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diff --git a/2662-h/2662-h.htm b/2662-h/2662-h.htm new file mode 100644 index 0000000..bf79934 --- /dev/null +++ b/2662-h/2662-h.htm @@ -0,0 +1,10447 @@ +<!DOCTYPE html PUBLIC "-//W3C//DTD XHTML 1.0 Strict//EN" +"http://www.w3.org/TR/xhtml1/DTD/xhtml1-strict.dtd"> +<html xmlns="http://www.w3.org/1999/xhtml" xml:lang="en" lang="en"> +<head> +<meta http-equiv="Content-Type" content="text/html;charset=utf-8" /> +<meta http-equiv="Content-Style-Type" content="text/css" /> +<title>The Project Gutenberg eBook of Under the Greenwood Tree, by Thomas Hardy</title> + +<style type="text/css"> + +body { margin-left: 20%; + margin-right: 20%; + text-align: justify; } + +h1, h2, h3, h4, h5 {text-align: center; font-style: normal; font-weight: +normal; line-height: 1.5; margin-top: .5em; margin-bottom: .5em;} + +h1 {font-size: 300%; + margin-top: 0.6em; + margin-bottom: 0.6em; + letter-spacing: 0.12em; + word-spacing: 0.2em; + text-indent: 0em;} +h2 {font-size: 150%; margin-top: 2em; margin-bottom: 1em;} +h3 {font-size: 130%; margin-top: 1em;} +h4 {font-size: 120%;} +h5 {font-size: 110%;} + +.no-break {page-break-before: avoid;} /* for epubs */ + +div.chapter {page-break-before: always; margin-top: 4em;} + +hr {width: 80%; margin-top: 2em; margin-bottom: 2em;} + +p {text-indent: 1em; + margin-top: 0.25em; + margin-bottom: 0.25em; } + +.p2 {margin-top: 2em;} + +p.poem {text-indent: 0%; + margin-left: 10%; + font-size: 90%; + margin-top: 1em; + margin-bottom: 1em; } + +p.letter {text-indent: 0%; + margin-left: 10%; + margin-right: 10%; + margin-top: 1em; + margin-bottom: 1em; } + +.letter {text-indent: 0%; + margin-left: 10%; + margin-right: 10%; + margin-top: 1em; + margin-bottom: 1em;} + +p.noindent {text-indent: 0% } + +p.center {text-align: center; + text-indent: 0em; + margin-top: 1em; + margin-bottom: 1em; } + +p.right {text-align: right; + margin-right: 10%; + margin-top: 1em; + margin-bottom: 1em; } + +a:link {color:blue; text-decoration:none} +a:visited {color:blue; text-decoration:none} +a:hover {color:red} + +</style> +</head> +<body> + +<div style='text-align:center; font-size:1.2em; font-weight:bold'>The Project Gutenberg eBook of Under the Greenwood Tree, by Thomas Hardy</div> +<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> +This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and +most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions +whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms +of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online +at <a href="https://www.gutenberg.org">www.gutenberg.org</a>. If you +are not located in the United States, you will have to check the laws of the +country where you are located before using this eBook. +</div> +<div style='display:block; margin-top:1em; margin-bottom:1em; margin-left:2em; text-indent:-2em'>Title: Under the Greenwood Tree</div> +<div style='display:block; margin-top:1em; margin-bottom:1em; margin-left:2em; text-indent:-2em'>Author: Thomas Hardy</div> +<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'>Release Date: June, 2001 [eBook #2662]<br /> +[Most recently updated: November 17, 2023]</div> +<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'>Language: English</div> +<div style='display:block; margin-left:2em; text-indent:-2em'>Produced by: David Price, Margaret Rose Price and Dagny</div> +<div style='margin-top:2em; margin-bottom:4em'>*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK UNDER THE GREENWOOD TREE ***</div> + +<h1>UNDER THE GREENWOOD TREE</h1> + +<h3>or<br/> +THE MELLSTOCK QUIRE<br/> +A RURAL PAINTING OF THE DUTCH SCHOOL</h3> + +<h2 class="no-break">by Thomas Hardy</h2> + +<hr /> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2>Contents</h2> + +<table summary="" style=""> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap00">PREFACE</a><br /><br /></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#part01"><b>PART THE FIRST—WINTER</b></a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap01">CHAPTER I. MELLSTOCK-LANE</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap02">CHAPTER II. THE TRANTER’S</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap03">CHAPTER III. THE ASSEMBLED QUIRE</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap04">CHAPTER IV. GOING THE ROUNDS</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap05">CHAPTER V. THE LISTENERS</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap06">CHAPTER VI. CHRISTMAS MORNING</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap07">CHAPTER VII. THE TRANTER’S PARTY</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap08">CHAPTER VIII. THEY DANCE MORE WILDLY</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap09">CHAPTER IX. DICK CALLS AT THE SCHOOL</a><br /><br /></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#part02"><b>PART THE SECOND—SPRING</b></a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap10">CHAPTER