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The Withered Arm
By
Thomas Hardy
Contents
It was an eighty-cow dairy, and the troop of
milkers, regular and supernumerary, were all at work; for, though the time =
of
year was as yet but early April, the feed lay entirely in water-meadows, and
the cows were 'in full pail'. The hour was about six in the evening, and
three-fourths of the large, red, rectangular animals having been finished o=
ff,
there was opportunity for a little conversation.
'He do bring home his bride tomorrow, I hear.
They've come as far as Anglebury today.'
The voice seemed to proceed from the belly of =
the
cow called Cherry, but the speaker was a milking-woman, whose face was buri=
ed
in the flank of that motionless beast.
'Hav' anybody seen her?' said another.
There was a negative response from the first.
'Though they say she's a rosy-cheeked, tisty-tosty little body enough,' she
added; and as the milkmaid spoke she turned her face so that she could glan=
ce
past her cow's tall to the other side of the barton, where a thin, fading w=
oman
of thirty milked somewhat apart from the rest.
'Years younger than he, they say,' continued t=
he
second, with also a glance of reflectiveness in the same direction.
'How old do you call him, then?'
'Thirty or so.'
'More like forty,' broke in an old milkman nea=
r,
in a long white pinafore or 'wropper', and with the brim of his hat tied do=
wn,
so that he looked like a woman. ''A was born before our Great Weir was buil=
ded,
and I hadn't man's wages when I laved water there.'
The discussion waxed so warm that the purr of =
the
milk streams became jerky, till a voice from another cow's belly cried with
authority, 'Now then, what the Turk do it matter to us about Farmer Lodge's
age, or Farmer Lodge's new mis'ess? I shall have to pay him nine pound a ye=
ar
for the rent of every one of these milchers, whatever his age or hers. Get =
on
with your work, or 'twill be dark afore we have done. The evening is pinkin=
g in
a'ready.' This speaker was the dairyman himself, by whom the milkmaids and =
men
were employed.
Nothing more was said publicly about Farmer
Lodge's wedding, but the first woman murmured under her cow to her next nei=
ghbour.
"Tis hard for she,' signifying the thin worn milkmaid aforesaid.
'O no,' said the second. 'He ha'n't spoke to R=
hoda
Brook for years.'
When the milking was done they washed their pa=
ils
and hung them on a many-forked stand made as usual of the peeled limb of an
oak-tree, set upright in the earth, and resembling a colossal antlered horn.
The majority then dispersed in various directions homeward. The thin woman =
who
had not spoken was joined by a boy of twelve or thereabout, and the twain w=
ent
away up the field also.
Their course lay apart from that of the others=
, to
a lonely spot high above the water-meads, and not far from the border of Eg=
don
Heath, whose dark countenance was visible in the distance as they drew nigh=
to
their home.
'They've just been saying down in barton that =
your
father brings his young wife home from Anglebury tomorrow,' the woman obser=
ved.
'I shall want to send you for a few things to market, and you'll be pretty =
sure
to meet 'em.'
'Yes, Mother,' said the boy. 'Is Father married
then?'
'Yes. . . . You can give her a look, and tell =
me
what she's like, if you do see her.'
'Yes, Mother.'
'If she's dark or fair, and if she's tall - as
tall as I. And if she seems like a woman who has ever worked for a living, =
or
one that has been always well off, and has never done anything, and shows m=
arks
of the lady on her, as I expect she do.'
'Yes.'
They crept up the hill in the twilight and ent=
ered
the cottage. It was built of mud-walls, the surface of which had been washe=
d by
many rains into channels and depressions that left none of the original flat
face visible, while here and there in the thatch above a rafter showed like=
a
bone protruding through the skin.
She was kneeling down in the chimney-corner,
before two pieces of turf laid together with the heather inwards, blowing at
the red-hot ashes with her breath till the turves flamed. The radiance lit =
her
pale cheek, and made her dark eyes, that had once been handsome, seem hands=
ome
anew. 'Yes,' she resumed, 'see if she is dark or fair, and if you can, noti=
ce
if her hands be white; if not, see if they look as though she had ever done
housework, or are milker's hands like mine.'
The boy again promised, inattentively this tim=
e,
his mother not observing that he was cutting a notch with his pocket-knife =
in
the beech-backed chair.
The road from Anglebury to Holmstoke is in gen=
eral
level, but there is one place where a sharp ascent breaks its monotony. Far=
mers
homeward-hound from the former market-town, who trot all the rest of the wa=
y,
walk their horses up this short incline.
The next evening while the sun was yet bright a
handsome new gig, with a lemon-coloured body and red wheels, was spinning
westward along the level highway at the heels of a powerful mare. The driver
was a yeoman in the prime of life, cleanly shaven like an actor, his face b=
eing
toned to that bluish-vermilion hue which so often graces a thriving farmer's
features when returning home after successful dealings in the town. Beside =
him
sat a woman, many years his junior - almost, indeed, a girl. Her face too w=
as
fresh in colour, but it was of a totally different quality - soft and
evanescent, like the light under a heap of rose-petals.
Few people travelled this way, for it was not a
main road; and the long white riband of gravel that stretched before them w=
as
empty, save of one small scarce-moving speck, which presently resolved itse=
lf
into the figure of a boy, who was creeping on at a snail's pace, and
continually looking behind him - the heavy bundle he carried being some exc=
use
for, if not the reason of, his dilatoriness. When the bouncing gig-party sl=
owed
at the bottom of the incline above mentioned, the pedestrian was only a few
yards in front. Supporting the large bundle by putting one hand on his hip,=
he
turned and looked straight at the farmer's wife as though he would read her
through and through, pacing along abreast of the horse.
The low sun was full in her face, rendering ev=
ery
feature, shade, and colour distinct, from the curve of her little nostril to
the colour of her eyes. The farmer, though he seemed annoyed at the boy's
persistent presence, did not order him to get out of the way; and thus the =
lad
preceded them, his hard gaze never leaving her, till they reached the top o=
f the
ascent, when the farmer trotted on with relief in his lineaments having tak=
en
no outward notice of the boy whatever.
'How that poor lad stared at me!' said the you=
ng
wife.
'Yes, dear; I saw that he did.'
'He is one of the village, I suppose?'
'One of the neighbourhood. I think he lives wi=
th
his mother a mile or two off.'
'He knows who we are, no doubt?'
'O yes. You must expect to be stared at just at
first, my pretty Gertrude.'
'I do - though I think the poor boy may have
looked at us in the hope we might relieve him of his heavy load, rather than
from curiosity.'
