to give details. The ---st Foot left for Bristol, a=
nd this
precipitated their action. Af=
ter a
week of hesitation she agreed to leave her home at Creston and meet Vannico=
ck
on the ridge hard by, and to accompany him to Bath, where he had secured
lodgings for her, so that she would be only about a dozen miles from his qu=
arters.
Accordingly, on the evening chosen, she laid on
her dressing-table a note for her husband, running thus:-
DEAR JACK--I am unable to endure this life any longer, and I have resolved to put an end =
to
it. I told you I should run a=
way if
you persisted in =
being
a clergyman, and now I am doing it.
One cannot help
one's nature. I have resolved=
to
throw in my lot with Mr. Vannicock, and I hope r=
ather
than expect you will forgive me.--L.
Then, with hardly a scrap of luggage, she went=
, ascending
to the ridge in the dusk of early evening.=
Almost on the very spot where her husband had stood at their last tr=
yst
she beheld the outline of Vannicock, who had come all the way from Bristol =
to
fetch her.
'I don't like meeting here--it is so unlucky!'=
she
cried to him. 'For God's sake=
let
us have a place of our own. G=
o back
to the milestone, and I'll come on.'
He went back to the milestone that stands on t=
he
north slope of the ridge, where the old and new roads diverge, and she join=
ed
him there.
She was taciturn and sorrowful when he asked h=
er
why she would not meet him on the top.&nbs=
p;
At last she inquired how they were going to travel.
He explained that he proposed to walk to Mells=
tock
Hill, on the other side of Casterbridge, where a fly was waiting to take th=
em
by a cross-cut into the Ivell Road, and onward to that town. The Bristol railway was open to Iv=
ell.
This plan they followed, and walked briskly
through the dull gloom till they neared Casterbridge, which place they avoi=
ded
by turning to the right at the Roman Amphitheatre and bearing round to Durn=
over
Cross. Thence the way was solitary and open across the moor to the hill whe=
reon
the Ivell fly awaited them.
'I have noticed for some time,' she said, 'a l=
urid
glare over the Durnover end of the town.&n=
bsp;
It seems to come from somewhere about Mixen Lane.'
'The lamps,' he suggested.
'There's not a lamp as big as a rushlight in t=
he
whole lane. It is where the c=
holera
is worst.'
By Standfast Corner, a little beyond the Cross,
they suddenly obtained an end view of the lane. Large bonfires were burning in the
middle of the way, with a view to purifying the air; and from the wretched
tenements with which the lane was lined in those days persons were bringing=
out
bedding and clothing. Some wa=
s thrown
into the fires, the rest placed in wheel-barrows and wheeled into the moor
directly in the track of the fugitives.
They followed on, and came up to where a vast
copper was set in the open air.
Here the linen was boiled and disinfected. By the light of the lanterns Laura
discovered that her husband was standing by the copper, and that it was he =
who
unloaded the barrow and immersed its contents. The night was so calm and muggy th=
at the
conversation by the copper reached her ears.
'Are there many more loads to-night?'
'There's the clothes o' they that died this
afternoon, sir. But that migh=
t bide
till to-morrow, for you must be tired out.'
'We'll do it at once, for I can't ask anybody =
else
to undertake it. Overturn that load on the grass and fetch the rest.'
The man did so and went off with the barrow. Maumbry paused for a moment to wip=
e his
face, and resumed his homely drudgery amid this squalid and reeking scene,
pressing down and stirring the contents of the copper with what looked like=
an
old rolling-pin. The steam
therefrom, laden with death, travelled in a low trail across the meadow.
Laura spoke suddenly: 'I won't go to-night aft=
er
all. He is so tired, and I mu=
st
help him. I didn't know thing=
s were
so bad as this!'
Vannicock's arm dropped from her waist, where =
it
had been resting as they walked.
'Will you leave?' she asked.
'I will if you say I must. But I'd rather help too.' There was no expostulation in his =
tone.
Laura had gone forward. 'Jack,' she said, 'I am come to he=
lp!'
The weary curate turned and held up the
lantern. 'O--what, is it you,=
Laura?'
he asked in surprise. 'Why di=
d you
come into this? You had bette=
r go
back--the risk is great.'
'But I want to help you, Jack. Please let me help! I didn't come by myself--Mr. Vanni=
cock
kept me company. He will make
himself useful too, if he's not gone on.&n=
bsp;
Mr. Vannicock!'
The young lieutenant came forward
reluctantly. Mr. Maumbry spok=
e formally
to him, adding as he resumed his labour, 'I thought the ---st Foot had gone=
to
Bristol.'
'We have.&nbs=
p;
But I have run down again for a few things.'
The two newcomers began to assist, Vannicock
placing on the ground the small bag containing Laura's toilet articles that=
he
had been carrying. The barrowman soon returned with another load, and all
continued work for nearly a half-hour, when a coachman came out from the
shadows to the north.
'Beg pardon, sir,' he whispered to Vannicock, =
'but
I've waited so long on Mellstock hill that at last I drove down to the
turnpike; and seeing the light here, I ran on to find out what had happened=
.'
Lieutenant Vannicock told him to wait a few
minutes, and the last barrow- load was got through. Mr. Maumbry stretched himself and
breathed heavily, saying, 'There; we can do no more.'
As if from the relaxation of effort he seemed =
to
be seized with violent pain. =
He
pressed his hands to his sides and bent forward.
'Ah! =
span>I
think it has got hold of me at last,' he said with difficulty. 'I must try to get home. Let Mr. Vannicock take you back, L=
aura.'
He walked a few steps, they helping him, but w=
as
obliged to sink down on the grass.
'I am--afraid--you'll have to send for a hurdl=
e,
or shutter, or something,' he went on feebly, 'or try to get me into the
barrow.'
But Vannicock had called to the driver of the =
fly,
and they waited until it was brought on from the turnpike hard by. Mr. Maumbry was placed therein.
Vannicock stood outside by the empty fly awhil=
e,
but Laura did not reappear. He
thereupon entered the fly and told the driver to take him back to Ivell.
=
Mr.
Maumbry had over-exerted himself in the relief of the suffering poor, and f=
ell
a victim--one of the last--to the pestilence which had carried off so
many. Two days later he lay i=
n his
coffin.
Laura was in the room below. A servant brought in some letters,=
and
she glanced them over. One wa=
s the
note from herself to Maumbry, informing him that she was unable to endure l=
ife with
him any longer and was about to elope with Vannicock. Having read the letter she took it
upstairs to where the dead man was, and slipped it into his coffin. The next day she buried him.
She was now free.
She shut up his house at Durnover Cross and
returned to her lodgings at Creston.
Soon she had a letter from Vannicock, and six weeks after her husban=
d's
death her lover came to see her.
'I forgot to give you back this--that night,' =
he
said presently, handing her the little bag she had taken as her whole lugga=
ge
when leaving.
Laura received it and absently shook it out. There fell upon the carpet her bru=
sh,
comb, slippers, nightdress, and other simple necessaries for a journey. They had an intolerably ghastly lo=
ok
now, and she tried to cover them.
'I can now,' he said, 'ask you to belong to me
legally--when a proper interval has gone--instead of as we meant.'
There was languor in his utterance, hinting at=
a
possibility that it was perfunctorily made. Laura picked up her articles, answ=
ering
that he certainly could so ask her--she was free. Yet not her expression either coul=
d be
called an ardent response. Th=
en she
blinked more and more quickly and put her handkerchief to her face. She was weeping violently.
He did not move or try to comfort her in any
way. What had come between th=
em? No living person. They had been lovers. There was now no material obstacle
whatever to their union. But =
there
was the insistent shadow of that unconscious one; the thin figure of him,
moving to and fro in front of the ghastly furnace in the gloom of Durnover
Moor.
Yet Vannicock called upon Laura when he was in=
the
neighbourhood, which was not often; but in two years, as if on purpose to
further the marriage which everybody was expecting, the ---st Foot returned=
to
Budmouth Regis.
Thereupon the two could not help encountering =
each
other at times. But whether b=
ecause
the obstacle had been the source of the love, or from a sense of error, and
because Mrs. Maumbry bore a less attractive look as a widow than before, th=
eir
feelings seemed to decline from their former incandescence to a mere tepid
civility. What domestic issues
supervened in Vannicock's further story the man in the oriel never knew; but
Mrs. Maumbry lived and died a widow.
1900.
=
=
Whoever
had perceived the yeoman standing on Squire Everard's lawn in the dusk of t=
hat
October evening fifty years ago, might have said at first sight that he was
loitering there from idle curiosity.
For a large five- light window of the manor-house in front of him was
unshuttered and uncurtained, so that the illuminated room within could be
scanned almost to its four corners.
Obviously nobody was ever expected to be in this part of the grounds
after nightfall.
The apartment thus swept by an eye from without
was occupied by two persons; they were sitting over dessert, the tablecloth
having been removed in the old-fashioned way. The fruits were local, consisting =
of apples,
pears, nuts, and such other products of the summer as might be presumed to =
grow
on the estate. There was stro=
ng ale
and rum on the table, and but little wine.=
Moreover, the appointments of the dining- room were simple and homely
even for the date, betokening a countrified household of the smaller gentry,
without much wealth or ambition--formerly a numerous class, but now in great
part ousted by the territorial landlords.
One of the two sitters was a young lady in whi=
te
muslin, who listened somewhat impatiently to the remarks of her companion, =
an
elderly, rubicund personage, whom the merest stranger could have pronounced=
to
be her father. The watcher ev=
inced
no signs of moving, and it became evident that affairs were not so simple as
they first had seemed. The ta=
ll
farmer was in fact no accidental spectator, and he stood by premeditation c=
lose
to the trunk of a tree, so that had any traveller passed along the road wit=
hout
the park gate, or even round the lawn to the door, that person would scarce
have noticed the other, notwithstanding that the gate was quite near at han=
d,
and the park little larger than a paddock.=
There was still light enough in the western heaven to brighten faint=
ly
one side of the man's face, and to show against the trunk of the tree behind
the admirable cut of his profile; also to reveal that the front of the
manor-house, small though it seemed, was solidly built of stone in that
never-to-be-surpassed style for the English country residence--the mullioned
and transomed Elizabethan.
The lawn, although neglected, was still as lev=
el
as a bowling-green--which indeed it might once have served for; and the bla=
des
of grass before the window were raked by the candle-shine, which stretched =
over
them so far as to touch the yeoman's face in front.
Within the dining-room there were also, with o=
ne
of the twain, the same signs of a hidden purpose that marked the farmer.
'As for drains--how can I put in drains? The pipes don't cost much, that's =
true;
but the labour in sinking the trenches is ruination. And then the gates--they should be=
hung
to stone posts, otherwise there's no keeping them up through harvest.' The Squire's voice was strongly to=
ned with
the local accent, so that he said 'drains' and 'geats' like the rustics on =
his
estate.
The landscape without grew darker, and the you=
ng
man's figure seemed to be absorbed into the trunk of the tree. The small stars filled in between =
the
larger, the nebulae between the small stars, the trees quite lost their voi=
ce;
and if there was still a sound, it was from the cascade of a stream which
stretched along under the trees that bounded the lawn on its northern side.=
At last the young girl did get to her feet and
secure her retreat. 'I have
something to do, papa,' she said.
'I shall not be in the drawing- room just yet.'
'Very well,' replied he. 'Then I won't hurry.' And closing the door behind her, h=
e drew
his decanters together and settled down in his chair.
Three minutes after that a woman's shape emerg=
ed
from the drawing-room window, and passing through a wall-door to the entran=
ce
front, came across the grass. She
kept well clear of the dining-room window, but enough of its light fell on =
her
to show, escaping from the dark-hooded cloak that she wore, stray verges of=
the
same light dress which had figured but recently at the dinner-table. The hood was contracted tight abou=
t her
face with a drawing-string, making her countenance small and baby-like, and
lovelier even than before.
Without hesitation she brushed across the gras=
s to
the tree under which the young man stood concealed. The moment she had reached him he =
enclosed
her form with his arm. The me=
eting
and embrace, though by no means formal, were yet not passionate; the whole
proceeding was that of persons who had repeated the act so often as to be
unconscious of its performance. She
turned within his arm, and faced in the same direction with himself, which =
was
towards the window; and thus they stood without speaking, the back of her h=
ead
leaning against his shoulder. For a
while each seemed to be thinking his and her diverse thoughts.
'You have kept me waiting a long time, dear
Christine,' he said at last. 'I wanted to speak to you particularly, or I
should not have stayed. How c=
ame
you to be dining at this time o' night?'
'Father has been out all day, and dinner was p=
ut
back till six. I know I have =
kept
you; but Nicholas, how can I help it sometimes, if I am not to run any
risk? My poor father insists =
upon
my listening to all he has to say; since my brother left he has had nobody =
else
to listen to him; and to-night he was particularly tedious on his usual
topics--draining, and tenant-farmers, and the village people. I must take daddy to London; he ge=
ts so
narrow always staying here.'
'And what did you say to it all?'
'Well, I took the part of the tenant-farmers, =
of
course, as the beloved of one should in duty do.' There followed a little break or g=
asp, implying
a strangled sigh.
'You are sorry you have encouraged that belovi=
ng
one?'
'O no, Nicholas . . . What is it you want to s=
ee
me for particularly?'
'I know you are sorry, as time goes on, and
everything is at a dead-lock, with no prospect of change, and your rural sw=
ain
loses his freshness! Only think, this secret understanding between us has
lasted near three year, ever since you was a little over sixteen.'
'Yes; it has been a long time.'
'And I an untamed, uncultivated man, who has n=
ever
seen London, and knows nothing about society at all.'
'Not uncultivated, dear Nicholas. Untravelled, socially unpractised,=
if you
will,' she said, smiling. 'We=
ll, I
did sigh; but not because I regret being your promised one. What I do sometimes regret is that=
the scheme,
which my meetings with you are but a part of, has not been carried out
completely. You said, Nichola=
s,
that if I consented to swear to keep faith with you, you would go away and
travel, and see nations, and peoples, and cities, and take a professor with
you, and study books and art, simultaneously with your study of men and
manners; and then come back at the end of two years, when I should find tha=
t my
father would by no means be indisposed to accept you as a son-in-law. You said your reason for wishing t=
o get
my promise before starting was that your mind would then be more at rest wh=
en
you were far away, and so could give itself more completely to knowledge th=
an
if you went as my unaccepted lover only, fuming with anxiety as to how I sh=
ould
be when you came back. I saw how reasonable that was; and solemnly swore my=
self
to you in consequence. But in=
stead
of going to see the world you stay on and on here to see me.'
'And you don't want me to see you?'
'Yes--no--it is not that. It is that I have latterly felt
frightened at what I am doing when not in your actual presence. It seems so wicked not to tell my =
father
that I have a lover close at hand, within touch and view of both of us; whe=
reas
if you were absent my conduct would not seem quite so treacherous. The realities would not stare at o=
ne
so. You would be a pleasant d=
ream
to me, which I should be free to indulge in without reproach of my conscien=
ce;
I should live in hopeful expectation of your returning fully qualified to
boldly claim me of my father.
There, I have been terribly frank, I know.'
He in his turn had lapsed into gloomy breathin=
gs
now. 'I did plan it as you st=
ate,'
he answered. 'I did mean to g=
o away
the moment I had your promise. But,
dear Christine, I did not foresee two or three things. I did not know what a lot of pain =
it
would cost to tear myself from you. And I did not know that my stingy
uncle--heaven forgive me calling him so!--would so flatly refuse to advance=
me
money for my purpose--the scheme of travelling with a first-rate tutor cost=
ing
a formidable sum o' money. Yo=
u have
no idea what it would cost!'
'But I have said that I'll find the money.'
'Ah, there,' he returned, 'you have hit a sore
place. To speak truly, dear, I
would rather stay unpolished a hundred years than take your money.'
'But why?&nbs=
p;
Men continually use the money of the women they marry.'
'Yes; but not till afterwards. No man would like to touch your mo=
ney at
present, and I should feel very mean if I were to do so in present circumst=
ances. That brings me to what I was going=
to
propose. But no--upon the who=
le I
will not propose it now.'
'Ah! =
span>I
would guarantee expenses, and you won't let me! The money is my personal possessio=
n: it
comes to me from my late grandfather, and not from my father at all.'
He laughed forcedly and pressed her hand. 'There are more reasons why I cann=
ot
tear myself away,' he added. =
'What
would become of my uncle's farming?
Six hundred acres in this parish, and five hundred in the next--a
constant traipsing from one farm to the other; he can't be in two places at
once. Still, that might be go=
t over
if it were not for the other matters.
Besides, dear, I still should be a little uneasy, even though I have
your promise, lest somebody should snap you up away from me.'
'Ah, you should have thought of that before. Otherwise I have committed myself =
for
nothing.'
'I should have thought of it,' he answered
gravely. 'But I did not. Ther=
e lies
my fault, I admit it freely. =
Ah, if
you would only commit yourself a little more, I might at least get over that
difficulty! But I won't ask
you. You have no idea how muc=
h you
are to me still; you could not argue so coolly if you had. What property belongs to you I hat=
e the very
sound of; it is you I care for. I
wish you hadn't a farthing in the world but what I could earn for you!'
'I don't altogether wish that,' she murmured.<= o:p>
'I wish it, because it would have made what I =
was
going to propose much easier to do than it is now. Indeed I will not propose it, alth=
ough I
came on purpose, after what you have said in your frankness.'
'Nonsense, Nic. Come, tell me. How can you be so touchy?'
'Look at this then, Christine dear.' He drew from his breast-pocket a s=
heet
of paper and unfolded it, when it was observable that a seal dangled from t=
he
bottom.
'What is it?'=
She held the paper sideways, so that what there was of window-light =
fell
on its surface. 'I can only r=
ead
the Old English letters--why--our names!&n=
bsp;
Surely it is not a marriage-licence?'
'It is.'
She trembled.=
'O Nic! how could you do this--and without telling me!'
'Why should I have thought I must tell you?
She did not answer. The document he had produced gave =
such
unexpected substantiality to the venture with which she had so long toyed a=
s a
vague dream merely, that she was, in truth, frightened a little. 'I--don't know about it!' she said=
.
'Perhaps not.=
Ah, my little lady, you are wearying of me!'
'No, Nic,' responded she, creeping closer. 'I am not. Upon my word, and truth, and honou=
r, I
am not, Nic.'
'A mere tiller of the soil, as I should be
called,' he continued, without heeding her. 'And you--well, a daughter of one =
of
the--I won't say oldest families, because that's absurd, all families are t=
he
same age--one of the longest chronicled families about here, whose name is
actually the name of the place.'
'That's not much, I am sorry to say! My poor brother--but I won't speak=
of that
. . . Well,' she murmured mischievously, after a pause, 'you certainly would
not need to be uneasy if I were to do this that you want me to do. You would have me safe enough in y=
our
trap then; I couldn't get away!'
'That's just it!' he said vehemently. 'It is a trap--you feel it so, and=
that
though you wouldn't be able to get away from me you might particularly wish
to! Ah, if I had asked you two
years ago you would have agreed instantly.=
But I thought I was bound to wait for the proposal to come from you =
as
the superior!'
'Now you are angry, and take seriously what I
meant purely in fun. You don'=
t know
me even yet! To show you that=
you
have not been mistaken in me, I do propose to carry out this licence. I'll marry you, dear Nicholas, to-=
morrow
morning.'
'Ah, Christine! I am afraid I have stung you on to=
this,
so that I cannot--'
'No, no, no!' she hastily rejoined; and there =
was
something in her tone which suggested that she had been put upon her mettle=
and
would not flinch. 'Take me wh=
ilst I
am in the humour. What church=
is
the licence for?'
'That I've not looked to see--why our parish
church here, of course. Ah, t=
hen we
cannot use it! We dare not be
married here.'
'We do dare,' said she. 'And we will too, if you'll be the=
re.'
'If I'll be there!'
They speedily came to an agreement that he sho=
uld
be in the church-porch at ten minutes to eight on the following morning,
awaiting her; and that, immediately after the conclusion of the service whi=
ch
would make them one, Nicholas should set out on his long-deferred education=
al
tour, towards the cost of which she was resolving to bring a substantial su=
bscription
with her to church. Then, sli=
pping
from him, she went indoors by the way she had come, and Nicholas bent his s=
teps
homewards.
=
Instead
of leaving the spot by the gate, he flung himself over the fence, and pursu=
ed a
direction towards the river under the trees. And it was now, in his lonely prog=
ress,
that he showed for the first time outwardly that he was not altogether unwo=
rthy
of her. He wore long water-bo=
ots reaching
above his knees, and, instead of making a circuit to find a bridge by which=
he
might cross the Froom--the river aforesaid--he made straight for the point
whence proceeded the low roar that was at this hour the only evidence of the
stream's existence. He speedi=
ly
stood on the verge of the waterfall which caused the noise, and stepping in=
to
the water at the top of the fall, waded through with the sure tread of one =
who
knew every inch of his footing, even though the canopy of trees rendered the
darkness almost absolute, and a false step would have precipitated him into=
the
pool beneath. Soon reaching t=
he
boundary of the grounds, he continued in the same direct line to traverse t=
he alluvial
valley, full of brooks and tributaries to the main stream--in former times
quite impassable, and impassable in winter now. Sometimes he would cross a deep gu=
lly on
a plank not wider than the hand; at another time he ploughed his way through
beds of spear-grass, where at a few feet to the right or left he might have
been sucked down into a morass. At
last he reached firm land on the other side of this watery tract, and came =
to
his house on the rise behind--Elsenford--an ordinary farmstead, from the ba=
ck
of which rose indistinct breathings, belchings, and snortings, the rattle of
halters, and other familiar features of an agriculturist's home.
While Nicholas Long was packing his bag in an
upper room of this dwelling, Miss Christine Everard sat at a desk in her own
chamber at Froom-Everard manor-house, looking with pale fixed countenance at
the candles.
'I ought--I must now!' she whispered to
herself. 'I should not have b=
egun
it if I had not meant to carry it through!=
It runs in the blood of us, I suppose.' She alluded to a fact unknown to h=
er
lover, the clandestine marriage of an aunt under circumstances somewhat sim=
ilar
to the present. In a few minu=
tes
she had penned the following note:-
October 13, 183-.
DEAR MR. BEALAND--Can you make it convenient to yourself to meet me =
at the Church to-morrow mo=
rning
at eight? I name the early ho=
ur
because it would =
suit
me better than later on in the day.
You will find me in the chancel, if you can
come. An answer yes or no by =
the
bearer of this wi=
ll be
sufficient.
CHRISTINE EVERARD.
She sent the note to the rector immediately,
waiting at a small side-door of the house till she heard the servant's
footsteps returning along the lane, when she went round and met him in the
passage. The rector had taken=
the
trouble to write a line, and answered that he would meet her with pleasure.=
A dripping fog which ushered in the next morni=
ng
was highly favourable to the scheme of the pair. At that time of the century
Froom-Everard House had not been altered and enlarged; the public lane pass=
ed
close under its walls; and there was a door opening directly from one of the
old parlours--the south parlour, as it was called--into the lane which led =
to the
village. Christine came out t=
his
way, and after following the lane for a short distance entered upon a path
within a belt of plantation, by which the church could be reached
privately. She even avoided t=
he churchyard
gate, walking along to a place where the turf without the low wall rose int=
o a
mound, enabling her to mount upon the coping and spring down inside. She crossed the wet graves, and so
glided round to the door. He =
was
there, with his bag in his hand. He
kissed her with a sort of surprise, as if he had expected that at the last
moment her heart would fail her.
Though it had not failed her, there was,
nevertheless, no great ardour in Christine's bearing--merely the momentum o=
f an
antecedent impulse. They went=
up
the aisle together, the bottle-green glass of the old lead quarries admitti=
ng
but little light at that hour, and under such an atmosphere. They stood by the altar-rail in si=
lence,
Christine's skirt visibly quivering at each beat of her heart.
Presently a quick step ground upon the gravel,=
and
Mr. Bealand came round by the front.
He was a quiet bachelor, courteous towards Christine, and not at fir=
st
recognizing in Nicholas a neighbouring yeoman (for he lived aloofly in the =
next
parish), advanced to her without revealing any surprise at her unusual
request. But in truth h=
e was
surprised, the keen interest taken by many country young women at the prese=
nt
day in church decoration and festivals being then unknown.
'Good morning,' he said; and repeated the same
words to Nicholas more mechanically.
'Good morning,' she replied gravely. 'Mr. Bealand, I have a serious rea=
son
for asking you to meet me--us, I may say.&=
nbsp;
We wish you to marry us.'
The rector's gaze hardened to fixity, rather
between than upon either of them, and he neither moved nor replied for some
time.
'Ah!' he said at last.
'And we are quite ready.'
'I had no idea--'
'It has been kept rather private,' she said
calmly.
'Where are your witnesses?'
'They are outside in the meadow, sir. I can call them in a moment,' said=
Nicholas.
'Oh--I see it is--Mr. Nicholas Long,' said Mr.
Bealand, and turning again to Christine, 'Does your father know of this?'
'Is it necessary that I should answer that
question, Mr. Bealand?'
'I am afraid it is--highly necessary.'
Christine began to look concerned.
'Where is the licence?' the rector asked; 'sin=
ce
there have been no banns.'
Nicholas produced it, Mr. Bealand read it, an
operation which occupied him several minutes--or at least he made it appear=
so;
till Christine said impatiently, 'We are quite ready, Mr. Bealand. Will you proceed? Mr. Long has to =
take a
journey of a great many miles to-day.'
'And you?'
'No. =
span>I
remain.'
Mr. Bealand assumed firmness. 'There is something wrong in this,=
' he said. 'I cannot marry you without your
father's presence.'
'But have you a right to refuse us?' interposed
Nicholas. 'I believe we are i=
n a
position to demand your fulfilment of our request.'
'No, you are not! Is Miss Everard of age? I think not. I think she is months from being
so. Eh, Miss Everard?'
'Am I bound to tell that?'
'Certainly.&n=
bsp;
At any rate you are bound to write it. Meanwhile I refuse to solemnize the
service. And let me entreat y=
ou two
young people to do nothing so rash as this, even if by going to some strange
church, you may do so without discovery.&n=
bsp;
The tragedy of marriage--'
'Tragedy?'
'Certainly.&n=
bsp;
It is full of crises and catastrophes, and ends with the death of on=
e of
the actors. The tragedy of
marriage, as I was saying, is one I shall not be a party to your beginning =
with
such light hearts, and I shall feel bound to put your father on his guard, =
Miss
Everard. Think better of it, I
entreat you! Remember the pro=
verb,
"Marry in haste and repent at leisure."'
Christine, spurred by opposition, almost storm=
ed
at him. Nicholas implored; but
nothing would turn that obstinate rector.&=
nbsp;
She sat down and reflected.
By-and-by she confronted Mr. Bealand.
'Our marriage is not to be this morning, I see=
,'
she said. 'Now grant me one f=
avour,
and in return I'll promise you to do nothing rashly. Do not tell my father a word of wh=
at has
happened here.'
'I agree--if you undertake not to elope.'
She looked at Nicholas, and he looked at her.<=
span
style=3D'mso-spacerun:yes'> 'Do you wish me to elope, Nic?' she
asked.
'No,' he said.
So the compact was made, and they left the chu=
rch
singly, Nicholas remaining till the last, and closing the door. On his way home, carrying the
well-packed bag which was just now to go no further, the two men who were
mending water-carriers in the meadows approached the hedge, as if they had =
been
on the alert all the time.
'You said you mid want us for zummat, sir?'
'All right--never mind,' he answered through t=
he
hedge. 'I did not require you=
after
all.
=
At a
manor not far away there lived a queer and primitive couple who had lately =
been
blessed with a son and heir. =
The
christening took place during the week under notice, and this had been foll=
owed
by a feast to the parishioners.
Christine's father, one of the same generation and kind, had been as=
ked
to drive over and assist in the entertainment, and Christine, as a matter of
course, accompanied him.
When they reached Athelhall, as the house was
called, they found the usually quiet nook a lively spectacle. Tables had been spread in the apar=
tment
which lent its name to the whole building--the hall proper--covered with a =
fine
open-timbered roof, whose braces, purlins, and rafters made a brown thicket=
of
oak overhead. Here tenantry o=
f all ages
sat with their wives and families, and the servants were assisted in their
ministrations by the sons and daughters of the owner's friends and neighbou=
rs. Christine lent a hand among the re=
st.
She was holding a plate in each hand towards a
huge brown platter of baked rice-pudding, from which a footman was scooping=
a
large spoonful, when a voice reached her ear over her shoulder: 'Allow me to
hold them for you.'
Christine turned, and recognized in the speaker
the nephew of the entertainer, a young man from London, whom she had already
met on two or three occasions.
She accepted the proffered help, and from that
moment, whenever he passed her in their marchings to and fro during the
remainder of the serving, he smiled acquaintance. When their work was done, he impro=
ved
the few words into a conversation.
He plainly had been attracted by her fairness.
Bellston was a self-assured young man, not par=
ticularly
good-looking, with more colour in his skin than even Nicholas had. He had flushed a little in attract=
ing
her notice, though the flush had nothing of nervousness in it--the air with
which it was accompanied making it curiously suggestive of a flush of anger;
and even when he laughed it was difficult to banish that fancy.
The late autumn sunlight streamed in through t=
he
window panes upon the heads and shoulders of the venerable patriarchs of the
hamlet, and upon the middle-aged, and upon the young; upon men and women who
had played out, or were to play, tragedies or tragi-comedies in that nook o=
f civilization
not less great, essentially, than those which, enacted on more central aren=
as,
fix the attention of the world. One
of the party was a cousin of Nicholas Long's, who sat with her husband and
children.
To make himself as locally harmonious as possi=
ble,
Mr. Bellston remarked to his companion on the scene--'It does one's heart
good,' he said, 'to see these simple peasants enjoying themselves.'
'O Mr. Bellston!' exclaimed Christine; 'don't =
be
too sure about that word "simple"! You little think what they see and
meditate! Their reasonings and
emotions are as complicated as ours.'
She spoke with a vehemence which would have be=
en
hardly present in her words but for her own relation to Nicholas. The sense of that produced in her a
nameless depression thenceforward.
The young man, however, still followed her up.
'I am glad to hear you say it,' he returned
warmly. 'I was merely attuning
myself to your mood, as I thought.
The real truth is that I know more of the Parthians, and Medes, and
dwellers in Mesopotamia--almost of any people, indeed--than of the English
rustics. Travel and explorati=
on are
my profession, not the study of the British peasantry.'
Travel.
There was sufficient coincidence between his declaration and the cou=
rse
she had urged upon her lover, to lend Bellston's account of himself a certa=
in
interest in Christine's ears. He
might perhaps be able to tell her something that would be useful to Nichola=
s,
if their dream were carried out. A
door opened from the hall into the garden, and she somehow found herself
outside, chatting with Mr. Bellston on this topic, till she thought that up=
on
the whole she liked the young man.
The garden being his uncle's, he took her round it with an air of
proprietorship; and they went on amongst the Michaelmas daisies and
chrysanthemums, and through a door to the fruit-garden. A green-house was open, and he wen=
t in
and cut her a bunch of grapes.
'How daring of you! They are your uncle's.'
'O, he don't mind--I do anything here. A rough old buffer, isn't he?'
She was thinking of her Nic, and felt that, by
comparison with her present acquaintance, the farmer more than held his own=
as
a fine and intelligent fellow; but the harmony with her own existence in li=
ttle
things, which she found here, imparted an alien tinge to Nicholas just now.=
The latter, idealized by moonlight=
, or a
thousand miles of distance, was altogether a more romantic object for a wom=
an's
dream than this smart new-lacquered man; but in the sun of afternoon, and a=
mid
a surrounding company, Mr. Bellston was a very tolerable companion.
When they re-entered the hall, Bellston entrea=
ted
her to come with him up a spiral stair in the thickness of the wall, leadin=
g to
a passage and gallery whence they could look down upon the scene below. The people had finished their feas=
t, the
newly-christened baby had been exhibited, and a few words having been spoke=
n to
them they began, amid a racketing of forms, to make for the greensward with=
out,
Nicholas's cousin and cousin's wife and cousin's children among the rest. While they were filing out, a voic=
e was
heard calling--'Hullo!--here, Jim; where are you?' said Bellston's uncle. The young man descended, Christine
following at leisure.
'Now will ye be a good fellow,' the Squire continued, 'and set them going outside in some dance or other that they know? I'm dog-tired, and I wa= nt to have a yew words with Mr. Everard before we join 'em--hey, Everard? They are shy till somebody starts 'em; afterwards they'll keep gwine brisk enough.'<= o:p>
'Ay, that they wool,' said Squire Everard.
They followed to the lawn; and here it proved =
that
James Bellston was as shy, or rather as averse, as any of the tenantry them=
selves,
to acting the part of fugleman.
Only the parish people had been at the feast, but outlying neighbours
had now strolled in for a dance.
'They want "Speed the Plough,"' said
Bellston, coming up breathless. 'It
must be a country dance, I suppose?
Now, Miss Everard, do have pity upon me. I am supposed to lead off; but rea=
lly I
know no more about speeding the plough than a child just born! Would you take one of the villager=
s?--just
to start them, my uncle says.
Suppose you take that handsome young farmer over there--I don't know=
his
name, but I dare say you do--and I'll come on with one of the dairyman's
daughters as a second couple.'
Christine turned in the direction signified, a=
nd
changed colour--though in the shade nobody noticed it, 'Oh, yes--I know him=
,'
she said coolly. 'He is from near our own place--Mr. Nicholas Long.'
'That's capital--then you can easily make him
stand as first couple with you. Now
I must pick up mine.'
'I--I think I'll dance with you, Mr. Bellston,'
she said with some trepidation.
'Because, you see,' she explained eagerly, 'I know the figure and you
don't--so that I can help you; while Nicholas Long, I know, is familiar with
the figure, and that will make two couples who know it--which is necessary,=
at
least.'
Bellston showed his gratification by one of his
angry-pleasant flushes--he had hardly dared to ask for what she proffered
freely; and having requested Nicholas to take the dairyman's daughter, led
Christine to her place, Long promptly stepping up second with his charge. There were grim silent depths in N=
ic's
character; a small deedy spark in his eye, as it caught Christine's, was all
that showed his consciousness of her.
Then the fiddlers began--the celebrated Mellstock fiddlers who, given
free stripping, could play from sunset to dawn without turning a hair. The couples wheeled and swung, Nic=
holas
taking Christine's hand in the course of business with the figure, when she
waited for him to give it a little squeeze; but he did not.
Christine had the greatest difficulty in steer=
ing
her partner through the maze, on account of his self-will, and when at last
they reached the bottom of the long line, she was breathless with her hard
labour.. Resting here, she watched Nic and his lady; and, though she had
decidedly cooled off in these later months, began to admire him anew. Nobody knew these dances like him,=
after
all, or could do anything of this sort so well. His performance with the dairyman's
daughter so won upon her, that when 'Speed the Plough' was over she contriv=
ed
to speak to him.
'Nic, you are to dance with me next time.'
He said he would, and presently asked her in a
formal public manner, lifting his hat gallantly. She showed a little backwardness, =
which
he quite understood, and allowed him to lead her to the top, a row of enorm=
ous
length appearing below them as if by magic as soon as they had taken their
places. Truly the Squire was =
right
when he said that they only wanted starting.
'What is it to be?' whispered Nicholas.
She turned to the band. 'The Honeymoon,' she said.
And then they trod the delightful last-century
measure of that name, which if it had been ever danced better, was never da=
nced
with more zest. The perfect responsiveness which their tender acquaintance
threw into the motions of Nicholas and his partner lent to their gyrations =
the
fine adjustment of two interacting parts of a single machine. The excitement of the movement car=
ried
Christine back to the time--the unreflecting passionate time, about two yea=
rs
before--when she and Nic had been incipient lovers only; and it made her fo=
rget
the carking anxieties, the vision of social breakers ahead, that had begun =
to
take the gilding off her position now.&nbs=
p;
Nicholas, on his part, had never ceased to be a lover; no personal
worries had as yet made him conscious of any staleness, flatness, or
unprofitableness in his admiration of Christine.
'Not quite so wildly, Nic,' she whispered. 'I don't object personally; but th=
ey'll
notice us. How came you here?=
'
'I heard that you had driven over; and I set
out--on purpose for this.'
'What--you have walked?'
'Yes.
If I had waited for one of uncle's horses I should have been too lat=
e.'
'Five miles here and five back--ten miles on
foot--merely to dance!'
'With you.&nb=
sp;
What made you think of this old "Honeymoon" thing?'
'O! it came into my head when I saw you, as wh=
at
would have been a reality with us if you had not been stupid about that
licence, and had got it for a distant church.'
'Shall we try again?'
'No--I don't know. I'll think it over.'
The villagers admired their grace and skill, as
the dancers themselves perceived; but they did not know what accompanied th=
at
admiration in one spot, at least.
'People who wonder they can foot it so featly
together should know what some others think,' a waterman was saying to his
neighbour. 'Then their wonder=
would
be less.'
His comrade asked for information.
'Well--really I hardly believe it--but 'tis sa=
id
they be man and wife. Yes, sure--went to church and did the job a'most afore
'twas light one morning. But =
mind,
not a word of this; for 'twould be the loss of a winter's work to me if I h=
ad
spread such a report and it were not true.'
When the dance had ended she rejoined her own
section of the company. Her f=
ather
and Mr. Bellston the elder had now come out from the house, and were smokin=
g in
the background. Presently she=
found
that her father was at her elbow.
'Christine, don't dance too often with young
Long--as a mere matter of prudence, I mean, as volk might think it odd, he
being one of our own neighbouring farmers.=
I should not mention this to 'ee if he were an ordinary young fellow;
but being superior to the rest it behoves you to be careful.'
'Exactly, papa,' said Christine.
But the revived sense that she was deceiving h=
im
threw a damp over her spirits.
'But, after all,' she said to herself, 'he is a young man of Elsenfo=
rd,
handsome, able, and the soul of honour; and I am a young woman of the adjoi=
ning
parish, who have been constantly thrown into communication with him. Is it not, by nature's rule, the m=
ost
proper thing in the world that I should marry him, and is it not an absurd =
conventional
regulation which says that such a union would be wrong?'
It may be concluded that the strength of
Christine's large-minded argument was rather an evidence of weakness than of
strength in the passion it concerned, which had required neither argument n=
or
reasoning of any kind for its maintenance when full and flush in its early
days.
When driving home in the dark with her father =
she
sank into pensive silence. Sh=
e was
thinking of Nicholas having to trudge on foot all those miles back after his
exertions on the sward. Mr.
Everard, arousing himself from a nap, said suddenly, 'I have something to
mention to 'ee, by George--so I have, Chris! You probably know what it is?'
She expressed ignorance, wondering if her fath=
er
had discovered anything of her secret.
'Well, according to him you know it. But I will tell 'ee. Perhaps you noticed young Jim Bell=
ston
walking me off down the lawn with him?--whether or no, we walked together a
good while; and he informed me that he wanted to pay his addresses to 'ee.<=
span
style=3D'mso-spacerun:yes'> I naturally said that it depended =
upon yourself;
and he replied that you were willing enough; you had given him particular
encouragement--showing your preference for him by specially choosing him for
your partner--hey? "In t=
hat
case," says I, "go on and conquer--settle it with her--I have no
objection." The poor fel=
low
was very grateful, and in short, there we left the matter. He'll propose to- morrow.'
She saw now to her dismay what James Bellston =
had
read as encouragement. 'He has mistaken me altogether,' she said. 'I had no idea of such a thing.'
'What, you won't have him?'
'Indeed, I cannot!'
'Chrissy,' said Mr. Everard with emphasis,
'there's noobody whom I should so like you to marry as that young man. He's a thoroughly clever fellow, a=
nd
fairly well provided for. He's
travelled all over the temperate zone; but he says that directly he marries
he's going to give up all that, and be a regular stay-at-home. You would be nowhere safer than in=
his
hands.'
'It is true,' she answered. 'He is a highly desirable match, a=
nd I should
be well provided for, and probably very safe in his hands.'
'Then don't be skittish, and stand-to.'
She had spoken from her conscience and
understanding, and not to please her father. As a reflecting woman she believed=
that
such a marriage would be a wise one.
In great things Nicholas was closest to her nature; in little things
Bellston seemed immeasurably nearer than Nic; and life was made up of little
things.
Altogether the firmament looked black for Nich=
olas
Long, notwithstanding her half-hour's ardour for him when she saw him danci=
ng
with the dairyman's daughter. Most
great passions, movements, and beliefs--individual and national--burst duri=
ng
their decline into a temporary irradiation, which rivals their original
splendour; and then they speedily become extinct. Perhaps the dance had given the la=
st
flare- up to Christine's love. It
seemed to have improvidently consumed for its immediate purpose all her ard=
our
forwards, so that for the future there was nothing left but frigidity.
Nicholas had certainly been very foolish about
that licence!
=
This
laxity of emotional tone was further increased by an incident, when, two da=
ys
later, she kept an appointment with Nicholas in the Sallows. The Sallows was an extension of
shrubberies and plantations along the banks of the Froom, accessible from t=
he
lawn of Froom-Everard House only, except by wading through the river at the
waterfall or elsewhere. Near =
the
brink was a thicket of box in which a trunk lay prostrate; this had been on=
ce
or twice their trysting-place, though it was by no means a safe one; and it=
was
here she sat awaiting him now.
The noise of the stream muffled any sound of
footsteps, and it was before she was aware of his approach that she looked =
up
and saw him wading across at the top of the waterfall.
Noontide lights and dwarfed shadows always
banished the romantic aspect of her love for Nicholas. Moreover, something new had occurr=
ed to disturb
her; and if ever she had regretted giving way to a tenderness for him--which
perhaps she had not done with any distinctness--she regretted it now. Yet in the bottom of their hearts =
those
two were excellently paired, the very twin halves of a perfect whole; and t=
heir
love was pure. But at this hour surfaces showed garishly, and obscured the
depths. Probably her regret appeared in her face.
He walked up to her without speaking, the water
running from his boots; and, taking one of her hands in each of his own, lo=
oked
narrowly into her eyes.
'Have you thought it over?'
'What?'
'Whether we shall try again; you remember sayi=
ng
you would at the dance?'
'Oh, I had forgotten that!'
'You are sorry we tried at all!' he said
accusingly.
'I am not so sorry for the fact as for the
rumours,' she said.
'Ah! rumours?'
'They say we are already married.'
'Who?'
'I cannot tell exactly. I heard some whispering to that
effect. Somebody in the villa=
ge
told one of the servants, I believe.
This man said that he was crossing the churchyard early on that
unfortunate foggy morning, and heard voices in the chancel, and peeped thro=
ugh
the window as well as the dim panes would let him; and there he saw you and=
me
and Mr. Bealand, and so on; but thinking his surmises would be dangerous
knowledge, he hastened on. An=
d so
the story got afloat. Then yo=
ur
aunt, too--'
'Good Lord!--what has she done?'
The story was, told her, and she said proudly,
"O yes, it is true enough. I have seen the licence. But it is not to be known yet.&quo=
t;'
'Seen the licence? How the--'
'Accidentally, I believe, when your coat was
hanging somewhere.'
The information, coupled with the infelicitous
word 'proudly,' caused Nicholas to flush with mortification. He knew that it was in his aunt's =
nature
to make a brag of that sort; but worse than the brag was the fact that this=
was
the first occasion on which Christine had deigned to show her consciousness
that such a marriage would be a source of pride to his relatives--the only =
two
he had in the world.
'You are sorry, then, even to be thought my wi=
fe,
much less to be it.' He dropp=
ed her
hand, which fell lifelessly.
'It is not sorry exactly, dear Nic. But I feel uncomfortable and vexed=
, that
after screwing up my courage, my fidelity, to the point of going to church,=
you
should have so muddled--managed the matter that it has ended in neither one
thing nor the other. How can =
I meet
acquaintances, when I don't know what they are thinking of me?'
'Then, dear Christine, let us mend the
muddle. I'll go away for a fe=
w days
and get another licence, and you can come to me.'
She shrank from this perceptibly. 'I cannot screw myself up to it a =
second
time,' she said. 'I am sure I
cannot! Besides, I promised M=
r. Bealand. And yet how can I continue to see =
you
after such a rumour? We shall=
be
watched now, for certain.'
'Then don't see me.'
'I fear I must not for the present. Altogether--'
'What?'
'I am very depressed.'
These views were not very inspiriting to Nicho=
las,
as he construed them. It may indeed have been possible that he construed th=
em
wrongly, and should have insisted upon her making the rumour true. Unfortunately, too, he had come to=
her
in a hurry through brambles and briars, water and weed, and the shaggy wild=
ness
which hung about his appearance at this fine and correct time of day lent an
impracticability to the look of him.
'You blame me--you repent your courses--you re=
pent
that you ever, ever owned anything to me!'
'No, Nicholas, I do not repent that,' she retu=
rned
gently, though with firmness. 'But
I think that you ought not to have got that licence without asking me first;
and I also think that you ought to have known how it would be if you lived =
on
here in your present position, and made no effort to better it. I can bear whatever comes, for soc=
ial
ruin is not personal ruin or even personal disgrace. But as a sensible, new-risen poet =
says,
whom I have been reading this morning:-
The world and its ways have a certain worth: And to press a point wh=
ile
these oppose Were
simple policy. Better wait.
As soon as you had got my promise, Nic, you sh=
ould
have gone away--yes--and made a name, and come back to claim me. That was my silly girlish dream ab=
out my
hero.'
'Perhaps I can do as much yet! And would you have indeed liked be=
tter
to live away from me for family reasons, than to run a risk in seeing me fo=
r affection's
sake? O what a cold heart it =
has
grown! If I had been a prince=
, and
you a dairymaid, I'd have stood by you in the face of the world!'
She shook her head. 'Ah--you don't know what society i=
s--you
don't know.'
'Perhaps not.=
Who was that strange gentleman of about seven-and-twenty I saw at Mr.
Bellston's christening feast?'
'Oh--that was his nephew James. Now he is a man who has seen an un=
usual extent
of the world for his age. He =
is a
great traveller, you know.'
'Indeed.'
'In fact an explorer. He is very entertaining.'
'No doubt.'
Nicholas received no shock of jealousy from her
announcement. He knew her so =
well
that he could see she was not in the least in love with Bellston. But he asked if Bellston were goin=
g to
continue his explorations.
'Not if he settles in life. Otherwise he will, I suppose.'
'Perhaps I could be a great explorer, too, if I
tried.'
'You could, I am sure.'
They sat apart, and not together; each looking
afar off at vague objects, and not in each other's eyes. Thus the sad autumn afternoon wane=
d,
while the waterfall hissed sarcastically of the inevitableness of the unple=
asant. Very different this from the time =
when
they had first met there.
The nook was most picturesque; but it looked
horridly common and stupid now.
Their sentiment had set a colour hardly less visible than a material=
one
on surrounding objects, as sentiment must where life is but thought. Nicholas was as devoted as ever to=
the
fair Christine; but unhappily he too had moods and humours, and the division
between them was not closed.
She had no sooner got indoors and sat down to =
her
work-table than her father entered the drawing-room.
She handed him his newspaper; he took it witho=
ut a
word, went and stood on the hearthrug, and flung the paper on the floor.
'Christine, what's the meaning of this terrible
story? I was just on my way t=
o look
at the register.'
She looked at him without speech.
'You have married--Nicholas Long?'
'No, father.'
'No?
Can you say no in the face of such facts as I have been put in posse=
ssion
of?'
'Yes.'
'But--the note you wrote to the rector--and the
going to church?'
She briefly explained that their attempt had
failed.
'Ah!
Then this is what that dancing meant, was it? By ---, it makes me ---. How long has this been going on, m=
ay I
ask?'
'This what?'
'What, indeed! Why, making him your beau. Now listen to me. All's well that ends well; from th=
is
day, madam, this moment, he is to be nothing more to you. You are not to see him. Cut him adrift instantly! I only wish his volk were on my
farm--out they should go, or I would know the reason why. However, you are to write him a le=
tter
to this effect at once.'
'How can I cut him adrift?'
'Why not?&nbs=
p;
You must, my good maid!'
'Well, though I have not actually married him,=
I
have solemnly sworn to be his wife when he comes home from abroad to claim
me. It would be gross perjury=
not
to fulfil my promise. Besides=
, no
woman can go to church with a man to deliberately solemnize matrimony, and
refuse him afterwards, if he does nothing wrong meanwhile.'
The uttered sound of her strong conviction see=
med
to kindle in Christine a livelier perception of all its bearings than she h=
ad
known while it had lain unformulated in her mind. For when she had done speaking she=
fell down
on her knees before her father, covered her face, and said, 'Please, please
forgive me, papa! How could I=
do it
without letting you know! I d=
on't
know, I don't know!'
When she looked up she found that, in the turm=
oil
of his mind, her father was moving about the room. 'You are within an ace of ruining
yourself, ruining me, ruining us all!' he said. 'You are nearly as bad as your bro=
ther,
begad!'
'Perhaps I am--yes--perhaps I am!'
'That I should father such a harum-scarum broo=
d!'
'It is very bad; but Nicholas--'
'He's a scoundrel!'
'He is not a scoundrel!' cried she, turning
quickly. 'He's as good and wo=
rthy as
you or I, or anybody bearing our name, or any nobleman in the kingdom, if y=
ou
come to that! Only--only'--she
could not continue the argument on those lines. 'Now, father, listen!' she sobbed;=
'if
you taunt me I'll go off and join him at his farm this very day, and marry =
him
to-morrow, that's what I'll do!'
'I don't taant ye!'
'I wish to avoid unseemliness as much as you.'=
She went away. When she came back a quarter of an=
hour
later, thinking to find the room empty, he was standing there as before, ne=
ver
having apparently moved. His =
manner
had quite changed. He seemed =
to
take a resigned and entirely different view of circumstances.