I. PASSING BY THE SCHOOL</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap11">CHAPTER II. A MEETING OF THE QUIRE</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap12">CHAPTER III. A TURN IN THE DISCUSSION</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap13">CHAPTER IV. THE INTERVIEW WITH THE VICAR</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap14">CHAPTER V. RETURNING HOME WARD</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap15">CHAPTER VI. YALBURY WOOD AND THE KEEPER’S HOUSE</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap16">CHAPTER VII. DICK MAKES HIMSELF USEFUL</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap17">CHAPTER VIII. DICK MEETS HIS FATHER</a><br /><br /></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#part03"><b>PART THE THIRD—SUMMER</b></a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap18">CHAPTER I. DRIVING OUT OF BUDMOUTH</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap19">CHAPTER II. FURTHER ALONG THE ROAD</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap20">CHAPTER III. A CONFESSION</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap21">CHAPTER IV. AN ARRANGEMENT</a><br /><br /></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#part04"><b>PART THE FOURTH—AUTUMN</b></a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap22">CHAPTER I. GOING NUTTING</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap23">CHAPTER II. HONEY-TAKING, AND AFTERWARDS</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap24">CHAPTER III. FANCY IN THE RAIN</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap25">CHAPTER IV. THE SPELL</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap26">CHAPTER V. AFTER GAINING HER POINT</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap27">CHAPTER VI. INTO TEMPTATION</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap28">CHAPTER VII. SECOND THOUGHTS</a><br /><br /></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#part05"><b>PART THE FIFTH: CONCLUSION</b></a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap29">CHAPTER I. ‘THE KNOT THERE’S NO UNTYING’</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap30">CHAPTER II. UNDER THE GREENWOOD TREE</a></td> +</tr> + +</table> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap00"></a>PREFACE</h2> + +<p> +This story of the Mellstock Quire and its old established west-gallery +musicians, with some supplementary descriptions of similar officials in <i>Two +on a Tower, A Few Crusted Characters</i>, and other places, is intended to be a +fairly true picture, at first hand, of the personages, ways, and customs which +were common among such orchestral bodies in the villages of fifty or sixty +years ago. +</p> + +<p> +One is inclined to regret the displacement of these ecclesiastical bandsmen by +an isolated organist (often at first a barrel-organist) or harmonium player; +and despite certain advantages in point of control and accomplishment which +were, no doubt, secured by installing the single artist, the change has tended +to stultify the professed aims of the clergy, its direct result being to +curtail and extinguish the interest of parishioners in church doings. Under the +old plan, from half a dozen to ten full-grown players, in addition to the +numerous more or less grown-up singers, were officially occupied with the +Sunday routine, and concerned in trying their best to make it an artistic +outcome of the combined musical taste of the congregation. With a musical +executive limited, as it mostly is limited now, to the parson’s wife or +daughter and the school-children, or to the school-teacher and the children, an +important union of interests has disappeared. +</p> + +<p> +The zest of these bygone instrumentalists must have been keen and staying to +take them, as it did, on foot every Sunday after a toilsome week, through all +weathers, to the church, which often lay at a distance from their homes. They +usually received so little in payment for their performances that their efforts +were really a labour of love. In the parish I had in my mind when writing the +present tale, the gratuities received yearly by the musicians at Christmas were +somewhat as follows: From the manor-house ten shillings and a supper; from the +vicar ten shillings; from the farmers five shillings each; from each +cottage-household one shilling; amounting altogether to not more than ten +shillings a head annually—just enough, as an old executant told me, to pay for +their fiddle-strings, repairs, rosin, and music-paper (which they mostly ruled +themselves). Their music in those days was all in their own manuscript, copied +in the evenings after work, and their music-books were home-bound. +</p> + +<p> +It was customary to inscribe a few jigs, reels, horn-pipes, and ballads in the +same book, by beginning it at the other end, the insertions being