'O no,' said her husband off-handedly. 'These
country lads will carry a hundredweight once they get it on their backs;
besides his pack had more size than weight in it. Now, then, another mile a=
nd I
shall be able to show you our house in the distance - if it is not too dark
before we get there.' The wheels spun round, and particles flew from their
periphery as before, till a white house of ample dimensions revealed itself,
with farm-buildings and ricks at the back.
Meanwhile the boy had quickened his pace, and
turning up a by-lane some mile-and-a-half short of the white farmstead,
ascended towards the leaner pastures, and so on to the cottage of his mothe=
r.
She had reached home after her day's milking at
the outlying dairy, and was washing cabbage at the doorway in the declining
light. 'Hold up the net a moment,' she said, without preface, as the boy ca=
me
up.
He flung down his bundle, held the edge of the
cabbage-net, and as she filled its meshes with the dripping leaves she went=
on,
'Well, did you see her?'
'Yes; quite plain.'
'Is she ladylike?'
'Yes; and more. A lady complete.'
'Is she young?'
'Well, she's growed up, and her ways be quite a
woman's.'
'Of course. What colour is her hair and face?'=
'Her hair is lightish, and her face as comely =
as a
live doll's.'
'Her eyes, then, are not dark like mine?'
'No - of a bluish turn, and her mouth is very =
nice
and red; and when she smiles, her teeth show white.'
'Is she tall?' said the woman sharply.
'I couldn't see. She was sitting down.'
'Then do you go to Holmstoke church tomorrow
morning: she's sure to be there. Go early and notice her walking in, and co=
me
home and tell me if she's taller than I.'
'Very well, Mother. But why don't you go and s=
ee
for yourself?'
'I go to see her! I wouldn't look up at her if=
she
were to pass my window this instant. She was with Mr Lodge, of course. What=
did
he say or do?'
'Just the same as usual.'
'Took no notice of you?'
'None.'
Next day the mother put a clean shirt on the b=
oy,
and started him off for Holmstoke church. He reached the ancient little pile
when the door was just being opened, and he was the first to enter. Taking =
his
seat by the font, he watched all the parishioners file in. The well-to-do
Farmer Lodge came nearly last; and his young wife, who accompanied him, wal=
ked
up the aisle with the shyness natural to a modest woman who had appeared th=
us
for the first time. As all other eyes were fixed upon her, the youth's stare
was not noticed now.
When he reached home his mother said, 'Well?'
before he had entered the room.
'She is not tall. She is rather short,' he
replied.
'Ah!' said his mother, with satisfaction.
'But she's very pretty - very. In fact, she's
lovely.' The youthful freshness of the yeoman's wife had evidently made an
impression even on the somewhat hard nature of the boy.
'That's all I want to hear,' said his mother
quickly. 'Now, spread the table-cloth. The hare you wired is very tender; b=
ut
mind nobody catches you. You've never told me what sort of hands she had.' =
'I have never seen 'em. She never took off her
gloves'
'What did she wear this morning?'
'A white bonnet and a silver-coloured gownd. It
whewed and whistled so loud when it rubbed against the pews that the lady
coloured up more than ever for very shame at the noise, and pulled it in to
keep it from touching; but when she pushed into her seat, it whewed more th=
an
ever. Mr Lodge, he seemed pleased, and his waistcoat stuck out, and his gre=
at
golden seals hung like a lord's; but she seemed to wish her noisy gownd
anywhere but on her.'
'Not she! However, that will do now.'
These descriptions of the newly married couple
were continued from time to time by the boy at his mother's request, after =
any
chance encounter he had had with them. But Rhoda Brook, though she might ea=
sily
have seen young Mrs Lodge for herself by walking a couple of miles, would n=
ever
attempt an excursion towards the quarter where the farmhouse lay. Neither d=
id
she, at the daily milking in the dairyman's yard on Lodge's outlying second
farm, ever speak on the subject of the recent marriage. The dairyman, who
rented the cows of Lodge, and knew perfectly the tall milkmaid's history, w=
ith
manly kindness always kept the gossip in the cow-barton from annoying Rhoda.
But the atmosphere thereabout was full of the subject the first days of Mrs
Lodge's arrival; and fom her boy's description and the casual words of the
other milkers, Rhoda Brook could raise a mental image of' the unconscious M=
rs
Lodge that was realistic as a photograph.
One night, two or three weeks after the bridal
return, when the boy had gone to bed, Rhoda sat a long time over the turf a=
shes
that she had raked out in front of her to extinguish them. She contemplated=
so
intently the new wife, as presented to her in her mind's eye over the ember=
s,
that she forgot the lapse of time. At last, wearied by her day's work, she =
too
retired.
But the figure which had occupied her so much
during this and the previous days was not to be banished at night. For the
first time Gertrude Lodge 'visited the supplanted woman in her dreams. Rhoda
Brook dreamed - since her assertion that she really saw, before falling asl=
eep,
was not to be believed - that the young wife, in the pale silk dress and wh=
ite
bonnet, but with features shockingly distorted, and wrinkled as by age, was
sitting upon her chest as she lay. The pressure of Mrs Lodge's person grew
heavier; the blue eyes peered cruelly into her face: and then the figure th=
rust
forward its left hand mockingly, so as' to make the wedding-ring it wore
glitter in Rhoda's eyes. Maddened mentally, and nearly suffocated by pressu=
re,
the sleeper struggled; the incubus, still regarding her, withdrew to the fo=
ot
of the bed, only, however, to come forward by degrees, resume her seat, and
flash her left hand as before.
Gasping for breath, Rhoda, in a last desperate
effort, swung out her right hand, seized the confronting spectre by its
obtrusive left arm, and whirled it backward to the floor, starting up herse=
lf
as she did so with a low cry.
'O, merciful heaven!' she cried, sitting on the
edge of the bed in a cold sweat; 'that was not a dream - she was here!'
She could feel her antagonist's arm within her=
grasp
even now - the very flesh and hone of it, as it seemed. She looked on the f=
loor
whither she had whirled the spectre, but there was nothing to be seen.
Rhoda Brook slept no more that night, and when=
she
went milking at the next dawn they noticed how pale and haggard she looked.=
The
milk that she drew quivered into the pail; her hand had not calmed even yet.
and still retained the feel of the arm, She came home to breakfast as weari=
ly
as if it had been supper-time.
'What was that noise in your chimmer, mother, =
last
night?' said her son. 'You fell off the bed. surely?'
'Did you hear anything fall? At what time?'
'Just when the clock struck two.'
She could not explain, and when the meal was d=
one
went silently about her household works, the boy assisting her, for he hated
going afield on the farms, and she indulged his reluctance. Between eleven =
and
twelve the garden-gate clicked, and she lifted her eyes to the window. At t=
he
bottom of the garden, within the gate, stood the woman of her vision. Rhoda
seemed transfixed.