'Christine, here's a paragraph in the paper
hinting at a secret wedding, and I'm blazed if it don't point to you. Well, since this was to happen, I'=
ll
bear it, and not complain. Al=
l volk
have crosses, and this is one of mine.&nbs=
p;
Now, this is what I've got to say--I feel that you must carry out th=
is
attempt at marrying Nicholas Long.
Faith, you must! The r=
umour will
become a scandal if you don't--that's my view. I have tried to look at the bright=
est
side of the case. Nicholas Lo=
ng is
a young man superior to most of his class, and fairly presentable. And he's not poor--at least his un=
cle is
not. I believe the old muddler
could buy me up any day. Howe=
ver, a
farmer's wife you must be, as far as I can see. As you've made your bed, so ye must
lie. Parents propose, and
ungrateful children dispose. =
You
shall marry him, and immediately.'
Christine hardly knew what to make of this.
'You must marry him. And the sooner the better, if 'tis=
to be
done at all . . . And yet I did wish you could have been Jim Bellston's
wife. I did wish it! But no.'
'I, too, wished it and do still, in one sense,'
she returned gently. His mode=
ration
had won her out of her defiant mood, and she was willing to reason with him=
.
'You do?' he said surprised.
'I see that in a worldly sense my conduct with=
Mr.
Long may be considered a mistake.'
'H'm--I am glad to hear that--after my death y=
ou
may see it more clearly still; and you won't have long to wait, to my
reckoning.'
She fell into bitter repentance, and kissed hi= m in her anguish. 'Don't say that!= ' she cried. 'Tell me what to do?'<= o:p>
'If you'll leave me for an hour or two I'll
think. Drive to the market and
back--the carriage is at the door--and I'll try to collect my senses. Dinner
can be put back till you return.'
In a few minutes she was dressed, and the carr=
iage
bore her up the hill which divided the village and manor from the market-to=
wn.
A
quarter of an hour brought her into the High Street, and for want of a more
important errand she called at the harness-maker's for a dog-collar that she
required.
It happened to be market-day, and Nicholas, ha=
ving
postponed the engagements which called him thither to keep the appointment =
with
her in the Sallows, rushed off at the end of the afternoon to attend to the=
m as
well as he could. Arriving th=
us in
a great hurry on account of the lateness of the hour, he still retained the
wild, amphibious appearance which had marked him when he came up from the
meadows to her side--an exceptional condition of things which had scarcely =
ever
before occurred. When she crossed the pavement from the shop door, the shop=
man
bowing and escorting her to the carriage, Nicholas chanced to be standing at
the road-waggon office, talking to the master of the waggons. There were a good many people abou=
t, and
those near paused and looked at her transit, in the full stroke of the level
October sun, which went under the brims of their hats, and pierced through
their button-holes. From the =
group she
heard murmured the words: 'Mrs. Nicholas Long.'
The unexpected remark, not without distinct sa=
tire
in its tone, took her so greatly by surprise that she was confounded. Nicholas was by this time nearer, =
though
coming against the sun he had not yet perceived her. Influenced by her fath=
er's
lecture, she felt angry with him for being there and causing this
awkwardness. Her notice of hi=
m was
therefore slight, supercilious perhaps, slurred over; and her vexation at h=
is presence
showed distinctly in her face as she sat down in her seat. Instead of catch=
ing
his waiting eye, she positively turned her head away.
A moment after she was sorry she had treated h=
im
so; but he was gone.
Reaching home she found on her dressing-table a
note from her father. The sta=
tement
was brief:
I have considered and am of the same opinion. You must marry him. He can leave home at once =
and
travel as proposed. I have wr=
itten
to him to this
effect. I don't want any vict=
uals,
so don't wait dinner for me.
Nicholas was the wrong kind of man to be blind=
to
his Christine's mortification, though he did not know its entire cause. He had lately foreseen something o=
f this
sort as possible.
'It serves me right,' he thought, as he trotted
homeward. 'It was absurd--wic=
ked of
me to lead her on so. The sac=
rifice
would have been too great--too cruel!'&nbs=
p;
And yet, though he thus took her part, he flushed with indignation e=
very
time he said to himself, 'She is ashamed of me!'
On the ridge which overlooked Froom-Everard he=
met
a neighbour of his--a stock-dealer--in his gig, and they drew rein and
exchanged a few words. A part=
of
the dealer's conversation had much meaning for Nicholas.
'I've had occasion to call on Squire Everard,'=
the
former said; 'but he couldn't see me on account of being quite knocked up at
some bad news he has heard.'
Nicholas rode on past Froom-Everard to Elsenfo=
rd
Farm, pondering. He had new a=
nd
startling matter for thought as soon as he got there. The Squire's note had arrived. At first he could not credit its i=
mport;
then he saw further, took in the tone of the letter, saw the writer's conte=
mpt behind
the words, and understood that the letter was written as by a man hemmed in=
to a
corner. Christine was
defiantly--insultingly--hurled at his head. He was accepted because he was so
despised.
And yet with what respect he had treated her a=
nd
hers! Now he was reminded of =
what
an agricultural friend had said years ago, seeing the eyes of Nicholas fixe=
d on
Christine as on an angel when she passed: 'Better a little fire to warm 'ee
than a great one to burn 'ee. No
good can come of throwing your heart there.' He went into the mead, sat down, a=
nd
asked himself four questions:
1. How
could she live near her acquaintance as his wife, even in his absence, with=
out
suffering martyrdom from the stings of their contempt?
2.
Would not this entail total estrangement between Christine and her f=
amily
also, and her own consequent misery?
3.
Must not such isolation extinguish her affection for him?
4.
Supposing that her father rigged them out as colonists and sent them=
off
to America, was not the effect of such exile upon one of her gentle nurture
likely to be as the last?
In short, whatever they should embark in toget=
her
would be cruelty to her, and his death would be a relief. It would, indeed, in one aspect be=
a
relief to her now, if she were so ashamed of him as she had appeared to be =
that
day. Were he dead, this little
episode with him would fade away like a dream.
Mr. Everard was a good-hearted man at bottom, =
but
to take his enraged offer seriously was impossible. Obviously it was hotly made in his=
first
bitterness at what he had heard.
The least thing that he could do would be to go away and never troub=
le
her more. To travel and learn=
and
come back in two years, as mapped out in their first sanguine scheme, requi=
red a
staunch heart on her side, if the necessary expenditure of time and money w=
ere
to be afterwards justified; and it were folly to calculate on that when he =
had
seen to-day that her heart was failing her already. To travel and disappear and not be=
heard
of for many years would be a far more independent stroke, and it would leave
her entirely unfettered. Perhaps he might rival in this kind the accomplish=
ed
Mr. Bellston, of whose journeyings he had heard so much.
He sat and sat, and the fog rose out of the ri=
ver,
enveloping him like a fleece; first his feet and knees, then his arms and b=
ody,
and finally submerging his head.
When he had come to a decision he went up again into the homestead.<=
span
style=3D'mso-spacerun:yes'> He would be independent, if he die=
d for
it, and he would free Christine.
Exile was the only course.
The first step was to inform his uncle of his determination.
Two days later Nicholas was on the same spot in
the mead, at almost the same hour of eve.&=
nbsp;
But there was no fog now; a blusterous autumn wind had ousted the st=
ill,
golden days and misty nights; and he was going, full of purpose, in the
opposite direction. When he h=
ad
last entered the mead he was an inhabitant of the Froom valley; in forty-ei=
ght
hours he had severed himself from that spot as completely as if he had never
belonged to it. All that
appertained to him in the Froom valley now was circumscribed by the portman=
teau
in his hand.
In making his preparations for departure he had
unconsciously held a faint, foolish hope that she would communicate with him
and make up their estrangement in some soft womanly way. But she had given no signal, and i=
t was
too evident to him that her latest mood had grown to be her fixed one, prov=
ing
how well founded had been his impulse to set her free.
He entered the Sallows, found his way in the d=
ark
to the garden-door of the house, slipped under it a note to tell her of his
departure, and explaining its true reason to be a consciousness of her grow=
ing
feeling that he was an encumbrance and a humiliation. Of the direction of his journey an=
d of
the date of his return he said nothing.
His course now took him into the high road, wh=
ich
he pursued for some miles in a north-easterly direction, still spinning the
thread of sad inferences, and asking himself why he should ever return. At daybreak he stood on the hill a=
bove
Shottsford-Forum, and awaited a coach which passed about this time along th=
at
highway towards Melchester and London.
=
Some
fifteen years after the date of the foregoing incidents, a man who had dwel=
t in
far countries, and viewed many cities, arrived at Roy-Town, a roadside haml=
et
on the old western turnpike road, not five miles from Froom-Everard, and pu=
t up
at the Buck's Head, an isolated inn at that spot. He was still barely of middle age,=
but
it could be seen that a haze of grey was settling upon the locks of his hai=
r,
and that his face had lost colour and curve, as if by exposure to bleaching
climates and strange atmospheres, or from ailments incidental thereto. He seemed to observe little around=
him,
by reason of the intrusion of his musings upon the scene. In truth Nicholas Long was just no=
w the
creature of old hopes and fears consequent upon his arrival--this man who o=
nce
had not cared if his name were blotted out from that district. The evening light showed wistful l=
ines
which he could not smooth away by the worldling's gloss of nonchalance that=
he
had learnt to fling over his face.
The Buck's Head was a somewhat unusual place f=
or a
man of this sort to choose as a house of sojourn in preference to some
Casterbridge inn four miles further on.&nb=
sp;
Before he left home it had been a lively old tavern at which
High-flyers, and Heralds, and Tally-hoes had changed horses on their stages=
up
and down the country; but now the house was rather cavernous and chilly, the
stable-roofs were hollow-backed, the landlord was asthmatic, and the traffic
gone.
He arrived in the afternoon, and when he had s=
ent
back the fly and was having a nondescript meal, he put a question to the
waiting-maid with a mien of indifference.
'Squire Everard, of Froom-Everard Manor, has b=
een
dead some years, I believe?'
She replied in the affirmative.
'And are any of the family left there still?'<= o:p>
'O no, bless you, sir! They sold the place years ago--Squ=
ire
Everard's son did--and went away.
I've never heard where they went to. They came quite to nothing.'
'Never heard anything of the young lady--the
Squire's daughter?'
'No.
You see 'twas before I came to these parts.'
When the waitress left the room, Nicholas push=
ed
aside his plate and gazed out of the window. He was not going over into the Fro=
om
Valley altogether on Christine's account, but she had greatly animated his =
motive
in coming that way. Anyhow he=
would
push on there now that he was so near, and not ask questions here where he =
was
liable to be wrongly informed. The
fundamental inquiry he had not ventured to make--whether Christine had marr=
ied
before the family went away. =
He had
abstained because of an absurd dread of extinguishing hopeful surmise. That the Everards had left their o=
ld
home was bad enough intelligence for one day.
Rising from the table he put on his hat and we=
nt
out, ascending towards the upland which divided this district from his nati=
ve
vale. The first familiar feat=
ure
that met his eye was a little spot on the distant sky--a clump of trees
standing on a barrow which surmounted a yet more remote upland--a point whe=
re,
in his childhood, he had believed people could stand and see America. He reached the further verge of the
plateau on which he had entered.
Ah, there was the valley--a greenish-grey stretch of colour--still
looking placid and serene, as though it had not much missed him. If Christine was no longer there, =
why
should he pause over it this evening?
His uncle and aunt were dead, and to-morrow would be soon enough to
inquire for remoter relatives.
Thus, disinclined to go further, he turned to retrace his way to the
inn.
In the backward path he now perceived the figu=
re
of a woman, who had been walking at a distance behind him; and as she drew
nearer he began to be startled.
Surely, despite the variations introduced into that figure by changi=
ng
years, its ground-lines were those of Christine?
Nicholas had been sentimental enough to write =
to
Christine immediately on landing at Southampton a day or two before this,
addressing his letter at a venture to the old house, and merely telling her
that he planned to reach the Roy-Town inn on the present afternoon. The news of the scattering of the
Everards had dissipated his hope of hearing of her; but here she was.
So they met--there, alone, on the open down by=
a
pond, just as if the meeting had been carefully arranged.
She threw up her veil. She was still beautiful, though the
years had touched her; a little more matronly--much more homely. Or was it only that he was much le=
ss
homely now--a man of the world--the sense of homeliness being relative? Her face had grown to be pre-emine=
ntly
of the sort that would be called interesting. Her habiliments were of a demure a=
nd
sober cast, though she was one who had used to dress so airily and so gaily=
. Years had laid on a few shadows to=
o in
this.
'I received your letter,' she said, when the
momentary embarrassment of their first approach had passed. 'And I thought I would walk across=
the hills
to-day, as it was fine. I hav=
e just
called at the inn, and they told me you were out. I was now on my way homeward.'
He hardly listened to this, though he intently
gazed at her. 'Christine,' he=
said,
'one word. Are you free?'
'I--I am in a certain sense,' she replied,
colouring.
The announcement had a magical effect. The intervening time between past =
and
present closed up for him, and moved by an impulse which he had combated for
fifteen years, he seized her two hands and drew her towards him.
She started back, and became almost a mere
acquaintance. 'I have to tell=
you,'
she gasped, 'that I have--been married.'
Nicholas's rose-coloured dream was immediately
toned down to a greyish tinge.
'I did not marry till many years after you had
left,' she continued in the humble tones of one confessing to a crime. 'Oh Nic,' she cried reproachfully,=
'how
could you stay away so long?'
'Whom did you marry?'
'Mr. Bellston.'
'I--ought to have expected it.' He was going to add, 'And is he de=
ad?' but
he checked himself. Her dress
unmistakably suggested widowhood; and she had said she was free.
'I must now hasten home,' said she. 'I felt that, considering my short=
comings
at our parting so many years ago, I owed you the initiative now.'
'There is some of your old generosity in that. I'll walk with you, if = I may. Where are you living, Christine?'<= o:p>
'In the same house, but not on the old
conditions. I have part of it=
on lease;
the farmer now tenanting the premises found the whole more than he wanted, =
and
the owner allowed me to keep what rooms I chose. I am poor now, you know, Nicholas,=
and
almost friendless. My brother=
sold
the Froom-Everard estate when it came to him, and the person who bought it =
turned
our home into a farmhouse. Ti=
ll my
father's death my husband and I lived in the manor-house with him, so that I
have never lived away from the spot.'
She was poor.=
That, and the change of name, sufficiently accounted for the
inn-servant's ignorance of her continued existence within the walls of her =
old
home.
It was growing dusk, and he still walked with
her. A woman's head arose fro=
m the
declivity before them, and as she drew nearer, Christine asked him to go ba=
ck.
'This is the wife of the farmer who shares the
house,' she said. 'She is acc=
ustomed
to come out and meet me whenever I walk far and am benighted. I am obliged =
to
walk everywhere now.'
The farmer's wife, seeing that Christine was n=
ot
alone, paused in her advance, and Nicholas said, 'Dear Christine, if you are
obliged to do these things, I am not, and what wealth I can command you may
command likewise. They say ro=
lling
stones gather no moss; but they gather dross sometimes. I was one of the pioneers to the
gold-fields, you know, and made a sufficient fortune there for my wants.
She trembled--just as she had done at that very
minute of standing with him in the church, to which he had recalled her
mind. 'I will not enter into =
that
now, dear Nicholas,' she replied.
'There will be more to talk of and consider first--more to explain,
which it would have spoiled this meeting to have entered into now.'
'Yes, yes; but--'
'Further than the brief answer I first gave, N= ic, don't press me to-night. I st= ill have the old affection for you, or I should not have sought you. Let that suffice for the moment.'<= o:p>
'Very well, dear one. And when shall I call to see you?'=
'I will write and fix an hour. I will tell you everything of my h=
istory
then.'
And thus they parted, Nicholas feeling that he=
had
not come here fruitlessly. Wh=
en she
and her companion were out of sight he retraced his steps to Roy-Town, wher=
e he
made himself as comfortable as he could in the deserted old inn of his
boyhood's days. He missed her=
companionship
this evening more than he had done at any time during the whole fifteen yea=
rs;
and it was as though instead of separation there had been constant communion
with her throughout that period.
The tones of her voice had stirred his heart in a nook which had lain
stagnant ever since he last heard them.&nb=
sp;
They recalled the woman to whom he had once lifted his eyes as to a
goddess. Her announcement tha=
t she
had been another's came as a little shock to him, and he did not now lift h=
is
eyes to her in precisely the same way as he had lifted them at first. But he forgave her for marrying
Bellston; what could he expect after fifteen years?
He slept at Roy-Town that night, and in the mo=
rning
there was a short note from her, repeating more emphatically her statement =
of
the previous evening--that she wished to inform him clearly of her
circumstances, and to calmly consider with him the position in which she was
placed. Would he call upon he=
r on
Sunday afternoon, when she was sure to be alone?
'Nic,' she wrote on, 'what a cosmopolite you
are! I expected to find my old
yeoman still; but I was quite awed in the presence of such a citizen of the
world. Did I seem rusty and
unpractised? Ah--you seemed s=
o once
to me!'
Tender playful words; the old Christine was in
them. She said Sunday afterno=
on,
and it was now only Saturday morning.
He wished she had said to-day; that short revival of her image had
vitalized to sudden heat feelings that had almost been stilled. Whatever she might have to explain=
as to
her position--and it was awkwardly narrowed, no doubt--he could not give her
up. Miss Everard or Mrs. Bell=
ston,
what mattered it?--she was the same Christine.
He did not go outside the inn all Saturday.
With a stout stick in his hand he climbed over= the five miles of upland in a comparatively short space of time. Nicholas had seen many strange lan= ds and trodden many strange ways since he last walked that path, but as he trudged= he seemed wonderfully like his old self, and had not the slightest difficulty = in finding the way. In descendin= g to the meads the streams perplexed him a little, some of the old foot-bridges having been removed; but he ultimately got across the larger water-courses,= and pushed on to the village, avoiding her residence for the moment, lest she s= hould encounter him, and think he had not respected the time of her appointment.<= o:p>
He found his way to the churchyard, and first
ascertained where lay the two relations he had left alive at his departure;
then he observed the gravestones of other inhabitants with whom he had been
well acquainted, till by degrees he seemed to be in the society of all the
elder Froom- Everard population, as he had known the place. Side by side as they had lived in =
his
day here were they now. They =
had
moved house in mass.
But no tomb of Mr. Bellston was visible, thoug=
h,
as he had lived at the manor-house, it would have been natural to find it
here. In truth Nicholas was m=
ore
anxious to discover that than anything, being curious to know how long he h=
ad
been dead. Seeing from the gl=
immer
of a light in the church that somebody was there cleaning for Sunday he
entered, and looked round upon the walls as well as he could. But there was no monument to her
husband, though one had been erected to the Squire.
Nicholas addressed the young man who was
sweeping. 'I don't see any mo=
nument
or tomb to the late Mr. Bellston?'
'O no, sir; you won't see that,' said the young
man drily.
'Why, pray?'
'Because he's not buried here. He's not Christian-buried anywhere=
, as far
as we know. In short, perhaps=
he's
not buried at all; and between ourselves, perhaps he's alive.'
Nicholas sank an inch shorter. 'Ah,' he answered.
'Then you don't know the peculiar circumstance=
s,
sir?'
'I am a stranger here--as to late years.'
'Mr. Bellston was a traveller--an explorer--it=
was
his calling; you may have heard his name as such?'
'I remember.'=
Nicholas recalled the fact that this very bent of Mr. Bellston's was=
the
incentive to his own roaming.
'Well, when he married he came and lived here =
with
his wife and his wife's father, and said he would travel no more. But after a time he got weary of b=
iding
quiet here, and weary of her--he was not a good husband to the young lady by
any means--and he betook himself again to his old trick of roving--with her
money. Away he went, quite ou=
t of
the realm of human foot, into the bowels of Asia, and never was heard of
more. He was murdered, it is =
said,
but nobody knows; though as that was nine years ago he's dead enough in
principle, if not in corporation.
His widow lives quite humble, for between her husband and her brother
she's left in very lean pasturage.'
Nicholas went back to the Buck's Head without
hovering round her dwelling. =
This
then was the explanation which she had wanted to make. Not dead, but
missing. How could he have ex=
pected
that the first fair promise of happiness held out to him would remain
untarnished? She had said tha=
t she
was free; and legally she was free, no doubt. Moreover, from her tone and manner=
he
felt himself justified in concluding that she would be willing to run the r=
isk
of a union with him, in the improbability of her husband's existence. Even if that husband lived, his re=
turn
was not a likely event, to judge from his character. A man who could spend her money on=
his
own personal adventures would not be anxious to disturb her poverty after s=
uch
a lapse of time.
Well, the prospect was not so unclouded as it =
had
seemed. But could he, even no=
w,
give up Christine?
=
Two months
more brought the year nearly to a close, and found Nicholas Long tenant of a
spacious house in the market-town nearest to Froom-Everard. A man of means, genial character, =
and a
bachelor, he was an object of great interest to his neighbours, and to his
neighbours' wives and daughters.
But he took little note of this, and had made it his business to go
twice a week, no matter what the weather, to the now farmhouse at
Froom-Everard, a wing of which had been retained as the refuge of
Christine. He always walked, =
to
give no trouble in putting up a horse to a housekeeper whose staff was limi=
ted.
The two had put their heads together on the
situation, had gone to a solicitor, had balanced possibilities, and had
resolved to make the plunge of matrimony.&=
nbsp;
'Nothing venture, nothing have,' Christine had said, with some of her
old audacity.
With almost gratuitous honesty they had let th=
eir
intentions be widely known.
Christine, it is true, had rather shrunk from publicity at first; but
Nicholas argued that their boldness in this respect would have good results=
. With his friends he held that ther=
e was
not the slightest probability of her being other than a widow, and a challe=
nge
to the missing man now, followed by no response, would stultify any unpleas=
ant remarks
which might be thrown at her after their union. To this end a paragraph was insert=
ed in
the Wessex papers, announcing that their marriage was proposed to be celebr=
ated
on such and such a day in December.
His periodic walks along the south side of the
valley to visit her were among the happiest experiences of his life. The yellow leaves falling around h=
im in
the foreground, the well-watered meads on the left hand, and the woman he l=
oved
awaiting him at the back of the scene, promised a future of much serenity, =
as
far as human judgment could foresee.
On arriving, he would sit with her in the 'parlour' of the wing she =
retained,
her general sitting-room, where the only relics of her early surroundings w=
ere
an old clock from the other end of the house, and her own piano. Before it was quite dark they would
stand, hand in hand, looking out of the window across the flat turf to the =
dark
clump of trees which hid further view from their eyes.
'Do you wish you were still mistress here, dea=
r?'
he once said.
'Not at all,' said she cheerfully. 'I have a good enough room, and a =
good
enough fire, and a good enough friend.&nbs=
p;
Besides, my latter days as mistress of the house were not happy ones,
and they spoilt the place for me.
It was a punishment for my faithlessness. Nic, you do forgive me? Really you=
do?'
The twenty-third of December, the eve of the
wedding-day, had arrived at last in the train of such uneventful ones as
these. Nicholas had arranged =
to
visit her that day a little later than usual, and see that everything was r=
eady
with her for the morrow's event and her removal to his house; for he had be=
gun
to look after her domestic affairs, and to lighten as much as possible the
duties of her housekeeping.
He was to come to an early supper, which she h=
ad arranged
to take the place of a wedding-breakfast next day--the latter not being
feasible in her present situation.
An hour or so after dark the wife of the farmer who lived in the oth=
er
part of the house entered Christine's parlour to lay the cloth.
'What with getting the ham skinned, and the
black-puddings hotted up,' she said, 'it will take me all my time before he=
's
here, if I begin this minute.'
'I'll lay the table myself,' said Christine,
jumping up. 'Do you attend to=
the
cooking.'
'Thank you, ma'am. And perhaps 'tis no matter, seeing=
that
it is the last night you'll have to do such work. I knew this sort of life wouldn't =
last
long for 'ee, being born to better things.'
'It has lasted rather long, Mrs. Wake. And if he had not found me out it =
would
have lasted all my days.'
'But he did find you out.'
'He did.
And I'll lay the cloth immediately.'
Mrs. Wake went back to the kitchen, and Christ=
ine
began to bustle about. She greatly enjoyed preparing this table for Nicholas
and herself with her own hands. She
took artistic pleasure in adjusting each article to its position, as if hal=
f an
inch error were a point of high importance. Finally she placed the two cand=
les
where they were to stand, and sat down by the fire.
Mrs. Wake re-entered and regarded the effect.<=
span
style=3D'mso-spacerun:yes'> 'Why not have another candle or tw=
o,
ma'am?' she said. ''Twould ma=
ke it
livelier. Say four.'
'Very well,' said Christine, and four candles =
were
lighted. 'Really,' she added,
surveying them, 'I have been now so long accustomed to little economies that
they look quite extravagant.'
'Ah, you'll soon think nothing of forty in his
grand new house! Shall I brin=
g in
supper directly he comes, ma'am?'
'No, not for half an hour; and, Mrs. Wake, you=
and
Betsy are busy in the kitchen, I know; so when he knocks don't disturb
yourselves; I can let him in.'
She was again left alone, and, as it still wan=
ted
some time to Nicholas's appointment, she stood by the fire, looking at hers=
elf
in the glass over the mantel.
Reflectively raising a lock of her hair just above her temple she
uncovered a small scar. That =
scar
had a history. The terrible t=
emper
of her late husband--those sudden moods of irascibility which had made even=
his
friendly excitements look like anger--had once caused him to set that mark =
upon
her with the bezel of a ring he wore.
He declared that the whole thing was an accident. She was a woman, and kept her own
opinion.
Christine then turned her back to the glass and
scanned the table and the candles, shining one at each corner like types of=
the
four Evangelists, and thought they looked too assuming--too confident. She glanced up at the clock, which=
stood
also in this room, there not being space enough for it in the passage. It was nearly seven, and she expec=
ted
Nicholas at half-past. She li=
ked
the company of this venerable article in her lonely life: its tickings and
whizzings were a sort of conversation.&nbs=
p;
It now began to strike the hour.&nb=
sp;
At the end something grated slightly. Then, without any warning, the clo=
ck
slowly inclined forward and fell at full length upon the floor.
The crash brought the farmer's wife rushing in=
to
the room. Christine had well-=
nigh
sprung out of her shoes. Mrs.
Wake's enquiry what had happened was answered by the evidence of her own ey=
es.
'How did it occur?' she said.
'I cannot say; it was not firmly fixed, I
suppose. Dear me, how sorry I=
am! My dear father's hall-clock! And now I suppose it is ruined.'
Assisted by Mrs. Wake, she lifted the clock. Every inch of glass was, of course,
shattered, but very little harm besides appeared to be done. They propped it up temporarily, th=
ough
it would not go again.
Christine had soon recovered her composure, but
she saw that Mrs. Wake was gloomy.
'What does it mean, Mrs. Wake?' she said. 'Is it ominous?'
'It is a sign of a violent death in the family=
.'
'Don't talk of it. I don't believe such things; and d=
on't
mention it to Mr. Long when he comes.
He's not in the family yet, you know.'
'O no, it cannot refer to him,' said Mrs. Wake
musingly.
'Some remote cousin, perhaps,' observed Christ=
ine,
no less willing to humour her than to get rid of a shapeless dread which the
incident had caused in her own mind.
'And--supper is almost ready, Mrs. Wake?'
'In three-quarters of an hour.'
Mrs. Wake left the room, and Christine sat
on. Though it still wanted fi=
fteen
minutes to the hour at which Nicholas had promised to be there, she began to
grow impatient. After the
accustomed ticking the dead silence was oppressive. But she had not to wait so long as=
she
had expected; steps were heard approaching the door, and there was a knock.=
Christine was already there to open it. The entrance had no lamp, but it w=
as not
particularly dark out of doors. She
could see the outline of a man, and cried cheerfully, 'You are early; it is
very good of you.'
'I beg pardon. It is not Mr. Bellston himself--on=
ly a
messenger with his bag and great-coat.&nbs=
p;
But he will be here soon.'
The voice was not the voice of Nicholas, and t=
he
intelligence was strange. 'I-=
-I
don't understand. Mr. Bellsto=
n?'
she faintly replied.
'Yes, ma'am.&=
nbsp;
A gentleman--a stranger to me--gave me these things at Casterbridge
station to bring on here, and told me to say that Mr. Bellston had arrived
there, and is detained for half-an-hour, but will be here in the course of =
the
evening.'
She sank into a chair. The porter put a small battered
portmanteau on the floor, the coat on a chair, and looking into the room at=
the
spread table said, 'If you are disappointed, ma'am, that your husband (as I=
s'pose
he is) is not come, I can assure you he'll soon be here. He's stopped to get a shave, to my
thinking, seeing he wanted it. What
he said was that I could tell you he had heard the news in Ireland, and wou=
ld
have come sooner, his hand being forced; but was hindered crossing by the
weather, having took passage in a sailing vessel. What news he meant he didn't say.'=
'Ah, yes,' she faltered. It was plain that the man knew not=
hing
of her intended re-marriage.
Mechanically rising and giving him a shilling,=
she
answered to his 'good- night,' and he withdrew, the beat of his footsteps
lessening in the distance. Sh=
e was
alone; but in what a solitude.
Christine stood in the middle of the hall, jus= t as the man had left her, in the gloomy silence of the stopped clock within the adjoining room, till she aroused herself, and turning to the portmanteau and great-coat brought them to the light of the candles, and examined them. The portmanteau bore painted upon = it the initials 'J. B.' in white letters--the well-known initials of her husband.<= o:p>
She examined the great-coat. In the breast-pocket was an empty =
spirit
flask, which she firmly fancied she recognized as the one she had filled ma=
ny
times for him when he was living at home with her.
She turned desultorily hither and thither, unt=
il
she heard another tread without, and there came a second knocking at the
door. She did not respond to =
it;
and Nicholas--for it was he--thinking that he was not heard by reason of a
concentration on to-morrow's proceedings, opened the door softly, and came =
on
to the door of her room, which stood unclosed, just as it had been left by =
the
Casterbridge porter.
Nicholas uttered a blithe greeting, cast his e=
ye
round the parlour, which with its tall candles, blazing fire, snow-white cl=
oth,
and prettily-spread table, formed a cheerful spectacle enough for a man who=
had
been walking in the dark for an hour.
'My bride--almost, at last!' he cried, encircl=
ing
her with his arms.
Instead of responding, her figure became limp,
frigid, heavy; her head fell back, and he found that she had fainted.
It was natural, he thought. She had had many little worrying m=
atters
to attend to, and but slight assistance.&n=
bsp;
He ought to have seen more effectually to her affairs; the closeness=
of
the event had over-excited her.
Nicholas kissed her unconscious face--more than once, little thinking
what news it was that had changed its aspect. Loth to call Mrs. Wake, he carried
Christine to a couch and laid her down.&nb=
sp;
This had the effect of reviving her. Nicholas bent and whispered in her=
ear,
'Lie quiet, dearest, no hurry; and dream, dream, dream of happy days. It is only I. You will soon be better.' He held her by the hand.
'No, no, no!' she said, with a stare. 'O, how can this be?'
Nicholas was alarmed and perplexed, but the
disclosure was not long delayed.
When she had sat up, and by degrees made the stunning event known to
him, he stood as if transfixed.
'Ah--is it so?' said he. Then, becoming quite meek, 'And wh=
y was
he so cruel as to--delay his return till now?'
She dutifully recited the explanation her husb=
and
had given her through the messenger; but her mechanical manner of telling it
showed how much she doubted its truth.&nbs=
p;
It was too unlikely that his arrival at such a dramatic moment should
not be a contrived surprise, quite of a piece with his previous dealings
towards her.
'But perhaps it may be true--and he may have
become kind now--not as he used to be,' she faltered. 'Yes, perhaps, Nicholas, he is an
altered man--we'll hope he is. I
suppose I ought not to have listened to my legal advisers, and assumed his
death so surely! Anyhow, I am
roughly received back into--the right way!'
Nicholas burst out bitterly: 'O what too, too
honest fools we were!--to so court daylight upon our intention by putting t=
hat announcement
in the papers! Why could we n=
ot
have married privately, and gone away, so that he would never have known wh=
at
had become of you, even if he had returned? Christine, he has done it to . . .=
But
I'll say no more. Of course
we--might fly now.'
'No, no; we might not,' said she hastily.
'Very well.&n=
bsp;
But this is hard to bear!
"When I looked for good then evil came unto me, and when I wait=
ed
for light there came darkness."
So once said a sorely tried man in the land of Uz, and so say I now!=
. .
. I wonder if he is almost here at this moment?'
She told him she supposed Bellston was approac=
hing
by the path across the fields, having sent on his great-coat, which he would
not want walking.
'And is this meal laid for him, or for me?'
'It was laid for you.'
'And it will be eaten by him?'
'Yes.'
'Christine, are you sure that he is come, or h=
ave
you been sleeping over the fire and dreaming it?'
She pointed anew to the portmanteau with the
initials 'J. B.,' and to the coat beside it.
'Well, good-bye--good-bye! Curse that parson for not marrying=
us
fifteen years ago!'
It is unnecessary to dwell further upon that
parting. There are scenes whe=
rein
the words spoken do not even approximate to the level of the mental communi=
on
between the actors. Suffice i=
t to
say that part they did, and quickly; and Nicholas, more dead than alive, we=
nt
out of the house homewards.
Why had he ever come back? During his absence he had not care=
d for Christine
as he cared now. If he had be=
en
younger he might have felt tempted to descend into the meads instead of kee=
ping
along their edge. The Froom was down there, and he knew of quiet pools in t=
hat
stream to which death would come easily.&n=
bsp;
But he was too old to put an end to himself for such a reason as lov=
e;
and another thought, too, kept him from seriously contemplating any despera=
te
act. His affection for her was
strongly protective, and in the event of her requiring a friend's support in
future troubles there was none but himself left in the world to afford it.<=
span
style=3D'mso-spacerun:yes'> So he walked on.
Meanwhile Christine had resigned herself to
circumstances. A resolve to c=
ontinue
worthy of her history and of her family lent her heroism and dignity. She called Mrs. Wake, and explaine=
d to
that worthy woman as much of what had occurred as she deemed necessary. Mrs. Wake was too amazed to reply;=
she
retreated slowly, her lips parted; till at the door she said with a dry mou=
th,
'And the beautiful supper, ma'am?'
'Serve it when he comes.'
'When Mr. Bellston--yes, ma'am, I will.' She still stood gazing, as if she =
could
hardly take in the order.
'That will do, Mrs. Wake. I am much obliged to you for all y=
our kindness.' And Christine was left alone again=
, and
then she wept.
She sat down and waited. That awful silence of the stopped =
clock began
anew, but she did not mind it now.
She was listening for a footfall in a state of mental tensity which
almost took away from her the power of motion. It seemed to her that the natural
interval for her husband's journey thither must have expired; but she was n=
ot
sure, and waited on.
Mrs. Wake again came in. 'You have not rung for supper--'
'He is not yet come, Mrs. Wake. If you want to go to bed, bring in=
the supper
and set it on the table. It w=
ill be
nearly as good cold. Leave th=
e door
unbarred.'
Mrs. Wake did as was suggested, made up the fi=
re,
and went away. Shortly afterw=
ards
Christine heard her retire to her chamber.=
But Christine still sat on, and still her husband postponed his entr=
y.
She aroused herself once or twice to freshen t=
he fire,
but was ignorant how the night was going.&=
nbsp;
Her watch was upstairs and she did not make the effort to go up to
consult it. In her seat she
continued; and still the supper waited, and still he did not come.
At length she was so nearly persuaded that the
arrival of his things must have been a dream after all, that she again went
over to them, felt them, and examined them. His they unquestionably were; and =
their
forwarding by the porter had been quite natural. She sighed and sat down again.
Presently she fell into a doze, and when she a=
gain
became conscious she found that the four candles had burnt into their socke=
ts
and gone out. The fire still emitted a feeble shine. Christine did not take the trouble=
to
get more candles, but stirred the fire and sat on.
After a long period she heard a creaking of the
chamber floor and stairs at the other end of the house, and knew that the
farmer's family were getting up.
By-and-by Mrs. Wake entered the room, candle in hand, bouncing open =
the
door in her morning manner, obviously without any expectation of finding a
person there.
'Lord-a-mercy! What, sitting here again, ma'am?'<= o:p>
'Yes, I am sitting here still.'
'You've been there ever since last night?'
'Yes.'
'Then--'
'He's not come.'
'Well, he won't come at this time o' morning,'
said the farmer's wife. 'Do 'ee get on to bed, ma'am. You must be shrammed to death!'
It occurred to Christine now that possibly her
husband had thought better of obtruding himself upon her company within an =
hour
of revealing his existence to her, and had decided to pay a more formal vis=
it
next day. She therefore adopted Mrs. Wake's suggestion and retired.
=
Nicholas
had gone straight home, neither speaking to nor seeing a soul. From that ho=
ur a
change seemed to come over him. He
had ever possessed a full share of self-consciousness; he had been readily
piqued, had shown an unusual dread of being personally obtrusive. But now his sense of self, as an
individual provoking opinion, appeared to leave him. When, therefore, after a day or tw=
o of
seclusion, he came forth again, and the few acquaintances he had formed in =
the
town condoled with him on what had happened, and pitied his haggard looks, =
he
did not shrink from their regard as he would have done formerly, but took t=
heir
sympathy as it would have been accepted by a child.
It reached his ears that Bellston had not appe=
ared
on the evening of his arrival at any hotel in the town or neighbourhood, or
entered his wife's house at all.
'That's a part of his cruelty,' thought Nicholas. And when two or three days had pas=
sed,
and still no account came to him of Bellston having joined her, he ventured=
to
set out for Froom-Everard.
Christine was so shaken that she was obliged to
receive him as she lay on a sofa, beside the square table which was to have
borne their evening feast. She
fixed her eyes wistfully upon him, and smiled a sad smile.
'He has not come?' said Nicholas under his bre=
ath.
'He has not.'
Then Nicholas sat beside her, and they talked =
on
general topics merely like saddened old friends. But they could not keep away the s=
ubject
of Bellston, their voices dropping as it forced its way in. Christine, no less than Nicholas,
knowing her husband's character, inferred that, having stopped her game, as=
he
would have phrased it, he was taking things leisurely, and, finding nothing
very attractive in her limited mode of living, was meaning to return to her
only when he had nothing better to do.
The bolt which laid low their hopes had struck=
so
recently that they could hardly look each other in the face when speaking t=
hat
day. But when a week or two h=
ad
passed, and all the horizon still remained as vacant of Bellston as before,
Nicholas and she could talk of the event with calm wonderment. Why had he come, to go again like =
this?
And then there set in a period of resigned
surmise, during which
So like, so very like, was day to day,
that to tell of one of them is to tell of
all. Nicholas would arrive be=
tween
three and four in the afternoon, a faint trepidation influencing his walk a=
s he
neared her door. He would kno=
ck;
she would always reply in person, having watched for him from the window. Then he would whisper--'He has not
come?'
'He has not,' she would say.
Nicholas would enter then, and she being ready=
bonneted,
they would walk into the Sallows together as far as to the spot which they =
had
frequently made their place of appointment in their youthful days. A plank bridge, which Bellston had
caused to be thrown over the stream during his residence with her in the
manor-house, was now again removed, and all was just the same as in Nichola=
s's
time, when he had been accustomed to wade across on the edge of the cascade=
and
come up to her like a merman from the deep. Here on the felled trunk, which st=
ill
lay rotting in its old place, they would now sit, gazing at the descending
sheet of water, with its never-ending sarcastic hiss at their baffled attem=
pts
to make themselves one flesh.
Returning to the house they would sit down together to tea, after wh=
ich,
and the confidential chat that accompanied it, he walked home by the declin=
ing
light. This proceeding became=
as periodic
as an astronomical recurrence.
Twice a week he came--all through that winter, all through the spring
following, through the summer, through the autumn, the next winter, the next
year, and the next, till an appreciable span of human life had passed by. Bellston still tarried.
Years and years Nic walked that way, at this
interval of three days, from his house in the neighbouring town; and in eve=
ry
instance the aforesaid order of things was customary; and still on his arri=
val
the form of words went on--'He has not come?'
'He has not.'
So they grew older. The dim shape of that third one st=
ood
continually between them; they could not displace it; neither, on the other
hand, could it effectually part them.
They were in close communion, yet not indissolubly united; lovers, y=
et
never growing cured of love. =
By the
time that the fifth year of Nic's visiting had arrived, on about the five- =
hundredth
occasion of his presence at her tea-table, he noticed that the bleaching
process which had begun upon his own locks was also spreading to hers. He told her so, and they laughed.<=
span
style=3D'mso-spacerun:yes'> Yet she was in good health: a cond=
ition
of suspense, which would have half-killed a man, had been endured by her
without complaint, and even with composure.
One day, when these years of abeyance had numb=
ered
seven, they had strolled as usual as far as the waterfall, whose faint roar
formed a sort of calling voice sufficient in the circumstances to direct th=
eir listlessness. Pausing there, he looked up at her=
face
and said, 'Why should we not try again, Christine? We are legally at liberty to do so=
now. Nothing venture nothing have.'
But she would not. Perhaps a little primness of idea =
was by
this time ousting the native daring of Christine. 'What he has done once he can do t=
wice,'
she said. 'He is not dead, an=
d if
we were to marry he would say we had "forced his hand," as he said
before, and duly reappear.'
Some years after, when Christine was about fif=
ty,
and Nicholas fifty-three, a new trouble of a minor kind arrived. He found an inconvenience in trave=
rsing
the distance between their two houses, particularly in damp weather, the ye=
ars
he had spent in trying climates abroad having sown the seeds of rheumatism,
which made a journey undesirable on inclement days, even in a carriage. He told her of this new difficulty=
, as
he did of everything.
'If you could live nearer,' suggested she.
Unluckily there was no house near. But Nicholas, though not a million=
aire,
was a man of means; he obtained a small piece of ground on lease at the nea=
rest
spot to her home that it could be so obtained, which was on the opposite br=
ink
of the Froom, this river forming the boundary of the Froom-Everard manor; a=
nd
here he built a cottage large enough for his wants. This took time, and when he got in=
to it
he found its situation a great comfort to him. He was not more than five hundred =
yards
from her now, and gained a new pleasure in feeling that all sounds which
greeted his ears, in the day or in the night, also fell upon hers--the caw =
of a
particular rook, the voice of a neighbouring nightingale, the whistle of a
local breeze, or the purl of the fall in the meadows, whose rush was a mate=
rial
rendering of Time's ceaseless scour over themselves, wearing them away with=
out
uniting them.
Christine's missing husband was taking shape a=
s a
myth among the surrounding residents; but he was still believed in as
corporeally imminent by Christine herself, and also, in a milder degree, by
Nicholas. For a curious unconsciousness of the long lapse of time since his=
revelation
of himself seemed to affect the pair.
There had been no passing events to serve as chronological milestone=
s,
and the evening on which she had kept supper waiting for him still loomed o=
ut
with startling nearness in their retrospects.
In the seventeenth pensive year of this their
parallel march towards the common bourne, a labourer came in a hurry one da=
y to
Nicholas's house and brought strange tidings. The present owner of Froom-Everard=
--a non-resident--had
been improving his property in sundry ways, and one of these was by dredging
the stream which, in the course of years, had become choked with mud and we=
eds
in its passage through the Sallows.
The process necessitated a reconstruction of the waterfall. When the river had been pumped dry=
for
this purpose, the skeleton of a man had been found jammed among the piles
supporting the edge of the fall.
Every particle of his flesh and clothing had been eaten by fishes or
abraded to nothing by the water, but the relics of a gold watch remained, a=
nd
on the inside of the case was engraved the name of the maker of her husband=
's watch,
which she well remembered.
Nicholas, deeply agitated, hastened down to the
place and examined the remains attentively, afterwards going across to
Christine, and breaking the discovery to her. She would not come to view the ske=
leton,
which lay extended on the grass, not a finger or toe-bone missing, so neatly
had the aquatic operators done their work.=
Conjecture was directed to the question how Bellston had got there; =
and
conjecture alone could give an explanation.
It was supposed that, on his way to call upon =
her,
he had taken a short cut through the grounds, with which he was naturally v=
ery
familiar, and coming to the fall under the trees had expected to find there=
the
plank which, during his occupancy of the premises with Christine and her fa=
ther,
he had placed there for crossing into the meads on the other side instead of
wading across as Nicholas had done.
Before discovering its removal he had probably overbalanced himself,=
and
was thus precipitated into the cascade, the piles beneath the descending
current wedging him between them like the prongs of a pitchfork, and
effectually preventing the rising of his body, over which the weeds grew. Such was the reasonable supposition
concerning the discovery; but proof was never forthcoming.
'To think,' said Nicholas, when the remains had
been decently interred, and he was again sitting with Christine--though not
beside the waterfall--'to think how we visited him! How we sat over him, hours and hou=
rs,
gazing at him, bewailing our fate, when all the time he was ironically hiss=
ing
at us from the spot, in an unknown tongue, that we could marry if we chose!=
'
She echoed the sentiment with a sigh.
'I have strange fancies,' she said. 'I suppose it must have been my hu=
sband
who came back, and not some other man.'
Nicholas felt that there was little doubt. 'Besides--the skeleton,' he said.<= o:p>
'Yes . . . If it could not have been another
person's--but no, of course it was he.'
'You might have married me on the day we had
fixed, and there would have been no impediment. You would now have been seventeen =
years
my wife, and we might have had tall sons and daughters.'
'It might have been so,' she murmured.
'Well--is it still better late than never?'
The question was one which had become complica=
ted
by the increasing years of each.
Their wills were somewhat enfeebled now, their hearts sickened of te=
nder
enterprise by hope too long deferred.
Having postponed the consideration of their course till a year after=
the
interment of Bellston, each seemed less disposed than formerly to take it up
again.
'Is it worth while, after so many years?' she =
said
to him. 'We are fairly happy =
as we
are--perhaps happier than we should be in any other relation, seeing what o=
ld
people we have grown. The wei=
ght is
gone from our lives; the shadow no longer divides us: then let us be joyful=
together
as we are, dearest Nic, in the days of our vanity; and
With mirth and laughter let old wrinkles come.'
He fell in with these views of hers to some
extent. But occasionally he v=
entured
to urge her to reconsider the case, though he spoke not with the fervour of=
his
earlier years.
Autumn, 1887.
=
=
July
7.--I wander about the house in a mood of unutterable sadness, for my dear
sister Caroline has left home to-day with my mother, and I shall not see th=
em
again for several weeks. They=
have
accepted a long-standing invitation to visit some old friends of ours, the
Marlets, who live at Versailles for cheapness--my mother thinking that it w=
ill
be for the good of Caroline to see a little of France and Paris. But I don't quite like her going.<=
span
style=3D'mso-spacerun:yes'> I fear she may lose some of that
childlike simplicity and gentleness which so characterize her, and have been
nourished by the seclusion of our life here. Her solicitude about her pony befo=
re starting
was quite touching, and she made me promise to visit it daily, and see that=
it
came to no harm.
Caroline gone abroad, and I left here! It is the reverse of an ordinary s=
ituation,
for good or ill-luck has mostly ordained that I should be the absent one. Mother will be quite tired out by =
the
young enthusiasm of Caroline. She
will demand to be taken everywhere--to Paris continually, of course; to all=
the
stock shrines of history's devotees; to palaces and prisons; to kings' tombs
and queens' tombs; to cemeteries and picture- galleries, and royal hunting
forests. My poor mother, havi=
ng
gone over most of this ground many times before, will perhaps not find the =
perambulation
so exhilarating as will Caroline herself.&=
nbsp;
I wish I could have gone with them.=
I would not have minded having my legs walked off to please
Caroline. But this regret is
absurd: I could not, of course, leave my father with not a soul in the hous=
e to
attend to the calls of the parishioners or to pour out his tea.
July 15.--A letter from Caroline to-day. It is very strange that she tells =
me
nothing which I expected her to tell--only trivial details. She seems dazzled by the brillianc=
y of
Paris--which no doubt appears still more brilliant to her from the fact of =
her
only being able to obtain occasional glimpses of it. She would see that Paris, too, has=
a
seamy side if you live there. I was
not aware that the Marlets knew so many people. If, as mother has said, they went =
to
reside at Versailles for reasons of economy, they will not effect much in t=
hat
direction while they make a practice of entertaining all the acquaintances =
who
happen to be in their neighbourhood.
They do not confine their hospitalities to English people, either. I wonder who this M. de la Feste i=
s, in
whom Caroline says my mother is so much interested.
July 18.--Another letter from Caroline. I have learnt from this epistle, t=
hat M.
Charles de la Feste is 'only one of the many friends of the Marlets'; that
though a Frenchman by birth, and now again temporarily at Versailles, he has
lived in England many many years; that he is a talented landscape and marine
painter, and has exhibited at the Salon, and I think in London. His style and subjects are conside=
red
somewhat peculiar in Paris--rather English than Continental. I have not as yet learnt his age, =
or his
condition, married or single. From
the tone and nature of her remarks about him he sometimes seems to be a
middle-aged family man, sometimes quite the reverse. From his nomadic habits I should s=
ay the
latter is the most likely. He=
has
travelled and seen a great deal, she tells me, and knows more about English
literature than she knows herself.
July 21.--Letter from Caroline. Query: Is 'a friend of ours and th=
e Marlets,'
of whom she now anonymously and mysteriously speaks, the same personage as =
the
'M. de la Feste' of her former letters?&nb=
sp;
He must be the same, I think, from his pursuits. If so, whence this sudden change o=
f tone?
. . . I have been lost in thought for at least a quarter of an hour since
writing the preceding sentence.
Suppose my dear sister is falling in love with this young man--there=
is
no longer any doubt about his age; what a very awkward, risky thing for
her! I do hope that my mother=
has an
eye on these proceedings. But,
then, poor mother never sees the drift of anything: she is in truth less of=
a
mother to Caroline than I am. If I
were there, how jealously I would watch him, and ascertain his designs!