continued +from front and back till sacred and secular met together in the middle, often +with bizarre effect, the words of some of the songs exhibiting that ancient and +broad humour which our grandfathers, and possibly grandmothers, took delight +in, and is in these days unquotable. +</p> + +<p> +The aforesaid fiddle-strings, rosin, and music-paper were supplied by a pedlar, +who travelled exclusively in such wares from parish to parish, coming to each +village about every six months. Tales are told of the consternation once caused +among the church fiddlers when, on the occasion of their producing a new +Christmas anthem, he did not come to time, owing to being snowed up on the +downs, and the straits they were in through having to make shift with whipcord +and twine for strings. He was generally a musician himself, and sometimes a +composer in a small way, bringing his own new tunes, and tempting each choir to +adopt them for a consideration. Some of these compositions which now lie before +me, with their repetitions of lines, half-lines, and half-words, their fugues +and their intermediate symphonies, are good singing still, though they would +hardly be admitted into such hymn-books as are popular in the churches of +fashionable society at the present time. +</p> + +<p class="letter"> +<i>August 1896.</i> +</p> + +<p> +<i>Under the Greenwood Tree</i> was first brought out in the summer of 1872 in +two volumes. The name of the story was originally intended to be, more +appropriately, <i>The Mellstock Quire</i>, and this has been appended as a +sub-title since the early editions, it having been thought unadvisable to +displace for it the title by which the book first became known. +</p> + +<p> +In rereading the narrative after a long interval there occurs the inevitable +reflection that the realities out of which it was spun were material for +another kind of study of this little group of church musicians than is found in +the chapters here penned so lightly, even so farcically and flippantly at +times. But circumstances would have rendered any aim at a deeper, more +essential, more transcendent handling unadvisable at the date of writing; and +the exhibition of the Mellstock Quire in the following pages must remain the +only extant one, except for the few glimpses of that perished band which I have +given in verse elsewhere. +</p> + +<p class="right"> +T. H. +</p> + +<p class="letter"> +<i>April</i> 1912. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="part01"></a>PART THE FIRST—WINTER</h2> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap01"></a>CHAPTER I.<br/> +MELLSTOCK-LANE</h2> + +<p> +To dwellers in a wood almost every species of tree has its voice as well as its +feature. At the passing of the breeze the fir-trees sob and moan no less +distinctly than they rock; the holly whistles as it battles with itself; the +ash hisses amid its quiverings; the beech rustles while its flat boughs rise +and fall. And winter, which modifies the note of such trees as shed their +leaves, does not destroy its individuality. +</p> + +<p> +On a cold and starry Christmas-eve within living memory a man was passing up a +lane towards Mellstock Cross in the darkness of a plantation that whispered +thus distinctively to his intelligence. All the evidences of his nature were +those afforded by the spirit of his footsteps, which succeeded each other +lightly and quickly, and by the liveliness of his voice as he sang in a rural +cadence: +</p> + +<p class="poem"> + “With the rose and the lily<br/> + And the daffodowndilly,<br/> +The lads and the lasses a-sheep-shearing go.” +</p> + +<p> +The lonely lane he was following connected one of the hamlets of Mellstock +parish with Upper Mellstock and Lewgate, and to his eyes, casually glancing +upward, the silver and black-stemmed birches with their characteristic tufts, +the pale grey boughs of beech, the dark-creviced elm, all appeared now as black +and flat outlines upon the sky, wherein the white stars twinkled so vehemently +that their flickering seemed like the flapping of wings. Within the woody pass, +at a level anything lower than the horizon, all was dark as the grave. The +copse-wood forming the sides of the bower interlaced its branches so densely, +even at this season of the year, that the draught from the north-east flew +along the channel with scarcely an interruption from lateral breezes. +</p> + +<p> +After passing the plantation and reaching Mellstock Cross the white surface of +the lane revealed itself between the dark hedgerows like a ribbon jagged at the +edges; the irregularity being caused by temporary accumulations of leaves +extending from the ditch on either side. +</p> + +<p> +The song (many times interrupted by flitting thoughts which took the place of +several bars, and resumed at a point it would have reached had its continuity +been unbroken) now received a more palpable check, in the shape of +“Ho-i-i-i-i-i!” from the crossing lane to Lower Mellstock, on the right of the +singer who had just emerged from the trees. +</p> + +<p> +“Ho-i-i-i-i-i!” he answered, stopping and looking round, though with no idea of +seeing anything more than imagination pictured. +</p> + +<p> +“Is that thee, young Dick Dewy?” came from the darkness. +</p> + +<p> +“Ay, sure, Michael Mail.” +</p> + +<p> +“Then why not stop for fellow-craters—going to thy own father’s house too, as +we be, and knowen us so well?” +</p> + +<p> +Dick Dewy faced about and continued his tune in an under-whistle, implying that +the business of his mouth could not be checked at a moment’s notice by the +placid emotion of friendship. +</p> + +<p> +Having come more into the open he could now be seen rising against the sky, his +profile appearing on the light background like the portrait of a gentleman in +black cardboard. It assumed the form of a low-crowned hat, an ordinary-shaped +nose, an ordinary chin, an ordinary neck, and ordinary shoulders. What he +consisted of further down was invisible from lack of sky low enough to picture +him on. +</p> + +<p> +Shuffling, halting, irregular footsteps of various kinds were now heard coming +up the hill, and presently there emerged from the shade severally five men of +different ages and gaits, all of them working villagers of the parish of +Mellstock. They, too, had lost their rotundity with the daylight, and advanced +against the sky in flat outlines, which suggested some processional design on +Greek or Etruscan pottery. They represented the chief portion of Mellstock +parish choir. +</p> + +<p> +The first was a bowed and bent man, who carried a fiddle under his arm, and +walked as if engaged in studying some subject connected with the surface of the +road. He was Michael Mail, the man who had hallooed to Dick. +</p> + +<p> +The next was Mr. Robert Penny, boot- and shoemaker; a little man, who, though +rather round-shouldered, walked as if that fact had not come to his own +knowledge, moving on with his back very hollow and his face fixed on the +north-east quarter of the heavens before him, so that his lower +waist-coat-buttons came first, and then the remainder of his figure. His +features were invisible; yet when he occasionally looked round, two faint moons +of light gleamed for an instant from the precincts of his eyes, denoting that +he wore spectacles of a circular form. +</p> + +<p> +The third was Elias Spinks, who walked perpendicularly and dramatically. The +fourth outline was Joseph Bowman’s, who had now no distinctive appearance +beyond that of a human being. Finally came a weak lath-like form, trotting and +stumbling along with one shoulder forward and his head inclined to the left, +his arms dangling nervelessly in the wind as if they were empty sleeves. This +was Thomas Leaf. +</p> + +<p> +“Where be the boys?” said Dick to this somewhat indifferently-matched assembly. +</p> + +<p> +The eldest of the group, Michael Mail, cleared his throat from a great depth. +</p> + +<p> +“We told them to keep back at home for a time, thinken they wouldn’t be wanted +yet awhile; and we could choose the tuens, and so on.” +</p> + +<p> +“Father and grandfather William have expected ye a little sooner. I have just +been for a run round by Ewelease Stile and Hollow Hill to warm my feet.” +</p> + +<p> +“To be sure father did! To be sure ’a did expect us—to taste the little barrel +beyond compare that he’s going to tap.” +</p> + +<p> +“’Od rabbit it all! Never heard a word of it!” said Mr. Penny, gleams of +delight appearing upon his spectacle-glasses, Dick meanwhile singing +parenthetically— +</p> + +<p class="poem"> +“The lads and the lasses a-sheep-shearing go.” +</p> + +<p> +“Neighbours, there’s time enough to drink a sight of drink now afore bedtime?” +said Mail. +</p> + +<p> +“True, true—time enough to get as drunk as lords!” replied Bowman cheerfully. +</p> + +<p> +This opinion being taken as convincing they all advanced between the varying +hedges and the trees dotting them here and there, kicking their toes +occasionally among the crumpled leaves. Soon appeared glimmering indications of +the few cottages forming the small hamlet of Upper Mellstock for which they +were bound, whilst the faint sound of church-bells ringing a Christmas peal +could be heard floating over upon the breeze from the direction of Longpuddle +and Weatherbury parishes on the other side of the hills. A little wicket +admitted them to the garden, and they proceeded up the path to Dick’s house. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap02"></a>CHAPTER II.