'Ah, she said she would come!' exclaimed the b=
oy,
also observing her.
'Said so - when? How does she know us?'
'I have seen and spoken' to her. I talked to h=
er
yesterday.'
'I told you,' said the mother, flushing
indignantly, 'never to speak to anybody in that house, or go near the place=
.'
'I did not speak to her till she spoke to me. =
And
I did not go near the place. I met her in the road.'
'What did you tell her?'
'Nothing. She said, "Are you the poor boy=
who
had to bring the heavy load from market?" And she looked at my hoots, =
and
said they would not keep my feet dry if it came on wet, because they were so
cracked. I told her I lived with my mother, and we had enough to do to keep
ourselves, and that's how it was; and she said then: "I'll come and br=
ing
you some better hoots, and see your mother." She gives away things to
other folks in the meads besides us.'
Mrs Lodge was by this time close to the door -=
not
in her silk, as Rhoda had dreamt of in the bed-chamber, but in a morning ha=
t,
and gown of common light material, which became her better than silk. On her
arm she carried a basket.
The impression remaining from the night's
experience was still strong. Brook had almost expected to see the wrinkles,=
the
scorn and the cruelty on her visitor's face. She would have escaped an
interview, had escape been possible. There was, however, no backdoor to the
cottage, and in an instant the boy had lifted the latch to Mrs Lodge's gent=
le
knock.
'I see I have come to the right house,' said s=
he,
glancing at the lad, and smiling. 'But I was not sure till you opened the
door.'
The figure and action were those of the phanto=
m;
but her voice was so indescribably sweet, her glance so winning, her smile =
so
tender, so unlike that of Rhoda's midnight visitant, that the latter could
hardly believe the evidence of her senses. She was truly glad that she had =
not
hidden away in sheer aversion, as she had been inclined to do. In her basket
Mrs Lodge brought the pair of boots that she had promised to the boy, and o=
ther
useful articles.
At these proofs of a kindly feeling towards her
and hers Rhoda's heart reproached her bitterly. This innocent young thing
should have her blessing and not her curse. When she left them a light seem=
ed
gone from the dwelling. Two days later she came again to know if the boots
fitted; and less than a fortnight after paid Rhoda another call. On this
occasion the boy was absent.
'I walk a good deal,' said Mrs Lodge, 'and your
house is the nearest outside our own parish. I hope you are well. You don't
look quite well.'
Rhoda said she was well enough; and, indeed,
though the paler of the two, there was more of the strength that endures in=
her
well-defined features and large frame than in the soft-cheeked young woman =
before
her. The conversation became quite confidential as regarded their powers and
weaknesses; and when Mrs Lodge was leaving, Rhoda said, 'I hope you will fi=
nd
this air agree with you, ma'am, and not suffer from the damp of the
water-meads.'
The younger one replied that there was not much
doubt of her general health being usually good. 'Though, now you remind me,=
she
added, 'I have one little ailment which puzzles me. It is nothing serious, =
but
I cannot make it out.'
She uncovered her left hand and arm; and their
outline confronted Rhoda's gaze as the exact original of the limb she had
beheld and seized in her dream. Upon the pink round surface of the arm were
faint marks of an unhealthy colour, as if produced by a rough grasp. Rhoda's
eyes became riveted on the discolorations; she fancied that she discerned in
them the shape of her own four fingers.
'How did it happen?' she said mechanically.
'I cannot tell,' replied Mrs Lodge, shaking her
head. 'One night when I was sound asleep, dreaming I was away in some stran=
ge
place, a pain suddenly shot into my arm there, and was so keen as to awaken=
me.
I must have struck it in the daytime, I suppose, though I don't remember do=
ing
so.' She added, laughing, 'I tell my dear husband that it looks just as if =
he had
flown into a rage and struck me there. O, I daresay it will soon disappear.=
'
'Ha, ha! Yes. . . . On what night did it come?=
'
Mrs Lodge considered, and said it would be a
fortnight ago on the morrow. 'When I awoke I could not remember where I was=
,'
she added, 'till the clock striking two reminded me.'
She had named the night and hour of Rhoda's spectral encounter, and Brook felt like a guilty thing. The artless disclos= ure startled her; she did not reason on the freaks of coincidence; and all the scenery of that ghastly night returned with double vividness to her mind. <= o:p>
'O, can it be,' she said to herself, when her
visitor had departed, 'that I exercise a malignant power over people agains=
t my
own will?' She knew that she had been slyly called a witch since hey fall; =
but
never having understood why that particular stigma had been attached to her=
, it
had passed disregarded. Could this be the explanation, and had such things =
as
this ever happened before?
The summer drew on, and Rhoda Brook almost dre=
aded
to meet Mrs Lodge again, notwithstanding that her feeling for the young wife
amounted well-nigh to affection. Something in her own individuality seemed =
to
convict Rhoda of crime. Yet a fatality sometimes would direct the steps of =
the
latter to the outskirts of Holmstoke whenever she left her house for any ot=
her
purpose than her daily work; and hence it happened that their next encounter
was out of doors. Rhoda could not avoid the subject which had so mystified =
her,
and after the first few words she stammered, 'I hope your - arm is well aga=
in,
ma'm?' She had perceived with consternation that Gertrude Lodge carried her
left arm stiffly.
'No; it not quite well. Indeed it is no better=
at
all; it is rather worse. It pains me dreadfully sometimes.'
'Perhaps you had better go to a doctor, ma'am.=
'
She replied that she had already seen a doctor.
Her husband had insisted upon her going to one. But the surgeon had not see=
med
to understand the afflicted limb at all; he had told her to bathe it in hot
water, and she had bathed it, but the treatment had done no good.
'Will you let me see it?' said the milkwoman. =
Mrs Lodge pushed up her sleeve and disclosed t=
he
place, which was a few inches above the wrist. As soon as Rhoda Brook saw i=
t,
she could hardly preserve her composure. There was nothing of the nature of=
a
wound, but the arm at that point had a shrivelled look, and the outline of =
the
four fingers appeared more distinct than at the former Moreover, she fancied
that they were imprinted in precisely the relative position of her clutch u=
pon
the arm in the trance; the first linger towards Gertrude's wrist, and the
fourth towards her elbow.
What the impress resembled seemed to have stru= ck Gertrude herself since their last meeting. 'It looks almost like finger mar= ks,' she said; adding with a faint laugh, 'my husband says it is as if some witc= h, or the devil himself, had taken hold of me there, and blasted the flesh.' <= o:p>
Rhoda shivered. 'That's fancy,' she said
hurriedly. 'I wouldn't mind it, if I were you.'
'I shouldn't so much mind it,' said the younge=
r,
with hesitation, 'if - if I hadn't a notion that it makes my husband dislik=
e me
- no, love me less. Men think so much of personal appearance.'