I am of a stronger nature than Caroline. How I have supported her in the pa=
st
through her little troubles and great griefs! Is she agitated at the presence of=
this,
to her, new and strange feeling?
But I am assuming her to be desperately in love, when I have no proo=
f of
anything of the kind. He may =
be
merely a casual friend, of whom I shall hear no more.
July 24.--Then he is a bachelor, as I
suspected. 'If M. de la Feste=
ever marries
he will,' etc. So she writes.=
They are getting into close quarte=
rs,
obviously. Also, 'Something t=
o keep
my hair smooth, which M. de la Feste told me he had found useful for the ti=
ps
of his moustache.' Very naively related this; and with how much unconscious=
ness
of the intimacy between them that the remark reveals! But my mother--what can she be
doing? Does she know of this?=
And if so, why does she not allude=
to it
in her letters to my father? . . . I have been to look at Caroline's pony, =
in
obedience to her reiterated request that I would not miss a day in seeing t=
hat
she was well cared for. Anxio=
us as
Caroline was about this pony of hers before starting, she now never mention=
ed
the poor animal once in her letters.
The image of her pet suffers from displacement.
August 3.--Caroline's forgetfulness of her pony has naturally enough extended to me, her sister. It is ten days since she last wrot= e, and but for a note from my mother I should not know if she were dead or alive.<= o:p>
=
August
5.--A cloud of letters. A let=
ter
from Caroline, another from mother; also one from each to my father.
The probability to which all the intelligence =
from
my sister has pointed of late turns out to be a fact. There is an engagement, or almost =
an engagement,
announced between my dear Caroline and M. de la Feste--to Caroline's sublime
happiness, and my mother's entire satisfaction; as well as to that of the
Marlets. They and my mother s=
eem to
know all about the young man--which is more than I do, though a little exte=
nded
information about him, considering that I am Caroline's elder sister, would=
not
have been amiss. I half feel =
with
my father, who is much surprised, and, I am sure, not altogether satisfied,
that he should not have been consulted at all before matters reached such a
definite stage, though he is too amiable to say so openly. I don't quite say that a good thing
should have been hindered for the sake of our opinion, if it is a good thin=
g;
but the announcement comes very suddenly.&=
nbsp;
It must have been foreseen by my mother for some time that this upsh=
ot
was probable, and Caroline might have told me more distinctly that M. de la
Feste was her lover, instead of alluding so mysteriously to him as only a
friend of the Marlets, and lately dropping his name altogether. My father, without exactly objecti=
ng to
him as a Frenchman, 'wishes he were of English or some other reasonable
nationality for one's son-in-law,' but I tell him that the demarcations of
races, kingdoms, and creeds, are wearing down every day, that patriotism is=
a
sort of vice, and that the character of the individual is all we need think
about in this case. I wonder =
if, in
the event of their marriage, he will continue to live at Versailles, or if =
he
will come to England.
August 7.--A supplemental letter from Caroline,
answering, by anticipation, some of the aforesaid queries. She tells me that 'Charles,' thoug=
h he
makes Versailles his present home, is by no means bound by his profession to
continue there; that he will live just where she wishes, provided it be not=
too
far from some centre of thought, art, and civilization. My mother and herself both think t=
hat
the marriage should not take place till next year. He exhibits landscapes and canal s=
cenery
every year, she says; so I suppose he is popular, and that his income is
sufficient to keep them in comfort.
If not, I do not see why my father could not settle something more on
them than he had intended, and diminish by a little what he had proposed for
me, whilst it was imagined that I should be the first to stand in need of s=
uch.
'Of engaging manner, attractive appearance, and
virtuous character,' is the reply I receive from her in answer to my request
for a personal description. T=
hat is
vague enough, and I would rather have had one definite fact of complexion,
voice, deed, or opinion. But =
of
course she has no eye now for material qualities; she cannot see him as he
is. She sees him irradiated w=
ith
glories such as never appertained and never will appertain to any man, fore=
ign,
English, or Colonial. To thin=
k that
Caroline, two years my junior, and so childlike as to be five years my juni=
or
in nature, should be engaged to be married before me. But that is what happens in famili=
es
more often than we are apt to remember.
August 16.--Interesting news to-day. Charles, she says, has pleaded tha=
t their
marriage may just as well be this year as next; and he seems to have nearly
converted my mother to the same way of thinking. I do not myself see any reason for
delay, beyond the standing one of my father having as yet had no opportunit=
y of
forming an opinion upon the man, the time, or anything. However, he takes his lot very qui=
etly,
and they are coming home to talk the question over with us; Caroline having
decided not to make any positive arrangements for this change of state till=
she
has seen me. Subject to my ow=
n and
my father's approval, she says, they are inclined to settle the date of the
wedding for November, three months from the present time, that it shall take
place here in the village, that I, of course, shall be bridesmaid, and many
other particulars. She draws =
an
artless picture of the probable effect upon the minds of the villagers of t=
his
romantic performance in the chancel of our old church, in which she is to be
chief actor--the foreign gentleman dropping down like a god from the skies,
picking her up, and triumphantly carrying her off. Her only grief will be separation =
from
me, but this is to be assuaged by my going and staying with her for long mo=
nths
at a time. This simple prattl=
e is
very sweet to me, my dear sister, but I cannot help feeling sad at the occa=
sion
of it. In the nature of thing=
s it
is obvious that I shall never be to you again what I hitherto have been: yo=
ur
guide, counsellor, and most familiar friend.
M. de la Feste does certainly seem to be all t=
hat
one could desire as protector to a sensitive fragile child like Caroline, a=
nd
for that I am thankful. Still=
, I
must remember that I see him as yet only through her eyes. For her sake I am intensely anxiou=
s to
meet him, and scrutinise him through and through, and learn what the man is
really made of who is to have such a treasure in his keeping. The engagement has certainly been =
formed
a little precipitately; I quite agree with my father in that: still, good a=
nd
happy marriages have been made in a hurry before now, and mother seems well
satisfied.
August 20.--A terrible announcement came this
morning; and we are in deep trouble.
I have been quite unable to steady my thoughts on anything to- day t=
ill
now--half-past eleven at night--and I only attempt writing these notes beca=
use
I am too restless to remain idle, and there is nothing but waiting and wait=
ing
left for me to do. Mother has=
been
taken dangerously ill at Versailles: they were within a day or two of start=
ing;
but all thought of leaving must now be postponed, for she cannot possibly b=
e moved
in her present state. I don't=
like
the sound of haemorrhage at all in a woman of her full habit, and Caroline =
and
the Marlets have not exaggerated their accounts I am certain. On the receipt of the letter my fa=
ther
instantly decided to go to her, and I have been occupied all day in getting=
him
off, for as he calculates on being absent several days, there have been many
matters for him to arrange before setting out--the chief being to find some=
one
who will do duty for him next Sunday--a quest of no small difficulty at such
short notice; but at last poor old feeble Mr. Dugdale has agreed to attempt=
it,
with Mr. Highman, the Scripture reader, to assist him in the lessons.
I fain would have gone with my father to escape
the irksome anxiety of awaiting her; but somebody had to stay, and I could =
best
be spared. George has driven him to the station to meet the last train by w=
hich
he will catch the midnight boat, and reach Havre some time in the morning. =
He
hates the sea, and a night passage in particular. I hope he will get there without m=
ishap
of any kind; but I feel anxious for him, stay-at- home as he is, and unable=
to
cope with any difficulty. Suc=
h an
errand, too; the journey will be sad enough at best. I almost think I ought to have bee=
n the
one to go to her.
August 21.--I nearly fell asleep of heaviness =
of spirit
last night over my writing. My
father must have reached Paris by this time; and now here comes a letter . =
. .
Later.--The letter was to express an earnest h=
ope
that my father had set out. M=
y poor
mother is sinking, they fear. What
will become of Caroline? O, h=
ow I
wish I could see mother; why could not both have gone?
Later.--I get up from my chair, and walk from
window to window, and then come and write a line. I cannot even divine how poor Caro=
line's
marriage is to be carried out if mother dies. I pray that father may have got th=
ere in
time to talk to her and receive some directions from her about Caroline and=
M.
de la Feste--a man whom neither my father nor I have seen. I, who might be useful in this
emergency, am doomed to stay here, waiting in suspense.
August 23.--A letter from my father containing=
the
sad news that my mother's spirit has flown. Poor little Caroline is
heart-broken--she was always more my mother's pet than I was. It is some comfort to know that my
father arrived in time to hear from her own lips her strongly expressed wish
that Caroline's marriage should be solemnized as soon as possible. M. de la Feste seems to have been a
great favourite of my dear mother's; and I suppose it now becomes almost a
sacred duty of my father to accept him as a son-in-law without criticism.
=
=
September
10.--I have inserted nothing in my diary for more than a fortnight. Events have been altogether too sa=
d for
me to have the spirit to put them on paper. And yet there comes a time when th=
e act
of recording one's trouble is recognized as a welcome method of dwelling up=
on
it . . .
My dear mother has been brought home and buried
here in the parish. It was no=
t so
much her own wish that this should be done as my father's, who particularly
desired that she should lie in the family vault beside his first wife. I saw them side by side before the=
vault
was closed--two women beloved by one man.&=
nbsp;
As I stood, and Caroline by my side, I fell into a sort of dream, and
had an odd fancy that Caroline and I might be also beloved of one, and lie =
like
these together--an impossibility, of course, being sisters. When I awoke from my reverie Carol=
ine
took my hand and said it was time to leave.
September 14.--The wedding is indefinitely
postponed. Caroline is like a=
girl
awakening in the middle of a somnambulistic experience, and does not realize
where she is, or how she stands.
She walks about silently, and I cannot tell her thoughts, as I used =
to
do. It was her own doing to w=
rite to
M. de la Feste and tell him that the wedding could not possibly take place =
this
autumn as originally planned. There
is something depressing in this long postponement if she is to marry him at
all; and yet I do not see how it could be avoided.
October 20.--I have had so much to occupy me in
consoling Caroline that I have been continually overlooking my diary. Her life was much nearer to my mot=
her's
than mine was. She has never,=
as I,
lived away from home long enough to become self-dependent, and hence in her
first loss, and all that it involved, she drooped like a rain-beaten lily.<=
span
style=3D'mso-spacerun:yes'> But she is of a nature whose wound=
s soon
heal, even though they may be deep, and the supreme poignancy of her sorrow=
has
already passed.
My father is of opinion that the wedding should
not be delayed too long. While at Versailles he made the acquaintance of M.=
de
la Feste, and though they had but a short and hurried communion with each
other, he was much impressed by M. de la Feste's disposition and conduct, a=
nd
is strongly in favour of his suit.
It is odd that Caroline's betrothed should influence in his favour a=
ll
who come near him. His portra=
it, which
dear Caroline has shown me, exhibits him to be of a physique that partly
accounts for this: but there must be something more than mere appearance, a=
nd
it is probably some sort of glamour or fascinating power--the quality which
prevented Caroline from describing him to me with any accuracy of detail. At the same time, I see from the
photograph that his face and head are remarkably well formed; and though th=
e contours
of his mouth are hidden by his moustache, his arched brows show well the
romantic disposition of a true lover and painter of Nature. I think that the owner of such a f=
ace as
this must be tender and sympathetic and true.
October 30.--As my sister's grief for her moth=
er
becomes more and more calmed, her love for M. de la Feste begins to reassume
its former absorbing command of her.
She thinks of him incessantly, and writes whole treatises to him by =
way
of letters. Her blank
disappointment at his announcement of his inability to pay us a visit quite=
so
soon as he had promised, was quite tragic.=
I, too, am disappointed, for I wanted to see and estimate him. But having arranged to go to Holla=
nd to
seize some aerial effects for his pictures, which are only to be obtained at
this time of the autumn, he is obliged to postpone his journey this way, wh=
ich is
now to be made early in the new year.
I think myself that he ought to have come at all sacrifices, conside=
ring
Caroline's recent loss, the sad postponement of what she was looking forward
to, and her single-minded affection for him. Still, who knows; his professional
success is important. Moreove=
r, she
is cheerful, and hopeful, and the delay will soon be overpast.
=
February
16.--We have had such a dull life here all the winter that I have found not=
hing
important enough to set down, and broke off my journal accordingly. I resume it now to make an entry o=
n the
subject of dear Caroline's future.
It seems that she was too grieved, immediately after the loss of our
mother, to answer definitely the question of M. de la Feste how long the
postponement was to be; then, afterwards, it was agreed that the matter sho=
uld
be discussed on his autumn visit; but as he did not come, it has remained in
abeyance till this week, when Caroline, with the greatest simplicity and
confidence, has written to him without any further pressure on his part, and
told him that she is quite ready to fix the time, and will do so as soon as=
he
arrives to see her. She is a =
little
frightened now, lest it should seem forward in her to have revived the subj=
ect
of her own accord; but she may assume that his question has been waiting on=
for
an answer ever since, and that she has, therefore, acted only within her
promise. In truth, the secret=
at
the bottom of it all is that she is somewhat saddened because he has not
latterly reminded her of the pause in their affairs--that, in short, his
original impatience to possess her is not now found to animate him so
obviously. I suppose that he =
loves
her as much as ever; indeed, I am sure he must do so, seeing how lovable she
is. It is mostly thus with al=
l men
when women are out of their sight; they grow negligent. Caroline must have patience, and
remember that a man of his genius has many and important calls upon his
time. In justice to her I mus=
t add
that she does remember it fairly well, and has as much patience as any girl
ever had in the circumstances. He
hopes to come at the beginning of April at latest. Well, when he comes we s=
hall
see him.
April 5.--I think that what M. de la Feste wri=
tes
is reasonable enough, though Caroline looks heart-sick about it. It is hardly worth while for him to
cross all the way to England and back just now, while the sea is so turbule=
nt,
seeing that he will be obliged, in any event, to come in May, when he has t=
o be
in London for professional purposes, at which time he can take us easily on=
his
way both coming and going. Wh=
en
Caroline becomes his wife she will be more practical, no doubt; but she is =
such
a child as yet that there is no contenting her with reasons. However, the time will pass quickl=
y,
there being so much to do in preparing a trousseau for her, which must now =
be
put in hand in order that we may have plenty of leisure to get it ready.
April 30.--This month has flown on swallow's
wings. We are in a great stat=
e of
excitement--I as much as she--I cannot quite tell why. He is really coming in ten days, he
says.
May 9.
Four p.m.--I am so agitated I can scarcely write, and yet am particu=
larly
impelled to do so before leaving my room.&=
nbsp;
It is the unexpected shape of an expected event which has caused my
absurd excitement, which proves me almost as much a school-girl as Caroline=
.
M. de la Feste was not, as we understood, to h=
ave
come till to-morrow; but he is here--just arrived. All household directions have devo=
lved upon
me, for my father, not thinking M. de la Feste would appear before us for
another four-and-twenty hours, left home before post time to attend a dista=
nt
consecration; and hence Caroline and I were in no small excitement when
Charles's letter was opened, and we read that he had been unexpectedly favo=
ured
in the dispatch of his studio work, and would follow his letter in a few
hours. We sent the covered ca=
rriage
to meet the train indicated, and waited like two newly strung harps for the
first sound of the returning wheels.
At last we heard them on the gravel; and the question arose who was =
to
receive him. It was, strictly
speaking, my duty; but I felt timid; I could not help shirking it, and insi=
sted
that Caroline should go down. She
did not, however, go near the door as she usually does when anybody is
expected, but waited palpitating in the drawing-room. He little thought when he saw the =
silent
hall, and the apparently deserted house, how that house was at the very same
moment alive and throbbing with interest under the surface. I stood at the back of the upper
landing, where nobody could see me from downstairs, and heard him walk acro=
ss
the hall--a lighter step than my father's--and heard him then go into the
drawing-room, and the servant shut the door behind him and go away.
What a pretty lover's meeting they must have h=
ad
in there all to themselves! C=
aroline's
sweet face looking up from her black gown--how it must have touched him.
A little later.--I have seen him! It was not at all in the way that =
I intended
to encounter him, and I am vexed.
Just after his portmanteaus were brought up I went out from my room =
to
descend, when, at the moment of stepping towards the first stair, my eyes w=
ere
caught by an object in the hall below, and I paused for an instant, till I =
saw
that it was a bundle of canvas and sticks, composing a sketching tent and
easel. At the same nick of ti=
me the
drawing-room door opened and the affianced pair came out. They were saying they would go int=
o the
garden; and he waited a moment while she put on her hat. My idea was to let them pass on wi=
thout
seeing me, since they seemed not to want my company, but I had got too far =
on
the landing to retreat; he looked up, and stood staring at me--engrossed to=
a
dream-like fixity. Thereupon =
I,
too, instead of advancing as I ought to have done, stood moonstruck and
awkward, and before I could gather my weak senses sufficiently to descend, =
she
had called him, and they went out by the garden door together. I then thought of following them, =
but
have changed my mind, and come here to jot down these few lines. It is all I am fit for . . .
He is even more handsome than I expected. I was right in feeling he must hav=
e an
attraction beyond that of form: it appeared even in that momentary glance.<=
span
style=3D'mso-spacerun:yes'> How happy Caroline ought to be.
11 p.m.--I have made the acquaintance of M. de=
la
Feste; and I seem to be another woman from the effect of it. I cannot describe why this should =
be so,
but conversation with him seems to expand the view, and open the heart, and
raise one as upon stilts to wider prospects. He has a good intellectual forehea=
d,
perfect eyebrows, dark hair and eyes, an animated manner, and a persuasive
voice. His voice is soft in
quality--too soft for a man, perhaps; and yet on second thoughts I would not
have it less so. We have been=
talking
of his art: I had no notion that art demanded such sacrifices or such tender
devotion; or that there were two roads for choice within its precincts, the
road of vulgar money-making, and the road of high aims and consequent
inappreciation for many long years by the public. That he has adopted the latter nee=
d not
be said to those who understand him.
It is a blessing for Caroline that she has been chosen by such a man,
and she ought not to lament at postponements and delays, since they have ar=
isen
unavoidably. Whether he finds=
hers
a sufficiently rich nature, intellectually and emotionally, for his own, I =
know
not, but he seems occasionally to be disappointed at her simple views of
things. Does he really feel such love for her at this moment as he no doubt=
believes
himself to be feeling, and as he no doubt hopes to feel for the remainder of
his life towards her?
It was a curious thing he told me when we were
left for a few minutes alone; that Caroline had alluded so slightly to me in
her conversation and letters that he had not realized my presence in the ho=
use
here at all. But, of course, =
it was
only natural that she should write and talk most about herself. I suppose it was on account of the=
fact
of his being taken in some measure unawares, that I caught him on two or th=
ree occasions
regarding me fixedly in a way that disquieted me somewhat, having been late=
ly
in so little society; till my glance aroused him from his reverie, and he
looked elsewhere in some confusion.
It was fortunate that he did so, and thus failed to notice my own. It shows that he, too, is not
particularly a society person.
May 10.--Have had another interesting conversa=
tion
with M. de la Feste on schools of landscape painting in the drawing-room af=
ter
dinner this evening--my father having fallen asleep, and left nobody but
Caroline and myself for Charles to talk to. I did not mean to say so much to h=
im,
and had taken a volume of Modern Painters from the bookcase to occupy mysel=
f with,
while leaving the two lovers to themselves; but he would include me in his
audience, and I was obliged to lay the book aside. However, I insisted on keeping Car=
oline
in the conversation, though her views on pictorial art were only too charmi=
ngly
crude and primitive.
To-morrow, if fine, we are all three going to
Wherryborne Wood, where Charles will give us practical illustrations of the
principles of coloring that he has enumerated to-night. I am determined not to occupy his
attention to the exclusion of Caroline, and my plan is that when we are in =
the
dense part of the wood I will lag behind, and slip away, and leave them to
return by themselves. I suppo=
se the
reason of his attentiveness to me lies in his simply wishing to win the good
opinion of one who is so closely united to Caroline, and so likely to influ=
ence
her good opinion of him.
May 11.
Late.--I cannot sleep, and in desperation have lit my candle and tak=
en
up my pen. My restlessness is
occasioned by what has occurred to- day, which at first I did not mean to w=
rite
down, or trust to any heart but my own.&nb=
sp;
We went to Wherryborne Wood--Caroline, Charles and I, as we had
intended--and walked all three along the green track through the midst, Cha=
rles
in the middle between Caroline and myself.=
Presently I found that, as usual, he and I were the only talkers,
Caroline amusing herself by observing birds and squirrels as she walked
docilely alongside her betrothed.
Having noticed this I dropped behind at the first opportunity and
slipped among the trees, in a direction in which I knew I should find anoth=
er
path that would take me home. Upon
this track I by and by emerged, and walked along it in silent thought till,=
at
a bend, I suddenly encountered M. de la Feste standing stock still and smil=
ing thoughtfully
at me.
'Where is Caroline?' said I.
'Only a little way off,' says he. 'When we missed you from behind us=
we thought
you might have mistaken the direction we had followed, so she has gone one =
way
to find you and I have come this way.'
We then went back to find Caroline, but could =
not
discover her anywhere, and the upshot was that he and I were wandering about
the woods alone for more than an hour.&nbs=
p;
On reaching home we found she had given us up after searching a litt=
le
while, and arrived there some time before.=
I should not be so disturbed by the incident if I had not perceived
that, during her absence from us, he did not make any earnest effort to
rediscover her; and in answer to my repeated expressions of wonder as to
whither she could have wandered he only said, 'Oh, she's quite safe; she to=
ld
me she knew the way home from any part of this wood. Let us go on with our talk. I assure you I value this privileg=
e of
being with one I so much admire more than you imagine;' and other things of
that kind. I was so foolish a=
s to
show a little perturbation--I cannot tell why I did not control myself; and=
I
think he noticed that I was not cool.
Caroline has, with her simple good faith, thought nothing of the
occurrence; yet altogether I am not satisfied.
=
May
15.--The more I think of it day after day, the more convinced I am that my
suspicions are true. He is too
interested in me--well, in plain words, loves me; or, not to degrade that
phrase, has a wild passion for me; and his affection for Caroline is that
towards a sister only. That i=
s the
distressing truth; how it has come about I cannot tell, and it wears upon m=
e.
A hundred little circumstances have revealed t=
his
to me, and the longer I dwell upon it the more agitating does the considera=
tion
become. Heaven only can help =
me out
of the terrible difficulty in which this places me. I have done nothing to
encourage him to be faithless to her.
I have studiously kept out of his way; have persistently refused to =
be a
third in their interviews. Ye=
t all
to no purpose. Some fatality =
has
seemed to rule, ever since he came to the house, that this disastrous inver=
sion
of things should arise. If I =
had
only foreseen the possibility of it before he arrived, how gladly would I h=
ave
departed on some visit or other to the meanest friend to hinder such an
apparent treachery. But I bli=
ndly welcomed
him--indeed, made myself particularly agreeable to him for her sake.
There is no possibility of my suspicions being
wrong; not until they have reached absolute certainty have I dared even to
admit the truth to myself. His
conduct to-day would have proved them true had I entertained no previous
apprehensions. Some photograp=
hs of
myself came for me by post, and they were handed round at the breakfast tab=
le
and criticised. I put them
temporarily on a side table, and did not remember them until an hour afterw=
ards
when I was in my own room. On=
going
to fetch them I discovered him standing at the table with his back towards =
the
door bending over the photographs, one of which he raised to his lips.
The witnessing this act so frightened me that I
crept away to escape observation.
It was the climax to a series of slight and significant actions all
tending to the same conclusion. The
question for me now is, what am I to do?&n=
bsp;
To go away is what first occurs to me, but what reason can I give
Caroline and my father for such a step; besides, it might precipitate some =
sort
of catastrophe by driving Charles to desperation. For the present, therefor=
e, I
have decided that I can only wait, though his contiguity is strangely
disturbing to me now, and I hardly retain strength of mind to encounter
him. How will the distressing
complication end?
May 19.--And so it has come! My mere avoidance of him has
precipitated the worst issue--a declaration. I had occasion to go into the kitc=
hen garden
to gather some of the double ragged-robins which grew in a corner there.
'You know why I come, Alicia?' said he, in a
tremulous voice.
I said nothing, and hung my head, for by his t=
one
I did know.
'Yes,' he went on, 'it is you I love; my senti=
ment
towards your sister is one of affection too, but protective, tutelary
affection--no more. Say what =
you
will I cannot help it. I mist=
ook my
feeling for her, and I know how much I am to blame for my want of
self-knowledge. I have fought=
against
this discovery night and day; but it cannot be concealed. Why did I ever see you, since I co=
uld
not see you till I had committed myself?&n=
bsp;
At the moment my eyes beheld you on that day of my arrival, I said,
"This is the woman for whom my manhood has waited." Ever since an unaccountable fascin=
ation
has riveted my heart to you. =
Answer
one word!'
'O, M. de la Feste!' I burst out. What I said more I cannot remember=
, but
I suppose that the misery I was in showed pretty plainly, for he said,
'Something must be done to let her know; perhaps I have mistaken her affect=
ion,
too; but all depends upon what you feel.'
'I cannot tell what I feel,' said I, 'except t=
hat
this seems terrible treachery; and every moment that I stay with you here m=
akes
it worse! . . . Try to keep faith with her--her yo=
ung
heart is tender; believe me there is no mistake in the quality of her love =
for
you. Would there were! This would kill her if she knew it=
!'
He sighed heavily. 'She ought never to be my wife,' he
said. 'Leaving my own happine=
ss out
of the question, it would be a cruelty to her to unite her to me.'
I said I could not hear such words from him, a=
nd
begged him in tears to go away; he obeyed, and I heard the garden door shut
behind him. What is to be the=
end
of the announcement, and the fate of Caroline?
May 20.--I put a good deal on paper yesterday,=
and
yet not all. I was, in truth,
hoping against hope, against conviction, against too conscious self-judgmen=
t. I scarcely dare own the truth now,=
yet
it relieves my aching heart to set it down. Yes, I love him--that is the dread=
ful
fact, and I can no longer parry, evade, or deny it to myself though to the =
rest
of the world it can never be owned.
I love Caroline's betrothed, and he loves me. It is no yesterday's passion, cult=
ivated
by our converse; it came at first sight, independently of my will; and my t=
alk
with him yesterday made rather against it than for it, but, alas, did not
quench it. God forgive us bot=
h for
this terrible treachery.
May 25.--All is vague; our courses shapeless.<=
span
style=3D'mso-spacerun:yes'> He comes and goes, being occupied,
ostensibly at least, with sketching in his tent in the wood. Whether he and=
she
see each other privately I cannot tell, but I rather think they do not; that
she sadly awaits him, and he does not appear. Not a sign from him that my repuls=
e has
done him any good, or that he will endeavour to keep faith with her. O, if I only had the compulsion of=
a god,
and the self-sacrifice of a martyr!
May 31.--It has all ended--or rather this act =
of
the sad drama has ended--in nothing.
He has left us. No day=
for
the fulfilment of the engagement with Caroline is named, my father not being
the man to press any one on such a matter, or, indeed, to interfere in any
way. We two girls are, in fac=
t,
quite defenceless in a case of this kind; lovers may come when they choose,=
and
desert when they choose; poor father is too urbane to utter a word of
remonstrance or inquiry. More=
over,
as the approved of my dead mother, M. de la Feste has a sort of autocratic
power with my father, who holds it unkind to her memory to have an opinion =
about
him. I, feeling it my duty, a=
sked
M. de la Feste at the last moment about the engagement, in a voice I could =
not keep
firm.
'Since the death of your mother all has been
indefinite--all!' he said gloomily.
That was the whole.
Possibly, Wherryborne Rectory may see him no more.
June 7 .--M. de la Feste has written--one lett=
er
to her, one to me. Hers could=
not
have been very warm, for she did not brighten on reading it. Mine was an
ordinary note of friendship, filling an ordinary sheet of paper, which I ha=
nded
over to Caroline when I had finished looking it through. But there was a scrap of paper in =
the
bottom of the envelope, which I dared not show any one. This scrap is his real letter: I s=
canned
it alone in my room, trembling, hot and cold by turns. He tells me he is very wretched; t=
hat he
deplores what has happened, but was helpless. Why did I let him see me, if only =
to
make him faithless. Alas, ala=
s!
June 21 .--My dear Caroline has lost appetite,
spirits, health. Hope deferred
maketh the heart sick. His le=
tters
to her grow colder--if indeed he has written more than one. He has refrained from writing agai=
n to
me--he knows it is no use.
Altogether the situation that he and she and I are in is melancholy =
in
the extreme. Why are human he=
arts
so perverse?
=
September
19.--Three months of anxious care--till at length I have taken the extreme =
step
of writing to him. Our chief
distress has been caused by the state of poor Caroline, who, after sinking =
by
degrees into such extreme weakness as to make it doubtful if she can ever
recover full vigour, has to-day been taken much worse. Her position is very critical. The
doctor says plainly that she is dying of a broken heart--and that even the
removal of the cause may not now restore her. Ought I to have written to Charles
sooner? But how could I when =
she
forbade me? It was her pride =
only
which instigated her, and I should not have obeyed.
Sept. 26.--Charles has arrived and has seen
her. He is shocked, conscienc=
e-stricken,
remorseful. I have told him t=
hat he
can do no good beyond cheering her by his presence. I do not know what he thinks of pr=
oposing
to her if she gets better, but he says little to her at present: indeed he
dares not: his words agitate her dangerously.
Sept. 28.--After a struggle between duty and
selfishness, such as I pray to Heaven I may never have to undergo again, I =
have
asked him for pity's sake to make her his wife, here and now, as she lies.<=
span
style=3D'mso-spacerun:yes'> I said to him that the poor child =
would
not trouble him long; and such a solemnization would soothe her last hours =
as
nothing else could do. He sai=
d that
he would willingly do so, and had thought of it himself; but for one forbid=
ding
reason: in the event of her death as his wife he can never marry me, her si=
ster,
according to our laws. I star=
ted at
his words. He went on: 'On the
other hand, if I were sure that immediate marriage with me would save her l=
ife,
I would not refuse, for possibly I might after a while, and out of sight of
you, make myself fairly content with one of so sweet a disposition as hers;=
but
if, as is probable, neither my marrying her nor any other act can avail to =
save
her life, by so doing I lose both her and you.' I could not answer him.
Sept. 29.--He continued firm in his reasons for
refusal till this morning, and then I became possessed with an idea, which =
I at
once propounded to him. It wa=
s that
he should at least consent to a form of marriage with Caroline, in
consideration of her love; a form which need not be a legal union, but one
which would satisfy her sick and enfeebled soul. Such things have been done, and the
sentiment of feeling herself his would inexpressibly comfort her mind, I am
sure. Then, if she is taken f=
rom
us, I should not have lost the power of becoming his lawful wife at some fu=
ture
day, if it indeed should be deemed expedient; if, on the other hand, she li=
ves,
he can on her recovery inform her of the incompleteness of their marriage
contract, the ceremony can be repeated, and I can, and I am sure willingly
would, avoid troubling them with my presence till grey hairs and wrinkles m=
ake
his unfortunate passion for me a thing of the past. I put all this before him; but he
demurred.
Sept. 30.--I have urged him again. He says he will consider. It is no time to mince matters, an=
d as a
further inducement I have offered to enter into a solemn engagement to marry
him myself a year after her death.
Sept. 30.&nbs=
p;
Later.--An agitating interview.&nbs=
p;
He says he will agree to whatever I propose, the three possibilities=
and
our contingent acts being recorded as follows: First, in the event of dear
Caroline being taken from us, I marry him on the expiration of a year: Seco=
nd,
in the forlorn chance of her recovery I take upon myself the responsibility=
of explaining
to Caroline the true nature of the ceremony he has gone through with her, t=
hat
it was done at my suggestion to make her happy at once, before a special
licence could be obtained, and that a public ceremony at church is awaiting
her: Third, in the unlikely event of her cooling, and refusing to repeat the
ceremony with him, I leave England, join him abroad, and there wed him,
agreeing not to live in England again till Caroline has either married anot=
her
or regards her attachment to Charles as a bygone matter. I have thought over these conditio=
ns,
and have agreed to them all as they stand.
11 p.m.--I do not much like this scheme, after
all. For one thing, I have ju=
st
sounded my father on it before parting with him for the night, my impression
having been that he would see no objection. But he says he could on no account
countenance any such unreal proceeding; however good our intentions, and ev=
en
though the poor girl were dying, it would not be right. So I sadly seek my pillow.
October 1.--I am sure my father is wrong in his
view. Why is it not right, if=
it
would be balm to Caroline's wounded soul, and if a real ceremony is absolut=
ely
refused by Charles--moreover is hardly practicable in the difficulty of get=
ting
a special licence, if he were agreed?
My father does not know, or will not believe, that Caroline's attach=
ment
has been the cause of her hopeless condition. But that it is so, and that the fo=
rm of
words would give her inexpressible happiness, I know well; for I whispered
tentatively in her ear on such marriages, and the effect was great. Henceforth my father cannot be tak=
en
into confidence on the subject of Caroline. He does not understand her.
12 o'clock noon.--I have taken advantage of my
father's absence to-day to confide my secret notion to a thoughtful young m=
an,
who called here this morning to speak to my father. He is the Mr. Theophilus Higham, o=
f whom
I have already had occasion to speak--a Scripture reader in the next town, =
and
is soon going to be ordained. I
told him the pitiable case, and my remedy.=
He says ardently that he will assist me--would do anything for me (he
is, in truth, an admirer of mine); he sees no wrong in such an act of
charity. He is coming again t=
o the
house this afternoon before my father returns, to carry out the idea. I have spoken to Charles, who prom=
ises
to be ready. I must now break=
the
news to Caroline.
11 o'clock p.m.--I have been in too much
excitement till now to set down the result. We have accomplished our plan; and
though I feel like a guilty sinner, I am glad. My father, of course, is not to be
informed as yet. Caroline has=
had a
seraphic expression upon her wasted, transparent face ever since. I should hardly be surprised if it
really saved her life even now, and rendered a legitimate union necessary
between them. In that case my
father can be informed of the whole proceeding, and in the face of such won=
derful
success cannot disapprove.
Meanwhile poor Charles has not lost the possibility of taking unwort=
hy
me to fill her place should she--.
But I cannot contemplate that alternative unmoved, and will not write
it. Charles left for the Sout=
h of
Europe immediately after the ceremony.&nbs=
p;
He was in a high-strung, throbbing, almost wild state of mind at fir=
st,
but grew calmer under my exhortations.&nbs=
p;
I had to pay the penalty of receiving a farewell kiss from him, whic=
h I
much regret, considering its meaning; but he took me so unexpectedly, and i=
n a moment
was gone.
Oct. 6.--She certainly is better, and even when
she found that Charles had been suddenly obliged to leave, she received the
news quite cheerfully. The do=
ctor
says that her apparent improvement may be delusive; but I think our impress=
ing
upon her the necessity of keeping what has occurred a secret from papa, and
everybody, helps to give her a zest for life.
Oct. 8.--She is still mending. I am glad to have saved her--my on=
ly sister--if
I have done so; though I shall now never become Charles's wife.
=
Feb.
5.--Writing has been absolutely impossible for a long while; but I now reac=
h a
stage at which it seems possible to jot down a line. Caroline's recovery,
extending over four months, has been very engrossing; at first slow, latter=
ly
rapid. But a fearful complica=
tion
of affairs attends it!
O what a tangled web we weave When first we practise =
to
deceive!
Charles has written reproachfully to me from
Venice, where he is. He says =
how
can he fulfil in the real what he has enacted in the counterfeit, while he
still loves me? Yet how, on t=
he
other hand, can he leave it unfulfilled?&n=
bsp;
All this time I have not told her, and up to this minute she believes
that he has indeed taken her for better, for worse, till death them do
part. It is a harassing posit=
ion
for me, and all three. In the=
awful
approach of death, one's judgment loses its balance, and we do anything to =
meet
the exigencies of the moment, with a single eye to the one who excites our
sympathy, and from whom we seem on the brink of being separated for ever.
Had he really married her at that time all wou=
ld
be settled now. But he took t=
oo
much thought; she might have died, and then he had his reason. If indeed it=
had
turned out so, I should now be perhaps a sad woman; but not a tempest-tossed
one . . . The possibility of his claiming me after all is what lies at the =
root
of my agitation. Everything h=
angs
by a thread. Suppose I tell h=
er the
marriage was a mockery; suppose she is indignant with me and with him for t=
he
deception--and then? Otherwis=
e, suppose
she is not indignant but forgives all; he is bound to marry her; and honour
constrains me to urge him thereto, in spite of what he protests, and to smo=
oth
the way to this issue by my method of informing her. I have meant to tell her the last
month--ever since she has been strong enough to bear such tidings; but I ha=
ve
been without the power--the moral force.&n=
bsp;
Surely I must write, and get him to come and assist me.
March 14.--She continually wonders why he does=
not
come, the five months of his enforced absence having expired; and still more
she wonders why he does not write oftener.=
His last letter was cold, she says, and she fears he regrets his
marriage, which he may only have celebrated with her for pity's sake, think=
ing
she was sure to die. It makes=
one's
heart bleed to hear her hovering thus so near the truth, and yet never disc=
erning
its actual shape.
A minor trouble besets me, too, in the person =
of
the young Scripture reader, whose conscience pricks him for the part he
played. Surely I am punished,=
if
ever woman were, for a too ingenious perversion of her better judgment!
April 2.--She is practically well. The faint pink revives in her chee=
k, though
it is not quite so full as heretofore.&nbs=
p;
But she still wonders what she can have done to offend 'her dear
husband,' and I have been obliged to tell the smallest part of the truth--an
unimportant fragment of the whole, in fact, I said that I feared for the mo=
ment
he might regret the precipitancy of the act, which her illness caused, his
affairs not having been quite sufficiently advanced for marriage just then,
though he will doubtless come to her as soon as he has a home ready. Meanwhile I have written to him,
peremptorily, to come and relieve me in this awful dilemma. He will find no note of love in th=
at.
April 10.--To my alarm the letter I lately
addressed to him at Venice, where he is staying, as well as the last one she
sent him, have received no reply.
She thinks he is ill. =
I do
not quite think that, but I wish we could hear from him. Perhaps the peremptoriness of my w=
ords
had offended him; it grieves me to think it possible. I offend him! But too much of this. I must tell her the truth, or she =
may in
her ignorance commit herself to some course or other that may be ruinously =
compromising. She said plaintively just now that=
if he
could see her, and know how occupied with him and him alone is her every wa=
king
hour, she is sure he would forgive her the wicked presumption of becoming h=
is wife. Very sweet all that, and touching.=
I could not conceal my tears.
April 15.--The house is in confusion; my fathe=
r is
angry and distressed, and I am distracted.=
Caroline has disappeared--gone away secretly. I cannot help thinking that I know=
where
she is gone to. How guilty I =
seem,
and how innocent she! O that =
I had
told her before now!
1 o'clock.--No trace of her as yet. We find also that the little waiti=
ng- maid
we have here in training has disappeared with Caroline, and there is not mu=
ch
doubt that Caroline, fearing to travel alone, has induced this girl to go w=
ith
her as companion. I am almost=
sure
she has started in desperation to find him, and that Venice is her goal.
Evening: 8 o'clock.--Yes, it is as I
surmised. She has gone to joi=
n him.
A note posted by her in Budmouth Regis at daybreak has reached me this afte=
rnoon--thanks
to the fortunate chance of one of the servants calling for letters in town
to-day, or I should not have got it until to-morrow. She merely asserts her
determination of going to him, and has started privately, that nothing may
hinder her; stating nothing about her route. That such a gentle thing shoul=
d suddenly
become so calmly resolute quite surprises me. Alas, he may have left Venice--she=
may
not find him for weeks--may not at all.
My father, on learning the facts, bade me at o=
nce
have everything ready by nine this evening, in time to drive to the train t=
hat
meets the night steam-boat. T=
his I
have done, and there being an hour to spare before we start, I relieve the
suspense of waiting by taking up my pen.&n=
bsp;
He says overtake her we must, and calls Charles the hardest of
names. He believes, of course=
, that
she is merely an infatuated girl rushing off to meet her lover; and how can=
the
wretched I tell him that she is more, and in a sense better than that--yet =
not
sufficiently more and better to make this flight to Charles anything but a
still greater danger to her than a mere lover's impulse. We shall go by way of Paris, and we
think we may overtake her there. I
hear my father walking restlessly up and down the hall, and can write no mo=
re.
=
April
16. Evening, Paris, Hotel
---.--There is no overtaking her at this place; but she has been here, as I
thought, no other hotel in Paris being known to her. We go on to-morrow morning.
April 18.&nbs=
p;
Venice.--A morning of adventures and emotions which leave me sick and
weary, and yet unable to sleep, though I have lain down on the sofa of my r=
oom
for more than an hour in the attempt.
I therefore make up my diary to date in a hurried fashion, for the s=
ake
of the riddance it affords to ideas which otherwise remain suspended hotly =
in
the brain.
We arrived here this morning in broad sunlight,
which lit up the sea-girt buildings as we approached so that they seemed li=
ke a
city of cork floating raft-like on the smooth, blue deep. But I only glanced from the carria=
ge
window at the lovely scene, and we were soon across the intervening water a=
nd
inside the railway station. W=
hen we
got to the front steps the row of black gondolas and the shouts of the
gondoliers so bewildered my father that he was understood to require two
gondolas instead of one with two oars, and so I found him in one and myself=
in another. We got this righted after a while,=
and
were rowed at once to the hotel on the Riva degli Schiavoni where M. de la
Feste had been staying when we last heard from him, the way being down the
Grand Canal for some distance, under the Rialto, and then by narrow canals
which eventually brought us under the Bridge of Sighs--harmonious to our mo=
ods!--and
out again into open water. The
scene was purity itself as to colour, but it was cruel that I should behold=
it
for the first time under such circumstances.
As soon as I entered the hotel, which is an
old-fashioned place, like most places here, where people are taken en pensi=
on
as well as the ordinary way, I rushed to the framed list of visitors hangin=
g in
the hall, and in a moment I saw Charles's name upon it among the rest. But she was our chief thought. I turned to the hall porter,
and--knowing that she would have travelled as 'Madame de la Feste'--I asked=
for
her under that name, without my father hearing. (He, poor soul, was making confused
inquiries outside the door about 'an English lady,' as if there were not a
score of English ladies at hand.)
'She has just come,' said the porter. 'Madame came by the very early tra=
in
this morning, when Monsieur was asleep, and she requested us not to disturb
him. She is now in her room.'=
Whether Caroline had seen us from the window, =
or
overheard me, I do not know, but at that moment I heard footsteps on the ba=
re
marble stairs, and she appeared in person descending.
'Caroline!' I exclaimed, 'why have you done th=
is?'
and rushed up to her.
She did not answer; but looked down to hide her
emotion, which she conquered after the lapse of a few seconds, putting on a
practical tone that belied her.
'I am just going to my husband,' she said. 'I have not yet seen him. I have not been here long.' She condescended to give no further
reason for her movements, and made as if to move on. I implored her to come into a priv=
ate
room where I could speak to her in confidence, but she objected. However, t=
he
dining-room, close at hand, was quite empty at this hour, and I got her ins=
ide
and closed the door. I do not=
know
how I began my explanation, or how I ended it, but I told her briefly and
brokenly enough that the marriage was not real.
'Not real?' she said vacantly.
'It is not,' said I. 'You will find that it is all as I=
say.'
She could not believe my meaning even then.
I added more details, and reiterated the reason
for my conduct as well as I could; but Heaven knows how very difficult I fo=
und
it to feel a jot more justification for it in my own mind than she did in h=
ers.
The revulsion of feeling, as soon as she really
comprehended all, was most distressing.&nb=
sp;
After her grief had in some measure spent itself she turned against =
both
him and me.
'Why should have I been deceived like this?' s=
he
demanded, with a bitter haughtiness of which I had not deemed such a tracta=
ble
creature capable. 'Do you suppose that anything could justify such an
imposition? What, O what a sn=
are
you have spread for me!'
I murmured, 'Your life seemed to require it,' =
but
she did not hear me. She sank down in a chair, covered her face, and then my
father came in. 'O, here you are!' he said. 'I could not find you. And Caroline!'
'And were you, papa, a party to this strange d=
eed
of kindness?'
'To what?' said he.
Then out it all came, and for the first time he
was made acquainted with the fact that the scheme for soothing her illness,
which I had sounded him upon, had been really carried out. In a moment he sided with Caroline=
. My repeated assurance that my moti=
ve was
good availed less than nothing. In
a minute or two Caroline arose and went abruptly out of the room, and my fa=
ther
followed her, leaving me alone to my reflections.
I was so bent upon finding Charles immediately
that I did not notice whither they went.&n=
bsp;
The servants told me that M. de la Feste was just outside smoking, a=
nd
one of them went to look for him, I following; but before we had gone many
steps he came out of the hotel behind me.&=
nbsp;
I expected him to be amazed; but he showed no surprise at seeing me,
though he showed another kind of feeling to an extent which dismayed me.
'You know it, Charles?' said I.
'I have just learnt it,' he said.
'O, Charles,' I went on, 'having delayed
completing your marriage with her till now, I fear--it has become a serious
position for us. Why did you =
not
reply to our letters?'
'I was purposing to reply in person: I did not
know how to address her on the point--how to address you. But what has become of her?'
'She has gone off with my father,' said I;
'indignant with you, and scorning me.'
He was silent: and I suggested that we should
follow them, pointing out the direction which I fancied their gondola had
taken. As the one we got into=
was
doubly manned we soon came in view of their two figures ahead of us, while =
they
were not likely to observe us, our boat having the 'felze' on, while theirs=
was
uncovered. They shot into a n=
arrow
canal just beyond the Giardino Reale, and by the time we were floating up
between its slimy walls we saw them getting out of their gondola at the ste=
ps which
lead up near the end of the Via 22 Marzo.&=
nbsp;
When we reached the same spot they were walking up and down the Via =
in
consultation. Getting out he =
stood
on the lower steps watching them. =
span>I
watched him. He seemed to fal=
l into
a reverie.
'Will you not go and speak to her?' said I at
length.
He assented, and went forward. Still he did not hasten to join th=
em, but,
screened by a projecting window, observed their musing converse. At last he looked back at me; wher=
eupon
I pointed forward, and he in obedience stepped out, and met them face to
face. Caroline flushed hot, b=
owed
haughtily to him, turned away, and taking my father's arm violently, led him
off before he had had time to use his own judgment. They disappeared into a
narrow calle, or alley, leading to the back of the buildings on the Grand
Canal.
M. de la Feste came slowly back; as he stepped=
in
beside me I realized my position so vividly that my heart might almost have
been heard to beat. The third condition had arisen--the least expected by
either of us. She had refused=
him;
he was free to claim me.
We returned in the boat together. He seemed quite absorbed till we h=
ad turned
the angle into the Grand Canal, when he broke the silence. 'She spoke very bitterly to you in=
the
salle-a-manger,' he said. 'I =
do not
think she was quite warranted in speaking so to you, who had nursed her so
tenderly.'
'O, but I think she was,' I answered. 'It was there I told her what had =
been
done; she did not know till then.'
'She was very dignified--very striking,' he
murmured. 'You were more.'
'But how do you know what passed between us,' =
said
I. He then told me that he ha=
d seen
and heard all. The dining-roo=
m was
divided by folding- doors from an inner portion, and he had been sitting in=
the
latter part when we entered the outer, so that our words were distinctly
audible.
'But, dear Alicia,' he went on, 'I was more
impressed by the affection of your apology to her than by anything else.
'Why not?' said he. 'Do you know that we may marry her=
e and
now? She has cast off both yo=
u and
me.'
'It cannot be,' said I, firmly. 'She has not been fairly asked to =
be your
wife in fact--to repeat the service lawfully; and until that has been done =
it
would be grievous sin in me to accept you.'
I had not noticed where the gondoliers were ro=
wing
us. I suppose he had given th=
em
some direction unheard by me, for as I resigned myself in despairing indole=
nce
to the motion of the gondola, I perceived that it was taking us up the Cana=
l,
and, turning into a side opening near the Palazzo Grimani, drew up at some
steps near the end of a large church.
'Where are we?' said I.
'It is the Church of the Frari,' he replied. 'We might be married there. At any=
rate,
let us go inside, and grow calm, and decide what to do.'
When we had entered I found that whether a pla=
ce
to marry in or not, it was one to depress.=
The word which Venice speaks most constantly--decay--was in a sense
accentuated here. The whole l=
arge fabric
itself seemed sinking into an earth which was not solid enough to bear it.<=
span
style=3D'mso-spacerun:yes'> Cobwebbed cracks zigzagged the wal=
ls,
and similar webs clouded the window-panes.=
A sickly-sweet smell pervaded the aisles. After walking about with him a lit=
tle
while in embarrassing silences, divided only by his cursory explanations of=
the
monuments and other objects, and almost fearing he might produce a marriage
licence, I went to a door in the south transept which opened into the sacri=
sty.
I glanced through it, towards the small altar =
at
the upper end. The place was =
empty
save of one figure; and she was kneeling here in front of the beautiful
altarpiece by Bellini. Beauti=
ful
though it was she seemed not to see it.&nb=
sp;
She was weeping and praying as though her heart was broken. She was my sister Caroline. I beckoned to Charles, and he came=
to my
side, and looked through the door with me.
'Speak to her,' said I. 'She will forgive you.'
I gently pushed him through the doorway, and w=
ent
back into the transept, down the nave, and onward to the west door. There I saw my father, to whom I
spoke. He answered severely t=
hat,
having first obtained comfortable quarters in a pension on the Grand Canal,=
he
had gone back to the hotel on the Riva degli Schiavoni to find me; but that=
I
was not there. He was now wai=
ting
for Caroline, to accompany her back to the pension, at which she had reques=
ted
to be left to herself as much as possible till she could regain some compos=
ure.
I told him that it was useless to dwell on what
was past, that I no doubt had erred, that the remedy lay in the future and
their marriage. In this he qu=
ite
agreed with me, and on my informing him that M. de la Feste was at that mom=
ent
with Caroline in the sacristy, he assented to my proposal that we should le=
ave
them to themselves, and return together to await them at the pension, where=
he
had also engaged a room for me.
This we did, and going up to the chamber he had chosen for me, which
overlooked the Canal, I leant from the window to watch for the gondola that
should contain Charles and my sister.
They were not long in coming. I recognized them by the colour of=
her sunshade
as soon as they turned the bend on my right hand. They were side by side of necessit=
y, but
there was no conversation between them, and I thought that she looked flush=
ed
and he pale. When they were r=
owed in
to the steps of our house he handed her up. I fancied she might have refused h=
is
assistance, but she did not. =
Soon I
heard her pass my door, and wishing to know the result of their interview I
went downstairs, seeing that the gondola had not put off with him. He was turning from the door, but =
not
towards the water, intending apparently to walk home by way of the calle wh=
ich
led into the Via 22 Marzo.
'Has she forgiven you?' said I.
'I have not asked her,' he said.
'But you are bound to do so,' I told him.
He paused, and then said, 'Alicia, let us
understand each other. Do you=
mean
to tell me, once for all, that if your sister is willing to become my wife =
you
absolutely make way for her, and will not entertain any thought of what I
suggested to you any more?'
'I do tell you so,' said I with dry lips. 'You belong to her--how can I do
otherwise?'
'Yes; it is so; it is purely a question of
honour,' he returned. 'Very w=
ell
then, honour shall be my word, and not my love. I will put the question to her fra=
nkly;
if she says yes, the marriage shall be.&nb=
sp;
But not here. It shall=
be at
your own house in England.'
'When?' said I.
'I will accompany her there,' he replied, 'and=
it
shall be within a week of her return.
I have nothing to gain by delay.&nb=
sp;
But I will not answer for the consequences.'
'What do you mean?' said I. He made no reply, went away, and I=
came
back to my room.
=
April
20. Milan, 10.30 p.m.--We are=
thus
far on our way homeward. I, b=
eing
decidedly de trop, travel apart from the rest as much as I can. Having dine=
d at
the hotel here, I went out by myself; regardless of the proprieties, for I
could not stay in. I walked a=
t a
leisurely pace along the Via Allesandro Manzoni till my eye was caught by t=
he
grand Galleria Vittorio Emanuele, and I entered under the high glass arcades
till I reached the central octagon, where I sat down on one of a group of
chairs placed there. Becoming
accustomed to the stream of promenaders, I soon observed, seated on the cha=
irs
opposite, Caroline and Charles.
This was the first occasion on which I had seen them en tete-a-tete
since my conversation with him. She
soon caught sight of me; averted her eyes; then, apparently abandoning hers=
elf
to an impulse, she jumped up from her seat and came across to me. We had not spoken to each other si=
nce
the meeting in Venice.
'Alicia,' she said, sitting down by my side,
'Charles asks me to forgive you, and I do forgive you.'
I pressed her hand, with tears in my eyes, and
said, 'And do you forgive him?'
'Yes,' said she, shyly.
'And what's the result?' said I.
'We are to be married directly we reach home.'=
This was almost the whole of our conversation;=
she
walked home with me, Charles following a little way behind, though she kept
turning her head, as if anxious that he should overtake us. 'Honour and not love' seemed to ri=
ng in
my ears. So matters stand.
April 25.--We have reached home, Charles with
us. Events are now moving in =
silent
speed, almost with velocity, indeed; and I sometimes feel oppressed by the
strange and preternatural ease which seems to accompany their flow. Charles is staying at the neighbou=
ring
town; he is only waiting for the marriage licence; when obtained he is to c=
ome
here, be quietly married to her, and carry her off. It is rather resignation than cont=
ent
which sits on his face; but he has not spoken a word more to me on the burn=
ing
subject, or deviated one hair's breadth from the course he laid down. They may be happy in time to come:=
I
hope so. But I cannot shake o=
ff
depression.
May 6.--Eve of the wedding. Caroline is serenely happy, though=
not blithe. But there is nothing to excite anx=
iety
about her. I wish I could say=
the
same of him. He comes and goe=
s like
a ghost, and yet nobody seems to observe this strangeness in his mien.
I could not help being here for the ceremony; =
but
my absence would have resulted in less disquiet on his part, I believe. However, I may be wrong in attribu=
ting
causes: my father simply says that Charles and Caroline have as good a chan=
ce
of being happy as other people.
Well, to- morrow settles all.
May 7.--They are married: we have just returned
from church. Charles looked s=
o pale
this morning that my father asked him if he was ill. He said, 'No: only a slight headac=
he;'
and we started for the church.
There was no hitch or hindrance; and the thing=
is
done.
4 p.m.--They ought to have set out on their
journey by this time; but there is an unaccountable delay. Charles went out half-an-hour ago,=
and has
not yet returned. Caroline is
waiting in the hall; but I am dreadfully afraid they will miss the train. I suppose the trifling hindrance i=
s of
no account; and yet I am full of misgivings . . .
Sept. 14.--Four months have passed; only four
months! It seems like years.<=
span
style=3D'mso-spacerun:yes'> Can it be that only seventeen week=
s ago
I set on this paper the fact of their marriage? I am now an aged woman by comparis=
on!
On that never to be forgotten day we waited and
waited, and Charles did not return.
At six o'clock, when poor little Caroline had gone back to her room =
in a
state of suspense impossible to describe, a man who worked in the water-mea=
dows
came to the house and asked for my father.=
He had an interview with him in the study. My father then rang his bell, and =
sent
for me. I went down; and I th=
en
learnt the fatal news. Charle=
s was no
more. The waterman had been g=
oing
to shut down the hatches of a weir in the meads when he saw a hat on the ed=
ge
of the pool below, floating round and round in the eddy, and looking into t=
he
pool saw something strange at the bottom.&=
nbsp;
He knew what it meant, and lowering the hatches so that the water was
still, could distinctly see the body.
It is needless to write particulars that were in the newspapers at t=
he
time. Charles was brought to the house, but he was dead.
We all feared for Caroline; and she suffered m=
uch;
but strange to say, her suffering was purely of the nature of deep grief wh=
ich
found relief in sobbing and tears.
It came out at the inquest that Charles had been accustomed to cross=
the
meads to give an occasional half-crown to an old man who lived on the oppos=
ite
hill, who had once been a landscape painter in an humble way till he lost h=
is
eyesight; and it was assumed that he had gone thither for the same purpose
to-day, and to bid him farewell. On
this information the coroner's jury found that his death had been caused by
misadventure; and everybody believes to this hour that he was drowned while
crossing the weir to relieve the old man.&=
nbsp;
Except one: she believes in no accident. After the stunning effect of the f=
irst
news, I thought it strange that he should have chosen to go on such an erra=
nd
at the last moment, and to go personally, when there was so little time to
spare, since any gift could have been so easily sent by another hand. Further reflection has convinced m=
e that
this step out of life was as much a part of the day's plan as was the weddi=
ng
in the church hard by. =
They
were the two halves of his complete intention when he gave me on the Grand =
Canal
that assurance which I shall never forget: 'Very well, then; honour shall b=
e my
word, not love. If she says
"Yes," the marriage shall be.'
I do not know why I should have made this entr=
y at
this particular time; but it has occurred to me to do it--to complete, in a
measure, that part of my desultory chronicle which relates to the love-stor=
y of
my sister and Charles. She li=
ves on
meekly in her grief; and will probably outlive it; while I--but never mind =
me.
=
Five-years
later.--I have lighted upon this old diary, which it has interested me to l=
ook
over, containing, as it does, records of the time when life shone more warm=
ly
in my eye than it does now. I=
am
impelled to add one sentence to round off its record of the past. About a year ago my sister Carolin=
e,
after a persistent wooing, accepted the hand and heart of Theophilus Higham,
once the blushing young Scripture reader who assisted at the substitute for=
a
marriage I planned, and now the fully- ordained curate of the next parish.<=
span
style=3D'mso-spacerun:yes'> His penitence for the part he play=
ed ended
in love. We have all now made
atonement for our sins against her: may she be deceived no more.
1887.
=
I
never pass through Chalk-Newton without turning to regard the neighbouring
upland, at a point where a lane crosses the lone straight highway dividing =
this
from the next parish; a sight which does not fail to recall the event that =
once
happened there; and, though it may seem superfluous, at this date, to disin=
ter
more memories of village history, the whispers of that spot may claim to be
preserved.
It was on a dark, yet mild and exceptionally d=
ry
evening at Christmas- time (according to the testimony of William Dewy of M=
ellstock,
Michael Mail, and others), that the choir of Chalk-Newton--a large parish
situate about half-way between the towns of Ivel and Casterbridge, and now =
a railway
station--left their homes just before midnight to repeat their annual harmo=
nies
under the windows of the local population.=
The band of instrumentalists and singers was one of the largest in t=
he
county; and, unlike the smaller and finer Mellstock string-band, which esch=
ewed
all but the catgut, it included brass and reed performers at full Sunday se=
rvices,
and reached all across the west gallery.
On this night there were two or three violins,=
two
'cellos, a tenor viol, double bass, hautboy, clarionets, serpent, and seven
singers. It was, however, not=
the
choir's labours, but what its members chanced to witness, that particularly
marked the occasion.
They had pursued their rounds for many years
without meeting with any incident of an unusual kind, but to-night, accordi=
ng
to the assertions of several, there prevailed, to begin with, an exceptiona=
lly
solemn and thoughtful mood among two or three of the oldest in the band, as=
if
they were thinking they might be joined by the phantoms of dead friends who=
had
been of their number in earlier years, and now were mute in the churchyard
under flattening mounds--friends who had shown greater zest for melody in t=
heir
time than was shown in this; or that some past voice of a semi-transparent
figure might quaver from some bedroom-window its acknowledgment of their
nocturnal greeting, instead of a familiar living neighbour. Whether this were fact or fancy, t=
he
younger members of the choir met together with their customary thoughtlessn=
ess
and buoyancy. When they had gathered by the stone stump of the cross in the
middle of the village, near the White Horse Inn, which they made their star=
ting
point, some one observed that they were full early, that it was not yet twe=
lve
o'clock. The local waits of t=
hose
days mostly refrained from sounding a note before Christmas morning had
astronomically arrived, and not caring to return to their beer, they decide=
d to
begin with some outlying cottages in Sidlinch Lane, where the people had no
clocks, and would not know whether it were night or morning. In that direction they accordingly=
went;
and as they ascended to higher ground their attention was attracted by a li=
ght
beyond the houses, quite at the top of the lane.
The road from Chalk-Newton to Broad Sidlinch is
about two miles long and in the middle of its course, where it passes over =
the
ridge dividing the two villages, it crosses at right angles, as has been
stated, the lonely monotonous old highway known as Long Ash Lane, which run=
s,
straight as a surveyor's line, many miles north and south of this spot, on =
the foundation
of a Roman road, and has often been mentioned in these narratives. Though now quite deserted and
grass-grown, at the beginning of the century it was well kept and frequente=
d by
traffic. The glimmering light
appeared to come from the precise point where the roads intersected.
'I think I know what that mid mean!' one of the
group remarked.
They stood a few moments, discussing the
probability of the light having origin in an event of which rumours had rea=
ched
them, and resolved to go up the hill.
Approaching the high land their conjectures we=
re
strengthened. Long Ash Lane c=
ut
athwart them, right and left; and they saw that at the junction of the four
ways, under the hand-post, a grave was dug, into which, as the choir drew n=
igh,
a corpse had just been thrown by the four Sidlinch men employed for the pur=
pose. The cart and horse which had broug=
ht the
body thither stood silently by.
The singers and musicians from Chalk-Newton
halted, and looked on while the gravediggers shovelled in and trod down the
earth, till, the hole being filled, the latter threw their spades into the
cart, and prepared to depart.
'Who mid ye be a-burying there?' asked Lot
Swanhills in a raised voice. 'Not the sergeant?'
The Sidlinch men had been so deeply engrossed =
in
their task that they had not noticed the lanterns of the Chalk-Newton choir
till now.
'What--be you the Newton carol-singers?' retur=
ned
the representatives of Sidlinch.
'Ay, sure.&nb=
sp;
Can it be that it is old Sergeant Holway you've a-buried there?'
''Tis so.&nbs=
p;
You've heard about it, then?'
The choir knew no particulars--only that he had
shot himself in his apple- closet on the previous Sunday. 'Nobody seem'th to know what 'a di=
d it for,
'a b'lieve? Leastwise, we don=
't
know at Chalk-Newton,' continued Lot.
'O yes.
It all came out at the inquest.'
The singers drew close, and the Sidlinch men,
pausing to rest after their labours, told the story. 'It was all owing to that son of h=
is,
poor old man. It broke his he=
art.'
'But the son is a soldier, surely; now with his
regiment in the East Indies?'
'Ay.
And it have been rough with the army over there lately. 'Twas a pity his father persuaded =
him to
go. But Luke shouldn't have t=
wyted
the sergeant o't, since 'a did it for the best.'
The circumstances, in brief, were these: The
sergeant who had come to this lamentable end, father of the young soldier w=
ho
had gone with his regiment to the East, had been singularly comfortable in =
his
military experiences, these having ended long before the outbreak of the gr=
eat
war with France. On his disch=
arge,
after duly serving his time, he had returned to his native village, and
married, and taken kindly to domestic life. But the war in which England next
involved herself had cost him many frettings that age and infirmity prevent=
ed
him from being ever again an active unit of the army. When his only son grew to young ma=
nhood,
and the question arose of his going out in life, the lad expressed his wish=
to
be a mechanic. But his father
advised enthusiastically for the army.
'Trade is coming to nothing in these days,' he
said. 'And if the war with the
French lasts, as it will, trade will be still worse. The army, Luke--that's the thing f=
or
'ee. 'Twas the making of me, =
and
'twill be the making of you. I
hadn't half such a chance as you'll have in these splendid hotter times.'
Luke demurred, for he was a home-keeping,
peace-loving youth. But, putt=
ing
respectful trust in his father's judgment, he at length gave way, and enlis=
ted
in the ---d Foot. In the cour=
se of
a few weeks he was sent out to India to his regiment, which had distinguish=
ed
itself in the East under General Wellesley.
But Luke was unlucky. News came home indirectly that he =
lay
sick out there; and then on one recent day when his father was out walking,=
the
old man had received tidings that a letter awaited him at Casterbridge. The
sergeant sent a special messenger the whole nine miles, and the letter was =
paid
for and brought home; but though, as he had guessed, it came from Luke, its
contents were of an unexpected tenor.
The letter had been written during a time of d=
eep
depression. Luke said that hi=
s life
was a burden and a slavery, and bitterly reproached his father for advising=
him
to embark on a career for which he felt unsuited. He found himself suffering
fatigues and illnesses without gaining glory, and engaged in a cause which =
he
did not understand or appreciate.
If it had not been for his father's bad advice he, Luke, would now h=
ave
been working comfortably at a trade in the village that he had never wished=
to leave.
After reading the letter the sergeant advanced=
a
few steps till he was quite out of sight of everybody, and then sat down on=
the
bank by the wayside.
When he arose half-an-hour later he looked
withered and broken, and from that day his natural spirits left him. Wounded to the quick by his son's =
sarcastic
stings, he indulged in liquor more and more frequently. His wife had died some years befor=
e this
date, and the sergeant lived alone in the house which had been hers. One morning in the December under =
notice
the report of a gun had been heard on his premises, and on entering the
neighbours found him in a dying state.&nbs=
p;
He had shot himself with an old firelock that he used for scaring bi=
rds;
and from what he had said the day before, and the arrangements he had made =
for
his decease, there was no doubt that his end had been deliberately planned,=
as
a consequence of the despondency into which he had been thrown by his son's=
letter. The coroner's jury returned a verd=
ict of
felo de se.
'Here's his son's letter,' said one of the Sidlinch men. ''Twas found in= his father's pocket. You can see = by the state o't how many times he read it over.&= nbsp; Howsomever, the Lord's will be done, since it must, whether or no.'<= o:p>
The grave was filled up and levelled, no mound
being shaped over it. The Sid=
linch
men then bade the Chalk-Newton choir good-night, and departed with the cart=
in
which they had brought the sergeant's body to the hill. When their tread had
died away from the ear, and the wind swept over the isolated grave with its
customary siffle of indifference, Lot Swanhills turned and spoke to old Ric=
hard
Toller, the hautboy player.
''Tis hard upon a man, and he a wold sojer, to
serve en so, Richard. Not tha=
t the
sergeant was ever in a battle bigger than would go into a half- acre paddoc=
k,
that's true. Still, his soul =
ought
to hae as good a chance as another man's, all the same, hey?'
Richard replied that he was quite of the same
opinion. 'What d'ye say to li=
fting
up a carrel over his grave, as 'tis Christmas, and no hurry to begin down in
parish, and 'twouldn't take up ten minutes, and not a soul up here to say us
nay, or know anything about it?'
Lot nodded assent. 'The man ought to hae his chances,=
' he
repeated.
'Ye may as well spet upon his grave, for all t=
he
good we shall do en by what we lift up, now he's got so far,' said Notton, =
the
clarionet man and professed sceptic of the choir. 'But I'm agreed if the rest be.'
They thereupon placed themselves in a semicirc=
le
by the newly stirred earth, and roused the dull air with the well-known Num=
ber
Sixteen of their collection, which Lot gave out as being the one he thought
best suited to the occasion and the mood
He comes' the pri'-soners to' re-lease', In Sa'-tan's bon'-dage =
held'.
'Jown it--we've never played to a dead man afo=
re,'
said Ezra Cattstock, when, having concluded the last verse, they stood
reflecting for a breath or two.
'But it do seem more merciful than to go away and leave en, as they
t'other fellers have done.'
'Now backalong to Newton, and by the time we g=
et
overright the pa'son's 'twill be half after twelve,' said the leader.
They had not, however, done more than gather up
their instruments when the wind brought to their notice the noise of a vehi=
cle
rapidly driven up the same lane from Sidlinch which the gravediggers had la=
tely
retraced. To avoid being run over when moving on, they waited till the
benighted traveller, whoever he might be, should pass them where they stood=
in
the wider area of the Cross.
In half a minute the light of the lanterns fell
upon a hired fly, drawn by a steaming and jaded horse. It reached the hand-post, when a v=
oice from
the inside cried, 'Stop here!' The
driver pulled rein. The carri=
age
door was opened from within, and there leapt out a private soldier in the
uniform of some line regiment. He
looked around, and was apparently surprised to see the musicians standing
there.
'Have you buried a man here?' he asked.
'No.
We bain't Sidlinch folk, thank God; we be Newton choir. Though a man is just buried here, =
that's
true; and we've raised a carrel over the poor mortal's natomy. What--do my eyes see before me you=
ng
Luke Holway, that went wi' his regiment to the East Indies, or do I see his
spirit straight from the battlefield?
Be you the son that wrote the letter--'
'Don't--don't ask me. The funeral is over, then?'
'There wer no funeral, in a Christen manner of
speaking. But's buried, sure
enough. You must have met the=
men
going back in the empty cart.'
'Like a dog in a ditch, and all through me!'
He remained silent, looking at the grave, and =
they
could not help pitying him. '=
My
friends,' he said, 'I understand better now. You have, I suppose, in neighbourly
charity, sung peace to his soul? I
thank you, from my heart, for your kind pity. Yes; I am Sergeant Holway's misera=
ble son--I'm
the son who has brought about his father's death, as truly as if I had done=
it
with my own hand!'
'No, no.
Don't ye take on so, young man.&nbs=
p;
He'd been naturally low for a good while, off and on, so we hear.'
'We were out in the East when I wrote to him.<= span style=3D'mso-spacerun:yes'> Everything had seemed to go wrong = with me. Just after my letter had = gone we were ordered home. That's how it is you see me here. As soon as we got into barracks at= Casterbridge I heard o' this . . . Damn me! I'll dare to follow my father, and make away with myself, too. It is the only thing left to do!'<= o:p>
'Don't ye be rash, Luke Holway, I say again; b=
ut
try to make amends by your future life.&nb=
sp;
And maybe your father will smile a smile down from heaven upon 'ee f=
or
't.'
He shook his head. 'I don't know about that!' he answ=
ered
bitterly.
'Try and be worthy of your father at his
best. 'Tis not too late.'
'D'ye think not? I fancy it is! . . . Well, I'll tu=
rn it
over. Thank you for your good
counsel. I'll live for one th=
ing,
at any rate. I'll move father=
's
body to a decent Christian churchyard, if I do it with my own hands. I can't save his life, but I can g=
ive
him an honourable grave. He s=
han't
lie in this accursed place!'
'Ay, as our pa'son says, 'tis a barbarous cust=
om
they keep up at Sidlinch, and ought to be done away wi'. The man a' old soldier, too. You s=
ee,
our pa'son is not like yours at Sidlinch.'
'He says it is barbarous, does he? So it is!' cried the soldier. 'Now hearken, my friends.' Then he proceeded to inquire if th=
ey
would increase his indebtedness to them by undertaking the removal, private=
ly, of
the body of the suicide to the churchyard, not of Sidlinch, a parish he now
hated, but of Chalk-Newton. He
would give them all he possessed to do it.
Lot asked Ezra Cattstock what he thought of it=
.
Cattstock, the 'cello player, who was also the
sexton, demurred, and advised the young soldier to sound the rector about it
first. 'Mid be he would objec=
t, and
yet 'a mid'nt. The pa'son o'
Sidlinch is a hard man, I own ye, and 'a said if folk will kill theirselves=
in
hot blood they must take the consequences.=
But ours don't think like that at all, and might allow it.'
'What's his name?'
'The honourable and reverent Mr. Oldham, broth=
er
to Lord Wessex. But you needn=
't be
afeard o' en on that account. He'll
talk to 'ee like a common man, if so be you haven't had enough drink to gie=
'ee
bad breath.'
'O, the same as formerly. I'll ask him. Thank you. And that duty done--'
'What then?'
'There's war in Spain. I hear our next move is there. I'll try to show myself to be what=
my
father wished me. I don't sup=
pose I
shall--but I'll try in my feeble way.
That much I swear--here over his body. So help me God.'
Luke smacked his palm against the white hand-p=
ost
with such force that it shook.
'Yes, there's war in Spain; and another chance for me to be worthy of
father.'
So the matter ended that night. That the private acted in one thin=
g as he
had vowed to do soon became apparent, for during the Christmas week the rec=
tor
came into the churchyard when Cattstock was there, and asked him to find a =
spot
that would be suitable for the purpose of such an interment, adding that he=
had
slightly known the late sergeant, and was not aware of any law which forbade
him to assent to the removal, the letter of the rule having been observed.<=
span
style=3D'mso-spacerun:yes'> But as he did not wish to seem mov=
ed by
opposition to his neighbour at Sidlinch, he had stipulated that the act of
charity should be carried out at night, and as privately as possible, and t=
hat
the grave should be in an obscure part of the enclosure. 'You had better see the young man =
about
it at once,' added the rector.
But before Ezra had done anything Luke came do=
wn
to his house. His furlough ha=
d been
cut short, owing to new developments of the war in the Peninsula, and being=
obliged
to go back to his regiment immediately, he was compelled to leave the
exhumation and reinterment to his friends. Everything was paid for, and he
implored them all to see it carried out forthwith.
With this the soldier left. The next day Ezra, on thinking the
matter over, again went across to the rectory, struck with sudden
misgiving. He had remembered =
that
the sergeant had been buried without a coffin, and he was not sure that a s=
take
had not been driven through him.
The business would be more troublesome than they had at first suppos=
ed.
'Yes, indeed!' murmured the rector. 'I am afraid it is not feasible af=
ter
all.'
The next event was the arrival of a headstone =
by
carrier from the nearest town; to be left at Mr. Ezra Cattstock's; all expe=
nses
paid. The sexton and the carr=
ier
deposited the stone in the former's outhouse; and Ezra, left alone, put on =
his
spectacles and read the brief and simple inscription:-
HERE LYETH THE BODY OF SAMUEL HOLWAY, LATE SERGEANT IN HIS MAJESTY'S=
---D REGIMENT OF FOOT, =
WHO
DEPARTED THIS LIFE DECEMBER THE 20TH, 180-. ERECTED BY L. H. 'I AM NOT WORTHY TO BE =
CALLED
THY SON.'
Ezra again called at the riverside rectory.
'I should like to oblige him,' said the
gentlemanly old incumbent. 'A=
nd I
would forego all fees willingly.
Still, if you and the others don't think you can carry it out, I am =
in
doubt what to say.'
Well, sir; I've made inquiry of a Sidlinch wom=
an
as to his burial, and what I thought seems true. They buried en wi' a new six-foot
hurdle-saul drough's body, from the sheep-pen up in North Ewelease though t=
hey
won't own to it now. And the
question is, Is the moving worth while, considering the awkwardness?'
'Have you heard anything more of the young man=
?'
Ezra had only heard that he had embarked that =
week
for Spain with the rest of the regiment.&n=
bsp;
'And if he's as desperate as 'a seemed, we shall never see him here =
in
England again.'
'It is an awkward case,' said the rector.
Ezra talked it over with the choir; one of whom
suggested that the stone might be erected at the crossroads. This was regarded as impracticable=
. Another
said that it might be set up in the churchyard without removing the body; b=
ut
this was seen to be dishonest. So
nothing was done.
The headstone remained in Ezra's outhouse till, growing tired of seeing it there, he put it away among the bushes at the bo= ttom of his garden. The subject was sometimes revived among them, but it always ended with: 'Considering how 'a was buried, we can hardly make a job o't.'<= o:p>
There was always the consciousness that Luke w=
ould
never come back, an impression strengthened by the disasters which were
rumoured to have befallen the army in Spain. This tended to make their inertnes=
s permanent. The headstone grew green as it lay=
on
its back under Ezra's bushes; then a tree by the river was blown down, and,
falling across the stone, cracked it in three pieces. Ultimately the pieces became burie=
d in
the leaves and mould.
Luke had not been born a Chalk-Newton man, and=
he
had no relations left in Sidlinch, so that no tidings of him reached either
village throughout the war. B=
ut
after Waterloo and the fall of Napoleon there arrived at Sidlinch one day an
English sergeant-major covered with stripes and, as it turned out, rich in
glory. Foreign service had so
totally changed Luke Holway that it was not until he told his name that the
inhabitants recognized him as the sergeant's only son.
He had served with unswerving effectiveness
through the Peninsular campaigns under Wellington; had fought at Busaco,
Fuentes d'Onore, Ciudad Rodrigo, Badajoz, Salamanca, Vittoria, Quatre Bras,=
and
Waterloo; and had now returned to enjoy a more than earned pension and repo=
se
in his native district.
He hardly stayed in Sidlinch longer than to ta=
ke a
meal on his arrival. The same evening he started on foot over the hill to
Chalk-Newton, passing the hand-post, and saying as he glanced at the spot,
'Thank God: he's not there!'
Nightfall was approaching when he reached the latter village; but he
made straight for the churchyard.
On his entering it there remained light enough to discern the headst=
ones
by, and these he narrowly scanned.
But though he searched the front part by the road, and the back part=
by
the river, what he sought he could not find--the grave of Sergeant Holway, =
and
a memorial bearing the inscription: 'I AM NOT WORTHY TO BE CALLED THY SON.'=
He left the churchyard and made inquiries. The honourable and reverend old re=
ctor
was dead, and so were many of the choir; but by degrees the sergeant-major
learnt that his father still lay at the cross-roads in Long Ash Lane.
Luke pursued his way moodily homewards, to do
which, in the natural course, he would be compelled to repass the spot, the=
re
being no other road between the two villages. But he could not now go by that pl=
ace, vociferous
with reproaches in his father's tones; and he got over the hedge and wander=
ed
deviously through the ploughed fields to avoid the scene. Through many a fight and fatigue L=
uke
had been sustained by the thought that he was restoring the family honour a=
nd
making noble amends. Yet his father lay still in degradation. It was rather a sentiment than a f=
act
that his father's body had been made to suffer for his own misdeeds; but to=
his
super-sensitiveness it seemed that his efforts to retrieve his character an=
d to
propitiate the shade of the insulted one had ended in failure.
He endeavoured, however, to shake off his
lethargy, and, not liking the associations of Sidlinch, hired a small cotta=
ge
at Chalk-Newton which had long been empty.=
Here he lived alone, becoming quite a hermit, and allowing no woman =
to
enter the house.
The Christmas after taking up his abode herein=
he
was sitting in the chimney corner by himself, when he heard faint notes in =
the
distance, and soon a melody burst forth immediately outside his own window,=
it
came from the carol-singers, as usual; and though many of the old hands, Ez=
ra and
Lot included, had gone to their rest, the same old carols were still played=
out
of the same old books. There
resounded through the sergeant- major's window-shutters the familiar lines =
that
the deceased choir had rendered over his father's grave:-
He comes' the pri'-soners to' re-lease', In Sa'-tan's bon'-dage =
held'.
When they had finished they went on to another
house, leaving him to silence and loneliness as before.
The candle wanted snuffing, but he did not snu=
ff
it, and he sat on till it had burnt down into the socket and made waves of
shadow on the ceiling.
The Christmas cheerfulness of next morning was
broken at breakfast-time by tragic intelligence which went down the village
like wind. Sergeant- Major Ho=
lway
had been found shot through the head by his own hand at the cross-roads in =
Long
Ash Lane where his father lay buried.
On the table in the cottage he had left a piec=
e of
paper, on which he had written his wish that he might be buried at the Cross
beside his father. But the paper was accidentally swept to the floor, and
overlooked till after his funeral, which took place in the ordinary way in =
the churchyard.
Christmas 1897.
ENTER A DRAGOON
I
lately had a melancholy experience (said the gentleman who is answerable for
the truth of this story). It =
was
that of going over a doomed house with whose outside aspect I had long been
familiar--a house, that is, which by reason of age and dilapidation was to =
be
pulled down during the following week.&nbs=
p;
Some of the thatch, brown and rotten as the gills of old mushrooms, =
had,
indeed, been removed before I walked over the building. Seeing that it was only a very sma=
ll
house--which is usually called a 'cottage-residence'--situated in a remote
hamlet, and that it was not more than a hundred years old, if so much, I was
led to think in my progress through the hollow rooms, with their cracked wa=
lls and
sloping floors, what an exceptional number of abrupt family incidents had t=
aken
place therein--to reckon only those which had come to my own knowledge. And no doubt there were many more =
of
which I had never heard.
It stood at the top of a garden stretching dow=
n to
the lane or street that ran through a hermit-group of dwellings in Mellstock
parish. From a green gate at =
the
lower entrance, over which the thorn hedge had been shaped to an arch by
constant clippings, a gravel path ascended between the box edges of once tr=
im
raspberry, strawberry, and vegetable plots, towards the front door. This was in colour an ancient and
bleached green that could be rubbed off with the finger, and it bore a smal=
l long-featured
brass knocker covered with verdigris in its crevices. For some years before this eve of
demolition the homestead had degenerated, and been divided into two tenemen=
ts
to serve as cottages for farm labourers; but in its prime it had indisputab=
le
claim to be considered neat, pretty, and genteel.
The variety of incidents above alluded to was
mainly owing to the nature of the tenure, whereby the place had been occupi=
ed
by families not quite of the kind customary in such spots--people whose
circumstances, position, or antecedents were more or less of a critical
happy-go-lucky cast. And of t=
hese
residents the family whose term comprised the story I wish to relate was th=
at
of Mr. Jacob Paddock the market-gardener, who dwelt there for some years wi=
th
his wife and grown-up daughter.
I
=
An
evident commotion was agitating the premises, which jerked busy sounds acro=
ss
the front plot, resembling those of a disturbed hive. If a member of the household appea=
red at
the door it was with a countenance of abstraction and concern.
Evening began to bend over the scene; and the
other inhabitants of the hamlet came out to draw water, their common well b=
eing
in the public road opposite the garden and house of the Paddocks. Having wound up their bucketsfull
respectively they lingered, and spoke significantly together. From their wo=
rds
any casual listener might have gathered information of what had occurred.
The woodman who lived nearest the site of the
story told most of the tale.
Selina, the daughter of the Paddocks opposite, had been surprised th=
at
afternoon by receiving a letter from her once intended husband, then a
corporal, but now a sergeant-major of dragoons, whom she had hitherto suppo=
sed
to be one of the slain in the Battle of the Alma two or three years before.=
'She picked up wi'en against her father's wish=
, as
we know, and before he got his stripes,' their informant continued. 'Not but that the man was as heart=
y a
feller as you'd meet this side o' London.&=
nbsp;
But Jacob, you see, wished her to do better, and one can understand =
it. However, she was determined to sti=
ck to
him at that time; and for what happened she was not much to blame, so near =
as
they were to matrimony when the war broke out and spoiled all.'
'Even the very pig had been killed for the
wedding,' said a woman, 'and the barrel o' beer ordered in. O, the man meant honourable enough=
. But to be off in two days to fight=
in a
foreign country--'twas natural of her father to say they should wait till he
got back.'
'And he never came,' murmured one in the shade=
.
'The war ended but her man never turned up
again. She was not sure he was
killed, but was too proud, or too timid, to go and hunt for him.'
'One reason why her father forgave her when he
found out how matters stood was, as he said plain at the time, that he liked
the man, and could see that he meant to act straight. So the old folks made the best of =
what
they couldn't mend, and kept her there with 'em, when some wouldn't. Time h=
as
proved seemingly that he did mean to act straight, now that he has writ to =
her that
he's coming. She'd have stuck=
to
him all through the time, 'tis my belief; if t'other hadn't come along.'
'At the time of the courtship,' resumed the
woodman, 'the regiment was quartered in Casterbridge Barracks, and he and s=
he
got acquainted by his calling to buy a penn'orth of rathe-ripes off that tr=
ee
yonder in her father's orchard--though 'twas said he seed her over hedge as
well as the apples. He declar=
ed
'twas a kind of apple he much fancied; and he called for a penn'orth every =
day
till the tree was cleared. It=
ended
in his calling for her.'
''Twas a thousand pities they didn't jine up at
once and ha' done wi' it.
'Well; better late than never, if so be he'll =
have
her now. But, Lord, she'd that
faith in 'en that she'd no more belief that he was alive, when a' didn't co=
me,
than that the undermost man in our churchyard was alive. She'd never have
thought of another but for that--O no!'
''Tis awkward, altogether, for her now.'
'Still she hadn't married wi' the new man. Though to be sure she would have
committed it next week, even the licence being got, they say, for she'd hav=
e no
banns this time, the first being so unfortunate.'
'Perhaps the sergeant-major will think he's
released, and go as he came.'
'O, not as I reckon. Soldiers bain't particular, and sh=
e's a
tidy piece o' furniture still. What
will happen is that she'll have her soldier, and break off with the
master-wheelwright, licence or no--daze me if she won't.'
In the progress of these desultory conjectures=
the
form of another neighbour arose in the gloom. She nodded to the people at the we=
ll,
who replied 'G'd night, Mrs. Stone,' as she passed through Mr. Paddock's ga=
te towards
his door. She was an intimate
friend of the latter's household, and the group followed her with their eye=
s up
the path and past the windows, which were now lighted up by candles inside.=
II
=
Mrs.
Stone paused at the door, knocked, and was admitted by Selina's mother, who
took her visitor at once into the parlour on the left hand, where a table w=
as
partly spread for supper. On =
the
'beaufet' against the wall stood probably the only object which would have
attracted the eye of a local stranger in an otherwise ordinarily furnished
room, a great plum- cake guarded as if it were a curiosity by a glass shade=
of
the kind seen in museums--square, with a wooden back like those enclosing
stuffed specimens of rare feather or fur.&=
nbsp;
This was the mummy of the cake intended in earlier days for the
wedding-feast of Selina and the soldier, which had been religiously and lov=
ingly
preserved by the former as a testimony to her intentional respectability in
spite of an untoward subsequent circumstance, which will be mentioned. This relic was now as dry as a bri=
ck,
and seemed to belong to a pre-existent civilization. Till quite recently, Selina had be=
en in
the habit of pausing before it daily, and recalling the accident whose
consequences had thrown a shadow over her life ever since--that of which the
water-drawers had spoken--the sudden news one morning that the Route had co=
me
for the ---th Dragoons, two days only being the interval before departure; =
the
hurried consultation as to what should be done, the second time of asking b=
eing
past but not the third; and the decision that it would be unwise to solemni=
ze
matrimony in such haphazard circumstances, even if it were possible, which =
was
doubtful.
Before the fire the young woman in question was
now seated on a low stool, in the stillness of reverie, and a toddling boy
played about the floor around her.
'Ah, Mrs. Stone!' said Selina, rising slowly.<=
span
style=3D'mso-spacerun:yes'> 'How kind of you to come in. You'll bide to supper? Mother has told you the strange ne=
ws, of
course?'
'No.
But I heard it outside, that is, that you'd had a letter from Mr. Cl=
ark--Sergeant-Major
Clark, as they say he is now--and that he's coming to make it up with 'ee.'=
'Yes; coming to-night--all the way from the no=
rth
of England where he's quartered. I
don't know whether I'm happy or--frightened at it. Of course I always believed that i=
f he
was alive he'd come and keep his solemn vow to me. But when it is printed that a man =
is
killed--what can you think?'
'It was printed?'
'Why, yes.&nb=
sp;
After the Battle of the Alma the book of the names of the killed and
wounded was nailed up against Casterbridge Town Hall door. 'Twas on a Satur=
day,
and I walked there o' purpose to read and see for myself; for I'd heard that
his name was down. There was a
crowd of people round the book, looking for the names of relations; and I c=
an
mind that when they saw me they made way for me--knowing that we'd been jus=
t going
to be married--and that, as you may say, I belonged to him. Well, I reached up my arm, and tur=
ned
over the farrels of the book, and under the "killed" I read his
surname, but instead of "John" they'd printed "James," =
and
I thought 'twas a mistake, and that it must be he. Who could have guessed there were =
two
nearly of one name in one regiment.'
'Well--he's coming to finish the wedding of 'e=
e as
may be said; so never mind, my dear.
All's well that ends well.'
'That's what he seems to say. But then he has not heard yet abou=
t Mr. Miller;
and that's what rather terrifies me.
Luckily my marriage with him next week was to have been by licence, =
and
not banns, as in John's case; and it was not so well known on that
account. Still, I don't know =
what
to think.'
'Everything seems to come just 'twixt cup and =
lip
with 'ee, don't it now, Miss Paddock.
Two weddings broke off--'tis odd!&n=
bsp;
How came you to accept Mr. Miller, my dear?'
'He's been so good and faithful! Not minding about the child at all=
; for he
knew the rights of the story. He's
dearly fond o' Johnny, you know--just as if 'twere his own--isn't he, my
duck? Do Mr. Miller love you =
or
don't he?'
'Iss!
An' I love Mr. Miller,' said the toddler.
'Well, you see, Mrs. Stone, he said he'd make =
me a
comfortable home; and thinking 'twould be a good thing for Johnny, Mr. Mill=
er
being so much better off than me, I agreed at last, just as a widow
might--which is what I have always felt myself; ever since I saw what I tho=
ught
was John's name printed there. I
hope John will forgive me!'
'So he will forgive 'ee, since 'twas no manner=
of
wrong to him. He ought to hav=
e sent
'ee a line, saying 'twas another man.'
Selina's mother entered. 'We've not known of this an hour, =
Mrs.
Stone,' she said. 'The letter=
was
brought up from Lower Mellstock Post-office by one of the school children, =
only
this afternoon. Mr. Miller was
coming here this very night to settle about the wedding doings. Hark! Is that your father? Or is it Mr. Miller already come?'=
The footsteps entered the porch; there was a
brushing on the mat, and the door of the room sprung back to disclose a
rubicund man about thirty years of age, of thriving master-mechanic appeara=
nce
and obviously comfortable temper.
On seeing the child, and before taking any notice whatever of the
elders, the comer made a noise like the crowing of a cock and flapped his a=
rms
as if they were wings, a method of entry which had the unqualified admirati=
on
of Johnny.
'Yes--it is he,' said Selina constrainedly
advancing.
'What--were you all talking about me, my dear?'
said the genial young man when he had finished his crowing and resumed human
manners. 'Why what's the matt=
er,'
he went on. 'You look struck =
all of
a heap.' Mr. Miller spread an
aspect of concern over his own face, and drew a chair up to the fire.
'O mother, would you tell Mr. Miller, if he do=
n't
know?'
'Mister Miller! and going to be married in six
days!' he interposed.
'Ah--he don't know it yet!' murmured Mrs. Padd=
ock.
'Know what?'
'Well--John Clark--now Sergeant-Major
Clark--wasn't shot at Alma after all.
'Twas another of almost the same name.'
'Now that's interesting! There were several cases like that=
.'
'And he's home again; and he's coming here
to-night to see her.'
'Whatever shall I say, that he may not be offe=
nded
with what I've done?' interposed Selina.
'But why should it matter if he be?'
'O! I
must agree to be his wife if he forgives me--of course I must.'
'Must!
But why not say nay, Selina, even if he do forgive 'ee?'
'O no!
How can I without being wicked?&nbs=
p;
You were very very kind, Mr. Miller, to ask me to have you; no other=
man
would have done it after what had happened; and I agreed, even though I did=
not
feel half so warm as I ought. Yet
it was entirely owing to my believing him in the grave, as I knew that if he
were not he would carry out his promise; and this shows that I was right in
trusting him.'
'Yes . . . He must be a goodish sort of fellow=
,'
said Mr. Miller, for a moment so impressed with the excellently faithful
conduct of the sergeant- major of dragoons that he disregarded its effect u=
pon
his own position. He sighed slowly and added, 'Well, Selina, 'tis for you to
say. I love you, and I love t=
he
boy; and there's my chimney-corner and sticks o' furniture ready for 'ee bo=
th.'
'Yes, I know!=
But I mustn't hear it any more now,' murmured Selina quickly. 'John will be here soon. I hope he'll see how it all was wh=
en I
tell him. If so be I could ha=
ve
written it to him it would have been better.'
'You think he doesn't know a single word about=
our
having been on the brink o't. But
perhaps it's the other way--he's heard of it and that may have brought him.=
'Ah--perhaps he has!' she said brightening.
'If not, speak out straight and fair, and tell=
him
exactly how it fell out. If h=
e's a
man he'll see it.'
'O he's a man true enough. But I really do think I shan't hav=
e to
tell him at all, since you've put it to me that way!'
As it was now Johnny's bedtime he was carried
upstairs, and when Selina came down again her mother observed with some
anxiety, 'I fancy Mr. Clark must be here soon if he's coming; and that being
so, perhaps Mr. Miller wouldn't mind--wishing us good-night! since you are =
so
determined to stick to your sergeant-major.' A little bitterness bubbled amid t=
he closing
words. 'It would be less awkw=
ard,
Mr. Miller not being here--if he will allow me to say it.'
'To be sure; to be sure,' the master-wheelwrig=
ht
exclaimed with instant conviction, rising alertly from his chair. 'Lord bless my soul,' he said, tak=
ing up
his hat and stick, 'and we to have been married in six days! But Selina--you're right. You do belong to the child's fathe=
r since
he's alive. I'll try to make =
the
best of it.'
Before the generous Miller had got further the=
re
came a knock to the door accompanied by the noise of wheels.
'I thought I heard something driving up!' said=
Mrs
Paddock.
They heard Mr. Paddock, who had been smoking in
the room opposite, rise and go to the door, and in a moment a voice familiar
enough to Selina was audibly saying, 'At last I am here again--not without =
many
interruptions! How is it with 'ee, Mr. Paddock? And how is she? Thought never to see me again, I
suppose?'
A step with a clink of spurs in it struck upon=
the
entry floor.
'Danged if I bain't catched!' murmured Mr. Mil=
ler,
forgetting company- speech. '=
Never
mind--I may as well meet him here as elsewhere; and I should like to see the
chap, and make friends with en, as he seems one o' the right sort.' He returned to the fireplace just =
as the
sergeant-major was ushered in.
III
=
He was
a good specimen of the long-service soldier of those days; a not unhandsome
man, with a certain undemonstrative dignity, which some might have said to =
be
partly owing to the stiffness of his uniform about his neck, the high stock
being still worn. He was much
stouter than when Selina had parted from him. Although she had not meant to be d=
emonstrative
she ran across to him directly she saw him, and he held her in his arms and
kissed her.
Then in much agitation she whispered something=
to
him, at which he seemed to be much surprised.
'He's just put to bed,' she continued. 'You can go up and see him. I knew you'd come if you were
alive! But I had quite gi'd y=
ou up
for dead. You've been home in England ever since the war ended?'
'Yes, dear.'
'Why didn't you come sooner?'
'That's just what I ask myself! Why was I such a sappy as not to h=
urry here
the first day I set foot on shore!
Well, who'd have thought it--you are as pretty as ever!'
He relinquished her to peep upstairs a little =
way,
where, by looking through the ballusters, he could see Johnny's cot just wi=
thin
an open door. On his stepping=
down
again Mr. Miller was preparing to depart.
'Now, what's this? I am sorry to see anybody going the
moment I've come,' expostulated the sergeant-major. 'I thought we might make an evenin=
g of
it. There's a nine gallon cas=
k o'
"Phoenix" beer outside in the trap, and a ham, and half a rawmil'
cheese; for I thought you might be short o' forage in a lonely place like t=
his;
and it struck me we might like to ask in a neighbour or two. But perhaps it would be taking a l=
iberty?'
'O no, not at all,' said Mr. Paddock, who was =
now
in the room, in a judicial measured manner. 'Very thoughtful of 'ee, only 'twa=
s not necessary,
for we had just laid in an extry stock of eatables and drinkables in
preparation for the coming event.'
''Twas very kind, upon my heart,' said the
soldier, 'to think me worth such a jocund preparation, since you could only=
have
got my letter this morning.'
Selina gazed at her father to stop him, and
exchanged embarrassed glances with Miller.=
Contrary to her hopes Sergeant-Major Clark plainly did not know that=
the
preparations referred to were for something quite other than his own visit.=
The movement of the horse outside, and the
impatient tapping of a whip- handle upon the vehicle reminded them that Cla=
rk's
driver was still in waiting. =
The
provisions were brought into the house, and the cart dismissed. Miller, with very little pressure
indeed, accepted an invitation to supper, and a few neighbours were induced=
to
come in to make up a cheerful party.
During the laying of the meal, and throughout =
its
continuance, Selina, who sat beside her first intended husband, tried frequ=
ently
to break the news to him of her engagement to the other--now terminated so
suddenly, and so happily for her heart, and her sense of womanly virtue.
Having supped, Clark leaned back at ease in his
chair and looked around. 'We used sometimes to have a dance in that other r=
oom
after supper, Selina dear, I recollect.&nb=
sp;
We used to clear out all the furniture into this room before
beginning. Have you kept up s=
uch
goings on?'
'No, not at all!' said his sweetheart, sadly.<= o:p>
'We were not unlikely to revive it in a few da=
ys,'
said Mr. Paddock. 'But, howsomever, there's seemingly many a slip, as the
saying is.'
'Yes, I'll tell John all about that by and by!'
interposed Selina; at which, perceiving that the secret which he did not li=
ke
keeping was to be kept even yet, her father held his tongue with some show =
of
testiness.
The subject of a dance having been broached, to
put the thought in practice was the feeling of all. Soon after the tables and chairs w=
ere borne
from the opposite room to this by zealous hands, and two of the villagers s=
ent
home for a fiddle and tambourine, when the majority began to tread a measure
well known in that secluded vale.
Selina naturally danced with the sergeant-major, not altogether to h=
er
father's satisfaction, and to the real uneasiness of her mother, both of wh=
om would
have preferred a postponement of festivities till the rashly anticipated
relationship between their daughter and Clark in the past had been made fac=
t by
the church's ordinances. They=
did
not, however, express a positive objection, Mr. Paddock remembering, with s=
elf-reproach,
that it was owing to his original strongly expressed disapproval of Selina's
being a soldier's wife that the wedding had been delayed, and finally
hindered--with worse consequences than were expected; and ever since the
misadventure brought about by his government he had allowed events to steer
their own courses.
'My tails will surely catch in your spurs, Joh=
n!'
murmured the daughter of the house, as she whirled around upon his arm with=
the
rapt soul and look of a somnambulist.
'I didn't know we should dance, or I would have put on my other froc=
k.'
'I'll take care, my love. We've danced here before. Do you think your father objects t=
o me
now? I've risen in rank. I fancy he's still a little agains=
t me.'
'He has repented, times enough.'
'And so have I! If I had married you then 'twould =
have
saved many a misfortune. I ha=
ve
sometimes thought it might have been possible to rush the ceremony through
somehow before I left; though we were only in the second asking, were we? And even if I had come back straig=
ht
here when we returned from the Crimea, and married you then, how much happi=
er I
should have been!'
'Dear John, to say that! Why didn't you?'
'O--dilatoriness and want of thought, and a fe=
ar
of facing your father after so long.
I was in hospital a great while, you know. But how familiar the place seems
again! What's that I saw on t=
he
beaufet in the other room? It=
never
used to be there. A sort of
withered corpse of a cake--not an old bride-cake surely?'
'Yes, John, ours. 'Tis the very one that was made fo=
r our
wedding three years ago.'
'Sakes alive!=
Why, time shuts up together, and all between then and now seems not =
to
have been! What became of that
wedding-gown that they were making in this room, I remember--a bluish, whit=
ish,
frothy thing?'
'I have that too.'
'Really! . . . Why, Selina--'
'Yes!'
'Why not put it on now?'
'Wouldn't it seem--. And yet, O how I should like to! It would remind them all, if we to=
ld
them what it was, how we really meant to be married on that bygone day!'