'Some do - he for one.'
'Yes; and he was very proud of mine, at first.=
'
'Keep your arm covered from his sight.'
'Ah - he knows the disfigurement is there!' She
tried to hide the tears that filled her eyes.
'Well, ma'am, I earnestly hope it will go away
soon.'
And so the milkwoman's mind was chained anew to
the subject by a horrid sort of spell as she returned home. The sense of ha=
ving
been guilty of an act of malignity increased, affect as she might to ridicu=
le
her superstition. In her secret heart Rhoda did not altogether object to a =
slight
diminution of her successor's beauty, by whatever means it had come about; =
but
she did not wish to inflict upon her physical pain. For though this pretty
young woman had rendered impossible any reparation which Lodge might have m=
ade
Rhoda for his past conduct, everything like resentment at the unconscious
usurpation had quite passed away from the elder's mind.
If the sweet and kindly Gertrude Lodge only kn=
ew
of the dream-scene in the bed-chamber, what would she think? Not to inform =
her
of it seemed treachery in the presence of her friendliness; but tell she co=
uld
not of her own accord neither could she devise a remedy.
She mused upon the matter the greater part of =
the
night; and the next day, after the morning milking, set out to obtain anoth=
er
glimpse of Gertrude Lodge if she could, being held to her by a gruesome
fascination. By watching the house from a distance the milkmaid was present=
ly
able to discern the farmer's wife in a ride she was taking alone - probably=
to
join her husband in some distant field. Mrs Lodge perceived her, and canter=
ed
in her direction.
'Good morning, Rhoda!' Gertrude said, when she=
had
come up. 'I was going to call.'
Rhoda noticed that Mrs Lodge held the reins wi=
th
some difficulty.
'I hope - the bad arm,' said Rhoda.
'They tell me there is possibly one way by whi=
ch I
might be able to find out the cause, and so perhaps the cure of it,' replied
the other anxiously. 'It is by going to some clever man over in Egdon Heath.
They did not know if he was still alive - and I cannot remember his name at
this moment; but they said that you knew more of his movements than anybody
else hereabout, and could tell me if he were still to be consulted. Dear me
what was his name? But you know.'
'Not Conjuror Trendle?' said her thin companio=
n,
turning pale.
'Trendle - yes. Is he alive?'
'I believe so,' said Rhoda, with reluctance. <= o:p>
'Why do you call him conjuror?'
'Well - they say - they used to say he was a -=
he
had powers other folks have not.'
'O, how could my people be so superstitious as=
to
recommend a man of that sort! I thought they meant some medical man. I shall
think no more of him.'
Rhoda looked relieved, and Mrs Lodge rode on. =
The
milkwoman had inwardly seen, from the moment she heard of her having been
mentioned as a reference for this man,' that there must exist a sarcastic
feeling among the work-folk that a sorceress would know the wbereabouts of =
the
exorcist. They suspected her, then. A short time ago this' would have given=
no
concern to a woman of her common sense. But she had a haunting reason to be
superstitious now; and she had been seized with sudden dread that this Conj=
uror
Trendle might name her as the malignant influence' which was blasting the f=
air
person of Gertrude, and so lead her friend to hate her for ever, and to tre=
at
her as some fiend in human shape.
But all was not over. Two days after, a shadow
intruded into the window-pattern thrown on Rhoda Brook's floor by the after=
noon
sun. The woman opened the door at once, almost breathlessly.
'Are you alone?' said Gertrude. She seemed to =
be
no less harassed and anxious than Brook herself.
'Yes,' said Rhoda.
'The place on my arm seems worse, and troubles
me!' the young farmer's wife went OIL 'It is so mysterious! I do hope it wi=
ll
not be an incurable wound. I have again been thinking of what they said abo=
ut
Conjuror Trendle. I don't really believe in such men, but I should not mind
just visiting him, from curiosity - though on no account must my husband kn=
ow.
Is it far to where he lives?'
'Yes - five miles,' said Rhoda backwardly. 'In=
the
heart of Egdon.'
'Well, I should have to walk. Could not you go
with me to show me the way - say tomorrow afternoon?'
'O, not I; that is----,' the milkwoman murmure=
d,
with a start of dismay. Again the dread seized her that something to do with
her fierce act in the dream might be revealed, and her character in the eye=
s of
the most useful friend she had ever had be ruined irretrievably.
Mrs Lodge urged, and Rhoda finally assented,
though with much misgiving. Sad as' the journey would be to her, she could =
not
conscientiously stand in the way of a possible remedy for her patron's stra=
nge
affliction. It was agreed that, to escape suspicion of their mystic intent,
they should meet at the edge of the heath at the corner of a plantation whi=
ch
was visible from the spot where they now stood.
By the next afternoon Rhoda would have done
anything to escape this inquiry. But she had promised to go. Moreover, there
was a horrid fascination at times in becoming instrumental in throwing such
possible light on her own character as would reveal her to be something gre=
ater
in the occult world than she had ever herself suspected.
She started just before the time of day mentio=
ned
between them, and half an hour's brisk walking brought her to the south-eas=
tern
extension of the Egdon tract of country, where the fir plantation was. A sl=
ight
figure, cloaked and veiled; was already there. Rhoda recognized, almost wit=
h a
shudder, that Mrs Lodge bore her left arm in a sling.
They hardly spoke to each other, and immediate=
ly
set out on their climb into the interior of this solemn, country, which sto=
od
high above the rich alluvial soil they had left half an hour before. It was=
a
long walk; thick clouds made the atmosphere dark, though it was as yet only
early afternoon; and the wind howled dismally over the slopes of the heath -
not improbably the same heath which had witnessed the agony of the Wessex K=
ing
Ina, presented to after-ages as Lear. Gertrude Lodge talked most, Rhoda
replying with monosyllabic preoccupation. She had a strange dislike to walk=
ing
on the side of her companion where hung the afflicted arm, moving round to =
the
other when inadvertently near it. Much heather had been brushed by their fe=
et
when they descended upon a cart-track, beside which stood the house of the =
man
they sought.
He did not profess his remedial practices open=
ly,
or care anything about their continuance, his direct interests being those =
of a
dealer in furze, turf, 'sharp sand', and other local products. Indeed, he
affected not to believe largely in his own powers, and when watts that had =
been
shown him for cure miraculously disappeared - which it must be owned they
infallibly did - he would say lightly, 'O, I only drink a glass of grog upon
'em at your expense - perhaps it's all chance', and immediately turn the
subject.
He was at home when they arrived, having in fa=
ct
seen them descending into his valley. He was a grey-bearded man, with a red=
dish
face, and he looked singularly at Rhoda the first moment he beheld her. Mrs
Lodge told him her errand; and then with words of self-disparagement he
examined her arm.