'Yes . . . The pity that we didn't--the
pity!' Moody mournfulness see=
med to
hold silent awhile one not naturally taciturn. 'Well--will you?' he said.
'I will--the next dance, if mother don't mind.=
'
Accordingly, just before the next figure was
formed, Selina disappeared, and speedily came downstairs in a creased and
box-worn, but still airy and pretty, muslin gown, which was indeed the very=
one
that had been meant to grace her as a bride three years before.
'It is dreadfully old-fashioned,' she apologiz=
ed.
'Not at all.&=
nbsp;
What a grand thought of mine!
Now, let's to't again.'
She explained to some of them, as he led her to
the second dance, what the frock had been meant for, and that she had put i=
t on
at his request. And again athwart and around the room they went.
'You seem the bride!' he said.
'But I couldn't wear this gown to be married in
now!' she replied, ecstatically, 'or I shouldn't have put it on and made it
dusty. It is really too
old-fashioned, and so folded and fretted out, you can't think. That was wit=
h my
taking it out so many times to look at.&nb=
sp;
I have never put it on--never--till now!'
'Selina, I am thinking of giving up the army.<=
span
style=3D'mso-spacerun:yes'> Will you emigrate with me to New
Zealand? I've an uncle out th=
ere
doing well, and he'd soon help me to making a larger income. The English army is glorious, but =
it
ain't altogether enriching.'
'Of course, anywhere that you decide upon. Is it healthy there for Johnny?'
'A lovely climate. And I shall never be happy in Engl=
and .
. . Aha!' he concluded again, with a bitterness of unexpected strength, 'wo=
uld
to Heaven I had come straight back here!'
As the dance brought round one neighbour after
another the re-united pair were thrown into juxtaposition with Bob Heartall
among the rest who had been called in; one whose chronic expression was tha=
t he
carried inside him a joke on the point of bursting with its own vastness. He took occasion now to let out a =
little
of its quality, shaking his head at Selina as he addressed her in an
undertone--
'This is a bit of a topper to the bridegroom, =
ho
ho! 'Twill teach en the liber=
ty
you'll expect when you've married en!'
'What does he mean by a "topper,"' t= he sergeant-major asked, who, not being of local extraction, despised the venerable local language, and also seemed to suppose 'bridegroom' to be an anticipatory name for himself. 'I only hope I shall never be worse treated than you've treated me to-night!'<= o:p>
Selina looked frightened. 'He didn't mean you, dear,' she sa=
id as
they moved on. 'We thought pe=
rhaps
you knew what had happened, owing to your coming just at this time. Had you--heard anything about--wha=
t I intended?'
'Not a breath--how should I--away up in Yorksh=
ire? It was by the merest accident that=
I
came just at this date to make peace with you for my delay.'
'I was engaged to be married to Mr. Bartholomew
Miller. That's what it is!
IV
=
The
soldier was silent during two or three double bars of the tune. 'When were you to have been marrie=
d to
the said Mr. Bartholomew Miller?' he inquired.
'Quite soon.'
'How soon?'
'Next week--O yes--just the same as it was with
you and me. There's a strange=
fate
of interruption hanging over me, I sometimes think! He had bought the licence, which I
preferred so that it mightn't be like--ours. But it made no difference to t=
he
fate of it.'
'Had bought the licence! The devil!'
'Don't be angry, dear John. I didn't know!'
'No, no, I'm not angry.'
'It was so kind of him, considering!'
'Yes . . . I see, of course, how natural your
action was--never thinking of seeing me any more! Is it the Mr. Miller who is in this
dance?'
'Yes.'
Clark glanced round upon Bartholomew and was
silent again, for some little while, and she stole a look at him, to find t=
hat
he seemed changed. 'John, you=
look
ill!' she almost sobbed. ''Ti=
sn't
me, is it?'
'O dear, no.&=
nbsp;
Though I hadn't, somehow, expected it. I can't find fault with you for a =
moment--and
I don't . . . This is a deuce of a long dance, don't you think? We've been at it twenty minutes if=
a
second, and the figure doesn't allow one much rest. I'm quite out of breath.'
'They like them so dreadfully long here. Shall we drop out? Or I'll stop the fiddler.'
'O no, no, I think I can finish. But although I look healthy enough=
I have
never been so strong as I formerly was, since that long illness I had in the
hospital at Scutari.'
'And I knew nothing about it!'
'You couldn't, dear, as I didn't write. What a fool I have been altogether=
!' He gave a twitch, as of one in
pain. 'I won't dance again wh=
en
this one is over. The fact is=
I
have travelled a long way to-day, and it seems to have knocked me up a bit.=
'
There could be no doubt that the sergeant-major
was unwell, and Selina made herself miserable by still believing that her s=
tory
was the cause of his ailment.
Suddenly he said in a changed voice, and she perceived that he was p=
aler
than ever: 'I must sit down.'
Letting go her waist he went quickly to the ot=
her
room. She followed, and found=
him
in the nearest chair, his face bent down upon his hands and arms, which were
resting on the table.
'What's the matter?' said her father, who sat
there dozing by the fire.
'John isn't well . . . We are going to New Zea=
land
when we are married, father. A
lovely country! John, would y=
ou
like something to drink?'
'A drop o' that Schiedam of old Owlett's, that=
's
under stairs, perhaps,' suggested her father. 'Not that nowadays 'tis much bette=
r than
licensed liquor.'
'John,' she said, putting her face close to his
and pressing his arm. 'Will you have a drop of spirits or something?'
He did not reply, and Selina observed that his=
ear
and the side of his face were quite white.=
Convinced that his illness was serious, a growing dismay seized hold=
of
her. The dance ended; her mot=
her
came in, and learning what had happened, looked narrowly at the sergeant-ma=
jor.
'We must not let him lie like that, lift him u=
p,'
she said. 'Let him rest in th=
e window-bench
on some cushions.'
They unfolded his arms and hands as they lay
clasped upon the table, and on lifting his head found his features to bear =
the
very impress of death itself.
Bartholomew Miller, who had now come in, assisted Mr. Paddock to mak=
e a
comfortable couch in the window-seat, where they stretched out Clark upon h=
is
back.
Still he seemed unconscious. 'We must get a doctor,' said
Selina. 'O, my dear John, how=
is it
you be taken like this?'
'My impression is that he's dead!' murmured Mr.
Paddock. 'He don't breathe en=
ough
to move a tomtit's feather.'
There were plenty to volunteer to go for a doc=
tor,
but as it would be at least an hour before he could get there the case seem=
ed
somewhat hopeless. The
dancing-party ended as unceremoniously as it had begun; but the guests ling=
ered
round the premises till the doctor should arrive. When he did come the
sergeant-major's extremities were already cold, and there was no doubt that
death had overtaken him almost at the moment that he had sat down.
The medical practitioner quite refused to acce=
pt
the unhappy Selina's theory that her revelation had in any way induced Clar=
k's
sudden collapse. Both he and =
the
coroner afterwards, who found the immediate cause to be heart-failure, held
that such a supposition was unwarranted by facts. They asserted that a long day's jo=
urney,
a hurried drive, and then an exhausting dance, were sufficient for such a
result upon a heart enfeebled by fatty degeneration after the privations of=
a
Crimean winter and other trying experiences, the coincidence of the sad eve=
nt
with any disclosure of hers being a pure accident.
This conclusion, however, did not dislodge
Selina's opinion that the shock of her statement had been the immediate str=
oke
which had felled a constitution so undermined.
V
=
At
this date the Casterbridge Barracks were cavalry quarters, their adaptation=
to
artillery having been effected some years later. It had been owing to the fact that=
the
---th Dragoons, in which John Clark had served, happened to be lying there =
that
Selina made his acquaintance. At the
time of his death the barracks were occupied by the Scots Greys, but when t=
he
pathetic circumstances of the sergeant-major's end became known in the town=
the
officers of the Greys offered the services of their fine reed and brass ban=
d,
that he might have a funeral marked by due military honours. His body was accordingly removed t=
o the
barracks, and carried thence to the churchyard in the Durnover quarter on t=
he
following afternoon, one of the Greys' most ancient and docile chargers bei=
ng blacked
up to represent Clark's horse on the occasion.
Everybody pitied Selina, whose story was well
known. She followed the corps=
e as
the only mourner, Clark having been without relations in this part of the
country, and a communication with his regiment having brought none from a
distance. She sat in a little
shabby brown-black mourning carriage, squeezing herself up in a corner to b=
e as
much as possible out of sight during the slow and dramatic march through the
town to the tune from Saul. W=
hen
the interment had taken place, the volleys been fired, and the return journ=
ey
begun, it was with something like a shock that she found the military escor=
t to
be moving at a quick march to the lively strains of 'Off she goes!' as if a=
ll
care for the sergeant-major was expected to be ended with the late discharg=
e of
the carbines. It was, by chan=
ce,
the very tune to which they had been footing when he died, and unable to be=
ar
its notes, she hastily told her driver to drop behind. The band and military party dimini=
shed
up the High Street, and Selina turned over Swan bridge and homeward to
Mellstock.
Then recommenced for her a life whose incidents
were precisely of a suit with those which had preceded the soldier's return;
but how different in her appreciation of them! Her narrow miss of the recovered r=
espectability
they had hoped for from that tardy event worked upon her parents as an
irritant, and after the first week or two of her mourning her life with them
grew almost insupportable. Sh=
e had
impulsively taken to herself the weeds of a widow, for such she seemed to
herself to be, and clothed little Johnny in sables likewise. This assumption of a moral relatio=
nship
to the deceased, which she asserted to be only not a legal one by two most
unexpected accidents, led the old people to indulge in sarcasm at her expen=
se
whenever they beheld her attire, though all the while it cost them more pai=
n to
utter than it gave her to hear it.
Having become accustomed by her residence at home to the business
carried on by her father, she surprised them one day by going off with the
child to Chalk-Newton, in the direction of the town of Ivell, and opening a=
miniature
fruit and vegetable shop, attending Ivell market with her produce. Her business grew somewhat larger,=
and
it was soon sufficient to enable her to support herself and the boy in
comfort. She called herself '=
Mrs.
John Clark' from the day of leaving home, and painted the name on her
signboard--no man forbidding her.
By degrees the pain of her state was forgotten=
in
her new circumstances, and getting to be generally accepted as the widow of=
a
sergeant-major of dragoons--an assumption which her modest and mournful
demeanour seemed to substantiate--her life became a placid one, her mind be=
ing
nourished by the melancholy luxury of dreaming what might have been her fut=
ure
in New Zealand with John, if he had only lived to take her there. Her only travels now were a journe=
y to
Ivell on market-days, and once a fortnight to the churchyard in which Clark
lay, there to tend, with Johnny's assistance, as widows are wont to do, the
flowers she had planted upon his grave.
On a day about eighteen months after his
unexpected decease, Selina was surprised in her lodging over her little sho=
p by
a visit from Bartholomew Miller. He
had called on her once or twice before, on which occasions he had used with=
out
a word of comment the name by which she was known.
'I've come this time,' he said, 'less because I
was in this direction than to ask you, Mrs. Clark, what you mid well
guess. I've come o' purpose, =
in
short.'
She smiled.
''Tis to ask me again to marry you?'
'Yes, of course. You see, his coming back for 'ee p=
roved
what I always believed of 'ee, though others didn't. There's nobody but would be glad to
welcome you to our parish again, now you've showed your independence and ac=
ted
up to your trust in his promise.
Well, my dear, will you come?'
'I'd rather bide as Mrs. Clark, I think,' she
answered. 'I am not ashamed o=
f my
position at all; for I am John's widow in the eyes of Heaven.'
'I quite agree--that's why I've come. Still, you won't like to be always=
straining
at this shop-keeping and market-standing; and 'twould be better for Johnny =
if
you had nothing to do but tend him.'
He here touched the only weak spot in Selina's
resistance to his proposal--the good of the boy. To promote that there were other m=
en she
might have married offhand without loving them if they had asked her to; but
though she had known the worthy speaker from her youth, she could not for t=
he
moment fancy herself happy as Mrs. Miller.
He paused awhile. 'I ought to tell 'ee, Mrs. Clark,'=
he
said by and by, 'that marrying is getting to be a pressing question with
me. Not on my own account at
all. The truth is, that mothe=
r is
growing old, and I am away from home a good deal, so that it is almost
necessary there should be another person in the house with her besides me.<=
span
style=3D'mso-spacerun:yes'> That's the practical consideration=
which
forces me to think of taking a wife, apart from my wish to take you; and you
know there's nobody in the world I care for so much.'
She said something about there being far better
women than she, and other natural commonplaces; but assured him she was most
grateful to him for feeling what he felt, as indeed she sincerely was. However, Selina would not consent =
to be
the useful third person in his comfortable home--at any rate just then. He went away, after taking tea wit=
h her,
without discerning much hope for him in her good-bye.
VI
=
After
that evening she saw and heard nothing of him for a great while. Her
fortnightly journeys to the sergeant-major's grave were continued, whenever
weather did not hinder them; and Mr. Miller must have known, she thought, of
this custom of hers. But thou=
gh the
churchyard was not nearly so far from his homestead as was her shop at
Chalk-Newton, he never appeared in the accidental way that lovers use.
An explanation was forthcoming in the shape of=
a
letter from her mother, who casually mentioned that Mr. Bartholomew Miller =
had
gone away to the other side of Shottsford-Forum to be married to a thriving
dairyman's daughter that he knew there.&nb=
sp;
His chief motive, it was reported, had been less one of love than a =
wish
to provide a companion for his aged mother.
Selina was practical enough to know that she h=
ad
lost a good and possibly the only opportunity of settling in life after what
had happened, and for a moment she regretted her independence. But she became calm on reflection,=
and
to fortify herself in her course started that afternoon to tend the
sergeant-major's grave, in which she took the same sober pleasure as at fir=
st.
On reaching the churchyard and turning the cor=
ner
towards the spot as usual, she was surprised to perceive another woman, also
apparently a respectable widow, and with a tiny boy by her side, bending ov=
er
Clark's turf, and spudding up with the point of her umbrella some ivy-roots
that Selina had reverently planted there to form an evergreen mantle over t=
he mound.
'What are you digging up my ivy for!' cried
Selina, rushing forward so excitedly that Johnny tumbled over a grave with =
the
force of the tug she gave his hand in her sudden start.
'Your ivy?' said the respectable woman.
'Why yes!&nbs=
p;
I planted it there--on my husband's grave.'
'Your husband's!'
'Yes.
The late Sergeant-Major Clark.
Anyhow, as good as my husband, for he was just going to be.'
'Indeed.
But who may be my husband, if not he? I am the only Mrs. John Clark, wid=
ow of
the late Sergeant-Major of Dragoons, and this is his only son and heir.'
'How can that be?' faltered Selina, her throat
seeming to stick together as she just began to perceive its possibility.
'Ah!--I remember about you,' returned the
legitimate widow calmly and not unkindly.&=
nbsp;
'You must be Selina; he spoke of you now and then, and said that his
relations with you would always be a weight on his conscience. Well; the
history of my life with him is soon told.&=
nbsp;
When he came back from the Crimea he became acquainted with me at my
home in the north, and we were married within a month of first knowing each
other. Unfortunately, after living together a few months, we could not agre=
e; and
after a particularly sharp quarrel, in which, perhaps, I was most in the wr=
ong--as
I don't mind owning here by his graveside--he went away from me, declaring =
he
would buy his discharge and emigrate to New Zealand, and never come back to=
me
any more. The next thing I he=
ard
was that he had died suddenly at Mellstock at some low carouse; and as he h=
ad left
me in such anger to live no more with me, I wouldn't come down to his funer=
al,
or do anything in relation to him.
'Twas temper, I know, but that was the fact. Even if we had parted friends it w=
ould
have been a serious expense to travel three hundred miles to get there, for=
one
who wasn't left so very well off . . . I am sorry I pulled up your ivy-root=
s; but
that common sort of ivy is considered a weed in my part of the country.'
December 1899.
=
A TRYST AT AN ANCIENT EARTH WORK
=
At
one's every step forward it rises higher against the south sky, with an
obtrusive personality that compels the senses to regard it and consider.
Out of the invisible marine region on the other
side birds soar suddenly into the air, and hang over the summits of the hei=
ghts
with the indifference of long familiarity.=
Their forms are white against the tawny concave of cloud, and the cu=
rves
they exhibit in their floating signify that they are sea-gulls which have
journeyed inland from expected stress of weather. As the birds rise behind the fort,=
so do
the clouds rise behind the birds, almost as it seems, stroking with their
bagging bosoms the uppermost flyers.
The profile of the whole stupendous ruin, as s=
een
at a distance of a mile eastward, is cleanly cut as that of a marble
inlay. It is varied with prot=
uberances,
which from hereabouts have the animal aspect of warts, wens, knuckles, and
hips. It may indeed be likene=
d to
an enormous many- limbed organism of an antediluvian time--partaking of the
cephalopod in shape--lying lifeless, and covered with a thin green cloth, w=
hich
hides its substance, while revealing its contour. This dull green mantle of herbage
stretches down towards the levels, where the ploughs have essayed for centu=
ries
to creep up near and yet nearer to the base of the castle, but have always
stopped short before reaching it.
The furrows of these environing attempts show themselves distinctly,
bending to the incline as they trench upon it; mounting in steeper curves, =
till
the steepness baffles them, and their parallel threads show like the striae=
of
waves pausing on the curl. The
peculiar place of which these are some of the features is 'Mai-Dun,' 'The
Castle of the Great Hill,' said to be the Dunium of Ptolemy, the capital of=
the
Durotriges, which eventually came into Roman occupation, and was finally
deserted on their withdrawal from the island.
* * * * *
The evening is followed by a night on which an
invisible moon bestows a subdued, yet pervasive light--without radiance, as
without blackness. From the spot whereon I am ensconced in a cottage, a mile
away, the fort has now ceased to be visible; yet, as by day, to anybody who=
se
thoughts have been engaged with it and its barbarous grandeurs of past time=
the
form asserts its existence behind the night gauzes as persistently as if it=
had
a voice. Moreover, the south-=
west
wind continues to feed the intervening arable flats with vapours brought
directly from its sides.
The midnight hour for which there has been
occasion to wait at length arrives, and I journey towards the stronghold in
obedience to a request urged earlier in the day. It concerns an appointment, which I
rather regret my decision to keep now that night is come. The route thither is hedgeless and
treeless--I need not add deserted.
The moonlight is sufficient to disclose the pale riband-like surface=
of
the way as it trails along between the expanses of darker fallow. Though the road passes near the fo=
rtress
it does not conduct directly to its fronts. As the place is without an inhabit=
ant,
so it is without a trackway. =
So presently
leaving the macadamized road to pursue its course elsewhither, I step off u=
pon
the fallow, and plod stumblingly across it. The castle looms out off the shade=
by
degrees, like a thing waking up and asking what I want there. It is now so enlarged by nearness =
that
its whole shape cannot be taken in at one view. The ploughed ground ends as the ri=
se
sharpens, the sloping basement of grass begins, and I climb upward to invade
Mai-Dun.
Impressive by day as this largest Ancient-Brit=
ish
work in the kingdom undoubtedly is, its impressiveness is increased now. Four minutes of ascent, and a
vantage-ground of some sort is gained.&nbs=
p;
It is only the crest of the outer rampart. Immediately within this a chasm ga=
pes;
its bottom is imperceptible, but the counterscarp slopes not too steeply to
admit of a sliding descent if cautiously performed. The shady bottom, dank and chilly,=
is
thus gained, and reveals itself as a kind of winding lane, wide enough for a
waggon to pass along, floored with rank herbage, and trending away, right a=
nd
left, into obscurity, between the concentric walls of earth. The towering closeness of these on=
each
hand, their impenetrability, and their ponderousness, are felt as a physica=
l pressure. The way is now up the second of th=
em,
which stands steeper and higher than the first. To turn aside, as did Christian's
companion, from such a Hill Difficulty, is the more natural tendency; but t=
he
way to the interior is upward.
There is, of course, an entrance to the fortress; but that lies far =
off
on the other side. It might
possibly have been the wiser course to seek for easier ingress there.
However, being here, I ascend the second
acclivity. The grass stems--t=
he grey
beard of the hill--sway in a mass close to my stooping face. The dead heads of these various
grasses--fescues, fox-tails, and ryes--bob and twitch as if pulled by a str=
ing
underground. From a few thist=
les a whistling
proceeds; and even the moss speaks, in its humble way, under the stress of =
the
blast.
That the summit of the second line of defence =
has
been gained is suddenly made known by a contrasting wind from a new quarter,
coming over with the curve of a cascade.&n=
bsp;
These novel gusts raise a sound from the whole camp or castle, playi=
ng
upon it bodily as upon a harp. It
is with some difficulty that a foothold can be preserved under their
sweep. Looking aloft for a mo=
ment I
perceive that the sky is much more overcast than it has been hitherto, and =
in a
few instants a dead lull in what is now a gale ensues with almost preternat=
ural
abruptness. I take advantage =
of this
to sidle down the second counterscarp, but by the time the ditch is reached=
the
lull reveals itself to be but the precursor of a storm. It begins with a heave of the whole
atmosphere, like the sigh of a weary strong man on turning to re-commence
unusual exertion, just as I stand here in the second fosse. That which now radiates from the s=
ky
upon the scene is not so much light as vaporous phosphorescence.
The wind, quickening, abandons the natural
direction it has pursued on the open upland, and takes the course of the
gorge's length, rushing along therein helter-skelter, and carrying thick ra=
in
upon its back. The rain is fo=
llowed
by hailstones which fly through the defile in battalions--rolling, hopping,
ricochetting, snapping, clattering down the shelving banks in an undefinable
haze of confusion. The earthen
sides of the fosse seem to quiver under the drenching onset, though it is p=
ractically
no more to them than the blows of Thor upon the giant of Jotun-land. It is impossible to proceed furthe=
r till
the storm somewhat abates, and I draw up behind a spur of the inner scarp,
where possibly a barricade stood two thousand years ago; and thus await eve=
nts.
* * * * *
The roar of the storm can be heard travelling =
the
complete circuit of the castle--a measured mile--coming round at intervals =
like
a circumambulating column of infantry.&nbs=
p;
Doubtless such a column has passed this way in its time, but the only
columns which enter in these latter days are the columns of sheep and oxen =
that
are sometimes seen here now; while the only semblance of heroic voices heard
are the utterances of such, and of the many winds which make their passage
through the ravines.
The expected lightning radiates round, and a
rumbling as from its subterranean vaults--if there are any--fills the
castle. The lightning repeats
itself, and, coming after the aforesaid thoughts of martial men, it bears a
fanciful resemblance to swords moving in combat. It has the very brassy hue of the
ancient weapons that here were used.
The so sudden entry upon the scene of this metallic flame is as the
entry of a presiding exhibitor who unrolls the maps, uncurtains the picture=
s, unlocks
the cabinets, and effects a transformation by merely exposing the materials=
of
his science, unintelligibly cloaked till then. The abrupt configuration of the bl=
uffs
and mounds is now for the first time clearly revealed--mounds whereon, doub=
tless,
spears and shields have frequently lain while their owners loosened their
sandals and yawned and stretched their arms in the sun. For the first time, too, a glimpse=
is
obtainable of the true entrance used by its occupants of old, some way ahea=
d.
There, where all passage has seemed to be
inviolably barred by an almost vertical facade, the ramparts are found to
overlap each other like loosely clasped fingers, between which a zigzag path
may be followed--a cunning construction that puzzles the uninformed eye.
* * * * *
Acoustic perceptions multiply to-night. We can almost hear the stream of y=
ears
that have borne those deeds away from us.&=
nbsp;
Strange articulations seem to float on the air from that point, the
gateway, where the animation in past times must frequently have concentrated
itself at hours of coming and going, and general excitement. There arises an ineradicable fancy=
that
they are human voices; if so, they must be the lingering air-borne vibratio=
ns
of conversations uttered at least fifteen hundred years ago. The attention is attracted from me=
re
nebulous imaginings about yonder spot by a real moving of something close at
hand.
I recognize by the now moderate flashes of
lightning, which are sheet- like and nearly continuous, that it is the grad=
ual
elevation of a small mound of earth.
At first no larger than a man's fist it reaches the dimensions of a =
hat,
then sinks a little and is still.
It is but the heaving of a mole who chooses such weather as this to =
work
in from some instinct that there will be nobody abroad to molest him. As the fine earth lifts and lifts =
and
falls loosely aside fragments of burnt clay roll out of it--clay that once
formed part of cups or other vessels used by the inhabitants of the fortres=
s.
The violence of the storm has been counterbala=
nced
by its transitoriness. From being immersed in well-nigh solid media of cloud
and hail shot with lightning, I find myself uncovered of the humid investit=
ure
and left bare to the mild gaze of the moon, which sparkles now on every wet
grass-blade and frond of moss.
But I am not yet inside the fort, and the dela=
yed
ascent of the third and last escarpment is now made. It is steeper than either. The first was a surface to walk up=
, the
second to stagger up, the third can only be ascended on the hands and
toes. On the summit obtrudes =
the
first evidence which has been met with in these precincts that the time is =
really
the nineteenth century; it is in the form of a white notice-board on a post,
and the wording can just be discerned by the rays of the setting moon:
CAUTION.--Any Person found removing Relics,
Skeletons, Stones, Pottery, Tiles, or other Material from this Earthwork, or
cutting up the Ground, will be Prosecuted as the Law directs.
Here one observes a difference underfoot from =
what
has gone before: scraps of Roman tile and stone chippings protrude through =
the
grass in meagre quantity, but sufficient to suggest that masonry stood on t=
he spot. Before the eye stretches under the
moonlight the interior of the fort.
So open and so large is it as to be practically an upland plateau, a=
nd
yet its area lies wholly within the walls of what may be designated as one
building. It is a long-violat=
ed
retreat; all its corner-stones, plinths, and architraves were carried away =
to
build neighbouring villages even before mediaeval or modern history began.<=
span
style=3D'mso-spacerun:yes'> Many a block which once may have h=
elped
to form a bastion here rests now in broken and diminished shape as part of =
the
chimney-corner of some shepherd's cottage within the distant horizon, and t=
he
corner-stones of this heathen altar may form the base-course of some adjoin=
ing
village church.
Yet the very bareness of these inner courts and
wards, their condition of mere pasturage, protects what remains of them as =
no
defences could do. Nothing is left visible that the hands can seize on or t=
he
weather overturn, and a permanence of general outline at least results, whi=
ch
no other condition could ensure.
The position of the castle on this isolated hi=
ll
bespeaks deliberate and strategic choice exercised by some remote mind capa=
ble
of prospective reasoning to a far extent.&=
nbsp;
The natural configuration of the surrounding country and its bearing
upon such a stronghold were obviously long considered and viewed mentally
before its extensive design was carried into execution. Who was the man that said, 'Let it=
be
built here!'--not on that hill yonder, or on that ridge behind, but on this
best spot of all? Whether he =
were
some great one of the Belgae, or of the Durotriges, or the travelling engin=
eer
of Britain's united tribes, must for ever remain time's secret; his form ca=
nnot
be realized, nor his countenance, nor the tongue that he spoke, when he set
down his foot with a thud and said, 'Let it be here!'
Within the innermost enclosure, though it is so
wide that at a superficial glance the beholder has only a sense of standing=
on
a breezy down, the solitude is rendered yet more solitary by the knowledge =
that
between the benighted sojourner herein and all kindred humanity are those t=
hree
concentric walls of earth which no being would think of scaling on such a n=
ight
as this, even were he to hear the most pathetic cries issuing hence that co=
uld
be uttered by a spectre-chased soul.
I reach a central mound or platform--the crown and axis of the whole
structure. The view from here=
by
day must be of almost limitless extent.&nb=
sp;
On this raised floor, dais, or rostrum, harps have probably twanged =
more
or less tuneful notes in celebration of daring, strength, or cruelty; of
worship, superstition, love, birth, and death; of simple loving-kindness
perhaps never. Many a time mu=
st the
king or leader have directed his keen eyes hence across the open lands towa=
rds
the ancient road, the Icening Way, still visible in the distance, on the wa=
tch
for armed companies approaching either to succour or to attack.
I am startled by a voice pronouncing my name.<=
span
style=3D'mso-spacerun:yes'> Past and present have become so
confusedly mingled under the associations of the spot that for a time it has
escaped my memory that this mound was the place agreed on for the aforesaid
appointment. I turn and behol=
d my
friend. He stands with a dark
lantern in his hand and a spade and light pickaxe over his shoulder. He expresses both delight and surp=
rise
that I have come. I tell him =
I had
set out before the bad weather began.
He, to whom neither weather, darkness, nor
difficulty seems to have any relation or significance, so entirely is his s=
oul
wrapped up in his own deep intentions, asks me to take the lantern and
accompany him. I take it and =
walk
by his side. He is a man about
sixty, small in figure, with grey old-fashioned whiskers cut to the shape o=
f a
pair of crumb-brushes. He is entirely in black broadcloth--or rather, at
present, black and brown, for he is bespattered with mud from his heels to =
the
crown of his low hat. He has =
no
consciousness of this--no sense of anything but his purpose, his ardour for
which causes his eyes to shine like those of a lynx, and gives his motions,=
all
the elasticity of an athlete's.
'Nobody to interrupt us at this time of night!=
' he
chuckles with fierce enjoyment.
We retreat a little way and find a sort of ang=
le,
an elevation in the sod, a suggested squareness amid the mass of irregulari=
ties
around. Here, he tells me, if
anywhere, the king's house stood.
Three months of measurement and calculation have confirmed him in th=
is
conclusion.
He requests me now to open the lantern, which I
do, and the light streams out upon the wet sod. At last divining his proceedings I=
say
that I had no idea, in keeping the tryst, that he was going to do more at s=
uch
an unusual time than meet me for a meditative ramble through the stronghold=
. I
ask him why, having a practicable object, he should have minded interruptio=
ns
and not have chosen the day? =
He
informs me, quietly pointing to his spade, that it was because his purpose =
is
to dig, then signifying with a grim nod the gaunt notice-post against the s=
ky
beyond. I inquire why, as a professed and well-known antiquary with capital=
letters
at the tail of his name, he did not obtain the necessary authority, conside=
ring
the stringent penalties for this sort of thing; and he chuckles fiercely ag=
ain
with suppressed delight, and says, 'Because they wouldn't have given it!'
He at once begins cutting up the sod, and, as =
he
takes the pickaxe to follow on with, assures me that, penalty or no penalty,
honest men or marauders, he is sure of one thing, that we shall not be
disturbed at our work till after dawn.
I remember to have heard of men who, in their
enthusiasm for some special science, art, or hobby, have quite lost the mor=
al
sense which would restrain them from indulging it illegitimately; and I
conjecture that here, at last, is an instance of such an one. He probably guesses the way my tho=
ughts
travel, for he stands up and solemnly asserts that he has a distinctly
justifiable intention in this matter; namely, to uncover, to search, to ver=
ify
a theory or displace it, and to cover up again. He means to take away nothing--not=
a
grain of sand. In this he say=
s he
sees no such monstrous sin. I
inquire if this is really a promise to me?=
He repeats that it is a promise, and resumes digging. My contribution to the labour is t=
hat of
directing the light constantly upon the hole. When he has reached something more=
than
a foot deep he digs more cautiously, saying that, be it much or little ther=
e,
it will not lie far below the surface; such things never are deep. A few minutes later the point of t=
he
pickaxe clicks upon a stony substance.&nbs=
p;
He draws the implement out as feelingly as if it had entered a man's
body. Taking up the spade he =
shovels
with care, and a surface, level as an altar, is presently disclosed. His eyes flash anew; he pulls hand=
fuls
of grass and mops the surface clean, finally rubbing it with his
handkerchief. Grasping the la=
ntern
from my hand he holds it close to the ground, when the rays reveal a comple=
te
mosaic--a pavement of minute tesserae of many colours, of intricate pattern=
, a
work of much art, of much time, and of much industry. He exclaims in a shout that he kne=
w it
always--that it is not a Celtic stronghold exclusively, but also a Roman; t=
he
former people having probably contributed little more than the original
framework which the latter took and adapted till it became the present impo=
sing
structure.
I ask, What if it is Roman?
A great deal, according to him. That it proves all the world to be= wrong in this great argument, and himself alone to be right! Can I wait while he digs further?<= o:p>
I agree--reluctantly; but he does not notice my
reluctance. At an adjoining s=
pot he
begins flourishing the tools anew with the skill of a navvy, this venerable
scholar with letters after his name.
Sometimes he falls on his knees, burrowing with his hands in the man=
ner
of a hare, and where his old-fashioned broadcloth touches the sides of the =
hole
it gets plastered with the damp earth.&nbs=
p;
He continually murmurs to himself how important, how very important,
this discovery is! He draws o=
ut an object;
we wash it in the same primitive way by rubbing it with the wet grass, and =
it
proves to be a semi-transparent bottle of iridescent beauty, the sight of w=
hich
draws groans of luxurious sensibility from the digger. Further and further search brings =
out a
piece of a weapon. It is stra=
nge
indeed that by merely peeling off a wrapper of modern accumulations we have
lowered ourselves into an ancient world.&n=
bsp;
Finally a skeleton is uncovered, fairly perfect. He lays it out on the grass, bone =
to its
bone.
My friend says the man must have fallen fighti=
ng
here, as this is no place of burial.
He turns again to the trench, scrapes, feels, till from a corner he
draws out a heavy lump--a small image four or five inches high. We clean it=
as
before. It is a statuette,
apparently of gold, or, more probably, of bronze-gilt--a figure of Mercury,
obviously, its head being surmounted with the petasus or winged hat, the us=
ual
accessory of that deity. Furt=
her
inspection reveals the workmanship to be of good finish and detail, and,
preserved by the limy earth, to be as fresh in every line as on the day it =
left
the hands of its artificer.
We seem to be standing in the Roman Forum and =
not
on a hill in Wessex. Intent upon this truly valuable relic of the old empir=
e of
which even this remote spot was a component part, we do not notice what is
going on in the present world till reminded of it by the sudden renewal of =
the storm. Looking up I perceive that the wide
extinguisher of cloud has again settled down upon the fortress-town, as if
resting upon the edge of the inner rampart, and shutting out the moon. I turn my back to the tempest, sti=
ll
directing the light across the hole.
My companion digs on unconcernedly; he is living two thousand years =
ago,
and despises things of the moment as dreams. But at last he is fairly beaten, a=
nd
standing up beside me looks round on what he has done. The rays of the lantern pass over =
the
trench to the tall skeleton stretched upon the grass on the other side. The beating rain has washed the bo=
nes
clean and smooth, and the forehead, cheek-bones, and two-and-thirty teeth of
the skull glisten in the candle-shine as they lie.
This storm, like the first, is of the nature o=
f a
squall, and it ends as abruptly as the other. We dig no further. My friend says that it is enough--=
he has
proved his point. He turns to
replace the bones in the trench and covers them. But they fall to pieces under his =
touch:
the air has disintegrated them, and he can only sweep in the fragments. The next act of his plan is more t=
han
difficult, but is carried out. The treasures
are inhumed again in their respective holes: they are not ours. Each deposi=
tion
seems to cost him a twinge; and at one moment I fancied I saw him slip his =
hand
into his coat pocket.
'We must re-bury them all,' say I.
'O yes,' he answers with integrity. 'I was wiping my hand.'
The beauties of the tesselated floor of the
governor's house are once again consigned to darkness; the trench is filled=
up;
the sod laid smoothly down; he wipes the perspiration from his forehead with
the same handkerchief he had used to mop the skeleton and tesserae clean; a=
nd
we make for the eastern gate of the fortress.
Dawn bursts upon us suddenly as we reach the
opening. It comes by the lift=
ing
and thinning of the clouds that way till we are bathed in a pink light. The direction of his homeward jour=
ney is
not the same as mine, and we part under the outer slope.
Walking along quickly to restore warmth I muse
upon my eccentric friend, and cannot help asking myself this question: Did =
he
really replace the gilded image of the god Mercurius with the rest of the
treasures? He seemed to do so=
; and
yet I could not testify to the fact.
Probably, however, he was as good as his word.
* * *
It was thus I spoke to myself, and so the
adventure ended. But one thin=
g remains
to be told, and that is concerned with seven years after. Among the effects of my friend, at=
that
time just deceased, was found, carefully preserved, a gilt statuette repres=
enting
Mercury, labelled 'Debased Roman.'
No record was attached to explain how it came into his possession. The figure was bequeathed to the
Casterbridge Museum.
Detroit Post,
March 1885.
=
WHAT THE SHEPHERD SAW: A TALE OF FOUR MOONLIGHT NIGHTS
=
The
genial Justice of the Peace--now, alas, no more--who made himself responsib=
le
for the facts of this story, used to begin in the good old- fashioned way w=
ith
a bright moonlight night and a mysterious figure, an excellent stroke for an
opening, even to this day, if well followed up.
The Christmas moon (he would say) was showing =
her
cold face to the upland, the upland reflecting the radiance in frost-sparkl=
es
so minute as only to be discernible by an eye near at hand. This eye, he said, was the eye of a
shepherd lad, young for his occupation, who stood within a wheeled hut of t=
he
kind commonly in use among sheep-keepers during the early lambing season, a=
nd
was abstractedly looking through the loophole at the scene without.
The spot was called Lambing Corner, and it was=
a
sheltered portion of that wide expanse of rough pastureland known as the
Marlbury Downs, which you directly traverse when following the turnpike-road
across Mid-Wessex from London, through Aldbrickham, in the direction of Bath
and Bristol. Here, where the hut stood, the land was high and dry, open, ex=
cept
to the north, and commanding an undulating view for miles. On the north side grew a tall belt=
of
coarse furze, with enormous stalks, a clump of the same standing detached in
front of the general mass. The
clump was hollow, and the interior had been ingeniously taken advantage of =
as a
position for the before-mentioned hut, which was thus completely screened f=
rom
winds, and almost invisible, except through the narrow approach. But the furze twigs had been cut a=
way
from the two little windows of the hut, that the occupier might keep his ey=
e on
his sheep.
In the rear, the shelter afforded by the belt =
of
furze bushes was artificially improved by an inclosure of upright stakes,
interwoven with boughs of the same prickly vegetation, and within the inclo=
sure
lay a renowned Marlbury-Down breeding flock of eight hundred ewes.
To the south, in the direction of the young
shepherd's idle gaze, there rose one conspicuous object above the uniform
moonlit plateau, and only one. It
was a Druidical trilithon, consisting of three oblong stones in the form of=
a
doorway, two on end, and one across as a lintel. Each stone had been worn, scratche=
d,
washed, nibbled, split, and otherwise attacked by ten thousand different
weathers; but now the blocks looked shapely and little the worse for wear, =
so
beautifully were they silvered over by the light of the moon. The ruin was locally called the De=
vil's Door.
An old shepherd presently entered the hut from=
the
direction of the ewes, and looked around in the gloom. 'Be ye sleepy?' he asked in cross =
accents
of the boy.
The lad replied rather timidly in the negative=
.
'Then,' said the shepherd, 'I'll get me
home-along, and rest for a few hours.
There's nothing to be done here now as I can see. The ewes can want no more tending =
till
daybreak--'tis beyond the bounds of reason that they can. But as the order is that one of us=
must
bide, I'll leave 'ee, d'ye hear.
You can sleep by day, and I can't.&=
nbsp;
And you can be down to my house in ten minutes if anything should
happen. I can't afford 'ee ca=
ndle;
but, as 'tis Christmas week, and the time that folks have hollerdays, you c=
an
enjoy yerself by falling asleep a bit in the chair instead of biding awake =
all
the time. But mind, not longe=
r at
once than while the shade of the Devil's Door moves a couple of spans, for =
you
must keep an eye upon the ewes.'
The boy made no definite reply, and the old ma=
n,
stirring the fire in the stove with his crook-stem, closed the door upon his
companion and vanished.
As this had been more or less the course of ev=
ents
every night since the season's lambing had set in, the boy was not at all
surprised at the charge, and amused himself for some time by lighting straw=
s at
the stove. He then went out to the ewes and new-born lambs, re-entered, sat
down, and finally fell asleep. This
was his customary manner of performing his watch, for though special permis=
sion
for naps had this week been accorded, he had, as a matter of fact, done the
same thing on every preceding night, sleeping often till awakened by a smac=
k on
the shoulder at three or four in the morning from the crook-stem of the old
man.
It might have been about eleven o'clock when he
awoke. He was so surprised at
awaking without, apparently, being called or struck, that on second thought=
s he
assumed that somebody must have called him in spite of appearances, and loo=
ked
out of the hut window towards the sheep.&n=
bsp;
They all lay as quiet as when he had visited them, very little bleat=
ing
being audible, and no human soul disturbing the scene. He next looked from the opposite w=
indow,
and here the case was different.
The frost-facets glistened under the moon as before; an occasional f=
urze
bush showed as a dark spot on the same; and in the foreground stood the gho=
stly
form of the trilithon. But in=
front
of the trilithon stood a man.
That he was not the shepherd or any one of the
farm labourers was apparent in a moment's observation,--his dress being a d=
ark
suit, and his figure of slender build and graceful carriage. He walked backwards and forwards in
front of the trilithon.
The shepherd lad had hardly done speculating on
the strangeness of the unknown's presence here at such an hour, when he saw=
a
second figure crossing the open sward towards the locality of the trilithon=
and
furze- clump that screened the hut.
This second personage was a woman; and immediately on sight of her t=
he
male stranger hastened forward, meeting her just in front of the hut
window. Before she seemed to =
be
aware of his intention he clasped her in his arms.
The lady released herself and drew back with s=
ome
dignity.
'You have come, Harriet--bless you for it!' he
exclaimed, fervently.
'But not for this,' she answered, in offended
accents. And then, more good-=
naturedly,
'I have come, Fred, because you entreated me so! What can have been the object of y=
our
writing such a letter? I fear=
ed I
might be doing you grievous ill by staying away. How did you come here?'
'I walked all the way from my father's.'
'Well, what is it? How have you lived since we last m=
et?'
'But roughly; you might have known that without
asking. I have seen many land=
s and
many faces since I last walked these downs, but I have only thought of you.=
'
'Is it only to tell me this that you have summ=
oned
me so strangely?'
A passing breeze blew away the murmur of the r=
eply
and several succeeding sentences, till the man's voice again became audible=
in
the words, 'Harriet--truth between us two!=
I have heard that the Duke does not treat you too well.'
'He is warm-tempered, but he is a good husband=
.'
'He speaks roughly to you, and sometimes even
threatens to lock you out of doors.'
'Only once, Fred! On my honour, only once. The Duke is a fairly good husband,=
I
repeat. But you deserve punis=
hment
for this night's trick of drawing me out.&=
nbsp;
What does it mean?'
'Harriet, dearest, is this fair or honest? Is it not notorious that your life=
with
him is a sad one--that, in spite of the sweetness of your temper, the sourn=
ess
of his embitters your days. I=
have
come to know if I can help you. You
are a Duchess, and I am Fred Ogbourne; but it is not impossible that I may =
be
able to help you . . . By God! the sweetness of that tongue ought to keep h=
im
civil, especially when there is added to it the sweetness of that face!'
'Captain Ogbourne!' she exclaimed, with an
emphasis of playful fear. 'Ho=
w can
such a comrade of my youth behave to me as you do? Don't speak so, and stare at me so=
! Is this really all you have to say=
? I see I ought not to have come.
Another breeze broke the thread of discourse f=
or a
time.
'Very well.&n=
bsp;
I perceive you are dead and lost to me,' he could next be heard to s=
ay,
'"Captain Ogbourne" proves that.=
As I once loved you I love you now, Harriet, without one jot of
abatement; but you are not the woman you were--you once were honest towards=
me;
and now you conceal your heart in made-up speeches. Let it be: I can never see you aga=
in.'
'You need not say that in such a tragedy tone,=
you
silly. You may see me in an
ordinary way--why should you not?
But, of course, not in such a way as this. I should not have come now, if it =
had
not happened that the Duke is away from home, so that there is nobody to ch=
eck
my erratic impulses.'
'When does he return?'
'The day after to-morrow, or the day after tha=
t.'
'Then meet me again to-morrow night.'
'No, Fred, I cannot.'
'If you cannot to-morrow night, you can the ni=
ght
after; one of the two before he comes please bestow on me. Now, your hand upon it! To-morrow or next night you will s=
ee me
to bid me farewell!' He seize=
d the Duchess's
hand.
'No, but Fred--let go my hand! What do you mean by holding me so?=
If it be love to forget all respec=
t to a
woman's present position in thinking of her past, then yours may be so,
Frederick. It is not kind and
gentle of you to induce me to come to this place for pity of you, and then =
to hold
me tight here.'
'But see me once more! I have come two thousand miles to =
ask
it.'
'O, I must not! There will be slanders--Heaven kno=
ws what! I cannot meet you. For the sake of old times don't as=
k it.'
'Then own two things to me; that you did love =
me
once, and that your husband is unkind to you often enough now to make you t=
hink
of the time when you cared for me.'
'Yes--I own them both,' she answered faintly.<=
span
style=3D'mso-spacerun:yes'> 'But owning such as that tells aga=
inst
me; and I swear the inference is not true.'
'Don't say that; for you have come--let me thi=
nk
the reason of your coming what I like to think it. It can do you no harm. Come once more!'
He still held her hand and waist. 'Very well, then,' she said. 'Thus far you shall persuade me. I will meet you to-morrow night or=
the
night after. Now, let me go.'=
He released her, and they parted. The Duchess ran rapidly down the h=
ill towards
the outlying mansion of Shakeforest Towers, and when he had watched her out=
of
sight, he turned and strode off in the opposite direction. All then was silent and empty as b=
efore.
Yet it was only for a moment. When they had quite departed, anot=
her shape
appeared upon the scene. He c=
ame
from behind the trilithon. He=
was a
man of stouter build than the first, and wore the boots and spurs of a
horseman. Two things were at =
once
obvious from this phenomenon: that he had watched the interview between the
Captain and the Duchess; and that, though he probably had seen every moveme=
nt
of the couple, including the embrace, he had been too remote to hear the
reluctant words of the lady's conversation--or, indeed, any words at all--so
that the meeting must have exhibited itself to his eye as the assignation o=
f a pair
of well-agreed lovers. But it=
was
necessary that several years should elapse before the shepherd-boy was old
enough to reason out this.
The third individual stood still for a moment,=
as
if deep in meditation. He crossed over to where the lady and gentleman had
stood, and looked at the ground; then he too turned and went away in a third
direction, as widely divergent as possible from those taken by the two
interlocutors. His course was towards the highway; and a few minutes afterw=
ards
the trot of a horse might have been heard upon its frosty surface, lessening
till it died away upon the ear.
The boy remained in the hut, confronting the
trilithon as if he expected yet more actors on the scene, but nobody else a=
ppeared. How long he stood with his little =
face
against the loophole he hardly knew; but he was rudely awakened from his
reverie by a punch in his back, and in the feel of it he familiarly recogni=
zed
the stem of the old shepherd's crook.
'Blame thy young eyes and limbs, Bill Mills--n=
ow
you have let the fire out, and you know I want it kept in! I thought something would go wrong=
with
'ee up here, and I couldn't bide in bed no more than thistledown on the win=
d,
that I could not! Well, what's
happened, fie upon 'ee?'
'Nothing.'
'Ewes all as I left 'em?'
'Yes.'
'Any lambs want bringing in?'
'No.'
The shepherd relit the fire, and went out among
the sheep with a lantern, for the moon was getting low. Soon he came in again.
'Blame it all--thou'st say that nothing have
happened; when one ewe have twinned and is like to go off, and another is d=
ying
for want of half an eye of looking to!&nbs=
p;
I told 'ee, Bill Mills, if anything went wrong to come down and call=
me;
and this is how you have done it.'
'You said I could go to sleep for a hollerday,=
and
I did.'
'Don't you speak to your betters like that, yo=
ung
man, or you'll come to the gallows-tree!&n=
bsp;
You didn't sleep all the time, or you wouldn't have been peeping out=
of
that there hole! Now you can =
go
home, and be up here again by breakfast-time. I be an old man, and there's old m=
en
that deserve well of the world; but no I--must rest how I can!'
The elder shepherd then lay down inside the hu=
t,
and the boy went down the hill to the hamlet where he dwelt.
SECOND NIGHT
=
When
the next night drew on the actions of the boy were almost enough to show th=
at
he was thinking of the meeting he had witnessed, and of the promise wrung f=
rom
the lady that she would come there again.&=
nbsp;
As far as the sheep-tending arrangements were concerned, to-night was
but a repetition of the foregoing one.&nbs=
p;
Between ten and eleven o'clock the old shepherd withdrew as usual for
what sleep at home he might chance to get without interruption, making up t=
he
other necessary hours of rest at some time during the day; the boy was left
alone.
The frost was the same as on the night before,
except perhaps that it was a little more severe. The moon shone as usual, except th=
at it
was three- quarters of an hour later in its course; and the boy's condition=
was
much the same, except that he felt no sleepiness whatever. He felt, too, rather afraid; but u=
pon
the whole he preferred witnessing an assignation of strangers to running the
risk of being discovered absent by the old shepherd.
It was before the distant clock of Shakeforest
Towers had struck eleven that he observed the opening of the second act of =
this
midnight drama. It consisted =
in the
appearance of neither lover nor Duchess, but of the third figure--the stout
man, booted and spurred--who came up from the easterly direction in which he
had retreated the night before. He
walked once round the trilithon, and next advanced towards the clump concea=
ling
the hut, the moonlight shining full upon his face and revealing him to be t=
he
Duke. Fear seized upon the
shepherd-boy: the Duke was Jove himself to the rural population, whom to of=
fend
was starvation, homelessness, and death, and whom to look at was to be ment=
ally
scathed and dumbfoundered. He closed the stove, so that not a spark of light
appeared, and hastily buried himself in the straw that lay in a corner.
The Duke came close to the clump of furze and
stood by the spot where his wife and the Captain had held their dialogue; he
examined the furze as if searching for a hiding-place, and in doing so disc=
overed
the hut. The latter he walked=
round
and then looked inside; finding it to all seeming empty, he entered, closing
the door behind him and taking his place at the little circular window agai=
nst
which the boy's face had been pressed just before.
The Duke had not adopted his measures too rapi=
dly,
if his object were concealment.
Almost as soon as he had stationed himself there eleven o'clock stru=
ck,
and the slender young man who had previously graced the scene promptly
reappeared from the north quarter of the down. The spot of assignation having, by=
the
accident of his running forward on the foregoing night, removed itself from=
the
Devil's Door to the clump of furze, he instinctively came thither, and wait=
ed
for the Duchess where he had met her before.
But a fearful surprise was in store for him
to-night, as well as for the trembling juvenile. At his appearance the Duke breathe=
d more
and more quickly, his breathings being distinctly audible to the crouching =
boy.
The young man had hardly paused when the alert nobleman softly opened the d=
oor
of the hut, and, stepping round the furze, came full upon Captain Fred.
'You have dishonoured her, and you shall die t=
he
death you deserve!' came to the shepherd's ears, in a harsh, hollow whisper
through the boarding of the hut.
The apathetic and taciturn boy was excited eno=
ugh
to run the risk of rising and looking from the window, but he could see not=
hing
for the intervening furze boughs, both the men having gone round to the sid=
e. What
took place in the few following moments he never exactly knew. He discerned portion of a shadow in
quick muscular movement; then there was the fall of something on the grass;
then there was stillness.
Two or three minutes later the Duke became vis=
ible
round the corner of the hut, dragging by the collar the now inert body of t=
he
second man. The Duke dragged =
him
across the open space towards the trilithon. Behind this ruin was a hollow, irr=
egular
spot, overgrown with furze and stunted thorns, and riddled by the old holes=
of
badgers, its former inhabitants, who had now died out or departed. The Duke vanished into this depres=
sion with
his burden, reappearing after the lapse of a few seconds. When he came forth he dragged noth=
ing
behind him.
He returned to the side of the hut, cleansed
something on the grass, and again put himself on the watch, though not as
before, inside the hut, but without, on the shady side. 'Now for the second!' he said.
It was plain, even to the unsophisticated boy,
that he now awaited the other person of the appointment--his wife, the
Duchess--for what purpose it was terrible to think. He seemed to be a man of such dete=
rmined
temper that he would scarcely hesitate in carrying out a course of revenge =
to
the bitter end. Moreover--tho=
ugh it
was what the shepherd did not perceive--this was all the more probable, in =
that
the moody Duke was labouring under the exaggerated impression which the sig=
ht
of the meeting in dumb show had conveyed.
The jealous watcher waited long, but he waited=
in
vain. From within the hut the=
boy
could hear his occasional exclamations of surprise, as if he were almost
disappointed at the failure of his assumption that his guilty Duchess would
surely keep the tryst. Someti=
mes he
stepped from the shade of the furze into the moonlight, and held up his wat=
ch
to learn the time.
About half-past eleven he seemed to give up
expecting her. He then went a
second time to the hollow behind the trilithon, remaining there nearly a
quarter of an hour. From this=
place
he proceeded quickly over a shoulder of the declivity, a little to the left,
presently returning on horseback, which proved that his horse had been teth=
ered
in some secret place down there.
Crossing anew the down between the hut and the trilithon, and scanni=
ng
the precincts as if finally to assure himself that she had not come, he rode
slowly downwards in the direction of Shakeforest Towers.
The juvenile shepherd thought of what lay in t=
he
hollow yonder; and no fear of the crook-stem of his superior officer was po=
tent
enough to detain him longer on that hill alone. Any live company, even the most te=
rrible,
was better than the company of the dead; so, running with the speed of a ha=
re
in the direction pursued by the horseman, he overtook the revengeful Duke at
the second descent (where the great western road crossed before you came to=
the
old park entrance on that side--now closed up and the lodge cleared away,
though at the time it was wondered why, being considered the most convenient
gate of all).
Once within the sound of the horse's footsteps,
Bill Mills felt comparatively comfortable; for, though in awe of the Duke
because of his position, he had no moral repugnance to his companionship on
account of the grisly deed he had committed, considering that powerful nobl=
eman
to have a right to do what he chose on his own lands. The Duke rode steadily on beneath =
his
ancestral trees, the hoofs of his horse sending up a smart sound now that he
had reached the hard road of the drive, and soon drew near the front door of
his house, surmounted by parapets with square-cut battlements that cast a
notched shade upon the gravelled terrace.&=
nbsp;
These outlines were quite familiar to little Bill Mills, though noth=
ing
within their boundary had ever been seen by him.
When the rider approached the mansion a small
turret door was quickly opened and a woman came out. As soon as she saw the horseman's
outlines she ran forward into the moonlight to meet him.
'Ah dear--and are you come?' she said. 'I heard Hero's tread just when yo=
u rode
over the hill, and I knew it in a moment.&=
nbsp;
I would have come further if I had been aware--'
'Glad to see me, eh?'
'How can you ask that?'
'Well; it is a lovely night for meetings.'
'Yes, it is a lovely night.'
The Duke dismounted and stood by her side. 'Why should you have been listenin=
g at
this time of night, and yet not expecting me?' he asked.
'Why, indeed!=
There is a strange story attached to that, which I must tell you at
once. But why did you come a =
night
sooner than you said you would come?
I am rather sorry--I really am!' (shaking her head playfully) 'for a=
s a
surprise to you I had ordered a bonfire to be built, which was to be lighte=
d on
your arrival to-morrow; and now it is wasted. You can see the outline of it
just out there.'
The Duke looked across to a spot of rising gla=
de,
and saw the faggots in a heap. He
then bent his eyes with a bland and puzzled air on the ground, 'What is this
strange story you have to tell me that kept you awake?' he murmured.
'It is this--and it is really rather serious.<=
span
style=3D'mso-spacerun:yes'> My cousin Fred Ogbourne--Captain
Ogbourne as he is now--was in his boyhood a great admirer of mine, as I thi=
nk I
have told you, though I was six years his senior. In strict truth, he was absurdly f=
ond of
me.'
'You have never told me of that before.'
'Then it was your sister I told--yes, it was.<=
span
style=3D'mso-spacerun:yes'> Well, you know I have not seen him=
for
many years, and naturally I had quite forgotten his admiration of me in old
times. But guess my surprise =
when
the day before yesterday, I received a mysterious note bearing no address, =
and
found on opening it that it came from him.=
The contents frightened me out of my wits. He had returned from Canada to his
father's house, and conjured me by all he could think of to meet him at
once. But I think I can repea=
t the
exact words, though I will show it to you when we get indoors.
"MY DEAR COUSIN HARRIET," the note said, "After this =
long
absence you will =
be
surprised at my sudden reappearance, and more by what I am going to ask. But if my life and future are of a=
ny
concern to you at all,
I beg that you will grant my request.
What I require of you, is, dear Harriet, that you =
meet
me about eleven to-night by the Druid stones on Marlbury Down=
s,
about a mile or more from your house.
I cannot s=
ay
more, except to entreat you to come.
I will explain all when you are there. The one thing is, I want to see
you. Come alone. Believe me, I would not=
ask
this if my happiness did not hang upon it--God knows how
entirely! I am too agitated t=
o say
more--Yours. FRED=
."
'That was all of it. Now, of course I ought have gone, =
as it
turned out, but that I did not think of then. I remembered his impetuous temper,=
and feared
that something grievous was impending over his head, while he had not a fri=
end
in the world to help him, or any one except myself to whom he would care to
make his trouble known. So I
wrapped myself up and went to Marlbury Downs at the time he had named. Don't you think I was courageous?'=
'Very.'
'When I got there--but shall we not walk on; i=
t is
getting cold?' The Duke, howe=
ver,
did not move. 'When I got the=
re he
came, of course, as a full grown man and officer, and not as the lad that I=
had
known him. When I saw him I w=
as
sorry I had come. I can hardl=
y tell
you how he behaved. What he wanted I don't know even now; it seemed to be no
more than the mere meeting with me.
He held me by the hand and waist--O so tight--and would not let me go
till I had promised to meet him again.&nbs=
p;
His manner was so strange and passionate that I was afraid of him in
such a lonely place, and I promised to come. Then I escaped--then I ran home--a=
nd that's
all. When the time drew on th=
is
evening for the appointment--which, of course, I never intended to keep, I =
felt
uneasy, lest when he found I meant to disappoint him he would come on to th=
e house;
and that's why I could not sleep.
But you are so silent!'
'I have had a long journey.'
'Then let us get into the house. Why did you come alone and unatten=
ded like
this?'
'It was my humour.'
After a moment's silence, during which they mo=
ved
on, she said, 'I have thought of something which I hardly like to suggest to
you. He said that if I failed=
to
come to-night he would wait again to-morrow night. Now, shall we to-morrow night go t=
o the
hill together--just to see if he is there; and if he is, read him a lesson =
on
his foolishness in nourishing this old passion, and sending for me so oddly,
instead of coming to the house?'
'Why should we see if he's there?' said her
husband moodily.
'Because I think we ought to do something in
it. Poor Fred! He would listen to you if you reas=
oned
with him, and set our positions in their true light before him. It would be no more than Christian
kindness to a man who unquestionably is very miserable from some cause or
other. His head seems quite
turned.'
By this time they had reached the door, rung t=
he
bell, and waited. All the hou=
se
seemed to be asleep; but soon a man came to them, the horse was taken away,=
and
the Duke and Duchess went in.
THIRD NIGHT
=
There
was no help for it. Bill Mill=
s was
obliged to stay on duty, in the old shepherd's absence, this evening as bef=
ore,
or give up his post and living. He
thought as bravely as he could of what lay behind the Devil's Door, but wit=
h no
great success, and was therefore in a measure relieved, even if awe-stricke=
n,
when he saw the forms of the Duke and Duchess strolling across the frosted
greensward. The Duchess was a=
few
yards in front of her husband and tripped on lightly.
'I tell you he has not thought it worth while =
to
come again!' the Duke insisted, as he stood still, reluctant to walk furthe=
r.
'He is more likely to come and wait all night;=
and
it would be harsh treatment to let him do it a second time.'
'He is not here; so turn and come home.'
'He seems not to be here, certainly; I wonder =
if
anything has happened to him. If it
has, I shall never forgive myself!'
The Duke, uneasily, 'O, no. He has some other engagement.'
'That is very unlikely.'
'Or perhaps he has found the distance too far.=
'
'Nor is that probable.'
'Then he may have thought better of it.'
'Yes, he may have thought better of it; if,
indeed, he is not here all the time--somewhere in the hollow behind the Dev=
il's
Door. Let us go and see; it w=
ill
serve him right to surprise him.'
'O, he's not there.'
'He may be lying very quiet because of you,' s=
he
said archly.
'O, no--not because of me!'
'Come, then.&=
nbsp;
I declare, dearest, you lag like an unwilling schoolboy to- night, a=
nd
there's no responsiveness in you!
You are jealous of that poor lad, and it is quite absurd of you.'
'I'll come!&n=
bsp;
I'll come! Say no more,
Harriet!' And they crossed ov=
er the
green.
Wondering what they would do, the young shephe= rd left the hut, and doubled behind the belt of furze, intending to stand near= the trilithon unperceived. But, in crossing the few yards of open ground he was for a moment exposed to view.<= o:p>
'Ah, I see him at last!' said the Duchess.
'See him!' said the Duke. 'Where?'
'By the Devil's Door; don't you notice a figure
there? Ah, my poor lover- cou=
sin,
won't you catch it now?' And =
she
laughed half-pityingly. 'But =
what's
the matter?' she asked, turning to her husband.
'It is not he!' said the Duke hoarsely. 'It can't be he!'
'No, it is not he. It is too small for him. It is a boy.'
'Ah, I thought so! Boy, come here.'
The youthful shepherd advanced with apprehensi=
on.
'What are you doing here?'
'Keeping sheep, your Grace.'
'Ah, you know me! Do you keep sheep here every night=
?'
'Off and on, my Lord Duke.'
'And what have you seen here to-night or last
night?' inquired the Duchess. 'Any
person waiting or walking about?'
The boy was silent.
'He has seen nothing,' interrupted her husband,
his eyes so forbiddingly fixed on the boy that they seemed to shine like po=
ints
of fire. 'Come, let us go.
When they were gone the boy retreated to the h=
ut
and sheep, less fearful now than at first--familiarity with the situation
having gradually overpowered his thoughts of the buried man. But he was not to be left alone lo=
ng. When an interval had elapsed of ab=
out
sufficient length for walking to and from Shakeforest Towers, there appeared
from that direction the heavy form of the Duke. He now came alone.
The nobleman, on his part, seemed to have eyes=
no
less sharp than the boy's, for he instantly recognized the latter among the
ewes, and came straight towards him.
'Are you the shepherd lad I spoke to a short t=
ime
ago?'
'I be, my Lord Duke.'
'Now listen to me. Her Grace asked you what you had s=
een
this last night or two up here, and you made no reply. I now ask the same thing, and you =
need
not be afraid to answer. Have=
you
seen anything strange these nights you have been watching here?'
'My Lord Duke, I be a poor heedless boy, and w=
hat
I see I don't bear in mind.'
'I ask you again,' said the Duke, coming neare= r, 'have you seen anything strange these nights you have been watching here?'<= o:p>
'O, my Lord Duke! I be but the under-shepherd boy, a=
nd my
father he was but your humble Grace's hedger, and my mother only the cinder=
-woman
in the back-yard! I fall asle=
ep
when left alone, and I see nothing at all!'
The Duke grasped the boy by the shoulder, and,
directly impending over him, stared down into his face, 'Did you see anythi=
ng
strange done here last night, I say?'
'O, my Lord Duke, have mercy, and don't stab m=
e!'
cried the shepherd, falling on his knees.&=
nbsp;
'I have never seen you walking here, or riding here, or lying-in-wait
for a man, or dragging a heavy load!'
'H'm!' said his interrogator, grimly, relaxing=
his
hold. 'It is well to know tha=
t you
have never seen those things. Now,
which would you rather--see me do those things now, or keep a secret all yo=
ur
life?'
'Keep a secret, my Lord Duke!'
'Sure you are able?'
'O, your Grace, try me!'
'Very well.&n=
bsp;
And now, how do you like sheep-keeping?'
'Not at all.&=
nbsp;
'Tis lonely work for them that think of spirits, and I'm badly used.=
'
'I believe you. You are too young for it. I must do something to make you mo=
re
comfortable. You shall change=
this
smock-frock for a real cloth jacket, and your thick boots for polished
shoes. And you shall be taugh=
t what
you have never yet heard of; and be put to school, and have bats and balls =
for
the holidays, and be made a man of.
But you must never say you have been a shepherd boy, and watched on =
the
hills at night, for shepherd boys are not liked in good company.
'Trust me, my Lord Duke.'
'The very moment you forget yourself, and spea=
k of
your shepherd days--this year, next year, in school, out of school, or ridi=
ng
in your carriage twenty years hence--at that moment my help will be withdra=
wn, and
smash down you come to shepherding forthwith. You have parents, I think you say?=
'
'A widowed mother only, my Lord Duke.'
'I'll provide for her, and make a comfortable
woman of her, until you speak of--what?'
'Of my shepherd days, and what I saw here.'
'Good.
If you do speak of it?'
'Smash down she comes to widowing forthwith!'<= o:p>
'That's well--very well. But it's not enough. Come here.' He took the boy across to the tril=
ithon,
and made him kneel down.
'Now, this was once a holy place,' resumed the
Duke. 'An altar stood here, e=
rected
to a venerable family of gods, who were known and talked of long before the=
God
we know now. So that an oath =
sworn
here is doubly an oath. Say t=
his
after me: "May all the host above--angels and archangels, and
principalities and powers--punish me; may I be tormented wherever I am--in =
the
house or in the garden, in the fields or in the roads, in church or in chap=
el,
at home or abroad, on land or at sea; may I be afflicted in eating and in
drinking, in growing up and in growing old, in living and dying, inwardly a=
nd
outwardly, and for always, if I ever speak of my life as a shepherd boy, or=
of
what I have seen done on this Marlbury Down. So be it, and so let it be. Amen and amen." Now kiss the stone.'
The trembling boy repeated the words, and kiss=
ed
the stone, as desired.
The Duke led him off by the hand. That night the junior shepherd sle=
pt in
Shakeforest Towers, and the next day he was sent away for tuition to a remo=
te
village. Thence he went to a
preparatory establishment, and in due course to a public school.
FOURTH NIGHT
=
On a
winter evening many years subsequent to the above-mentioned occurrences, the
ci-devant shepherd sat in a well-furnished office in the north wing of
Shakeforest Towers in the guise of an ordinary educated man of business.
His pallor, too, was remarkable for a countrym=
an. He was professedly engaged in writ=
ing,
but he shaped not word. He ha=
d sat
there only a few minutes, when, laying down his pen and pushing back his ch=
air,
he rested a hand uneasily on each of the chair-arms and looked on the floor=
.
Soon he arose and left the room. His course was along a passage whi= ch ended in a central octagonal hall; crossing this he knocked at a door. A faint, though deep, voice told h= im to come in. The room he entered = was the library, and it was tenanted by a single person only--his patron the Duke.<= o:p>
During this long interval of years the Duke had
lost all his heaviness of build. He
was, indeed, almost a skeleton; his white hair was thin, and his hands were
nearly transparent. 'Oh--Mill=
s?' he
murmured. 'Sit down. What is =
it?'
'Nothing new, your Grace. Nobody to speak of has written, and
nobody has called.'
'Ah--what then? You look concerned.'
'Old times have come to life, owing to somethi=
ng
waking them.'
'Old times be cursed--which old times are they=
?'
'That Christmas week twenty-two years ago, when
the late Duchess's cousin Frederick implored her to meet him on Marlbury
Downs. I saw the meeting--it =
was
just such a night as this--and I, as you know, saw more. She met him once, =
but
not the second time.'
'Mills, shall I recall some words to you--the
words of an oath taken on that hill by a shepherd-boy?'
'It is unnecessary. He has strenuously kept that oath =
and
promise. Since that night no =
sound
of his shepherd life has crossed his lips--even to yourself. But do you wish to hear more, or d=
o you
not, your Grace?'
'I wish to hear no more,' said the Duke sullen=
ly.
'Very well; let it be so. But a time seems coming--may be qu=
ite
near at hand--when, in spite of my lips, that episode will allow itself to =
go undivulged
no longer.'
'I wish to hear no more!' repeated the Duke.
'You need be under no fear of treachery from m=
e,'
said the steward, somewhat bitterly.
'I am a man to whom you have been kind--no patron could have been
kinder. You have clothed and
educated me; have installed me here; and I am not unmindful. But what of it--has your Grace gai=
ned much
by my stanchness? I think not=
. There was great excitement about C=
aptain
Ogbourne's disappearance, but I spoke not a word. And his body has never been found.=
For twenty-two years I have wonder=
ed
what you did with him. Now I
know. A circumstance that occ=
urred
this afternoon recalled the time to me most forcibly. To make it certain to myself that =
all
was not a dream, I went up there with a spade; I searched, and saw enough to
know that something decays there in a closed badger's hole.'
'Mills, do you think the Duchess guessed?'
'She never did, I am sure, to the day of her
death.'
'Did you leave all as you found it on the hill=
?'
'I did.'
'What made you think of going up there this
particular afternoon?'
'What your Grace says you don't wish to be tol=
d.'
The Duke was silent; and the stillness of the
evening was so marked that there reached their ears from the outer air the
sound of a tolling bell.
'What is that bell tolling for?' asked the
nobleman.
'For what I came to tell you of, your Grace.'<= o:p>
'You torment me it is your way!' said the Duke
querulously. 'Who's dead in t=
he
village?'
'The oldest man--the old shepherd.'
'Dead at last--how old is he?'
'Ninety-four.'
'And I am only seventy. I have four-and-twenty years to the
good!'
'I served under that old man when I kept sheep=
on
Marlbury Downs. And he was on=
the
hill that second night, when I first exchanged words with your Grace. He was on the hill all the time; b=
ut I
did not know he was there--nor did you.'
'Ah!' said the Duke, starting up. 'Go on--I yield the point--you may=
tell!'
'I heard this afternoon that he was at the poi=
nt
of death. It was that which s=
et me
thinking of that past time--and induced me to search on the hill for what I
have told you. Coming back I =
heard
that he wished to see the Vicar to confess to him a secret he had kept for =
more
than twenty years--"out of respect to my Lord the Duke"--something
that he had seen committed on Marlbury Downs when returning to the flock on=
a
December night twenty-two years ago.
I have thought it over. He
had left me in charge that evening; but he was in the habit of coming back
suddenly, lest I should have fallen asleep. That night I saw nothing of him, t=
hough
he had promised to return. He=
must
have returned, and--found reason to keep in hiding. It is all plain. The next thing is that the Vicar w=
ent to
him two hours ago. Further th=
an
that I have not heard.'
'It is quite enough. I will see the Vicar at daybreak
to-morrow.'
'What to do?'
'Stop his tongue for four-and-twenty years--ti=
ll I
am dead at ninety-four, like the shepherd.'
'Your Grace--while you impose silence on me, I
will not speak, even though nay neck should pay the penalty. I promised to be yours, and I am y=
ours. But is this persistence of any ava=
il?'
'I'll stop his tongue, I say!' cried the Duke =
with
some of his old rugged force. 'Now,
you go home to bed, Mills, and leave me to manage him.'
The interview ended, and the steward
withdrew. The night, as he ha=
d said,
was just such an one as the night of twenty-two years before, and the event=
s of
the evening destroyed in him all regard for the season as one of cheerfulne=
ss
and goodwill. He went off to =
his
own house on the further verge of the park, where he led a lonely life,
scarcely calling any man friend. At
eleven he prepared to retire to bed--but did not retire. He sat down and reflected. Twelve o'clock struck; he looked o=
ut at
the colourless moon, and, prompted by he knew not what, put on his hat and
emerged into the air. Here Wi=
lliam
Mills strolled on and on, till he reached the top of Marlbury Downs, a spot=
he
had not visited at this hour of the night during the whole score-and-odd ye=
ars.
He placed himself, as nearly as he could guess=
, on
the spot where the shepherd's hut had stood. No lambing was in progress there n=
ow,
and the old shepherd who had used him so roughly had ceased from his labours
that very day. But the trilit=
hon
stood up white as ever; and, crossing the intervening sward, the steward
fancifully placed his mouth against the stone. Restless and self-reproachful as h=
e was,
he could not resist a smile as he thought of the terrifying oath of compact,
sealed by a kiss upon the stones of a Pagan temple. But he had kept his word, rather a=
s a promise
than as a formal vow, with much worldly advantage to himself, though not mu=
ch
happiness; till increase of years had bred reactionary feelings which led h=
im
to receive the news of to-night with emotions akin to relief.
While leaning against the Devil's Door and
thinking on these things, he became conscious that he was not the only
inhabitant of the down. A fig=
ure in
white was moving across his front with long, noiseless strides. Mills stood
motionless, and when the form drew quite near he perceived it to be that of=
the
Duke himself in his nightshirt--apparently walking in his sleep. Not to alarm the old man, Mills cl=
ung
close to the shadow of the stone.
The Duke went straight on into the hollow. There he knelt down, and began
scratching the earth with his hands like a badger. After a few minutes he arose, sigh=
ed
heavily, and retraced his steps as he had come.
Fearing that he might harm himself, yet unwill=
ing
to arouse him, the steward followed noiselessly. The Duke kept on his path unerring=
ly, entered
the park, and made for the house, where he let himself in by a window that
stood open--the one probably by which he had come out. Mills softly closed the window beh=
ind
his patron, and then retired homeward to await the revelations of the morni=
ng,
deeming it unnecessary to alarm the house.
However, he felt uneasy during the remainder of
the night, no less on account of the Duke's personal condition than because=
of
that which was imminent next day.
Early in the morning he called at Shakeforest Towers. The blinds were
down, and there was something singular upon the porter's face when he opened
the door. The steward inquire=
d for
the Duke.
The man's voice was subdued as he replied: 'Si=
r, I
am sorry to say that his Grace is dead!&nb=
sp;
He left his room some time in the night, and wandered about nobody k=
nows
where. On returning to the up=
per
floor he lost his balance and fell downstairs.'
The steward told the tale of the Down before t=
he
Vicar had spoken. Mills had a=
lways intended
to do so after the death of the Duke.
The consequences to himself he underwent cheerfully; but his life was
not prolonged. He died, a far=
mer at
the Cape, when still somewhat under forty-nine years of age.
The splendid Marlbury breeding flock is as
renowned as ever, and, to the eye, seems the same in every particular that =
it
was in earlier times; but the animals which composed it on the occasion of =
the
events gathered from the Justice are divided by many ovine generations from=
its
members now. Lambing Corner has long since ceased to be used for lambing
purposes, though the name still lingers on as the appellation of the spot.<=
span
style=3D'mso-spacerun:yes'> This abandonment of site may be pa=
rtly
owing to the removal of the high furze bushes which lent such convenient
shelter at that date. Partly,=
too,
it may be due to another circumstance.&nbs=
p;
For it is said by present shepherds in that district that during the
nights of Christmas week flitting shapes are seen in the open space around =
the
trilithon, together with the gleam of a weapon, and the shadow of a man
dragging a burden into the hollow. But of these things there is no certain
testimony.
Christmas 1881.
=
A COMMITTEE-MAN OF 'THE TERROR'
=
We had
been talking of the Georgian glories of our old-fashioned watering- place, =
which
now, with its substantial russet-red and dun brick buildings in the style of
the year eighteen hundred, looks like one side of a Soho or Bloomsbury Stre=
et
transported to the shore, and draws a smile from the modern tourist who has=
no
eye for solidity of build. The
writer, quite a youth, was present merely as a listener. The conversation proceeded from ge=
neral
subjects to particular, until old Mrs. H--, whose memory was as perfect at
eighty as it had ever been in her life, interested us all by the obvious
fidelity with which she repeated a story many times related to her by her
mother when our aged friend was a girl--a domestic drama much affecting the
life of an acquaintance of her said parent, one Mademoiselle V--, a teacher=
of
French. The incidents occurre=
d in
the town during the heyday of its fortunes, at the time of our brief peace =
with
France in 1802-3.
'I wrote it down in the shape of a story some
years ago, just after my mother's death,' said Mrs. H--. 'It is locked up in my desk there =
now.'
'Read it!' said we.
'No,' said she; 'the light is bad, and I can
remember it well enough, word for word, flourishes and all.' We could not be choosers in the ci=
rcumstances,
and she began.
* * * * *
'There are two in it, of course, the man and t=
he
woman, and it was on an evening in September that she first got to know
him. There had not been such a
grand gathering on the Esplanade all the season. His Majesty King George the Third =
was
present, with all the princesses and royal dukes, while upwards of three
hundred of the general nobility and other persons of distinction were also =
in
the town at the time. Carriag=
es and
other conveyances were arriving every minute from London and elsewhere; and=
when
among the rest a shabby stage-coach came in by a by-route along the coast f=
rom
Havenpool, and drew up at a second-rate tavern, it attracted comparatively
little notice.
'From this dusty vehicle a man alighted, left =
his
small quantity of luggage temporarily at the office, and walked along the
street as if to look for lodgings.
'He was about forty-five--possibly fifty--and =
wore
a long coat of faded superfine cloth, with a heavy collar, and a hunched-up
neckcloth. He seemed to desire
obscurity.
'But the display appeared presently to strike =
him,
and he asked of a rustic he met in the street what was going on; his accent
being that of one to whom English pronunciation was difficult.
'The countryman looked at him with a slight
surprise, and said, "King Jarge is here and his royal Cwort."
'The stranger inquired if they were going to s=
tay
long.
'"Don't know, Sir. Same as they always do, I suppose.=
"
'"How long is that?"
'"Till some time in October. They've come here every summer sin=
ce
eighty- nine."
'The stranger moved onward down St. Thomas Str=
eet,
and approached the bridge over the harbour backwater, that then, as now,
connected the old town with the more modern portion. The spot was swept with the rays o=
f a low
sun, which lit up the harbour lengthwise, and shone under the brim of the m=
an's
hat and into his eyes as he looked westward. Against the radiance figures were
crossing in the opposite direction to his own; among them this lady of my
mother's later acquaintance, Mademoiselle V--. She was the daughter of a go=
od
old French family, and at that date a pale woman, twenty-eight or thirty ye=
ars
of age, tall and elegant in figure, but plainly dressed and wearing that
evening (she said) a small muslin shawl crossed over the bosom in the fashi=
on
of the time, and tied behind.
'At sight of his face, which, as she used to t=
ell
us, was unusually distinct in the peering sunlight, she could not help givi=
ng a
little shriek of horror, for a terrible reason connected with her history, =
and after
walking a few steps further, she sank down against the parapet of the bridg=
e in
a fainting fit.
'In his preoccupation the foreign gentleman had
hardly noticed her, but her strange collapse immediately attracted his
attention. He quickly crossed=
the
carriageway, picked her up, and carried her into the first shop adjoining t=
he
bridge, explaining that she was a lady who had been taken ill outside.
'She soon revived; but, clearly much puzzled, =
her
helper perceived that she still had a dread of him which was sufficient to
hinder her complete recovery of self-command. She spoke in a quick and nervous w=
ay to
the shopkeeper, asking him to call a coach.
'This the shopkeeper did, Mademoiselle V--- and
the stranger remaining in constrained silence while he was gone. The coach came up, and giving the =
man
the address, she entered it and drove away.
'"Who is that lady?" said the newly
arrived gentleman.
'"She's of your nation, as I should make =
bold
to suppose," said the shopkeeper.&nbs=
p;
And he told the other that she was Mademoiselle V--, governess at
General Newbold's, in the same town.
'"You have many foreigners here?" the
stranger inquired.
'"Yes, though mostly Hanoverians. But since the peace they are learn=
ing French
a good deal in genteel society, and French instructors are rather in
demand."
'"Yes, I teach it," said the
visitor. "I am looking f=
or a
tutorship in an academy."
'The information given by the burgess to the
Frenchman seemed to explain to the latter nothing of his countrywoman's
conduct--which, indeed, was the case--and he left the shop, taking his cour=
se
again over the bridge and along the south quay to the Old Rooms Inn, where =
he
engaged a bedchamber.
'Thoughts of the woman who had betrayed such
agitation at sight of him lingered naturally enough with the newcomer. Though, as I stated, not much less=
than
thirty years of age, Mademoiselle V--, one of his own nation, and of highly
refined and delicate appearance, had kindled a singular interest in the
middle-aged gentleman's breast, and her large dark eyes, as they had opened=
and
shrunk from him, exhibited a pathetic beauty to which hardly any man could =
have
been insensible.
'The next day, having written some letters, he
went out and made known at the office of the town "Guide" and of =
the
newspaper, that a teacher of French and calligraphy had arrived, leaving a =
card
at the bookseller's to the same effect.&nb=
sp;
He then walked on aimlessly, but at length inquired the way to Gener=
al
Newbold's. At the door, witho=
ut
giving his name, he asked to see Mademoiselle V--, and was shown into a lit=
tle
back parlour, where she came to him with a gaze of surprise.
'"My God! Why do you intrude here, Monsieur?=
"
she gasped in French as soon as she saw his face.
'"You were taken ill yesterday. I helped you. You might have been run over if I =
had
not picked you up. It was an =
act of
simple humanity certainly; but I thought I might come to ask if you had
recovered?"
'She had turned aside, and had scarcely heard a
word of his speech. "I h=
ate
you, infamous man!" she said.
"I cannot bear your helping me. Go away!"
'"But you are a stranger to me."
'"I know you too well!"
'"You have the advantage then,
Mademoiselle. I am a newcomer
here. I never have seen you b=
efore
to my knowledge; and I certainly do not, could not, hate you."
'"Are you not Monsieur B--?"
'He flinched.=
"I am--in Paris," he said. "But here I am Monsieur G--.&=
quot;
'"That is trivial. You are the man I say you are.&quo=
t;
'"How did you know my real name,
Mademoiselle?"
'"I saw you in years gone by, when you did
not see me. You were formerly=
Member
of the Committee of Public Safety, under the Convention."
"I was."
'"You guillotined my father, my brother, =
my
uncle--all my family, nearly, and broke my mother's heart. They had done nothing but keep sil=
ence. Their
sentiments were only guessed. Their
headless corpses were thrown indiscriminately into the ditch of the Moussea=
ux
Cemetery, and destroyed with lime."
'He nodded.
'"You left me without a friend, and here =
I am
now, alone in a foreign land."
'"I am sorry for you," said be. "Sorry for the consequence, n=
ot for
the intent. What I did was a =
matter
of conscience, and, from a point of view indiscernible by you, I did
right. I profited not a
farthing. But I shall not arg=
ue
this. You have the satisfacti=
on of
seeing me here an exile also, in poverty, betrayed by comrades, as friendle=
ss
as yourself."
'"It is no satisfaction to me,
Monsieur."
'"Well, things done cannot be altered.
'"Not from dislike and dread of
you--otherwise, yes."
'"Good morning, Mademoiselle."
'"Good morning."
'They did not meet again till one evening at t=
he
theatre (which my mother's friend was with great difficulty induced to
frequent, to perfect herself in English pronunciation, the idea she enterta=
ined
at that time being to become a teacher of English in her own country later
on). She found him sitting ne=
xt to
her, and it made her pale and restless.
'"You are still afraid of me?"
'"I am.&=
nbsp;
O cannot you understand!"
'He signified the affirmative.
'"I follow the play with difficulty,"=
; he
said, presently.
'"So do I--now," said she.
'He regarded her long, and she was conscious of
his look; and while she kept her eyes on the stage they filled with tears.<=
span
style=3D'mso-spacerun:yes'> Still she would not move, and the =
tears
ran visibly down her cheek, though the play was a merry one, being no other
than Mr. Sheridan's comedy of "The Rivals," with Mr. S. Kemble as
Captain Absolute. He saw her
distress, and that her mind was elsewhere; and abruptly rising from his sea=
t at
candle-snuffing time he left the theatre.
'Though he lived in the old town, and she in t=
he
new, they frequently saw each other at a distance. One of these occasions was when sh=
e was
on the north side of the harbour, by the ferry, waiting for the boat to take
her across. He was standing b=
y Cove
Row, on the quay opposite. In=
stead
of entering the boat when it arrived she stepped back from the quay; but lo=
oking
to see if he remained she beheld him pointing with his finger to the
ferry-boat.
'"Enter!" he said, in a voice loud
enough to reach her.
'Mademoiselle V--- stood still.
'"Enter!" he said, and, as she did n=
ot
move, he repeated the word a third time.
'She had really been going to cross, and now
approached and stepped down into the boat.=
Though she did not raise her eyes she knew that he was watching her
over. At the landing steps sh=
e saw
from under the brim of her hat a hand stretched down. The steps were steep and slippery.=
'"No, Monsieur," she said. "Unless, indeed, you believe =
in
God, and repent of your evil past!"
'"I am sorry you were made to suffer. But I only believe in the god call=
ed
Reason, and I do not repent. =
I was
the instrument of a national principle.&nb=
sp;
Your friends were not sacrificed for any ends of mine."
'She thereupon withheld her hand, and clambere=
d up
unassisted. He went on, ascen=
ding
the Look-out Hill, and disappearing over the brow. Her way was in the same direction,=
her
errand being to bring home the two young girls under her charge, who had go=
ne
to the cliff for an airing. W=
hen she
joined them at the top she saw his solitary figure at the further edge,
standing motionless against the sea.
All the while that she remained with her pupils he stood without
turning, as if looking at the frigates in the roadstead, but more probably =
in
meditation, unconscious where he was.
In leaving the spot one of the children threw away half a sponge-bis=
cuit
that she had been eating. Pas=
sing
near it he stooped, picked it up carefully, and put it in his pocket.
'Mademoiselle V--- came homeward, asking herse=
lf,
"Can he be starving?"
'From that day he was invisible for so long a =
time
that she thought he had gone away altogether. But one evening a note came to her=
, and
she opened it trembling.
'"I am here ill," it said, "and, as you know, alone.<=
span
style=3D'mso-spacerun:yes'> There are one or two little things I want
done, in case my death should occur,--and I should prefer not to as=
k the
people here, if it could be avoided.
Have you e=
nough
of the gift of charity to come and carry out my wishes before it is too late?&=
quot;
'Now so it was that, since seeing him possess
himself of the broken cake, she had insensibly begun to feel something that=
was
more than curiosity, though perhaps less than anxiety, about this
fellow-countryman of hers; and it was not in her nervous and sensitive hear=
t to
resist his appeal. She found his lodging (to which he had removed from the =
Old
Rooms inn for economy) to be a room over a shop, half-way up the steep and
narrow street of the old town, to which the fashionable visitors seldom pen=
etrated. With some misgiving she entered the
house, and was admitted to the chamber where he lay.
'"You are too good, too good," he
murmured. And presently, &quo=
t;You
need not shut the door. You w=
ill
feel safer, and they will not understand what we say."
'"Are you in want, Monsieur? Can I give you--"
'"No, no. I merely want you to do a trifling=
thing
or two that I have not strength enough to do myself. Nobody in the town but you knows w=
ho I really
am--unless you have told?"
'"I have not told . . . I thought you mig=
ht
have acted from principle in those sad days, even--"
'"You are kind to concede that much. However, to the present. I was able to destroy my few papers
before I became so weak . . . But in the drawer there you will find some pi=
eces
of linen clothing--only two or three--marked with initials that may be reco=
gnized. Will you rip them out with a
penknife?"
'She searched as bidden, found the garments, c= ut out the stitches of the lettering, and replaced the linen as before. A promise to post, in the event of= his death, a letter he put in her hand, completed all that he required of her.<= o:p>
'He thanked her. "I think you seem sorry for
me," he murmured. "=
And I am
surprised. You are sorry?&quo=
t;
'She evaded the question. "Do you repent and believe?&q=
uot;
she asked.
'"No."
'Contrary to her expectations and his own he
recovered, though very slowly; and her manner grew more distant thenceforwa=
rd,
though his influence upon her was deeper than she knew. Weeks passed away, and the month o=
f May
arrived. One day at this time=
she
met him walking slowly along the beach to the northward.
'"You know the news?" he said.
'"You mean of the rupture between France =
and
England again?"
'"Yes; and the feeling of antagonism is
stronger than it was in the last war, owing to Bonaparte's high-handed arre=
st
of the innocent English who were travelling in our country for pleasure.
'He took from his pocket a piece of the single
newspaper which circulated in the county in those days, and she read--
"The magistrates acting under the Alien Act have been requested=
to direct a very scrutiniz=
ing
eye to the Academies in our towns and other places, in which French
tutors are employed, and to all of that nationality who profess=
to be
teachers in this country. Man=
y of
them are known to=
be
inveterate Enemies and Traitors to the nation among whose people they have =
found
a livelihood and a home."
'He continued: "I have observed since the
declaration of war a marked difference in the conduct of the rougher class =
of
people here towards me. If a great battle were to occur--as it soon will, no
doubt--feeling would grow to a pitch that would make it impossible for me, a
disguised man of no known occupation, to stay here. With you, whose duties and anteced=
ents
are known, it may be less difficult, but still unpleasant. Now I propose
this. You have probably seen =
how my
deep sympathy with you has quickened to a warm feeling; and what I say is, =
will
you agree to give me a title to protect you by honouring me with your
hand? I am older than you, it=
is
true, but as husband and wife we can leave England together, and make the w=
hole
world our country. Though I w=
ould
propose Quebec, in Canada, as the place which offers the best promise of a
home."
'"My God! You surprise me!" said she.
'"But you accept my proposal?"
'"No, no!"
'"And yet I think you will, Mademoiselle,
some day!"
'"I think not."
'"I won't distress you further now."=
'"Much thanks . . . I am glad to see you =
looking
better, Monsieur; I mean you are looking better."
'"Ah, yes. I am improving. I walk in the sun every day."=
'And almost every day she saw him--sometimes
nodding stiffly only, sometimes exchanging formal civilities. "You are not gone yet," =
she said
on one of these occasions.
'"No.&nb=
sp;
At present I don't think of going without you."
'"But you find it uncomfortable here?&quo=
t;
'"Somewhat. So when will you have pity on me?&=
quot;
'She shook her head and went on her way. Yet she was a little moved. "He did it on principle,"=
; she
would murmur. "He had no
animosity towards them, and profited nothing!"
'She wondered how he lived. It was evident that he could not b=
e so
poor as she had thought; his pretended poverty might be to escape notice. She could not tell, but she knew t=
hat
she was dangerously interested in him.
'And he still mended, till his thin, pale face
became more full and firm. As he mended she had to meet that request of his,
advanced with even stronger insistency.
'The arrival of the King and Court for the sea=
son
as usual brought matters to a climax for these two lonely exiles and fellow=
country-people. The King's awkward preference for =
a part
of the coast in such dangerous proximity to France made it necessary that a
strict military vigilance should be exercised to guard the royal
residents. Half- a-dozen frig=
ates
were every night posted in a line across the bay, and two lines of sentinel=
s,
one at the water's edge and another behind the Esplanade, occupied the whole
sea-front after eight every night.
The watering-place was growing an inconvenient residence even for Ma=
demoiselle
V--- herself, her friendship for this strange French tutor and writing-mast=
er
who never had any pupils having been observed by many who slightly knew
her. The General's wife, whose
dependent she was, repeatedly warned her against the acquaintance; while the
Hanoverian and other soldiers of the Foreign Legion, who had discovered the
nationality of her friend, were more aggressive than the English military
gallants who made it their business to notice her.
'In this tense state of affairs her answers be=
came
more agitated. "O Heaven=
, how
can I marry you!" she would say.
'"You will; surely you will!" he
answered again. "I don't=
leave
without you. And I shall soon=
be
interrogated before the magistrates if I stay here; probably imprisoned.
'She felt her defences breaking down. Contrary to all reason and sense of
family honour she was, by some abnormal craving, inclining to a tenderness =
for
him that was founded on its opposite.
Sometimes her warm sentiments burnt lower than at others, and then t=
he
enormity of her conduct showed itself in more staring hues.
'Shortly after this he came with a resigned lo=
ok
on his face. "It is as I
expected," he said. &quo=
t;I have
received a hint to go. In good
sooth, I am no Bonapartist--I am no enemy to England; but the presence of t=
he
King made it impossible for a foreigner with no visible occupation, and who=
may
be a spy, to remain at large in the town.&=
nbsp;
The authorities are civil, but firm. They are no more than reasonable.<=
span
style=3D'mso-spacerun:yes'> Good. I must go. You must come also."
'She did not speak. But she nodded assent, her eyes
drooping.
'On her way back to the house on the Esplanade=
she
said to herself, "I am glad, I am glad! I could not do otherwise. It is rendering good for evil!&quo=
t; But she knew how she mocked hersel=
f in
this, and that the moral principle had not operated one jot in her acceptan=
ce
of him. In truth she had not
realized till now the full presence of the emotion which had unconsciously
grown up in her for this lonely and severe man, who, in her tradition, was
vengeance and irreligion personified.
He seemed to absorb her whole nature, and, absorbing, to control it.=
'A day or two before the one fixed for the wed=
ding
there chanced to come to her a letter from the only acquaintance of her own=
sex
and country she possessed in England, one to whom she had sent intelligence=
of
her approaching marriage, without mentioning with whom. This friend's misfortunes had been
somewhat similar to her own, which fact had been one cause of their intimac=
y;
her friend's sister, a nun of the Abbey of Montmartre, having perished on t=
he
scaffold at the hands of the same Comite de Salut Public which had numbered
Mademoiselle V--'s affianced among its members. The writer had felt her position m=
uch
again of late, since the renewal of the war, she said; and the letter wound=
up
with a fresh denunciation of the authors of their mutual bereavement and su=
bsequent
troubles.
'Coming just then, its contents produced upon
Mademoiselle V--- the effect of a pail of water upon a somnambulist. What had she been doing in betroth=
ing
herself to this man! Was she =
not
making herself a parricide after the event? At this crisis in her feelings her=
lover
called. He beheld her trembli=
ng,
and, in reply to his question, she told him of her scruples with impulsive
candour.
'She had not intended to do this, but his atti=
tude
of tender command coerced her into frankness. Thereupon he exhibited an agitation
never before apparent in him. He
said, "But all that is past.
You are the symbol of Charity, and we are pledged to let bygones
be."
'His words soothed her for the moment, but she=
was
sadly silent, and he went away.
'That night she saw (as she firmly believed to=
the
end of her life) a divinely sent vision.&n=
bsp;
A procession of her lost relatives--father, brother, uncle,
cousin--seemed to cross her chamber between her bed and the window, and when
she endeavoured to trace their features she perceived them to be headless, =
and
that she had recognized them by their familiar clothes only. In the morning she could not shake=
off
the effects of this appearance on her nerves. All that day she saw nothing of her
wooer, he being occupied in making arrangements for their departure. It grew towards evening--the marri=
age
eve; but, in spite of his re-assuring visit, her sense of family duty waxed
stronger now that she was left alone.
Yet, she asked herself, how could she, alone and unprotected, go at =
this
eleventh hour and reassert to an affianced husband that she could not and w=
ould
not marry him while admitting at the same time that she loved him? The situation dismayed her. She had relinquished her post as
governess, and was staying temporarily in a room near the coach-office, whe=
re
she expected him to call in the morning to carry out the business of their
union and departure.
'Wisely or foolishly, Mademoiselle V--- came t=
o a
resolution: that her only safety lay in flight. His contiguity influenced her too
sensibly; she could not reason. So
packing up her few possessions and placing on the table the small sum she o=
wed,
she went out privately, secured a last available seat in the London coach, =
and,
almost before she had fully weighed her action, she was rolling out of the =
town
in the dusk of the September evening.
'Having taken this startling step she began to
reflect upon her reasons. He had been one of that tragic Committee the soun=
d of
whose name was a horror to the civilized world; yet he had been only one of
several members, and, it seemed, not the most active. He had marked down names on princi=
ple,
had felt no personal enmity against his victims, and had enriched himself n=
ot a
sou out of the office he had held.
Nothing could change the past.
Meanwhile he loved her, and her heart inclined to as much of him as =
she
could detach from that past. =
Why
not, as he had suggested, bury memories, and inaugurate a new era by this
union? In other words, why not
indulge her tenderness, since its nullification could do no good.
'Thus she held self-communion in her seat in t=
he
coach, passing through Casterbridge, and Shottsford, and on to the White Ha=
rt
at Melchester, at which place the whole fabric of her recent intentions
crumbled down. Better be staunch having got so far; let things take their
course, and marry boldly the man who had so impressed her. How great he was; how small was
she! And she had presumed to =
judge
him! Abandoning her place in =
the
coach with the precipitancy that had characterized her taking it, she waited
till the vehicle had driven off, something in the departing shapes of the
outside passengers against the starlit sky giving her a start, as she
afterwards remembered. Presen=
tly
the down coach, "The Morning Herald," entered the city, and she
hastily obtained a place on the top.
'"I'll be firm--I'll be his--if it cost m=
e my
immortal soul!" she said. And with troubled breathings she journeyed b=
ack
over the road she had just traced.
'She reached our royal watering-place by the t=
ime
the day broke, and her first aim was to get back to the hired room in which=
her
last few days had been spent. When
the landlady appeared at the door in response to Mademoiselle V--'s nervous
summons, she explained her sudden departure and return as best she could; a=
nd
no objection being offered to her re- engagement of the room for one day lo=
nger
she ascended to the chamber and sat down panting. She was back once more, and her wi=
ld
tergiversations were a secret from him whom alone they concerned.
'A sealed letter was on the mantelpiece. "Yes, it is directed to you, =
Mademoiselle,"
said the woman who had followed her.
"But we were wondering what to do with it. A town messenger brought it after =
you
had gone last night."
'When the landlady had left, Mademoiselle V---
opened the letter and read--
"MY DEAR AND HONOURED FRIEND.--You have been throughout our
"As one whose life has been devoted, and I may say sacrificed, =
to
the cause of Libe=
rty, I
cannot allow your judgment (probably a permanent one) to be fettered bey=
ond
release by a feeling which may be transient only.
"It would be no less than excruciating to both that I should
announce this dec=
ision
to you by word of mouth. I ha=
ve
therefore taken the less painful course of
writing. Before you receive t=
his I
shall have left t=
he
town by the evening coach for London, on reaching which city my movements will be re=
vealed
to none.
"Regard me, Mademoiselle, as dead, and accept my renewed assura=
nces
of respect,
remembrance, and affection."
'When she had recovered from her shock of surp=
rise
and grief, she remembered that at the starting of the coach out of Melchest=
er
before dawn, the shape of a figure among the outside passengers against the=
starlit
sky had caused her a momentary start, from its resemblance to that of her
friend. Knowing nothing of ea=
ch
other's intentions, and screened from each other by the darkness, they had =
left
the town by the same conveyance.
"He, the greater, persevered; I, the smaller, returned!" s=
he
said.
'Recovering from her stupor, Mademoiselle V---
bethought herself again of her employer, Mrs. Newbold, whom recent events h=
ad
estranged. To that lady she w=
ent
with a full heart, and explained everything. Mrs. Newbold kept to herself her o=
pinion
of the episode, and reinstalled the deserted bride in her old position as
governess to the family.
'A governess she remained to the end of her
days. After the final peace w=
ith
France she became acquainted with my mother, to whom by degrees she imparted
these experiences of hers. As=
her
hair grew white, and her features pinched, Mademoiselle V--- would wonder w=
hat
nook of the world contained her lover, if he lived, and if by any chance she
might see him again. But when=
, some
time in the 'twenties, death came to her, at no great age, that outline aga=
inst
the stars of the morning remained as the last glimpse she ever obtained of =
her
family's foe and her once affianced husband.'
1895.