'Medicine can't cure it,' he said promptly.
"Tis the work of an enemy.'
Rhoda shrank into herself, and drew back.
'An enemy? What enemy?' asked Mrs Lodge.
He shook his head. 'That's best known to
yourself,' he said. 'If you like, I can show the person to you, though I sh=
all
not myself know who it is. I can do no more; and don't wish to do that.'
She pressed him; on which he told Rhoda to wait
outside where she stood, and took Mrs Lodge into the room. It opened
immediately from the door; and, as the latter remained ajar, Rhoda Brook co=
uld
see the proceedings without taking part in them. He brought a tumbler from =
the
dresser, nearly filled it with water, and fetching an egg, prepared it in s=
ome
private way; after which he broke it on the edge of the glass, so that the
white went in and the yolk remained. As it was getting gloomy, he took the
glass and its contents to the window, and told Gertrude to watch the mixture
closely. They leant over the table together, and the milkwoman could see the
opaline hue of the egg-fluid changing form as it sank in the water, but she=
was
not near enough to define the shape that it assumed.
'Do you catch the likeness of any face or figu=
re
as you look?' demanded the conjuror of the young woman.
She murmured a reply, in tones so low as to be
inaudible to Rhoda,' and continued to gaze intently into the glass. Rhoda
turned, and walked a few steps away.
When Mrs Lodge came out, and her face was met =
by
the light, it appeared exceedingly pale - as pale as Rhoda's - against the =
sad
dun shades of the upland's garniture. Trendle shut the door behind her, and
they at once started homeward together. But Rhoda perceived that her compan=
ion
had quite changed.
'Did he charge much?' she asked tentatively. <= o:p>
'O no - nothing, He would not take a farthing,'
said Gertrude.
'And what did you see?' inquired Rhoda.
'Nothing I - care to speak of.' The constraint=
in
her manner was remarkable; her face ,was so rigid as to wear an oldened asp=
ect,
faintly suggestive of the face in Rhoda's' bed-chamber.
'Was it you who first proposed coming here?' M=
rs
Lodge suddenly inquired, after a long pause. 'How very odd, if you did!'
'No. But I am not very sorry we have come, all
things considered.' she replied. For the first time a sense of triumph
possessed her, and she did not altogether deplore that the young thing at h=
er
side should learn that their lives had been antagonized by other influences
than their own.
The subject was no more alluded to during the =
long
and dreary walk home. But in some way or other a story was whispered about =
the
many-dairied lowland that winter that Mrs Lodge's gradual loss of the use of
her left arm was owing to her being 'overlooked' by Rhoda Brook. The latter
kept her own counsel about the incubus, but her face grew sadder and thinne=
r;
and in the spring she and her boy disappeared from the neighbourhood of
Holmstoke.
Half a dozen years passed away. and Mr and Mrs
Lodge's married experience sank into prosiness, and worse. The farmer was
usually gloomy and silent: the woman whom he had wooed for her grace and be=
auty
was contorted and disfigured in the left limb; moreover, she had brought hi=
m no
child, which rendered it likely that he would be the last of a family who h=
ad
occupied that valley for some two hundred years. He thought of Rhoda Brook =
and
her son; and feared this might be a judgement from heaven upon him.
The once blithe-hearted and enlightened Gertru=
de
was changing into an irritable, superstitious woman, whose whole time was g=
iven
to experimenting upon her ailment with every quack remedy she came across. =
She
was honestly attached to her husband, and was ever secretly hoping against =
hope
to win back his heart again by regaining some at least of her personal beau=
ty.
Hence it arose that her closet was lined with bottles, packets, and
ointment-pots of every description - nay, bunches of mystic herbs, charms, =
and books
of necromancy, which in her schoolgirl time she would have ridiculed as fol=
ly.
'Damned if you won't poison yourself with these
apothecary messes and witch mixtures some time or other,' said her husband,
when his eye chanced to fall upon the multitudinous array.
She did not reply, but turned her sad, soft gl=
ance
upon him in such heart-swollen reproach that he looked sorry for his words,=
and
added, 'I only meant it for your good, you know, Gertrude.'
'I'll clear out the whole lot, and destroy the=
m,'
said she huskily, 'and try such remedies no more!'
'You want somebody to cheer you,' he observed.=
'I
once thought of adopting a boy; but he is too old now. And he is gone away I
don't know where.'
She guessed to whom he alluded; for, Rhoda Bro=
ok's
story had in the course of years become known to her; though not a, word had
ever passed between her husband and herself on the subject. Neither had she
ever spoken to him of her visit to Conjuror Trendle, and of what was reveal=
ed
to her, or she thought was revealed to her, by that solitary heathman.
She was now five-and-twenty; but she seemed ol=
der.
'Six 'years of marriage, and only a few months of love,' she sometimes
whispered to herself. And then she thought of the apparent cause, and said,
with a tragic glance at her withering limb, 'If I could only be again as I =
was
when he first saw me!'
She obediently destroyed her nostrums and char=
ms;
but there remained a hankering wish to try something else - some other sort=
of
cure altogether. She had never revisited Trendle since she had been conduct=
ed
to the house of the solitary by Rhoda against her will; but it now suddenly
occurred to Gertrude that she would, in a last desperate effort at delivera=
nce
from this seeming curse, again seek out the man, if he yet lived. He was
entitled to a certain credence, for the indistinct form he had raised in the
glass had undoubtedly resembled the only woman in the world who - as she now
knew, though not then - could have a reason for bearing her ill-will. The v=
isit
should be paid.
This time she went alone, though she nearly got
lost on the heath, and roamed a considerable distance out of her way. Trend=
le's
house was reached' at last, however: he was not indoors, and instead of wai=
ting
at the cottage. she went to where his bent figure was pointed out to her at
work a long way off. Trendle remembered her, and laying down the handful of
furze-roots which he was gathering and throwing into a heap, he offered to
accompany her in the homeward direction, as the distance was considerable a=
nd
the days were short. So they walked together, his head bowed nearly to the
earth, and his form of a colour with it.
'You can send away warts and other excrescence=
s, I
know,' she said; 'why can't you send away this?' And the arm was uncovered.=
'You think too much of my powers!' said Trendl=
e;
'and I am old and weak now, too. No, no; it is too much for me to attempt i=
n my
own person. What have ye tried?'
She named to him some of the hundred medicamen=
ts
and counterspells which she had adopted from time to time. He shook his hea=
d.
'Some were good enough,' he said approvingly; =
'but
not many of them for such as this. This is of the nature of a blight, not of
the nature of a wound; and if you ever do throw it off, it will be all at
once.'
'If I only could!'
'There is only one chance of doing it known to=
me.
It has never failed in kindred afflictions - that I can declare. But it is =
hard
to carry out, and especially for a woman.'
'Tell me!' said she.
'You must touch with the limb the neck of a man
who's been hanged.'
She started a little at the image he had raise=
d.
'Before he's cold - just after he's cut down,'
continued the conjuror impassively.
'How can that do good?'
'It will turn the blood and change the
constitution. But, as I say, to do it is hard. You must go to the jail when
there's a hanging, and wait for him when he's brought off the gallows. Lots
have done it, though perhaps not such pretty women as you. I used to send
dozens for skin complaints. But that was in former times. The last I sent w=
as
in '13 - near twelve years ago.'
He had no more to tell her; and, when he had p=
ut
her into a straight track homeward, turned and left her, refusing all money=
as
at first.
The communication sank deep into Gertrude's mi=
nd.
Her nature was rather a timid one; and probably of all remedies that the wh=
ite
wizard could have suggested there was not one which would have filled her w=
ith
so much aversion as this, not to speak of the immense obstacles in the way =
of
its adoption.
Casterbridge, the county-town, was a dozen or
fifteen miles off; and though in those days, when men were executed for
horse-stealing, arson, and burglary, an assize seldom passed without a hang=
ing,
it was not likely that she could get access to the body of the criminal'
unaided. And the fear of her husband's anger made her reluctant to breathe a
word of Trendle's suggestion to him or to anybody about him.
She did nothing for months, and patiently bore=
her
disfigurement as before. But her woman's nature, craving for renewed love,
through the medium of renewed beauty (she was but twenty-five), was ever
stimulating her to try what, at any rate, could hardly do her any harm. 'Wh=
at
came by a spell will go by a spell surely,' she would say. Whenever her ima=
gination
pictured the act she shrank in terror from the possibility of it: then the
words of the conjuror, 'It will turn your blood', were seen to be capable o=
f a
scientific no less than ghastly interpretation; the mastering desire return=
ed;.
and urged her on again.
There was at this time but one county paper, a=
nd
that her husband only occasionally borrowed. But old-fashioned days had
old-fashioned means, and news was extensively conveyed by word of mouth from
market to market, or from fair to fair, so that, whenever such an event as =
an
execution was about to take place, few within a radius of twenty miles were
ignorant of the' coming sight; and, so far as Holmstoke was concerned, some
enthusiasts had been known to walk all the way to Casterbridge and back in =
one
day, solely to witness the spectacle. The next assizes were in March; and w=
hen
Gertrude Lodge heard that they had been held, she inquired stealthily at the
inn as to the result, as soon as she could find opportunity.
She was, however, too late. The time at which =
the
sentences were to be carried out had arrived, and to make the journey and
obtain permission at such short notice required at least her husband's
assistance. She dared not tell him, for she had found by delicate experiment
that these smouldering village beliefs made him furious if mentioned, partly
because he half entertained them himself. It was therefore necessary to wait
for another opportunity.
Her determination received a fillip from learn=
ing
that two epileptic children had attended from this very village of Holmstoke
many years before with beneficial results, though the experiment had been
strongly condemned by the neighbouring clergy. April, May, June, passed; an=
d it
is no overstatement to say that by the end of the last-named month Gertrude
well-nigh longed for the death of a fellow-creature. Instead of her formal
prayers each night, her unconscious prayer was, O Lord, hang some guilty or
innocent person soon!'
This time she made earlier inquiries, and was
altogether more systematic in her proceedings. Moreover the season was summ=
er,
between the haymaking and the harvest, and in the leisure thus afforded him=
her
husband had been holiday-taking away from home.
The assizes were in July, and she went to the =
inn
as before. There was to be one execution - only one - for arson.
Her greatest problem was not how to get to
Casterbridge, but what means she should adopt for obtaining admission to the
jail. Though access for such purposes had formerly never been denied,. the
custom had fallen into desuetude; and in contemplating her possible
difficulties, she was again almost driven to fall back upon her husband. Bu=
t,
on sounding him about the assizes, he was so uncommunicative, so more than
usually cold, that she did not proceed, and decided that whatever she did s=
he
would do alone.
Fortune, obdurate hitherto, showed her unexpec= ted favour. On the Thursday before the Saturday fixed for the execution, Lodge remarked to her that he was going away from home for another day or two on business at a fair, and that he was sorry he could not take her with him. <= o:p>
She exhibited on this occasion so much readine=
ss
to stay at home that he looked at her in surprise. Time had been when she w=
ould
have shown deep disappointment at the loss of such a jaunt. However, he lap=
sed
into his usual taciturnity, and on the day named left Holmstoke.
It was now her turn. She at first had thought =
of
driving, but on reflection held that driving would not do, since it would
necessitate her keeping to the turnpike-road, and so increase by tenfold the
risk of her ghastly errand being found out. She decided to ride, and avoid =
the
beaten track, notwithstanding that in her husband's stables there was no an=
imal
just at present which by any stretch of imagination could be considered a
lady's mount, in spite of his promise before marriage to always keep a mare=
for
her. He had, however, many cart-horses, fine ones of their kind; and among =
the
rest was a serviceable creature, an equine Amazon, with a back as broad as a
sofa, on which Gertrude had occasionally taken an airing when unwell. This
horse she chose.
On Friday afternoon one of the men brought it
round. She was dressed, and before going down looked at her shrivelled arm.
'Ah!' she said to it, 'if it had not been for you this terrible ordeal would
have been saved me!'
When strapping up the bundle in which she carr=
ied
a few articles of clothing, she took occasion to say to the servant, 'I take
these in case I should not get back tonight from the person I am going to
visit. Don't be alarmed if I am not in by ten, and close up the house as us=
ual.
I shall be home tomorrow for certain.' She meant then to tell her husband
privately: the deed accomplished was not like the deed projected. He would
almost certainly forgive her.
And then the pretty palpitating Gertrude Lodge
went from her husband's homestead; but though her goal was Casterbridge she=
did
not take the direct route thither through Stickleford. Her cunning course at
first was in precisely the opposite direction. As soon as she was out of si=
ght,
however, she turned to the left, by a road which led into Egdon, and on
entering the heath wheeled round, and set out in the true course, due weste=
rly.
A more private way down the county could not be imagined; and as to directi=
on,
she had merely to keep her horse's head to a point a little to the right of=
the
sun. She knew that she would light upon a furze-cutter or cottager of some =
sort
from time to time, from whom she might correct her bearing.