MASTER JOHN HORSELEIGH, KNIGHT
=
In the
earliest and mustiest volume of the Havenpool marriage registers (said the
thin-faced gentleman) this entry may still be read by any one curious enoug=
h to
decipher the crabbed handwriting of the date. I took a copy of it when I was last
there; and it runs thus (he had opened his pocket-book, and now read aloud =
the
extract; afterwards handing round the book to us, wherein we saw transcribed
the following)--
Mastr John Horseleigh, Knyght, of the p'ysshe of Clyffton was maryd =
to Edith the wyffe late of=
f John
Stocker, m'chawnte of Havenpool the xiiij daje of December =
be
p'vylegge gevyn by our sup'me hedd of the chyrche of Ingelonde Ky=
nge
Henry the viii th 1539.
Now, if you turn to the long and elaborate
pedigree of the ancient family of the Horseleighs of Clyfton Horseleigh, you
will find no mention whatever of this alliance, notwithstanding the privile=
ge
given by the Sovereign and head of the Church; the said Sir John being ther=
ein chronicled
as marrying, at a date apparently earlier than the above, the daughter and
heiress of Richard Phelipson, of Montislope, in Nether Wessex, a lady who
outlived him, of which marriage there were issue two daughters and a son, w=
ho
succeeded him in his estates. How
are we to account for these, as it would seem, contemporaneous wives? A strange local tradition only can=
help
us, and this can be briefly told.
One evening in the autumn of the year 1540 or
1541, a young sailor, whose Christian name was Roger, but whose surname is =
not
known, landed at his native place of Havenpool, on the South Wessex coast,
after a voyage in the Newfoundland trade, then newly sprung into
existence. He returned in the=
ship
Primrose with a cargo of 'trayne oyle brought home from the New Founde Land=
e,'
to quote from the town records of the date. During his absence of two summers =
and a
winter, which made up the term of a Newfoundland 'spell,' many unlooked-for
changes had occurred within the quiet little seaport, some of which closely
affected Roger the sailor. At=
the
time of his departure his only sister Edith had become the bride of one
Stocker, a respectable townsman, and part owner of the brig in which Roger =
had
sailed; and it was to the house of this couple, his only relatives, that the
young man directed his steps. On
trying the door in Quay Street he found it locked, and then observed that t=
he
windows were boarded up. Inqu=
iring
of a bystander, he learnt for the first time of the death of his
brother-in-law, though that event had taken place nearly eighteen months
before.
'And my sister Edith?' asked Roger.
'She's married again--as they do say, and hath
been so these twelve months. I
don't vouch for the truth o't, though if she isn't she ought to be.'
Roger's face grew dark. He was a man with a considerable r=
eserve
of strong passion, and he asked his informant what he meant by speaking thu=
s.
The man explained that shortly after the young
woman's bereavement a stranger had come to the port. He had seen her moping on the quay=
, had been
attracted by her youth and loneliness, and in an extraordinarily brief wooi=
ng
had completely fascinated her--had carried her off, and, as was reported, h=
ad
married her. Though he had co=
me by
water, he was supposed to live no very great distance off by land. They were last heard of at Oozewoo=
d, in
Upper Wessex, at the house of one Wall, a timber- merchant, where, he belie=
ved,
she still had a lodging, though her husband, if he were lawfully that much,=
was
but an occasional visitor to the place.
'The stranger?' asked Roger. 'Did you see him? What manner of man was he?'
'I liked him not,' said the other. 'He seemed of that kind that hath =
something
to conceal, and as he walked with her he ever and anon turned his head and
gazed behind him, as if he much feared an unwelcome pursuer. But, faith,'
continued he, 'it may have been the man's anxiety only. Yet did I not like him.'
'Was he older than my sister?' Roger asked.
'Ay--much older; from a dozen to a score of ye=
ars
older. A man of some position,
maybe, playing an amorous game for the pleasure of the hour. Who knoweth but
that he have a wife already? =
Many
have done the thing hereabouts of late.'
Having paid a visit to the graves of his
relatives, the sailor next day went along the straight road which, then a l=
ane,
now a highway, conducted to the curious little inland town named by the
Havenpool man. It is unnecess=
ary to
describe Oozewood on the South-Avon.
It has a railway at the present day; but thirty years of steam traff=
ic
past its precincts have hardly modified its original features. Surrounded by a sort of fresh-water
lagoon, dividing it from meadows and coppice, its ancient thatch and timber
houses have barely made way even in the front street for the ubiquitous mod=
ern
brick and slate. It neither
increases nor diminishes in size; it is difficult to say what the inhabitan=
ts
find to do, for, though trades in woodware are still carried on, there cann=
ot
be enough of this class of work nowadays to maintain all the householders, =
the
forests around having been so greatly thinned and curtailed. At the time of this tradition the
forests were dense, artificers in wood abounded, and the timber trade was
brisk. Every house in the tow=
n, without
exception, was of oak framework, filled in with plaster, and covered with
thatch, the chimney being the only brick portion of the structure. Inquiry soon brought Roger the sai=
lor to
the door of Wall, the timber-dealer referred to, but it was some time befor=
e he
was able to gain admission to the lodging of his sister, the people having
plainly received directions not to welcome strangers.
She was sitting in an upper room on one of the
lath-backed, willow-bottomed 'shepherd's' chairs, made on the spot then as =
to
this day, and as they were probably made there in the days of the Heptarchy=
. In
her lap was an infant, which she had been suckling, though now it had fallen
asleep; so had the young mother herself for a few minutes, under the drowsi=
ng
effects of solitude. Hearing
footsteps on the stairs, she awoke, started up with a glad cry, and ran to =
the
door, opening which she met her brother on the threshold.
'O, this is merry; I didn't expect 'ee!' she
said. 'Ah, Roger--I thought i=
t was
John.' Her tones fell to
disappointment.
The sailor kissed her, looked at her sternly f=
or a
few moments, and pointing to the infant, said, 'You mean the father of this=
?'
'Yes, my husband,' said Edith.
'I hope so,' he answered.
'Why, Roger, I'm married--of a truth am I!' she
cried.
'Shame upon 'ee, if true! If not true, worse. Master Stocker was an honest man, =
and ye
should have respected his memory longer.&n=
bsp;
Where is thy husband?'
'He comes often. I thought it was he now. Our marriage has to be kept secret=
for a
while--it was done privily for certain reasons; but we was married at church
like honest folk--afore God we were, Roger, six months after poor Stocker's
death.'
''Twas too soon,' said Roger.
'I was living in a house alone; I had nowhere =
to
go to. You were far over sea =
in the
New Found Land, and John took me and brought me here.'
'How often doth he come?' says Roger again.
'Once or twice weekly,' says she.
'I wish th' 'dst waited till I returned, dear
Edy,' he said. 'It mid be you=
are a
wife--I hope so. But, if so, =
why
this mystery? Why this mean a=
nd cramped
lodging in this lonely copse-circled town?=
Of what standing is your husband, and of where?'
'He is of gentle breeding--his name is John. I am not free to tell his family-n=
ame. He is said to be of London, for sa=
fety'
sake; but he really lives in the county next adjoining this.'
'Where in the next county?'
'I do not know. He has preferred not to tell me, t=
hat I
may not have the secret forced from me, to his and my hurt, by bringing the
marriage to the ears of his kinsfolk and friends.'
Her brother's face flushed. 'Our people have been honest towns=
men,
well- reputed for long; why should you readily take such humbling from a so=
journer
of whom th' 'st know nothing?'
They remained in constrained converse till her
quick ear caught a sound, for which she might have been waiting--a horse's
footfall. 'It is John!' said
she. 'This is his night--Satu=
rday.'
'Don't be frightened lest he should find me he=
re!'
said Roger. 'I am on the poin=
t of
leaving. I wish not to be a t=
hird
party. Say nothing at all abo=
ut my
visit, if it will incommode you so to do.&=
nbsp;
I will see thee before I go afloat again.'
Speaking thus he left the room, and descending=
the
staircase let himself out by the front door, thinking he might obtain a gli=
mpse
of the approaching horseman. =
But
that traveller had in the meantime gone stealthily round to the back of the
homestead, and peering along the pinion-end of the house Roger discerned him
unbridling and haltering his horse with his own hands in the shed there.
Roger retired to the neighbouring inn called t=
he
Black Lamb, and meditated. Th=
is
mysterious method of approach determined him, after all, not to leave the p=
lace
till he had ascertained more definite facts of his sister's position--wheth=
er
she were the deluded victim of the stranger or the wife she obviously belie=
ved
herself to be. Having eaten s=
ome
supper, he left the inn, it being now about eleven o'clock. He first looked into the shed, and,
finding the horse still standing there, waited irresolutely near the door of
his sister's lodging. Half an=
hour elapsed,
and, while thinking he would climb into a loft hard by for a night's rest,
there seemed to be a movement within the shutters of the sitting-room that =
his
sister occupied. Roger hid hi=
mself
behind a faggot- stack near the back door, rightly divining that his sister=
's
visitor would emerge by the way he had entered. The door opened, and the candle sh=
e held
in her hand lighted for a moment the stranger's form, showing it to be that=
of
a tall and handsome personage, about forty years of age, and apparently of a
superior position in life. Ed=
ith
was assisting him to cloak himself, which being done he took leave of her w=
ith
a kiss and left the house. Fr=
om the
door she watched him bridle and saddle his horse, and having mounted and wa=
ved
an adieu to her as she stood candle in hand, he turned out of the yard and =
rode
away.
The horse which bore him was, or seemed to be,=
a
little lame, and Roger fancied from this that the rider's journey was not
likely to be a long one. Bein=
g light
of foot he followed apace, having no great difficulty on such a still night=
in
keeping within earshot some few miles, the horseman pausing more than
once. In this pursuit Roger
discovered the rider to choose bridle-tracks and open commons in preference=
to
any high road. The distance s=
oon
began to prove a more trying one than he had bargained for; and when out of
breath and in some despair of being able to ascertain the man's identity, he
perceived an ass standing in the starlight under a hayrick, from which the
animal was helping itself to periodic mouthfuls.
The story goes that Roger caught the ass, moun=
ted,
and again resumed the trail of the unconscious horseman, which feat may have
been possible to a nautical young fellow, though one can hardly understand =
how
a sailor would ride such an animal without bridle or saddle, and strange to=
his
hands, unless the creature were extraordinarily docile. This question, however, is
immaterial. Suffice it to say=
that
at dawn the following morning Roger beheld his sister's lover or husband
entering the gates of a large and well-timbered park on the south-western v=
erge
of the White Hart Forest (as it was then called), now known to everybody as=
the
Vale of Blackmoor. Thereupon =
the
sailor discarded his steed, and finding for himself an obscurer entrance to=
the
same park a little further on, he crossed the grass to reconnoitre.
He presently perceived amid the trees before h=
im a
mansion which, new to himself, was one of the best known in the county at t=
hat
time. Of this fine manorial
residence hardly a trace now remains; but a manuscript dated some years lat=
er
than the events we are regarding describes it in terms from which the
imagination may construct a singularly clear and vivid picture. This record presents it as consist=
ing of
'a faire yellow freestone building, partly two and partly three storeys; a
faire halle and parlour, both waynscotted; a faire dyning roome and withdra=
wing
roome, and many good lodgings; a kitchen adjoyninge backwarde to one end of=
the
dwelling-house, with a faire passage from it into the halle, parlour, and
dyninge roome, and sellars adjoyninge.
'In the front of the house a square greene cou=
rt,
and a curious gatehouse with lodgings in it, standing with the front of the
house to the south; in a large outer court three stables, a coach-house, a
large barne, and a stable for oxen and kyne, and all houses necessary.
'Without the gatehouse, paled in, a large squa=
re
greene, in which standeth a faire chappell; of the south-east side of the
greene court, towards the river, a large garden.
'Of the south-west side of the greene court is=
a
large bowling greene, with fower mounted walks about it, all walled about w=
ith
a batteled wall, and sett with all sorts of fruit; and out of it into the
feildes there are large walks under many tall elmes orderly planted.'
Then follows a description of the orchards and
gardens; the servants' offices, brewhouse, bakehouse, dairy, pigeon-houses,=
and
corn-mill; the river and its abundance of fish; the warren, the coppices, t=
he
walks; ending thus--
'And all the country north of the house, open
champaign, sandy feildes, very dry and pleasant for all kindes of recreatio=
n,
huntinge, and hawkinge, and profitble for tillage . . . The house hath a la=
rge
prospect east, south, and west, over a very large and pleasant vale . . . i=
s seated
from the good markett towns of Sherton Abbas three miles, and Ivel a mile, =
that
plentifully yield all manner of provision; and within twelve miles of the s=
outh
sea.'
It was on the grass before this seductive and
picturesque structure that the sailor stood at gaze under the elms in the d=
im
dawn of Sunday morning, and saw to his surprise his sister's lover and horse
vanish within the court of the building.
Perplexed and weary, Roger slowly retreated, m=
ore
than ever convinced that something was wrong in his sister's position. He crossed the bowling green to the
avenue of elms, and, bent on further research, was about to climb into one =
of
these, when, looking below, he saw a heap of hay apparently for horses or
deer. Into this he crept, and,
having eaten a crust of bread which he had hastily thrust into his pocket at
the inn, he curled up and fell asleep, the hay forming a comfortable bed, a=
nd quite
covering him over.
He slept soundly and long, and was awakened by=
the
sound of a bell. On peering f=
rom
the hay he found the time had advanced to full day; the sun was shining
brightly. The bell was that o=
f the
'faire chappell' on the green outside the gatehouse, and it was calling to
matins. Presently the priest
crossed the green to a little side-door in the chancel, and then from the
gateway of the mansion emerged the household, the tall man whom Roger had s=
een
with his sister on the previous night, on his arm being a portly dame, and,
running beside the pair, two little girls and a boy. These all entered the
chapel, and the bell having ceased and the environs become clear, the sailor
crept out from his hiding.
He sauntered towards the chapel, the opening w=
ords
of the service being audible within.
While standing by the porch he saw a belated servitor approaching fr=
om
the kitchen-court to attend the service also. Roger carelessly accosted him, and
asked, as an idle wanderer, the name of the family he had just seen cross o=
ver
from the mansion.
'Od zounds! if ye modden be a stranger here in
very truth, goodman. That wer=
Sir
John and his dame, and his children Elizabeth, Mary, and John.'
'I be from foreign parts. Sir John what d'ye call'n?'
'Master John Horseleigh, Knight, who had a'mos=
t as
much lond by inheritance of his mother as 'a had by his father, and likewise
some by his wife. Why, bain't=
his
arms dree goolden horses' heads, and idden his lady the daughter of Master
Richard Phelipson, of Montislope, in Nether Wessex, known to us all?'
'It mid be so, and yet it mid not. However, th' 'lt miss thy prayers =
for such
an honest knight's welfare, and I have to traipse seaward many miles.'
He went onward, and as he walked continued say=
ing
to himself, 'Now to that poor wronged fool Edy. The fond thing! I thought it; 'twas too quick--she=
was
ever amorous. What's to becom=
e of
her! God wot! How be I going to face her with the
news, and how be I to hold it from her?&nb=
sp;
To bring this disgrace on my father's honoured name, a double-tongue=
d knave!' He turned and shook his fist at the
chapel and all in it, and resumed his way.
Perhaps it was owing to the perplexity of his =
mind
that, instead of returning by the direct road towards his sister's obscure
lodging in the next county, he followed the highway to Casterbridge, some
fifteen miles off, where he remained drinking hard all that afternoon and
evening, and where he lay that and two or three succeeding nights, wandering
thence along the Anglebury road to some village that way, and lying the Fri=
day night
after at his native place of Havenpool.&nb=
sp;
The sight of the familiar objects there seems to have stirred him an=
ew
to action, and the next morning he was observed pursuing the way to Oozewood
that he had followed on the Saturday previous, reckoning, no doubt, that
Saturday night would, as before, be a time for finding Sir John with his si=
ster
again.
He delayed to reach the place till just before
sunset. His sister was walkin=
g in
the meadows at the foot of the garden, with a nursemaid who carried the bab=
y,
and she looked up pensively when he approached. Anxiety as to her position had alr=
eady
told upon her once rosy cheeks and lucid eyes. But concern for herself and child =
was
displaced for the moment by her regard of Roger's worn and haggard face.
'Why--you are sick, Roger--you are tired! Where have you been these many day=
s? Why not keep me company a bit--my
husband is much away? And we =
have
hardly spoke at all of dear father and of your voyage to the New Land. Why did you go away so suddenly? There is a spare chamber at my lod=
ging.'
'Come indoors,' he said. 'We'll talk now--talk a good deal.=
As for him [nodding to the child],
better heave him into the river; better for him and you!'
She forced a laugh, as if she tried to see a g=
ood
joke in the remark, and they went silently indoors.
'A miserable hole!' said Roger, looking round =
the
room.
'Nay, but 'tis very pretty!'
'Not after what I've seen. Did he marry 'ee at church in orde=
rly fashion?'
'He did sure--at our church at Havenpool.'
'But in a privy way?'
'Ay--because of his friends--it was at
night-time.'
'Ede, ye fond one--for all that he's not thy
husband! Th' 'rt not his wife=
; and
the child is a bastard. He ha=
th a
wife and children of his own rank, and bearing his name; and that's Sir Joh=
n Horseleigh,
of Clyfton Horseleigh, and not plain Jack, as you think him, and your lawfu=
l husband. The sacrament of marriage is no
safeguard nowadays. The King'=
s new-made
headship of the Church hath led men to practise these tricks lightly.'
She had turned white. 'That's not true, Roger!' she said=
. 'You are in liquor, my brother, an=
d you
know not what you say! Your
seafaring years have taught 'ee bad things!'
'Edith--I've seen them; wife and family--all.<=
span
style=3D'mso-spacerun:yes'> How canst--'
They were sitting in the gathered darkness, an=
d at
that moment steps were heard without.
'Go out this way,' she said.
'It is my husband. He =
must not
see thee in this mood. Get aw=
ay
till to-morrow, Roger, as you care for me.'
She pushed her brother through a door leading =
to
the back stairs, and almost as soon as it was closed her visitor entered. Roger, however, did not retreat do=
wn the
stairs; he stood and looked through the bobbin-hole. If the visitor turned =
out
to be Sir John, he had determined to confront him.
It was the knight. She had struck a light on his entr=
y, and
he kissed the child, and took Edith tenderly by the shoulders, looking into=
her
face.
'Something's gone awry wi' my dear!' he said.<=
span
style=3D'mso-spacerun:yes'> 'What is it? What's the matter?'
'O, Jack!' she cried. 'I have heard such a fearsome
rumour--what doth it mean? He=
who
told me is my best friend. He=
must
be deceived! But who deceived=
him,
and why? Jack, I was just tol=
d that
you had a wife living when you married me, and have her still!'
'A wife?--H'm.'
'Yes, and children. Say no, say no!'
'By God!
I have no lawful wife but you; and as for children, many or few, they
are all bastards, save this one alone!'
'And that you be Sir John Horseleigh of Clyfto=
n?'
'I mid be.&nb=
sp;
I have never said so to 'ee.'
'But Sir John is known to have a lady, and iss=
ue
of her!'
The knight looked down. 'How did thy mind get filled with =
such
as this?' he asked.
'One of my kindred came.'
'A traitor!&n=
bsp;
Why should he mar our life?
Ah! you said you had a brother at sea--where is he now?'
'Here!' came from close behind him. And flinging open the door, Roger =
faced
the intruder. 'Liar!' he said=
, 'to
call thyself her husband!'
Sir John fired up, and made a rush at the sail=
or,
who seized him by the collar, and in the wrestle they both fell, Roger unde=
r. But in a few seconds he contrived =
to
extricate his right arm, and drawing from his belt a knife which he wore
attached to a cord round his neck he opened it with his teeth, and struck it
into the breast of Sir John stretched above him. Edith had during these moments run=
into
the next room to place the child in safety, and when she came back the knig=
ht
was relaxing his hold on Roger's throat.&n=
bsp;
He rolled over upon his back and groaned.
The only witness of the scene save the three
concerned was the nursemaid, who had brought in the child on its father's
arrival. She stated afterward=
s that
nobody suspected Sir John had received his death wound; yet it was so, thou=
gh
he did not die for a long while, meaning thereby an hour or two; that Mistr=
ess
Edith continually endeavoured to staunch the blood, calling her brother Rog=
er a
wretch, and ordering him to get himself gone; on which order he acted, afte=
r a
gloomy pause, by opening the window, and letting himself down by the sill to
the ground.
It was then that Sir John, in difficult accent=
s,
made his dying declaration to the nurse and Edith, and, later, the apotheca=
ry;
which was to this purport, that the Dame Horseleigh who passed as his wife =
at Clyfton,
and who had borne him three children, was in truth and deed, though
unconsciously, the wife of another man.&nb=
sp;
Sir John had married her several years before, in the face of the wh=
ole
county, as the widow of one Decimus Strong, who had disappeared shortly aft=
er
her union with him, having adventured to the North to join the revolt of the
Nobles, and on that revolt being quelled retreated across the sea. Two years ago, having discovered t=
his
man to be still living in France, and not wishing to disturb the mind and
happiness of her who believed herself his wife, yet wishing for legitimate
issue, Sir John had informed the King of the facts, who had encouraged him =
to
wed honestly, though secretly, the young merchant's widow at Havenpool; she
being, therefore, his lawful wife, and she only. That to avoid all scandal and hubb=
ub he
had purposed to let things remain as they were till fair opportunity should
arise of making the true case known with least pain to all parties concerne=
d,
but that, having been thus suspected and attacked by his own brother-in-law,
his zest for such schemes and for all things had died out in him, and he on=
ly wished
to commend his soul to God.
That night, while the owls were hooting from t=
he
forest that encircled the sleeping townlet, and the South-Avon was gurgling
through the wooden piles of the bridge, Sir John died there in the arms of =
his
wife. She concealed nothing o=
f the
cause of her husband's death save the subject of the quarrel, which she fel=
t it
would be premature to announce just then, and until proof of her status sho=
uld
be forthcoming. But before a =
month had
passed, it happened, to her inexpressible sorrow, that the child of this
clandestine union fell sick and died.
From that hour all interest in the name and fame of the Horseleighs
forsook the younger of the twain who called themselves wives of Sir John, a=
nd,
being careless about her own fame, she took no steps to assert her claims, =
her
legal position having, indeed, grown hateful to her in her horror at the
tragedy. And Sir William Byrt=
, the
curate who had married her to her husband, being an old man and feeble, was=
not
disinclined to leave the embers unstirred of such a fiery matter as this, a=
nd
to assist her in letting established things stand. Therefore, Edith retired with the =
nurse,
her only companion and friend, to her native town, where she lived in absol=
ute obscurity
till her death in middle age. Her
brother was never seen again in England.
A strangely corroborative sequel to the story
remains to be told. Shortly a=
fter
the death of Sir John Horseleigh, a soldier of fortune returned from the
Continent, called on Dame Horseleigh the fictitious, living in widowed stat=
e at
Clyfton Horseleigh, and, after a singularly brief courtship, married her. The tradition at Havenpool and els=
ewhere
has ever been that this man was already her husband, Decimus Strong, who re=
married
her for appearance' sake only.
The illegitimate son of this lady by Sir John succeeded to the estates and honours, and his son after him, there being no= body on the alert to investigate their pretensions. Little difference would it have ma= de to the present generation, however, had there been such a one, for the family in a= ll its branches, lawful and unlawful, has been extinct these many score years,= the last representative but one being killed at the siege of Sherton Castle, wh= ile attacking in the service of the Parliament, and the other being outlawed la= ter in the same century for a debt of ten pounds, and dying in the county jail. The mansion house and i= ts appurtenances were, as I have previously stated, destroyed, excepting one s= mall wing, which now forms part of a farmhouse, and is visible as you pass along= the railway from Casterbridge to Ivel. The outline of the old bowling-green is also distinctly to be seen.<= o:p>
This, then, is the reason why the only lawful =
marriage
of Sir John, as recorded in the obscure register at Havenpool, does not app=
ear
in the pedigree of the house of Horseleigh.
Spring 1893.
THE DUKE'S REAPPEARANCE--A FAMILY TRADITION
=
According
to the kinsman who told me the story, Christopher Swetman's house, on the
outskirts of King's-Hintock village, was in those days larger and better ke=
pt
than when, many years later, it was sold to the lord of the manor adjoining;
after having been in the Swetman family, as one may say, since the Conquest=
.
Some people would have it to be that the thing
happened at the house opposite, belonging to one Childs, with whose family =
the
Swetmans afterwards intermarried.
But that it was at the original homestead of the Swetmans can be sho=
wn
in various ways; chiefly by the unbroken traditions of the family, and
indirectly by the evidence of the walls themselves, which are the only ones
thereabout with windows mullioned in the Elizabethan manner, and plainly of=
a
date anterior to the event; while those of the other house might well have =
been
erected fifty or eighty years later, and probably were; since the choice of
Swetman's house by the fugitive was doubtless dictated by no other circumst=
ance
than its then suitable loneliness.
It was a cloudy July morning just before dawn,=
the
hour of two having been struck by Swetman's one-handed clock on the stairs,
that is still preserved in the family.&nbs=
p;
Christopher heard the strokes from his chamber, immediately at the t=
op
of the staircase, and overlooking the front of the house. He did not wonder that he was
sleepless. The rumours and ex=
citements
which had latterly stirred the neighbourhood, to the effect that the rightf=
ul
King of England had landed from Holland, at a port only eighteen miles to t=
he
south-west of Swetman's house, were enough to make wakeful and anxious even=
a
contented yeoman like him. So=
me of
the villagers, intoxicated by the news, had thrown down their scythes, and =
rushed
to the ranks of the invader.
Christopher Swetman had weighed both sides of the question, and had
remained at home.
Now as he lay thinking of these and other thin=
gs
he fancied that he could hear the footfall of a man on the road leading up =
to
his house--a byway, which led scarce anywhere else; and therefore a tread w=
as
at any time more apt to startle the inmates of the homestead than if it had
stood in a thoroughfare. The
footfall came opposite the gate, and stopped there. One minute, two minutes
passed, and the pedestrian did not proceed. Christopher Swetman got out of =
bed,
and opened the casement. 'Hoi!
who's there?' cries he.
'A friend,' came from the darkness.
'And what mid ye want at this time o' night?' =
says
Swetman.
'Shelter.&nbs=
p;
I've lost my way.'
'What's thy name?'
There came no answer.
'Be ye one of King Monmouth's men?'
'He that asks no questions will hear no lies f=
rom
me. I am a stranger; and I am
spent, and hungered. Can you =
let me
lie with you to-night?'
Swetman was generous to people in trouble, and=
his
house was roomy. 'Wait a bit,=
' he
said, 'and I'll come down and have a look at thee, anyhow.'
He struck a light, put on his clothes, and
descended, taking his horn- lantern from a nail in the passage, and lightin=
g it
before opening the door. The =
rays
fell on the form of a tall, dark man in cavalry accoutrements and wearing a
sword. He was pale with fatig=
ue and
covered with mud, though the weather was dry.
'Prithee take no heed of my appearance,' said =
the
stranger. 'But let me in.'
That his visitor was in sore distress admitted=
of
no doubt, and the yeoman's natural humanity assisted the other's sad
importunity and gentle voice.
Swetman took him in, not without a suspicion that this man represent=
ed
in some way Monmouth's cause, to which he was not unfriendly in his secret
heart. At his earnest request=
the
new-comer was given a suit of the yeoman's old clothes in exchange for his =
own,
which, with his sword, were hidden in a closet in Swetman's chamber; food w=
as
then put before him and a lodging provided for him in a room at the back.
Here he slept till quite late in the morning,
which was Sunday, the sixth of July, and when he came down in the garments =
that
he had borrowed he met the household with a melancholy smile. Besides Swetman himself, there wer=
e only
his two daughters, Grace and Leonard (the latter was, oddly enough, a woman=
's
name here), and both had been enjoined to secrecy. They asked no questions and receiv=
ed no
information; though the stranger regarded their fair countenances with an
interest almost too deep. Hav=
ing
partaken of their usual breakfast of ham and cider he professed weariness a=
nd
retired to the chamber whence he had come.
In a couple of hours or thereabout he came down
again, the two young women having now gone off to morning service. Seeing Christopher bustling about =
the
house without assistance, he asked if he could do anything to aid his host.=
As he seemed anxious to hide all differences a=
nd
appear as one of themselves, Swetman set him to get vegetables from the gar=
den
and fetch water from Buttock's Spring in the dip near the house (though the
spring was not called by that name till years after, by the way).
'And what can I do next?' says the stranger wh=
en
these services had been performed.
His meekness and docility struck Christopher m=
uch,
and won upon him. 'Since you be minded to,' says the latter, 'you can take =
down
the dishes and spread the table for dinner. Take a pewter plate for thyself, b=
ut the
trenchers will do for we.'
But the other would not, and took a trencher
likewise, in doing which he spoke of the two girls and remarked how comely =
they
were.
This quietude was put an end to by a stir out =
of
doors, which was sufficient to draw Swetman's attention to it, and he went
out. Farm hands who had gone =
off
and joined the Duke on his arrival had begun to come in with news that a mi=
dnight
battle had been fought on the moors to the north, the Duke's men, who had
attacked, being entirely worsted; the Duke himself, with one or two lords a=
nd
other friends, had fled, no one knew whither.
'There has been a battle,' says Swetman, on co=
ming
indoors after these tidings, and looking earnestly at the stranger.
'May the victory be to the rightful in the end,
whatever the issue now,' says the other, with a sorrowful sigh.
'Dost really know nothing about it?' said
Christopher. 'I could have sw=
orn you
was one from that very battle!'
'I was here before three o' the clock this
morning; and these men have only arrived now.'
'True,' said the yeoman. 'But still, I think--'
'Do not press your question,' the stranger
urged. 'I am in a strait, and=
can refuse
a helper nothing; such inquiry is, therefore, unfair.'
'True again,' said Swetman, and held his tongu=
e.
The daughters of the house returned from churc=
h,
where the service had been hurried by reason of the excitement. To their father's questioning if t=
hey
had spoken of him who sojourned there they replied that they had said never=
a
word; which, indeed, was true, as events proved.
He bade them serve the dinner; and, as the vis=
itor
had withdrawn since the news of the battle, prepared to take a platter to h=
im
upstairs. But he preferred to=
come
down and dine with the family.
During the afternoon more fugitives passed thr=
ough
the village, but Christopher Swetman, his visitor, and his family kept
indoors. In the evening, howe=
ver,
Swetman came out from his gate, and, harkening in silence to these tidings =
and
more, wondered what might be in store for him for his last night's work.
He returned homeward by a path across the mead
that skirted his own orchard.
Passing here, he heard the voice of his daughter Leonard expostulati=
ng
inside the hedge, her words being: 'Don't ye, sir; don't! I prithee let me go!'
'Why, sweetheart?'
'Because I've a-promised another!'
Peeping through, as he could not help doing, he
saw the girl struggling in the arms of the stranger, who was attempting to =
kiss
her; but finding her resistance to be genuine, and her distress unfeigned, =
he
reluctantly let her go.
Swetman's face grew dark, for his girls were m=
ore
to him than himself. He haste=
ned
on, meditating moodily all the way.
He entered the gate, and made straight for the orchard. When he reached it his daughter ha=
d disappeared,
but the stranger was still standing there.
'Sir!' said the yeoman, his anger having in no
wise abated, 'I've seen what has happened!=
I have taken 'ee into my house, at some jeopardy to myself; and, who=
ever
you be, the least I expected of 'ee was to treat the maidens with a seemly
respect. You have not done it=
, and
I no longer trust you. I am t=
he
more watchful over them in that they are motherless; and I must ask 'ee to =
go
after dark this night!'
The stranger seemed dazed at discovering what =
his
impulse had brought down upon his head, and his pale face grew paler. He did not reply for a time. When he did speak his soft voice w=
as
thick with feeling.
'Sir,' says he, 'I own that I am in the wrong,=
if
you take the matter gravely. =
We do
not what we would but what we must.
Though I have not injured your daughter as a woman, I have been
treacherous to her as a hostess and friend in need. I'll go, as you say; I can do no
less. I shall doubtless find a
refuge elsewhere.'
They walked towards the house in silence, where
Swetman insisted that his guest should have supper before departing. By the time this was eaten it was =
dusk
and the stranger announced that he was ready.
They went upstairs to where the garments and s=
word
lay hidden, till the departing one said that on further thought he would ask
another favour: that he should be allowed to retain the clothes he wore, and
that his host would keep the others and the sword till he, the speaker, sho=
uld come
or send for them.
'As you will,' said Swetman. 'The gain is on my side; for those
clouts were but kept to dress a scarecrow next fall.'
'They suit my case,' said the stranger sadly.<=
span
style=3D'mso-spacerun:yes'> 'However much they may misfit me, =
they
do not misfit my sorry fortune now!'
'Nay, then,' said Christopher relenting, 'I was
too hasty. Sh'lt bide!'
But the other would not, saying that it was be=
tter
that things should take their course.
Notwithstanding that Swetman importuned him, he only added, 'If I ne=
ver
come again, do with my belongings as you list. In the pocket you will find a gold
snuff-box, and in the snuff-box fifty gold pieces.'
'But keep 'em for thy use, man!' said the yeom=
an.
'No,' says the parting guest; 'they are foreign
pieces and would harm me if I were taken.&=
nbsp;
Do as I bid thee. Put =
away
these things again and take especial charge of the sword. It belonged to my father's father =
and I value
it much. But something more c=
ommon
becomes me now.'
Saying which, he took, as he went downstairs, =
one
of the ash sticks used by Swetman himself for walking with. The yeoman lighted him out to the =
garden
hatch, where he disappeared through Clammers Gate by the road that crosses
King's-Hintock Park to Evershead.
Christopher returned to the upstairs chamber, =
and
sat down on his bed reflecting.
Then he examined the things left behind, and surely enough in one of=
the
pockets the gold snuff-box was revealed, containing the fifty gold pieces as
stated by the fugitive. The y=
eoman
next looked at the sword which its owner had stated to have belonged to his
grandfather. It was two-edged, so that he almost feared to handle it. On the blade was inscribed the wor=
ds
'ANDREA FERARA,' and among the many fine chasings were a rose and crown, the
plume of the Prince of Wales, and two portraits; portraits of a man and a
woman, the man's having the face of the first King Charles, and the woman's,
apparently, that of his Queen.
Swetman, much awed and surprised, returned the
articles to the closet, and went downstairs pondering. Of his surmise he said nothing to =
his daughters,
merely declaring to them that the gentleman was gone; and never revealing t=
hat
he had been an eye-witness of the unpleasant scene in the orchard that was =
the
immediate cause of the departure.
Nothing occurred in Hintock during the week th=
at
followed, beyond the fitful arrival of more decided tidings concerning the
utter defeat of the Duke's army and his own disappearance at an early stage=
of
the battle. Then it was told that Monmouth was taken, not in his own clothes
but in the disguise of a countryman.
He had been sent to London, and was confined in the Tower.
The possibility that his guest had been no oth=
er
than the Duke made Swetman unspeakably sorry now; his heart smote him at the
thought that, acting so harshly for such a small breach of good faith, he m=
ight
have been the means of forwarding the unhappy fugitive's capture. On the girls coming up to him he s=
aid,
'Get away with ye, wenches: I fear you have been the ruin of an unfortunate
man!'
On the Tuesday night following, when the yeoman
was sleeping as usual in his chamber, he was, he said, conscious of the ent=
ry
of some one. Opening his eyes=
, he
beheld by the light of the moon, which shone upon the front of his house, t=
he
figure of a man who seemed to be the stranger moving from the door towards =
the
closet. He was dressed somewh=
at
differently now, but the face was quite that of his late guest in its tragi=
cal pensiveness,
as was also the tallness of his figure.&nb=
sp;
He neared the closet; and, feeling his visitor to be within his righ=
ts,
Christopher refrained from stirring.
The personage turned his large haggard eyes upon the bed where Swetm=
an
lay, and then withdrew from their hiding the articles that belonged to him,
again giving a hard gaze at Christopher as he went noiselessly out of the
chamber with his properties on his arm. His retreat down the stairs was just
audible, and also his departure by the side door, through which entrance or
exit was easy to those who knew the place.
Nothing further happened, and towards morning
Swetman slept. To avoid all r=
isk he
said not a word to the girls of the visit of the night, and certainly not to
any one outside the house; for it was dangerous at that time to avow anythi=
ng.
Among the killed in opposing the recent rising=
had
been a younger brother of the lord of the manor, who lived at King's-Hintock
Court hard by. Seeing the latter ride past in mourning clothes next day,
Swetman ventured to condole with him.
'He'd no business there!' answered the other.<=
span
style=3D'mso-spacerun:yes'> His words and manner showed the
bitterness that was mingled with his regret. 'But say no more of him. You know what has happened since, I
suppose?'
'I know that they say Monmouth is taken, Sir
Thomas, but I can't think it true,' answered Swetman.
'O zounds! 'tis true enough,' cried the knight,
'and that's not all. The Duke=
was
executed on Tower Hill two days ago.'
'D'ye say it verily?' says Swetman.
'And a very hard death he had, worse luck for =
'n,'
said Sir Thomas. 'Well, 'tis over for him and over for my brother. But not for the rest. There'll be
searchings and siftings down here anon; and happy is the man who has had
nothing to do with this matter!'
Now Swetman had hardly heard the latter words,=
so
much was he confounded by the strangeness of the tidings that the Duke had =
come
to his death on the previous Tuesday.
For it had been only the night before this present day of Friday tha=
t he
had seen his former guest, whom he had ceased to doubt could be other than =
the
Duke, come into his chamber and fetch away his accoutrements as he had
promised.
'It couldn't have been a vision,' said Christo=
pher
to himself when the knight had ridden on.&=
nbsp;
'But I'll go straight and see if the things be in the closet still; =
and
thus I shall surely learn if 'twere a vision or no.'
To the closet he went, which he had not looked
into since the stranger's departure.
And searching behind the articles placed to conceal the things hidde=
n,
he found that, as he had never doubted, they were gone.
When the rumour spread abroad in the West that= the man beheaded in the Tower was not indeed the Duke, but one of his officers taken after the battle, and that the Duke had been assisted to escape out of the country, Swetman found in it an explanation of what so deeply mystified him. That his visitor might h= ave been a friend of the Duke's, whom the Duke had asked to fetch the things in= a last request, Swetman would never admit. His belief in the rumour that Monm= outh lived, like that of thousands of others, continued to the end of his days.<= o:p>
* * * * *
Such, briefly, concluded my kinsman, is the
tradition which has been handed down in Christopher Swetman's family for the
last two hundred years.
=
=
The
traveller in school-books, who vouched in dryest tones for the fidelity to =
fact
of the following narrative, used to add a ring of truth to it by opening wi=
th a
nicety of criticism on the heroine's personality. People were wrong, he
declared, when they surmised that Baptista Trewthen was a young woman with
scarcely emotions or character.
There was nothing in her to love, and nothing to hate--so ran the
general opinion. That she sho=
wed
few positive qualities was true.
The colours and tones which changing events paint on the faces of ac=
tive
womankind were looked for in vain upon hers. But still waters run deep; and no =
crisis
had come in the years of her early maidenhood to demonstrate what lay hidden
within her, like metal in a mine.
She was the daughter of a small farmer in St.
Maria's, one of the Isles of Lyonesse beyond Off-Wessex, who had spent a la=
rge
sum, as there understood, on her education, by sending her to the mainland =
for
two years. At nineteen she was
entered at the Training College for Teachers, and at twenty-one nominated t=
o a
school in the country, near Tor-upon- Sea, whither she proceeded after the
Christmas examination and holidays.
The months passed by from winter to spring and
summer, and Baptista applied herself to her new duties as best she could, t=
ill
an uneventful year had elapsed.
Then an air of abstraction pervaded her bearing as she walked to and
fro, twice a day, and she showed the traits of a person who had something on
her mind. A widow, by name Mr=
s.
Wace, in whose house Baptista Trewthen had been provided with a sitting-room
and bedroom till the school-house should be built, noticed this change in h=
er
youthful tenant's manner, and at last ventured to press her with a few
questions.
'It has nothing to do with the place, nor with
you,' said Miss Trewthen.
'Then it is the salary?'
'No, nor the salary.'
'Then it is something you have heard from home=
, my
dear.'
Baptista was silent for a few moments. 'It is Mr. Heddegan,' she murmured=
. 'Him they used to call David Hedde=
gan
before he got his money.'
'And who is the Mr. Heddegan they used to call
David?'
'An old bachelor at Giant's Town, St. Maria's,
with no relations whatever, who lives about a stone's throw from father's.<=
span
style=3D'mso-spacerun:yes'> When I was a child he used to take=
me on
his knee and say he'd marry me some day.&n=
bsp;
Now I am a woman the jest has turned earnest, and he is anxious to do
it. And father and mother say=
s I
can't do better than have him.'
'He's well off?'
'Yes--he's the richest man we know--as a friend
and neighbour.'
'How much older did you say he was than yourse=
lf?'
'I didn't say. Twenty years at least.'
'And an unpleasant man in the bargain perhaps?=
'
'No--he's not unpleasant.'
'Well, child, all I can say is that I'd resist=
any
such engagement if it's not palatable to 'ee. You are comfortable here, in my li=
ttle
house, I hope. All the parish=
like
'ee: and I've never been so cheerful, since my poor husband left me to wear=
his
wings, as I've been with 'ee as my lodger.'
The schoolmistress assured her landlady that s=
he
could return the sentiment. '=
But
here comes my perplexity,' she said.
'I don't like keeping school.
Ah, you are surprised--you didn't suspect it. That's because I've concealed my
feeling. Well, I simply hate
school. I don't care for
children--they are unpleasant, troublesome little things, whom nothing would
delight so much as to hear that you had fallen down dead. Yet I would even =
put
up with them if it was not for the inspector. For three months before his visit I
didn't sleep soundly. And the
Committee of Council are always changing the Code, so that you don't know w=
hat
to teach, and what to leave untaught.
I think father and mother are right. They say I shall never excel as=
a
schoolmistress if I dislike the work so, and that therefore I ought to get
settled by marrying Mr. Heddegan. Between us two, I like him better than
school; but I don't like him quite so much as to wish to marry him.'
These conversations, once begun, were continued
from day to day; till at length the young girl's elderly friend and landlady
threw in her opinion on the side of Miss Trewthen's parents. All things considered, she declare=
d, the
uncertainty of the school, the labour, Baptista's natural dislike for teach=
ing,
it would be as well to take what fate offered, and make the best of matters=
by
wedding her father's old neighbour and prosperous friend.
The Easter holidays came round, and Baptista w=
ent
to spend them as usual in her native isle, going by train into Off-Wessex a=
nd
crossing by packet from Pen-zephyr.
When she returned in the middle of April her face wore a more settled
aspect.
'Well?' said the expectant Mrs. Wace.
'I have agreed to have him as my husband,' said
Baptista, in an off-hand way.
'Heaven knows if it will be for the best or not. But I have agreed to do it, and so=
the
matter is settled.'
Mrs. Wace commended her; but Baptista did not =
care
to dwell on the subject; so that allusion to it was very infrequent between
them. Nevertheless, among other things, she repeated to the widow from time=
to time
in monosyllabic remarks that the wedding was really impending; that it was
arranged for the summer, and that she had given notice of leaving the schoo=
l at
the August holidays. Later on=
she
announced more specifically that her marriage was to take place immediately
after her return home at the beginning of the month aforesaid.
She now corresponded regularly with Mr.
Heddegan. Her letters from hi=
m were
seen, at least on the outside, and in part within, by Mrs. Wace. Had she read more of their interio=
rs
than the occasional sentences shown her by Baptista she would have perceived
that the scratchy, rusty handwriting of Miss Trewthen's betrothed conveyed
little more matter than details of their future housekeeping, and his
preparations for the same, with innumerable 'my dears' sprinkled in
disconnectedly, to show the depth of his affection without the inconvenienc=
es
of syntax.
=
It was
the end of July--dry, too dry, even for the season, the delicate green herbs
and vegetables that grew in this favoured end of the kingdom tasting rather=
of
the watering-pot than of the pure fresh moisture from the skies. Baptista's boxes were packed, and =
one
Saturday morning she departed by a waggonette to the station, and thence by
train to Pen-zephyr, from which port she was, as usual, to cross the water =
immediately
to her home, and become Mr. Heddegan's wife on the Wednesday of the week
following.
She might have returned a week sooner. But though the wedding day had loo=
med so
near, and the banns were out, she delayed her departure till this last mome=
nt,
saying it was not necessary for her to be at home long beforehand. As Mr. Heddegan was older than her=
self,
she said, she was to be married in her ordinary summer bonnet and grey silk
frock, and there were no preparations to make that had not been amply made =
by
her parents and intended husband.
In due time, after a hot and tedious journey, =
she
reached Pen-zephyr. She here
obtained some refreshment, and then went towards the pier, where she learnt=
to
her surprise that the little steamboat plying between the town and the isla=
nds
had left at eleven o'clock; the usual hour of departure in the afternoon ha=
ving
been forestalled in consequence of the fogs which had for a few days prevai=
led
towards evening, making twilight navigation dangerous.
This being Saturday, there was now no other bo=
at
till Tuesday, and it became obvious that here she would have to remain for =
the
three days, unless her friends should think fit to rig out one of the islan=
d'
sailing- boats and come to fetch her--a not very likely contingency, the se=
a distance
being nearly forty miles.
Baptista, however, had been detained in Pen-ze=
phyr
on more than one occasion before, either on account of bad weather or some =
such
reason as the present, and she was therefore not in any personal alarm. But, as she was to be married on t=
he
following Wednesday, the delay was certainly inconvenient to a more than
ordinary degree, since it would leave less than a day's interval between her
arrival and the wedding ceremony.
Apart from this awkwardness she did not much m=
ind
the accident. It was indeed c=
urious
to see how little she minded.
Perhaps it would not be too much to say that, although she was going=
to
do the critical deed of her life quite willingly, she experienced an
indefinable relief at the postponement of her meeting with Heddegan. But her manner after making discov=
ery of
the hindrance was quiet and subdued, even to passivity itself; as was insta=
nced
by her having, at the moment of receiving information that the steamer had =
sailed,
replied 'Oh,' so coolly to the porter with her luggage, that he was almost
disappointed at her lack of disappointment.
The question now was, should she return again =
to
Mrs. Wace, in the village of Lower Wessex, or wait in the town at which she=
had
arrived. She would have preferred to go back, but the distance was too grea=
t; moreover,
having left the place for good, and somewhat dramatically, to become a brid=
e, a
return, even for so short a space, would have been a trifle humiliating.
Leaving, then, her boxes at the station, her n=
ext
anxiety was to secure a respectable, or rather genteel, lodging in the popu=
lar
seaside resort confronting her. To
this end she looked about the town, in which, though she had passed through=
it
half-a-dozen times, she was practically a stranger.
Baptista found a room to suit her over a
fruiterer's shop; where she made herself at home, and set herself in order
after her journey. An early c=
up of
tea having revived her spirits she walked out to reconnoitre.
Being a schoolmistress she avoided looking at =
the
schools, and having a sort of trade connection with books, she avoided look=
ing
at the booksellers; but wearying of the other shops she inspected the churc=
hes;
not that for her own part she cared much about ecclesiastical edifices; but
tourists looked at them, and so would she--a proceeding for which no one wo=
uld
have credited her with any great originality, such, for instance, as that s=
he
subsequently showed herself to possess.&nb=
sp;
The churches soon oppressed her.&nb=
sp;
She tried the Museum, but came out because it seemed lonely and tedi=
ous.
Yet the town and the walks in this land of
strawberries, these headquarters of early English flowers and fruit, were t=
hen,
as always, attractive. From t=
he
more picturesque streets she went to the town gardens, and the Pier, and the
Harbour, and looked at the men at work there, loading and unloading as in t=
he
time of the Phoenicians.
'Not Baptista? Yes, Baptista it is!'
The words were uttered behind her. Turning round she gave a start, an=
d became
confused, even agitated, for a moment.&nbs=
p;
Then she said in her usual undemonstrative manner, 'O--is it really =
you,
Charles?'
Without speaking again at once, and with a
half-smile, the new-comer glanced her over. There was much criticism, and some=
resentment--even
temper--in his eye.
'I am going home,' continued she. 'But I have missed the boat.'
He scarcely seemed to take in the meaning of t=
his
explanation, in the intensity of his critical survey. 'Teaching still? What a fine schoolmistress you mak=
e,
Baptista, I warrant!' he said with a slight flavour of sarcasm, which was n=
ot
lost upon her.
'I know I am nothing to brag of,' she
replied. 'That's why I have g=
iven up.'
'O--given up?=
You astonish me.'
'I hate the profession.'
'Perhaps that's because I am in it.'
'O no, it isn't. But I am going to enter on another=
life
altogether. I am going to be
married next week to Mr. David Heddegan.'
The young man--fortified as he was by a natural
cynical pride and passionateness--winced at this unexpected reply,
notwithstanding.
'Who is Mr. David Heddegan?' he asked, as
indifferently as lay in his power.
She informed him the bearer of the name was a
general merchant of Giant's Town, St. Maria's island--her father's nearest
neighbour and oldest friend.
'Then we shan't see anything more of you on the
mainland?' inquired the schoolmaster.
'O, I don't know about that,' said Miss Trewth=
en.
'Here endeth the career of the belle of the
boarding-school your father was foolish enough to send you to. A "general merchant's" w=
ife in
the Lyonesse Isles. Will you =
sell
pounds of soap and pennyworths of tin tacks, or whole bars of saponaceous
matter, and great tenpenny nails?'
'He's not in such a small way as that!' she al=
most
pleaded. 'He owns ships, thou=
gh
they are rather little ones!'