Though the date was comparatively recent, Egdon
was much less fragmentary in character than now. The attempts - successful =
and
otherwise - at cultivation on the lower slopes, which intrude and break up =
the
original heath Into small detached heaths, had not been carried far; Enclos=
ure
Acts had not taken effect, and the banks and fences which now exclude the
cattle of those villagers who formerly enjoyed rights of commonage thereon,=
and
the carts of those who had turbary privileges which kept them in firing all=
the
year round, were not erected. Gertrude, therefore, rode along with no other
obstacles than the prickly furze-bushes, the mats of heather, the white
water-courses, and the natural steeps and declivities of the ground.
Her horse was sure, if heavy-footed and slow, =
and
though a draught animal, was easy-paced; had it been otherwise, she was not=
a
woman who could have ventured to ride over such a bit of country with a
half-dead arm. It was therefore nearly eight o'clock when she drew rein to
breathe her bearer on the last outlying high point of heath-land towards
Casterbridge, previous to leaving Egdon for the cultivated valleys.
She halted before a pool called Rushy-pond,
flanked by the ends of two hedges; a railing ran through the centre of the
pond, dividing h in half. Over the railing she saw the low green country; o=
ver
the green trees the roofs of the town; over the roofs a white flat
façade, denoting the entrance to the county jail. On the roof of this
front specks were moving about; they seemed to be workmen erecting somethin=
g.
Her flesh crept. She descended slowly, and was soon amid corn-fields and
pastures In another half-hour, when it was almost dusk, Gertrude reached the
White Hart, the first inn of the town on that side.
Little surprise was excited by her arrival;
farmers' wives rode on horseback then more than they do now; though, for th=
at
matter, Mrs Lodge was not imagined to be a wife at all; the innkeeper suppo=
sed
her some harum-skarum young woman who had come to attend 'hang-fair' next d=
ay.
Neither her husband nor herself ever dealt in Casterbridge market, so that =
she
was unknown. While dismounting she beheld a crowd of boys standing at the d=
oor
of a harness-maker's shop just above the inn, looking inside it with deep
interest.
'What is going on there?' she asked of the ost=
ler.
'Making the rope for tomorrow.'
She throbbed responsively, and contracted her =
arm.
"Tis sold by the inch afterwards,' the man
continued. 'I could get you a bit, miss, for nothing, if you'd like?'
She hastily repudiated any such wish, all the =
more
from a curious creeping feeling that the condemned wretch's destiny was
becoming interwoven with her own; and having engaged a room for the night, =
sat
down to think.
Up to this time she had formed but the vaguest
notions about her means of obtaining access to the prison. The words of the
cunning-man returned to her mind. He had implied that she should use her
beauty, impaired though it was, as a pass-key, In her inexperience she knew
little about jail functionaries; she had heard of a high-sheriff and an
under-sheriff, but dimly only. She knew, however, that there must be a hang=
man,
and to the hangman she determined to apply.
At this date, and for several years after, the=
re
was a hangman to almost every jail. Gertrude found, on inquiry, that the
Casterbridge official dwelt in. a lonely cottage by a deep slow river flowi=
ng
under the cliff on which the prison buildings were situate - the stream bei=
ng
the self-same one, though she did not know it, which watered the Stickleford
and Holmstoke meads lower down in its course.
Having changed her dress, and before she had e=
aten
or drunk - for she could not take her ease till she had ascertained some
particulars - Gertrude pursued her way by a path along the water-side to th=
e cottage
indicated. Passing thus the outskirts of the jail, she discerned on the lev=
el
roof over the gateway three rectangular lines against the sky, where the sp=
ecks
had been moving in her distant view; she recognized what the erection was, =
and
passed quickly on, Another hundred yards brought her to the executioner's
house, which a boy pointed out. It stood close to the same stream, and was =
hard
by a weir, the waters of which emitted a steady roar.
While she stood hesitating the door opened, an=
d an
old man came forth shading a candle with one hand. Locking the door on the
outside, he turned to a flight of wooden steps fixed against the end of the
cottage, and began to ascend them, this being evidently the staircase to his
bedroom. Gertrude hastened forward, but by the time she reached the foot of=
the
ladder he was at the top. She called to him loudly enough to be heard above=
the
roar of the weir; he looked down and said, 'What d'ye want here?'
'To speak to you a minute.'
The candle-light, such as it 'was, fell upon h=
er
imploring, pale, upturned face, and Davies (as the hangman was called) back=
ed
down the ladder. 'I was just going to bed,' he said; '"Early to bed and
early to rise", but I don't mind stopping a minute for such a one as y=
ou.
Come into house.' He reopened the door, and preceded her to the room within=
.
The implements of his daily work, which was th=
at
of a jobbing gardener, stood in a corner, and seeing probably that she look=
ed
rural, he said, 'If you want me to undertake country work I can't come, for=
I
never leave Casterbridge for gentle nor simple - not I. My real calling is
officer of justice,' he added formally.
'Yes, yes! That's it. Tomorrow!'
'Ah! I thought so. Well, what's the matter abo=
ut
that? 'Tis no use to come here about the knot - folks do come continually, =
but
I tell 'em one knot is as merciful as another if ye keep it under the ear. =
Is
the unfortunate man a relation; or, I should say, perhaps' (looking at her
dress) 'a person who's been in your employ?'
'No. What time is the execution?'
'The same as usual - twelve o'clock, or as soon
after as the London mail-coach gets in. We always wait for that, in case of=
a
reprieve.'
'O - a reprieve - I hope not!' she said
involuntarily.
'Well, - hee, hee! - as a matter of business, =
so
do I! But still, if ever a young fellow deserved to be let off, this one do=
es;
only just turned eighteen,' and only present by chance when the rick was fi=
red.
Howsomever, there's not much risk of that, as they are obliged to make an
example of him, there having been so much destruction of property that way
lately.'
'I mean,' she explained, 'that I want to touch=
him
for a charm, a cure of an affliction, by the advice of a man who has proved=
the
virtue of the remedy.'
'O yes, miss! Now I understand. I've had such
people come in past years. But it didn't strike me that you looked of a sor=
t to
require blood-turning. What's the complaint? The wrong kind for this, I'll =
be
bound.'
'My arm.' She reluctantly showed the withered
skin.
'Ah! - 'tis all a-scram!' said the hangman,
examining it.
'Yes,' said she.
'Well,' he continued, with interest, 'that is =
the
class o' subject, I'm bound to admit! I like the look of the wownd; it is as
suitable for the cure as any I ever saw. 'Twas a knowing-man that sent 'ee,
whoever he was.'
You can contrive for me all that's necessary?'=
she
said breathlessly.
'You should really have gone to the governor of
the jail, and your doctor with 'ee, and given your name and address - that's
how it used to be done, if I recollect. Still, perhaps, I can manage it for=
a
trifling fee.'
'O, thank you! I would rather do it this way, =
as I
should like it kept private.'
'Lover not to know, eh?'
'No - husband.'
'Aha! Very well. I'll get 'ee a touch of the
corpse.'
'Where is it now?' she said, shuddering.
'It? - he, you mean; he's living yet. Just ins=
ide
that little small winder up there in the glum.' He signified the jail on the
cliff above.
She thought of her husband and her friends. 'Y=
es,
of course,' she said; 'and how am I to proceed?'
He took her to the door. 'Now, do you be waiti=
ng
at the little wicket in the wall, that you'll find up there in the lane, not
later than one o'clock. I will open it from the inside, as I shan't come ho=
me
to dinner till he's cut down. Goodnight. Be punctual; and if you don't want
anybody to know 'ee, wear a veil. Ah - once I had such a daughter as you!' =
She went away, and climbed the path above, to
assure herself that she would be able to find the wicket next day. Its outl=
ine
was soon visible to her - a narrow opening in the outer wall of the prison
precincts. The steep was so great that, having reached the wicket, she stop=
ped
a moment to breathe: and, looking back upon the water-side cot, saw the han=
gman
again ascending his outdoor staircase.' He entered the loft or chamber to w=
hich
it led, and in a few minutes extinguished his light.
The town clock struck ten, and she returned to=
the
White Hart as she had come.
It was one o'clock on Saturday. Gertrude Lodge,
having been admitted to the jail as above described, was sitting in a
waiting-room within the second gate, which stood under a classic archway of
ashlar, then comparatively modern, and bearing the inscription, 'COVNTY JAI=
L:
1793.' This had been the façade she saw from the heath the day befor=
e.
Near at hand was a passage to the roof on which the gallows stood.
The town was thronged, and the market suspende=
d;
but Gertrude had seen scarcely a soul. Having kept her room till the hour of
the appointment, she had proceeded to the spot by a way which avoided the o=
pen
space below the cliff where the spectators had gathered; but she could, even
now, hear the multitudinous babble of their voices, out of which rose at
intervals the hoarse croak of a single voice uttering the words, 'Last dying
speech and confession!' There had been no reprieve, and the execution was o=
ver;
but the crowd still waited to see the body taken down.
Soon the persistent woman heard a trampling
overhead', then a hand beckoned to her, and, following directions, she went=
out
and crossed the inner paved court beyond the gate-house, her knees tremblin=
g so
that she could scarcely walk. One of her arms was out of its sleeve, and on=
ly
covered by her shawl.
On the spot at which she had now arrived were =
two
trestles, and before she could think of their purpose she heard, heavy feet
descending stairs somewhere at her back. Turn her head she would not, or co=
uld
not, and, rigid in this position, she was conscious of a rough coffin' pass=
ing
her borne by four men. It was open, and in it lay the body of a young man,
wearing the smockfrock of a rustic, and fustian breeches. The corpse had be=
en
thrown into the coffin so hastily that the skirt of the smockfrock was hang=
ing
over. The burden was temporarily deposited on the trestles.
By this time the young woman's state was such =
that
a grey mist seemed to float before her eyes, on account of which, and the v=
eil
she wore, she could scarcely discern anything: it was as though she had nea=
rly
died, but was held up by a sort of galvanism.
'Now!' said a voice close at hand, and she was
just conscious that the word had been addressed to her.
By a last strenuous effort she advanced, at the
same time hearing persons approaching behind her. She bared her poor curst =
arm;
and Davies, uncovering the face of the corpse, took Gertrude's hand, and he=
ld
it so that her arm lay across the dead man's neck, upon a line the colour o=
f an
unripe blackberry, which surrounded it.
Gertrude shrieked:' 'the turn o' the blood',
predicted by the conjuror, had taken place. But at that moment a second shr=
iek
rent the air of the enclosure: it was not Gertrude's, and its effect upon h=
er
was to make her start round.
Immediately behind her stood Rhoda Brook, her =
face
drawn, and her eyes red with weeping. Behind Rhoda stood Gertrude's own
husband; his countenance lined, his eyes dim, but without a tear.
'D----n you! what are you doing here?' he said
hoarsely.
'Hussy - to come between us and our child now!'
cried Rhoda. 'This is the meaning of what Satan showed me in the vision! You
are like her at last!' And clutching the bare arm of the younger woman, she
pulled her unresistingly back against the wall. Immediately Brook had loose=
ned
her hold the fragile young Gertrude slid down against the feet of her husba=
nd.
When he lifted her up she was unconscious.
The mere sight of the twain had been enough to
suggest to her that the dead young man was Rhoda's son. At that time the
relatives of an executed convict had the privilege of claiming the body for
burial, if they chose to do so; and it was for this purpose that Lodge was
awaiting the inquest with Rhoda. He had been summoned by her as soon as the
young man was taken in the crime, and at different times since; and he had
attended in court during the trial. This was the 'holiday' he had been
indulging in of late. The two wretched parents had wished to avoid exposure;
and hence had come themselves for the body, a wagon and sheet for its
conveyance and covering being in waiting outside.
Gertrude's case was so serious that it was dee=
med
advisable to call to her the surgeon who was at hand. She was taken out of =
the
jail into the town; but she never reached home alive. Her delicate vitality,
sapped perhaps by the paralysed arm, collapsed under the double shock that
followed the severe strain, physical and mental, to which she had subjected
herself during the previous twenty-four hours. Her blood had been 'turned'
indeed - too far. Her death took place in the town three days after.
Her husband was never seen in Casterbridge aga=
in;
once only in the old market-place at Anglebury, which he had so much
frequented, and very seldom in public anywhere Burdened at first with moodi=
ness
and remorse, he eventually changed for the better, and appeared as a chaste=
ned
and thoughtful man. Soon after attending the funeral of his poor wife he to=
ok
steps towards giving up the farms in Holmstoke and the adjoining parish, an=
d,
having sold every head of his stock, he went away to Port-Bredy, at the oth=
er
end of the county, living there in solitary lodgings till his death two yea=
rs
later of a painless decline. It was then found that he had bequeathed the w=
hole
of his not inconsiderable property to a reformatory for boys, subject to the
payment of a small annuity to Rhoda Brook, if she could be found to claim i=
t.
For some time she could not be found; but
eventually she reappeared in her old parish - absolutely refusing, however,=
to
have anything to do with the provision made for her. Her monotonous milking=
at
the dairy was resumed, and followed for many long years, till her form beca=
me
bent, and her once abundant dark hair white and worn away at the forehead -
perhaps by long pressure against the cows. Here, sometimes, those who knew =
her
experiences would stand and observe her, and wonder what sombre thoughts we=
re
beating inside that impassive, wrinkled brow, to the rhythm of the alternat=
ing
milk-streams.
Blackwood's Magazine, January 1888
The End