'O, well, it is much the same. Come, let us walk on; it is tediou=
s to stand
still. I thought you would be=
a
failure in education,' he continued, when she obeyed him and strolled
ahead. 'You never showed powe=
r that
way. You remind me much of so=
me of
those women who think they are sure to be great actresses if they go on the
stage, because they have a pretty face, and forget that what we require is
acting. But you found your mi=
stake,
didn't you?'
'Don't taunt me, Charles.' It was noticeable that the young s=
choolmaster's
tone caused her no anger or retaliatory passion; far otherwise: there was a
tear in her eye. 'How is it y=
ou are
at Pen-zephyr?' she inquired.
'I don't taunt you. I speak the truth, purely in a fri=
endly
way, as I should to any one I wished well.=
Though for that matter I might have some excuse even for taunting
you. Such a terrible hurry as
you've been in. I hate a woma=
n who
is in such a hurry.'
'How do you mean that?'
'Why--to be somebody's wife or other--anything=
's
wife rather than nobody's. You
couldn't wait for me, O, no. =
Well,
thank God, I'm cured of all that!'
'How merciless you are!' she said bitterly.
'O come, Baptista dear; come!'
'What I mean is, nothing definite,' she
expostulated. 'I suppose you =
liked
me a little; but it seemed to me to be only a pastime on your part, and that
you never meant to make an honourable engagement of it.'
'There, that's just it! You girls expect a man to mean bus=
iness
at the first look. No man whe=
n he
first becomes interested in a woman has any definite scheme of engagement to
marry her in his mind, unless he is meaning a vulgar mercenary marriage.
'But you never said so, and an indefinite
courtship soon injures a woman's position and credit, sooner than you think=
.'
'Baptista, I solemnly declare that in six mont=
hs I
should have asked you to marry me.'
She walked along in silence, looking on the
ground, and appearing very uncomfortable.&=
nbsp;
Presently he said, 'Would you have waited for me if you had known?'<=
span
style=3D'mso-spacerun:yes'> To this she whispered in a sorrowf=
ul
whisper, 'Yes!'
They went still farther in silence--passing al=
ong
one of the beautiful walks on the outskirts of the town, yet not observant =
of
scene or situation. Her shoul=
der
and his were close together, and he clasped his fingers round the small of =
her
arm--quite lightly, and without any attempt at impetus; yet the act seemed =
to
say, 'Now I hold you, and my will must be yours.'
Recurring to a previous question of hers he sa=
id,
'I have merely run down here for a day or two from school near Trufal, befo=
re
going off to the north for the rest of my holiday. I have seen my relations at Redrut=
in quite
lately, so I am not going there this time.=
How little I thought of meeting you! How very different the circumstanc=
es
would have been if, instead of parting again as we must in half-an-hour or =
so,
possibly for ever, you had been now just going off with me, as my wife, on =
our honeymoon
trip. Ha--ha--well--so humoro=
us is
life!'
She stopped suddenly. 'I must go back now--this is altog=
ether
too painful, Charley! It is n=
ot at
all a kind mood you are in to-day.'
'I don't want to pain you--you know I do not,'=
he
said more gently. 'Only it ju=
st
exasperates me--this you are going to do.&=
nbsp;
I wish you would not.'
'What?'
'Marry him.&n=
bsp;
There, now I have showed you my true sentiments.'
'I must do it now,' said she.
'Why?' he asked, dropping the off-hand masterf=
ul
tone he had hitherto spoken in, and becoming earnest; still holding her arm,
however, as if she were his chattel to be taken up or put down at will. 'It is never too late to break off=
a
marriage that's distasteful to you.
Now I'll say one thing; and it is truth: I wish you would marry me
instead of him, even now, at the last moment, though you have served me so
badly.'
'O, it is not possible to think of that!' she
answered hastily, shaking her head.
'When I get home all will be prepared--it is ready even now--the thi=
ngs
for the party, the furniture, Mr. Heddegan's new suit, and everything. I should require the courage of a
tropical lion to go home there and say I wouldn't carry out my promise!'
'Then go, in Heaven's name! But there would be no necessity fo=
r you
to go home and face them in that way.
If we were to marry, it would have to be at once, instantly; or not =
at
all. I should think your affe=
ction
not worth the having unless you agreed to come back with me to Trufal this =
evening,
where we could be married by licence on Monday morning. And then no Mr. David Heddegan or
anybody else could get you away from me.'
'I must go home by the Tuesday boat,' she
faltered. 'What would they th=
ink if
I did not come?'
'You could go home by that boat just the
same. All the difference woul=
d be
that I should go with you. You
could leave me on the quay, where I'd have a smoke, while you went and saw =
your
father and mother privately; you could then tell them what you had done, and
that I was waiting not far off; that I was a school-master in a fairly good
position, and a young man you had known when you were at the Training
College. Then I would come bo=
ldly
forward; and they would see that it could not be altered, and so you wouldn=
't
suffer a lifelong misery by being the wife of a wretched old gaffer you don=
't
like at all. Now, honestly; y=
ou do like
me best, don't you, Baptista?'
'Yes.'
'Then we will do as I say.'
She did not pronounce a clear affirmative. But that she consented to the novel
proposition at some moment or other of that walk was apparent by what occur=
red
a little later.
=
An
enterprise of such pith required, indeed, less talking than consideration.<=
span
style=3D'mso-spacerun:yes'> The first thing they did in carryi=
ng it
out was to return to the railway station, where Baptista took from her lugg=
age
a small trunk of immediate necessaries which she would in any case have
required after missing the boat.
That same afternoon they travelled up the line to Trufal.
Charles Stow (as his name was), despite his
disdainful indifference to things, was very careful of appearances, and made
the journey independently of her though in the same train. He told her where she could get bo=
ard
and lodgings in the city; and with merely a distant nod to her of a provisi=
onal
kind, went off to his own quarters, and to see about the licence.
On Sunday she saw him in the morning across the
nave of the pro-cathedral. In=
the
afternoon they walked together in the fields, where he told her that the
licence would be ready next day, and would be available the day after, when=
the
ceremony could be performed as early after eight o'clock as they should cho=
ose.
His courtship, thus renewed after an interval =
of
two years, was as impetuous, violent even, as it was short. The next day came and passed, and =
the
final arrangements were made. Their
agreement was to get the ceremony over as soon as they possibly could the n=
ext
morning, so as to go on to Pen-zephyr at once, and reach that place in time=
for
the boat's departure the same day.
It was in obedience to Baptista's earnest request that Stow consented
thus to make the whole journey to Lyonesse by land and water at one heat, a=
nd
not break it at Pen-zephyr; she seemed to be oppressed with a dread of
lingering anywhere, this great first act of disobedience to her parents once
accomplished, with the weight on her mind that her home had to be convulsed=
by
the disclosure of it. To face=
her
difficulties over the water immediately she had created them was, however, a
course more desired by Baptista than by her lover; though for once he gave =
way.
The next morning was bright and warm as those
which had preceded it. By six
o'clock it seemed nearly noon, as is often the case in that part of England=
in
the summer season. By nine th=
ey
were husband and wife. They p=
acked
up and departed by the earliest train after the service; and on the way
discussed at length what she should say on meeting her parents, Charley
dictating the turn of each phrase.
In her anxiety they had travelled so early that when they reached
Pen-zephyr they found there were nearly two hours on their hands before the
steamer's time of sailing.
Baptista was extremely reluctant to be seen
promenading the streets of the watering-place with her husband till, as abo=
ve
stated, the household at Giant's Town should know the unexpected course of
events from her own lips; and it was just possible, if not likely, that some
Lyonessian might be prowling about there, or even have come across the sea =
to
look for her. To meet any one=
to
whom she was known, and to have to reply to awkward questions about the str=
ange
young man at her side before her well- framed announcement had been deliver=
ed
at proper time and place, was a thing she could not contemplate with
equanimity. So, instead of lo=
oking at
the shops and harbour, they went along the coast a little way.
The heat of the morning was by this time
intense. They clambered up on=
some
cliffs, and while sitting there, looking around at St. Michael's Mount and
other objects, Charles said to her that he thought he would run down to the
beach at their feet, and take just one plunge into the sea.
Baptista did not much like the idea of being l=
eft
alone; it was gloomy, she said. But
he assured her he would not be gone more than a quarter of an hour at the
outside, and she passively assented.
Down he went, disappeared, appeared again, and
looked back. Then he again
proceeded, and vanished, till, as a small waxen object, she saw him emerge =
from
the nook that had screened him, cross the white fringe of foam, and walk in=
to
the undulating mass of blue. =
Once
in the water he seemed less inclined to hurry than before; he remained a lo=
ng
time; and, unable either to appreciate his skill or criticize his want of i=
t at
that distance, she withdrew her eyes from the spot, and gazed at the still =
outline
of St. Michael's--now beautifully toned in grey.
Her anxiety for the hour of departure, and to =
cope
at once with the approaching incidents that she would have to manipulate as
best she could, sent her into a reverie.&n=
bsp;
It was now Tuesday; she would reach home in the evening--a very late
time they would say; but, as the delay was a pure accident, they would deem=
her
marriage to Mr. Heddegan to-morrow still practicable. Then Charles would have to be prod=
uced
from the background. It was a
terrible undertaking to think of, and she almost regretted her temerity in
wedding so hastily that morning.
The rage of her father would be so crushing; the reproaches of her
mother so bitter; and perhaps Charles would answer hotly, and perhaps cause
estrangement till death. Ther=
e had
obviously been no alarm about her at St. Maria's, or somebody would have sa=
iled
across to inquire for her. Sh=
e had,
in a letter written at the beginning of the week, spoken of the hour at whi=
ch she
intended to leave her country schoolhouse; and from this her friends had
probably perceived that by such timing she would run a risk of losing the
Saturday boat. She had missed=
it,
and as a consequence sat here on the shore as Mrs. Charles Stow.
This brought her to the present, and she turned
from the outline of St. Michael's Mount to look about for her husband's
form. He was, as far as she c=
ould
discover, no longer in the sea.
Then he was dressing. =
By moving
a few steps she could see where his clothes lay. But Charles was not beside them.
Baptista looked back again at the water in
bewilderment, as if her senses were the victim of some sleight of hand. Not a speck or spot resembling a m=
an's
head or face showed anywhere. By
this time she was alarmed, and her alarm intensified when she perceived a
little beyond the scene of her husband's bathing a small area of water, the
quality of whose surface differed from that of the surrounding expanse as t=
he
coarse vegetation of some foul patch in a mead differs from the fine green =
of
the remainder. Elsewhere it looked flexuous, here it looked vermiculated and
lumpy, and her marine experiences suggested to her in a moment that two
currents met and caused a turmoil at this place.
She descended as hastily as her trembling limbs
would allow. The way down was
terribly long, and before reaching the heap of clothes it occurred to her t=
hat,
after all, it would be best to run first for help. Hastening along in a lat=
eral
direction she proceeded inland till she met a man, and soon afterwards two
others. To them she exclaimed=
, 'I
think a gentleman who was bathing is in some danger. I cannot see him as I could. Will you please run and help him, =
at
once, if you will be so kind?'
She did not think of turning to show them the
exact spot, indicating it vaguely by the direction of her hand, and still g=
oing
on her way with the idea of gaining more assistance. When she deemed, in her faintness,=
that she
had carried the alarm far enough, she faced about and dragged herself back
again. Before reaching the now
dreaded spot she met one of the men.
'We can see nothing at all, Miss,' he declared=
.
Having gained the beach, she found the tide in,
and no sign of Charley's clothes.
The other men whom she had besought to come had disappeared, it must
have been in some other direction, for she had not met them going away. They, finding nothing, had probably
thought her alarm a mere conjecture, and given up the quest.
Baptista sank down upon the stones near at
hand. Where Charley had undre=
ssed
was now sea. There could not =
be the
least doubt that he was drowned, and his body sucked under by the current;
while his clothes, lying within high-water mark, had probably been carried =
away
by the rising tide.
She remained in a stupor for some minutes, til=
l a
strange sensation succeeded the aforesaid perceptions, mystifying her
intelligence, and leaving her physically almost inert. With his personal disappearance, t=
he
last three days of her life with him seemed to be swallowed up, also his im=
age,
in her mind's eye, waned curiously, receded far away, grew stranger and
stranger, less and less real. Their
meeting and marriage had been so sudden, unpremeditated, adventurous, that =
she
could hardly believe that she had played her part in such a reckless
drama. Of all the few hours o=
f her
life with Charles, the portion that most insisted in coming back to memory =
was
their fortuitous encounter on the previous Saturday, and those bitter repri=
mands
with which he had begun the attack, as it might be called, which had piqued=
her
to an unexpected consummation.
A sort of cruelty, an imperiousness, even in h=
is
warmth, had characterized Charles Stow.&nb=
sp;
As a lover he had ever been a bit of a tyrant; and it might pretty t=
ruly
have been said that he had stung her into marriage with him at last. Still more alien from her life did=
these
reflections operate to make him; and then they would be chased away by an i=
nterval
of passionate weeping and mad regret.
Finally, there returned upon the confused mind of the young wife the
recollection that she was on her way homeward, and that the packet would sa=
il
in three-quarters of an hour.
Except the parasol in her hand, all she posses=
sed
was at the station awaiting her onward journey.
She looked in that direction; and, entering on=
e of
those undemonstrative phases so common with her, walked quietly on.
At first she made straight for the railway; but
suddenly turning she went to a shop and wrote an anonymous line announcing =
his
death by drowning to the only person she had ever heard Charles mention as a
relative. Posting this stealt=
hily,
and with a fearful look around her, she seemed to acquire a terror of the l=
ate
events, pursuing her way to the station as if followed by a spectre.
When she got to the office she asked for the
luggage that she had left there on the Saturday as well as the trunk left on
the morning just lapsed. All =
were
put in the boat, and she herself followed.=
Quickly as these things had been done, the whole proceeding,
nevertheless, had been almost automatic on Baptista's part, ere she had com=
e to
any definite conclusion on her course.
Just before the bell rang she heard a conversa=
tion
on the pier, which removed the last shade of doubt from her mind, if any had
existed, that she was Charles Stow's widow. The sentences were but fragmentary=
, but she
could easily piece them out.
'A man drowned--swam out too far--was a strang=
er
to the place--people in boat--saw him go down--couldn't get there in time.'=
The news was little more definite than this as
yet; though it may as well be stated once for all that the statement was
true. Charley, with the over-=
confidence
of his nature, had ventured out too far for his strength, and succumbed in =
the
absence of assistance, his lifeless body being at that moment suspended in =
the
transparent mid-depths of the bay.
His clothes, however, had merely been gently lifted by the rising ti=
de,
and floated into a nook hard by, where they lay out of sight of the passers=
- by
till a day or two after.
=
In ten
minutes they were steaming out of the harbour for their voyage of four or f=
ive
hours, at whose ending she would have to tell her strange story.
As Pen-zephyr and all its environing scenes
disappeared behind Mousehole and St. Clement's Isle, Baptista's ephemeral,
meteor-like husband impressed her yet more as a fantasy. She was still in such a trance-lik=
e state
that she had been an hour on the little packet-boat before she became aware=
of
the agitating fact that Mr. Heddegan was on board with her. Involuntarily she slipped from her=
left
hand the symbol of her wifehood.
'Hee-hee!&nbs=
p;
Well, the truth is, I wouldn't interrupt 'ee. "I reckon she don't see me, or
won't see me," I said, "and what's the hurry? She'll see enough o' me soon!"=
; I hope ye be well, mee deer?'
He was a hale, well-conditioned man of about f=
ive
and fifty, of the complexion common to those whose lives are passed on the
bluffs and beaches of an ocean isle.
He extended the four quarters of his face in a genial smile, and his
hand for a grasp of the same magnitude.&nb=
sp;
She gave her own in surprised docility, and he continued: 'I couldn't
help coming across to meet 'ee.
What an unfortunate thing you missing the boat and not coming
Saturday! They meant to have =
warned
'ee that the time was changed, but forgot it at the last moment. The truth is that I should have in=
formed
'ee myself; but I was that busy finishing up a job last week, so as to have
this week free, that I trusted to your father for attending to these little
things. However, so plain and=
quiet
as it is all to be, it really do not matter so much as it might otherwise h=
ave done,
and I hope ye haven't been greatly put out. Now, if you'd sooner that I should=
not
be seen talking to 'ee--if 'ee feel shy at all before strangers--just say.<=
span
style=3D'mso-spacerun:yes'> I'll leave 'ee to yourself till we=
get
home.'
'Thank you much. I am indeed a little tired, Mr.
Heddegan.'
He nodded urbane acquiescence, strolled away
immediately, and minutely inspected the surface of the funnel, till some fe=
male
passengers of Giant's Town tittered at what they must have thought a
rebuff--for the approaching wedding was known to many on St. Maria's Island,
though to nobody elsewhere.
Baptista coloured at their satire, and called him back, and forced
herself to commune with him in at least a mechanically friendly manner.
The opening event had been thus different from=
her
expectation, and she had adumbrated no act to meet it. Taken aback she passively allowed =
circumstances
to pilot her along; and so the voyage was made.
It was near dusk when they touched the pier of
Giant's Town, where several friends and neighbours stood awaiting them. Her father had a lantern in his
hand. Her mother, too, was th=
ere,
reproachfully glad that the delay had at last ended so simply. Mrs. Trewthen and her daughter went
together along the Giant's Walk, or promenade, to the house, rather in adva=
nce
of her husband and Mr. Heddegan, who talked in loud tones which reached the
women over their shoulders.
Some would have called Mrs. Trewthen a good
mother; but though well meaning she was maladroit, and her intentions missed
their mark. This might have b=
een
partly attributable to the slight deafness from which she suffered. Now, as usual, the chief utterance=
s came
from her lips.
'Ah, yes, I'm so glad, my child, that you've g=
ot
over safe. It is all ready, a=
nd
everything so well arranged, that nothing but misfortune could hinder you
settling as, with God's grace, becomes 'ee. Close to your mother's door a'most=
, 'twill
be a great blessing, I'm sure; and I was very glad to find from your letters
that you'd held your word sacred. That's right--make your word your bond
always. Mrs. Wace seems to be=
a sensible
woman. I hope the Lord will d=
o for
her as he's doing for you no long time hence. And how did 'ee get over the terri=
ble
journey from Tor- upon-Sea to Pen-zephyr?&=
nbsp;
Once you'd done with the railway, of course, you seemed quite at
home. Well, Baptista, conduct
yourself seemly, and all will be well.'
Thus admonished, Baptista entered the house, h=
er
father and Mr. Heddegan immediately at her back. Her mother had been so didactic th=
at she
had felt herself absolutely unable to broach the subjects in the centre of =
her
mind.
The familiar room, with the dark ceiling, the
well-spread table, the old chairs, had never before spoken so eloquently of=
the
times ere she knew or had heard of Charley Stow. She went upstairs to take off her
things, her mother remaining below to complete the disposition of the suppe=
r,
and attend to the preparation of to-morrow's meal, altogether composing suc=
h an
array of pies, from pies of fish to pies of turnips, as was never heard of
outside the Western Duchy.
Baptista, once alone, sat down and did nothing; and was called before
she had taken off her bonnet.
'I'm coming,' she cried, jumping up, and speed= ily disapparelling herself, brushed her hair with a few touches and went down.<= o:p>
Two or three of Mr. Heddegan's and her father's
friends had dropped in, and expressed their sympathy for the delay she had =
been
subjected to. The meal was a =
most
merry one except to Baptista. She
had desired privacy, and there was none; and to break the news was already a
greater difficulty than it had been at first. Everything around her, animate and=
inanimate,
great and small, insisted that she had come home to be married; and she cou=
ld
not get a chance to say nay.
One or two people sang songs, as overtures to =
the
melody of the morrow, till at length bedtime came, and they all withdrew, h=
er
mother having retired a little earlier.&nb=
sp;
When Baptista found herself again alone in her bedroom the case stoo=
d as
before: she had come home with much to say, and she had said nothing.
It was now growing clear even to herself that
Charles being dead, she had not determination sufficient within her to break
tidings which, had he been alive, would have imperatively announced
themselves. And thus with the
stroke of midnight came the turning of the scale; her story should remain
untold. It was not that upon =
the
whole she thought it best not to attempt to tell it; but that she could not
undertake so explosive a matter. To
stop the wedding now would cause a convulsion in Giant's Town little short =
of
volcanic. Weakened, tired, and
terrified as she had been by the day's adventures, she could not make herse=
lf
the author of such a catastrophe.
But how refuse Heddegan without telling? It really seemed to her as if her
marriage with Mr. Heddegan were about to take place as if nothing had
intervened.
Morning came.=
The events of the previous days were cut off from her present existe=
nce
by scene and sentiment more completely than ever. Charles Stow had grown to=
be
a special being of whom, owing to his character, she entertained rather fea=
rful
than loving memory. Baptista =
could
hear when she awoke that her parents were already moving about downstairs.<=
span
style=3D'mso-spacerun:yes'> But she did not rise till her moth=
er's
rather rough voice resounded up the staircase as it had done on the precedi=
ng
evening.
'Baptista!&nb=
sp;
Come, time to be stirring!
The man will be here, by heaven's blessing, in three-quarters of an
hour. He has looked in alread=
y for
a minute or two--and says he's going to the church to see if things be well=
forward.'
Baptista arose, looked out of the window, and =
took
the easy course. When she eme=
rged
from the regions above she was arrayed in her new silk frock and best
stockings, wearing a linen jacket over the former for breakfasting, and her
common slippers over the latter, not to spoil the new ones on the rough
precincts of the dwelling.
It is unnecessary to dwell at any great length=
on
this part of the morning's proceedings.&nb=
sp;
She revealed nothing; and married Heddegan, as she had given her wor=
d to
do, on that appointed August day.
=
Mr.
Heddegan forgave the coldness of his bride's manner during and after the
wedding ceremony, full well aware that there had been considerable reluctan=
ce
on her part to acquiesce in this neighbourly arrangement, and, as a philoso=
pher
of long standing, holding that whatever Baptista's attitude now, the condit=
ions
would probably be much the same six months hence as those which ruled among
other married couples.
An absolutely unexpected shock was given to
Baptista's listless mind about an hour after the wedding service. They had nearly finished the mid-d=
ay
dinner when the now husband said to her father, 'We think of starting about
two. And the breeze being so =
fair
we shall bring up inside Pen-zephyr new pier about six at least.'
'What--are we going to Pen-zephyr?' said
Baptista. 'I don't know anyth=
ing of
it.'
'Didn't you tell her?' asked her father of
Heddegan.
It transpired that, owing to the delay in her
arrival, this proposal too, among other things, had in the hurry not been
mentioned to her, except some time ago as a general suggestion that they wo=
uld
go somewhere. Heddegan had imagined that any trip would be pleasant, and on=
e to
the mainland the pleasantest of all.
She looked so distressed at the announcement t=
hat
her husband willingly offered to give it up, though he had not had a holiday
off the island for a whole year.
Then she pondered on the inconvenience of staying at Giant's Town, w=
here
all the inhabitants were bonded, by the circumstances of their situation, i=
nto
a sort of family party, which permitted and encouraged on such occasions as
these oral criticism that was apt to disturb the equanimity of newly married
girls, and would especially worry Baptista in her strange situation. Hence, unexpectedly, she agreed no=
t to
disorganize her husband's plans for the wedding jaunt, and it was settled t=
hat,
as originally intended, they should proceed in a neighbour's sailing boat to
the metropolis of the district.
In this way they arrived at Pen-zephyr without
difficulty or mishap. Bidding adieu to Jenkin and his man, who had sailed t=
hem
over, they strolled arm in arm off the pier, Baptista silent, cold, and
obedient. Heddegan had arranged to take her as far as Plymouth before their
return, but to go no further than where they had landed that day. Their first business was to find a=
n inn;
and in this they had unexpected difficulty, since for some reason or
other--possibly the fine weather--many of the nearest at hand were full of
tourists and commercial travellers.
He led her on till he reached a tavern which, though comparatively
unpretending, stood in as attractive a spot as any in the town; and this,
somewhat to their surprise after their previous experience, they found
apparently empty. The conside=
rate
old man, thinking that Baptista was educated to artistic notions, though he
himself was deficient in them, had decided that it was most desirable to ha=
ve,
on such an occasion as the present, an apartment with 'a good view' (the
expression being one he had often heard in use among tourists); and he
therefore asked for a favourite room on the first floor, from which a
bow-window protruded, for the express purpose of affording such an outlook.=
The landlady, after some hesitation, said she =
was
sorry that particular apartment was engaged; the next one, however, or any
other in the house, was unoccupied.
'The gentleman who has the best one will give =
it
up to-morrow, and then you can change into it,' she added, as Mr. Heddegan
hesitated about taking the adjoining and less commanding one.
'We shall be gone to-morrow, and shan't want i=
t,'
he said.
Wishing not to lose customers, the landlady
earnestly continued that since he was bent on having the best room, perhaps=
the
other gentleman would not object to move at once into the one they despised,
since, though nothing could be seen from the window, the room was equally
large.
'Well, if he doesn't care for a view,' said Mr.
Heddegan, with the air of a highly artistic man who did.
'O no--I am sure he doesn't,' she said. 'I can promise that you shall have=
the
room you want. If you would n=
ot
object to go for a walk for half an hour, I could have it ready, and your
things in it, and a nice tea laid in the bow-window by the time you come ba=
ck?'
This proposal was deemed satisfactory by the f=
ussy
old tradesman, and they went out.
Baptista nervously conducted him in an opposite direction to her wal=
k of
the former day in other company, showing on her wan face, had he observed i=
t,
how much she was beginning to regret her sacrificial step for mending matte=
rs
that morning.
She took advantage of a moment when her husban=
d's
back was turned to inquire casually in a shop if anything had been heard of=
the
gentleman who was sucked down in the eddy while bathing.
The shopman said, 'Yes, his body has been wash=
ed
ashore,' and had just handed Baptista a newspaper on which she discerned the
heading, 'A Schoolmaster drowned while bathing,' when her husband turned to
join her. She might have pursued the subject without raising suspicion; but=
it
was more than flesh and blood could do, and completing a small purchase alm=
ost
ran out of the shop.
'What is your terrible hurry, mee deer?' said
Heddegan, hastening after.
'I don't know--I don't want to stay in shops,'=
she
gasped.
'And we won't,' he said. 'They are suffocating this weather= . Let's go back and have some tay!'<= o:p>
They found the much desired apartment awaiting
their entry. It was a sort of
combination bed and sitting-room, and the table was prettily spread with hi=
gh
tea in the bow-window, a bunch of flowers in the midst, and a best-parlour
chair on each side. Here they
shared the meal by the ruddy light of the vanishing sun. But though the view had been engag=
ed, regardless
of expense, exclusively for Baptista's pleasure, she did not direct any keen
attention out of the window. =
Her
gaze as often fell on the floor and walls of the room as elsewhere, and on =
the
table as much as on either, beholding nothing at all.
But there was a change. Opposite her seat was the door, up=
on
which her eyes presently became riveted like those of a little bird upon a
snake. For, on a peg at the back of the door, there hung a hat; such a hat-=
-surely,
from its peculiar make, the actual hat--that had been worn by Charles. Conviction grew to certainty when =
she
saw a railway ticket sticking up from the band. Charles had put the ticket there--=
she
had noticed the act.
Her teeth almost chattered; she murmured somet=
hing
incoherent. Her husband jumpe=
d up
and said, 'You are not well! =
What
is it? What shall I get 'ee?'=
'Smelling salts!' she said, quickly and
desperately; 'at that chemist's shop you were in just now.'
He jumped up like the anxious old man that he =
was,
caught up his own hat from a back table, and without observing the other
hastened out and downstairs.
Left alone she gazed and gazed at the back of =
the
door, then spasmodically rang the bell.&nb=
sp;
An honest-looking country maid-servant appeared in response.
'A hat!' murmured Baptista, pointing with her
finger. 'It does not belong t=
o us.'
'O yes, I'll take it away,' said the young wom=
an
with some hurry. 'It belongs =
to the
other gentleman.'
She spoke with a certain awkwardness, and took=
the
hat out of the room. Baptista had recovered her outward composure. 'The other gentleman?' she said. 'Where is the other gentleman?'
'He's in the next room, ma'am. He removed out of this to oblige '=
ee.'
'How can you say so? I should hear him if he were there=
,'
said Baptista, sufficiently recovered to argue down an apparent untruth.
'He's there,' said the girl, hardily.
'Then it is strange that he makes no noise,' s=
aid
Mrs. Heddegan, convicting the girl of falsity by a look.
'He makes no noise; but it is not strange,' sa=
id
the servant.
All at once a dread took possession of the bri=
de's
heart, like a cold hand laid thereon; for it flashed upon her that there wa=
s a
possibility of reconciling the girl's statement with her own knowledge of
facts.
'Why does he make no noise?' she weakly said.<= o:p>
The waiting-maid was silent, and looked at her
questioner. 'If I tell you, m=
a'am,
you won't tell missis?' she whispered.
Baptista promised.
'Because he's a-lying dead!' said the girl.
'O!' said the bride, covering her eyes. 'Then he was in this room till just
now?'
'Yes,' said the maid, thinking the young lady's
agitation natural enough. 'And I told missis that I thought she oughtn't to
have done it, because I don't hold it right to keep visitors so much in the
dark where death's concerned; but she said the gentleman didn't die of anyt=
hing
infectious; she was a poor, honest, innkeeper's wife, she says, who had to =
get
her living by making hay while the sun sheened. And owing to the drownded gentleman
being brought here, she said, it kept so many people away that we were empt=
y,
though all the other houses were full.&nbs=
p;
So when your good man set his mind upon the room, and she would have
lost good paying folk if he'd not had it, it wasn't to be supposed, she sai=
d,
that she'd let anything stand in the way.&=
nbsp;
Ye won't say that I've told ye, please, m'm? All the linen has been
changed, and as the inquest won't be till to-morrow, after you are gone, she
thought you wouldn't know a word of it, being strangers here.'
The returning footsteps of her husband broke o=
ff
further narration. Baptista waved her hand, for she could not speak. The waiting-maid quickly withdrew,=
and
Mr. Heddegan entered with the smelling salts and other nostrums.
'Any better?' he questioned.
'I don't like the hotel,' she exclaimed, almost
simultaneously. 'I can't bear
it--it doesn't suit me!'
'Is that all that's the matter?' he returned
pettishly (this being the first time of his showing such a mood). 'Upon my heart and life such trifl=
ing is
trying to any man's temper, Baptista!
Sending me about from here to yond, and then when I come back saying=
'ee
don't like the place that I have sunk so much money and words to get for
'ee. 'Od dang it all, 'tis en=
ough
to--But I won't say any more at present, mee deer, though it is just too mu=
ch
to expect to turn out of the house now.&nb=
sp;
We shan't get another quiet place at this time of the evening--every
other inn in the town is bustling with rackety folk of one sort and t'other=
, while
here 'tis as quiet as the grave--the country, I would say. So bide still, d'ye hear, and to-m=
orrow
we shall be out of the town altogether--as early as you like.'
The obstinacy of age had, in short, overmaster=
ed
its complaisance, and the young woman said no more. The simple course of telling him t=
hat in
the adjoining room lay a corpse which had lately occupied their own might, =
it
would have seemed, have been an effectual one without further disclosure, b=
ut
to allude to that subject, however it was disguised, was more than Heddegan=
's
young wife had strength for. =
Horror
broke her down. In the contingency one thing only presented itself to her
paralyzed regard--that here she was doomed to abide, in a hideous contiguit=
y to
the dead husband and the living, and her conjecture did, in fact, bear itse=
lf out. That night she lay between the two=
men
she had married--Heddegan on the one hand, and on the other through the
partition against which the bed stood, Charles Stow.
=
Kindly
time had withdrawn the foregoing event three days from the present of Bapti=
sta
Heddegan. It was ten o'clock =
in the
morning; she had been ill, not in an ordinary or definite sense, but in a s=
tate
of cold stupefaction, from which it was difficult to arouse her so much as =
to
say a few sentences. When
questioned she had replied that she was pretty well.
Their trip, as such, had been something of a
failure. They had gone on as =
far as
Falmouth, but here he had given way to her entreaties to return home. This they could not very well do w=
ithout
repassing through Pen- zephyr, at which place they had now again arrived.
In the train she had seen a weekly local paper,
and read there a paragraph detailing the inquest on Charles. It was added that the funeral was =
to
take place at his native town of Redrutin on Friday.
After reading this she had shown no reluctance=
to
enter the fatal neighbourhood of the tragedy, only stipulating that they sh=
ould
take their rest at a different lodging from the first; and now comparativel=
y braced
up and calm--indeed a cooler creature altogether than when last in the town,
she said to David that she wanted to walk out for a while, as they had plen=
ty
of time on their hands.
'To a shop as usual, I suppose, mee deer?'
'Partly for shopping,' she said. 'And it will be best for you, dear=
, to stay
in after trotting about so much, and have a good rest while I am gone.'
He assented; and Baptista sallied forth. As she had stated, her first visit=
was
made to a shop, a draper's. W=
ithout
the exercise of much choice she purchased a black bonnet and veil, also a b=
lack
stuff gown; a black mantle she already wore. These articles were made up into a
parcel which, in spite of the saleswoman's offers, her customer said she wo=
uld take
with her. Bearing it on her a=
rm she
turned to the railway, and at the station got a ticket for Redrutin.
Thus it appeared that, on her recovery from the
paralyzed mood of the former day, while she had resolved not to blast utter=
ly
the happiness of her present husband by revealing the history of the depart=
ed
one, she had also determined to indulge a certain odd, inconsequent, femini=
ne sentiment
of decency, to the small extent to which it could do no harm to any
person. At Redrutin she emerg=
ed
from the railway carriage in the black attire purchased at the shop, having
during the transit made the change in the empty compartment she had
chosen. The other clothes wer=
e now
in the bandbox and parcel. Le=
aving
these at the cloak-room she proceeded onward, and after a wary survey reach=
ed
the side of a hill whence a view of the burial ground could be obtained.
It was now a little before two o'clock. While Baptista waited a funeral pr=
ocession
ascended the road. Baptista h=
astened
across, and by the time the procession entered the cemetery gates she had
unobtrusively joined it.
In addition to the schoolmaster's own relatives
(not a few), the paragraph in the newspapers of his death by drowning had d=
rawn
together many neighbours, acquaintances, and onlookers. Among them she passed unnoticed, a=
nd
with a quiet step pursued the winding path to the chapel, and afterwards th=
ence
to the grave. When all was ov=
er,
and the relatives and idlers had withdrawn, she stepped to the edge of the
chasm. From beneath her mantl=
e she
drew a little bunch of forget-me-nots, and dropped them in upon the
coffin. In a few minutes she =
also
turned and went away from the cemetery.&nb=
sp;
By five o'clock she was again in Pen-zephyr.
'You have been a mortal long time!' said her
husband, crossly. 'I allowed =
you an
hour at most, mee deer.'
'It occupied me longer,' said she.
'Well--I reckon it is wasting words to
complain. Hang it, ye look so=
tired
and wisht that I can't find heart to say what I would!'
'I am--weary and wisht, David; I am. We can get home to-morrow for cert=
ain, I
hope?'
'We can.
And please God we will!' said Mr. Heddegan heartily, as if he too we=
re
weary of his brief honeymoon. 'I
must be into business again on Monday morning at latest.'
They left by the next morning steamer, and in =
the
afternoon took up their residence in their own house at Giant's Town.
The hour that she reached the island it was as=
if
a material weight had been removed from Baptista's shoulders. Her husband attributed the change =
to the
influence of the local breezes after the hot-house atmosphere of the
mainland. However that might =
be,
settled here, a few doors from her mother's dwelling, she recovered in no v=
ery
long time much of her customary bearing, which was never very
demonstrative. She accepted h=
er
position calmly, and faintly smiled when her neighbours learned to call her
Mrs. Heddegan, and said she seemed likely to become the leader of fashion in
Giant's Town.
Her husband was a man who had made considerably
more money by trade than her father had done: and perhaps the greater profu=
sion
of surroundings at her command than she had heretofore been mistress of, was
not without an effect upon her. One
week, two weeks, three weeks passed; and, being pre- eminently a young woman
who allowed things to drift, she did nothing whatever either to disclose or
conceal traces of her first marriage; or to learn if there existed
possibilities--which there undoubtedly did--by which that hasty contract mi=
ght
become revealed to those about her at any unexpected moment.
While yet within the first month of her marria=
ge,
and on an evening just before sunset, Baptista was standing within her gard=
en
adjoining the house, when she saw passing along the road a personage clad i=
n a
greasy black coat and battered tall hat, which, common enough in the slums =
of a
city, had an odd appearance in St. Maria's. The tramp, as he seemed to be, mar=
ked
her at once--bonnetless and unwrapped as she was her features were plainly
recognizable--and with an air of friendly surprise came and leant over the
wall.
'What! don't you know me?' said he.
She had some dim recollection of his face, but
said that she was not acquainted with him.
'Why, your witness to be sure, ma'am. Don't you mind the man that was me=
nding
the church-window when you and your intended husband walked up to be made o=
ne;
and the clerk called me down from the ladder, and I came and did my part by
writing my name and occupation?'
Baptista glanced quickly around; her husband w=
as
out of earshot. That would ha=
ve
been of less importance but for the fact that the wedding witnessed by this
personage had not been the wedding with Mr. Heddegan, but the one on the day
previous.
'I've had a misfortune since then, that's pull=
ed
me under,' continued her friend.
'But don't let me damp yer wedded joy by naming the particulars. Yes,
I've seen changes since; though 'tis but a short time ago--let me see, only=
a
month next week, I think; for 'twere the first or second day in August.'
'Yes--that's when it was,' said another man, a
sailor, who had come up with a pipe in his mouth, and felt it necessary to =
join
in (Baptista having receded to escape further speech). 'For that was the first time I set=
foot
in Giant's Town; and her husband took her to him the same day.'
A dialogue then proceeded between the two men
outside the wall, which Baptista could not help hearing.
'Ay, I signed the book that made her one flesh=
,'
repeated the decayed glazier.
'Where's her goodman?'
'About the premises somewhere; but you don't s=
ee
'em together much,' replied the sailor in an undertone. 'You see, he's older than she.'
'Older?
I should never have thought it from my own observation,' said the
glazier. 'He was a remarkably
handsome man.'
'Handsome?&nb=
sp;
Well, there he is--we can see for ourselves.'
David Heddegan had, indeed, just shown himself=
at
the upper end of the garden; and the glazier, looking in bewilderment from =
the
husband to the wife, saw the latter turn pale.
Now that decayed glazier was a far-seeing and
cunning man--too far-seeing and cunning to allow himself to thrive by simple
and straightforward means--and he held his peace, till he could read more
plainly the meaning of this riddle, merely adding carelessly, 'Well--marria=
ge
do alter a man, 'tis true. I =
should
never ha' knowed him!'
He then stared oddly at the disconcerted Bapti=
sta,
and moving on to where he could again address her, asked her to do him a go=
od
turn, since he once had done the same for her. Understanding that he meant money,=
she handed
him some, at which he thanked her, and instantly went away.
=
She
had escaped exposure on this occasion; but the incident had been an awkward
one, and should have suggested to Baptista that sooner or later the secret =
must
leak out. As it was, she susp=
ected
that at any rate she had not heard the last of the glazier.
In a day or two, when her husband had gone to =
the
old town on the other side of the island, there came a gentle tap at the do=
or,
and the worthy witness of her first marriage made his appearance a second t=
ime.
'It took me hours to get to the bottom of the
mystery--hours!' he said with a gaze of deep confederacy which offended her
pride very deeply. 'But thanks to a good intellect I've done it. Now, ma'am, I'm not a man to tell =
tales,
even when a tale would be so good as this.=
But I'm going back to the mainland again, and a little assistance wo=
uld
be as rain on thirsty ground.'
'I helped you two days ago,' began Baptista.
'Yes--but what was that, my good lady? Not enough to pay my passage to Pe=
n-zephyr. I came over on your account, for I
thought there was a mystery somewhere.&nbs=
p;
Now I must go back on my own.
Mind this--'twould be very awkward for you if your old man were to
know. He's a queer temper, th=
ough
he may be fond.'
She knew as well as her visitor how awkward it
would be; and the hush- money she paid was heavy that day. She had, however, the satisfaction=
of watching
the man to the steamer, and seeing him diminish out of sight. But Baptista
perceived that the system into which she had been led of purchasing silence
thus was one fatal to her peace of mind, particularly if it had to be
continued.
Hearing no more from the glazier she hoped the
difficulty was past. But anot=
her
week only had gone by, when, as she was pacing the Giant's Walk (the name g=
iven
to the promenade), she met the same personage in the company of a fat woman
carrying a bundle.
'This is the lady, my dear,' he said to his
companion. 'This, ma'am, is my
wife. We've come to settle in=
the
town for a time, if so be we can find room.'
'That you won't do,' said she. 'Nobody can live here who is not p=
rivileged.'
'I am privileged,' said the glazier, 'by my
trade.'
Baptista went on, but in the afternoon she
received a visit from the man's wife.
This honest woman began to depict, in forcible colours, the necessity
for keeping up the concealment.
'I will intercede with my husband, ma'am,' she said. 'He's a true man if rig= htly managed; and I'll beg him to consider your position. 'Tis a very nice house you've got = here,' she added, glancing round, 'and well worth a little sacrifice to keep it.'<= o:p>
The unlucky Baptista staved off the danger on =
this
third occasion as she had done on the previous two. But she formed a resolve that, if =
the attack
were once more to be repeated she would face a revelation--worse though that
must now be than before she had attempted to purchase silence by bribes.
She looked at him, unconscious of all. The case was serious; she knew that
well; and all the more serious in that she liked him better now than she ha=
d done
at first. Yet, as she herself=
began
to see, the secret was one that was sure to disclose itself. Her name and Charles's stood indel=
ibly
written in the registers; and though a month only had passed as yet it was a
wonder that his clandestine union with her had not already been discovered =
by
his friends. Thus spurring he=
rself
to the inevitable, she spoke to Heddegan.
'David, come indoors. I have something to tell you.'
He hardly regarded her at first. She had discerned that during the =
last week
or two he had seemed preoccupied, as if some private business harassed
him. She repeated her request=
. He replied with a sigh, 'Yes, cert=
ainly,
mee deer.'
When they had reached the sitting-room and shut
the door she repeated, faintly, 'David, I have something to tell you--a sor=
t of
tragedy I have concealed. You=
will
hate me for having so far deceived you; but perhaps my telling you voluntar=
ily
will make you think a little better of me than you would do otherwise.'
'Tragedy?' he said, awakening to interest. 'Much you can know about tragedies=
, mee
deer, that have been in the world so short a time!'
She saw that he suspected nothing, and it made=
her
task the harder. But on she w=
ent
steadily. 'It is about someth=
ing
that happened before we were married,' she said.
'Indeed!'
'Not a very long time before--a short time.
'I don't much mind that,' he said mildly. 'In truth, I was in hopes 'twas mo=
re.'
'In hopes!'
'Well, yes.'
This screwed her up to the necessary effort. 'I met my old sweetheart. He scorn=
ed me,
chid me, dared me, and I went and married him. We were coming straight here to te=
ll you
all what we had done; but he was drowned; and I thought I would say nothing
about him: and I married you, David, for the sake of peace and quietness. I've tried to keep it from you, bu=
t have
found I cannot. There--that's=
the
substance of it, and you can never, never forgive me, I am sure!'
She spoke desperately. But the old man, instead of turning
black or blue, or slaying her in his indignation, jumped up from his chair,=
and
began to caper around the room in quite an ecstatic emotion.
'O, happy thing! How well it falls out!' he exclaim=
ed,
snapping his, fingers over his head.
'Ha-ha--the knot is cut--I see a way out of my trouble--ha-ha!' She looked at him without uttering=
a
sound, till, as he still continued smiling joyfully, she said, 'O--what do =
you
mean! Is it done to torment m=
e?'
'No--no!
O, mee deer, your story helps me out of the most heart-aching quanda=
ry a
poor man ever found himself in! You
see, it is this--I've got a tragedy, too; and unless you had had one to tel=
l, I
could never have seen my way to tell mine!'
'What is yours--what is it?' she asked, with
altogether a new view of things.
'Well--it is a bouncer; mine is a bouncer!' sa=
id
he, looking on the ground and wiping his eyes.
'Not worse than mine?'
'Well--that depends upon how you look at it. Yours had to do with the past alon=
e; and
I don't mind it. You see, we'=
ve
been married a month, and it don't jar upon me as it would if we'd only been
married a day or two. Now mine
refers to past, present, and future; so that--'
'Past, present, and future!' she murmured. 'It never occurred to me that you =
had a
tragedy, too.'
'But I have!' he said, shaking his head. 'In fact, four.'
'Then tell 'em!' cried the young woman.
'I will--I will. But be considerate, I beg 'ee, mee
deer. Well--I wasn't a bachel=
or
when I married 'ee, any more than you were a spinster. Just as you was a
widow-woman, I was a widow-man.
'Ah!' said she, with some surprise. 'But is that all?--then we are nic=
ely
balanced,' she added, relieved.
'No--it is not all. There's the point. I am not only a widower.'
'O, David!'
'I am a widower with four tragedies--that is to
say, four strapping girls--the eldest taller than you. Don't 'ee look so struck--dumb-lik=
e! It
fell out in this way. I knew =
the
poor woman, their mother, in Pen- zephyr for some years; and--to cut a long
story short--I privately married her at last, just before she died. I kept the matter secret, but it is
getting known among the people here by degrees. I've long felt for the children--t=
hat it
is my duty to have them here, and do something for them. I have not had courage to break it=
to
'ee, but I've seen lately that it would soon come to your ears, and that hev
worried me.'
'Are they educated?' said the ex-schoolmistres=
s.
'No. =
span>I
am sorry to say they have been much neglected; in truth, they can hardly
read. And so I thought that by
marrying a young schoolmistress I should get some one in the house who could
teach 'em, and bring 'em into genteel condition, all for nothing. You see, they are growed up too ta=
ll to
be sent to school.'
'O, mercy!' she almost moaned. 'Four great girls to teach the rud=
iments
to, and have always in the house with me spelling over their books; and I h=
ate
teaching, it kills me. I am
bitterly punished--I am, I am!'
'You'll get used to 'em, mee deer, and the bal=
ance
of secrets--mine against yours--will comfort your heart with a sense of
justice. I could send for 'em=
this
week very well--and I will! In
faith, I could send this very day.
Baptista, you have relieved me of all my difficulty!'
Thus the interview ended, so far as this matter
was concerned. Baptista was t=
oo
stupefied to say more, and when she went away to her room she wept from very
mortification at Mr. Heddegan's duplicity.=
Education, the one thing she abhorred; the shame of it to delude a y=
oung
wife so!
The next meal came round. As they sat, Baptista would not su=
ffer
her eyes to turn towards him. He
did not attempt to intrude upon her reserve, but every now and then looked
under the table and chuckled with satisfaction at the aspect of affairs.
Next day, when the steamer came in, Baptista s=
aw
her husband rush down to meet it; and soon after there appeared at her door
four tall, hipless, shoulderless girls, dwindling in height and size from t=
he
eldest to the youngest, like a row of Pan pipes; at the head of them standi=
ng
Heddegan. He smiled pleasantly through the grey fringe of his whiskers and
beard, and turning to the girls said, 'Now come forrard, and shake hands pr=
operly
with your stepmother.'
Thus she made their acquaintance, and he went =
out,
leaving them together. On examination the poor girls turned out to be not o=
nly
plain-looking, which she could have forgiven, but to have such a lamentably
meagre intellectual equipment as to be hopelessly inadequate as
companions. Even the eldest, =
almost
her own age, could only read with difficulty words of two syllables; and ta=
ste
in dress was beyond their comprehension.&n=
bsp;
In the long vista of future years she saw nothing but dreary drudger=
y at
her detested old trade without prospect of reward.
She went about quite despairing during the next
few days--an unpromising, unfortunate mood for a woman who had not been mar=
ried
six weeks. From her parents s=
he
concealed everything. They ha=
d been
amongst the few acquaintances of Heddegan who knew nothing of his secret, a=
nd
were indignant enough when they saw such a ready-made household foisted upo=
n their
only child. But she would not
support them in their remonstrances.
'No, you don't yet know all,' she said.
Thus Baptista had sense enough to see the
retributive fairness of this issue.
For some time, whenever conversation arose between her and Heddegan,
which was not often, she always said, 'I am miserable, and you know it. Yet I don't wish things to be
otherwise.'
But one day when he asked, 'How do you like 'em
now?' her answer was unexpected.
'Much better than I did,' she said, quietly. 'I may like them very much some da=
y.'
This was the beginning of a serener season for=
the
chastened spirit of Baptista Heddegan.&nbs=
p;
She had, in truth, discovered, underneath the crust of uncouthness a=
nd
meagre articulation which was due to their Troglodytean existence, that her
unwelcomed daughters had natures that were unselfish almost to sublimity. The harsh discipline accorded to t=
heir
young lives before their mother's wrong had been righted, had operated less=
to
crush them than to lift them above all personal ambition. They considered the world and its
contents in a purely objective way, and their own lot seemed only to affect
them as that of certain human beings among the rest, whose troubles they kn=
ew
rather than suffered.
This was such an entirely new way of regarding
life to a woman of Baptista's nature, that her attention, from being first
arrested by it, became deeply interested.&=
nbsp;
By imperceptible pulses her heart expanded in sympathy with theirs.<=
span
style=3D'mso-spacerun:yes'> The sentences of her tragi-comedy,=
her
life, confused till now, became clearer daily. That in humanity, as exemplified by
these girls, there was nothing to dislike, but infinitely much to pity, she
learnt with the lapse of each week in their company. She grew to like the g=
irls
of unpromising exterior, and from liking she got to love them; till they fo=
rmed
an unexpected point of junction between her own and her husband's interests,
generating a sterling friendship at least, between a pair in whose existence
there had threatened to be neither friendship nor love.
October, 1885.
=
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