<br/> +THE TRANTER’S</h2> + +<p> +It was a long low cottage with a hipped roof of thatch, having dormer windows +breaking up into the eaves, a chimney standing in the middle of the ridge and +another at each end. The window-shutters were not yet closed, and the fire- and +candle-light within radiated forth upon the thick bushes of box and laurestinus +growing in clumps outside, and upon the bare boughs of several codlin-trees +hanging about in various distorted shapes, the result of early training as +espaliers combined with careless climbing into their boughs in later years. The +walls of the dwelling were for the most part covered with creepers, though +these were rather beaten back from the doorway—a feature which was worn and +scratched by much passing in and out, giving it by day the appearance of an old +keyhole. Light streamed through the cracks and joints of outbuildings a little +way from the cottage, a sight which nourished a fancy that the purpose of the +erection must be rather to veil bright attractions than to shelter unsightly +necessaries. The noise of a beetle and wedges and the splintering of wood was +periodically heard from this direction; and at some little distance further a +steady regular munching and the occasional scurr of a rope betokened a stable, +and horses feeding within it. +</p> + +<p> +The choir stamped severally on the door-stone to shake from their boots any +fragment of earth or leaf adhering thereto, then entered the house and looked +around to survey the condition of things. Through the open doorway of a small +inner room on the right hand, of a character between pantry and cellar, was +Dick Dewy’s father Reuben, by vocation a “tranter,” or irregular carrier. He +was a stout florid man about forty years of age, who surveyed people up and +down when first making their acquaintance, and generally smiled at the horizon +or other distant object during conversations with friends, walking about with a +steady sway, and turning out his toes very considerably. Being now occupied in +bending over a hogshead, that stood in the pantry ready horsed for the process +of broaching, he did not take the trouble to turn or raise his eyes at the +entry of his visitors, well knowing by their footsteps that they were the +expected old comrades. +</p> + +<p> +The main room, on the left, was decked with bunches of holly and other +evergreens, and from the middle of the beam bisecting the ceiling hung the +mistletoe, of a size out of all proportion to the room, and extending so low +that it became necessary for a full-grown person to walk round it in passing, +or run the risk of entangling his hair. This apartment contained Mrs. Dewy the +tranter’s wife, and the four remaining children, Susan, Jim, Bessy, and +Charley, graduating uniformly though at wide stages from the age of sixteen to +that of four years—the eldest of the series being separated from Dick the +firstborn by a nearly equal interval. +</p> + +<p> +Some circumstance had apparently caused much grief to Charley just previous to +the entry of the choir, and he had absently taken down a small looking-glass, +holding it before his face to learn how the human countenance appeared when +engaged in crying, which survey led him to pause at the various points in each +wail that were more than ordinarily striking, for a thorough appreciation of +the general effect. Bessy was leaning against a chair, and glancing under the +plaits about the waist of the plaid frock she wore, to notice the original +unfaded pattern of the material as there preserved, her face bearing an +expression of regret that the brightness had passed away from the visible +portions. Mrs. Dewy sat in a brown settle by the side of the glowing wood +fire—so glowing that with a heedful compression of the lips she would now and +then rise and put her hand upon the hams and flitches of bacon lining the +chimney, to reassure herself that they were not being broiled instead of +smoked—a misfortune that had been known to happen now and then at +Christmas-time. +</p> + +<p> +“Hullo, my sonnies, here you be, then!” said Reuben Dewy at length, standing up +and blowing forth a vehement gust of breath. “How the blood do puff up in +anybody’s head, to be sure, a-stooping like that! I was just going out to gate +to hark for ye.” He then carefully began to wind a strip of brown paper round a +brass tap he held in his hand. “This in the cask here is a drop o’ the right +sort” (tapping the cask); “’tis a real drop o’ cordial from the best picked +apples—Sansoms, Stubbards, Five-corners, and such-like—you d’mind the sort, +Michael?” (Michael nodded.) “And there’s a sprinkling of they that grow down by +the orchard-rails—streaked ones—rail apples we d’call ’em, as ’tis by the rails +they grow, and not knowing the right name. The water-cider from ’em is as good +as most people’s best cider is.” +</p> + +<p> +“Ay, and of the same make too,” said Bowman. “‘It rained when we wrung it out, +and the water got into it,’ folk will say. But ’tis on’y an excuse. Watered +cider is too common among us.” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, yes; too common it is!” said Spinks with an inward sigh, whilst his eyes +seemed to be looking at the case in an abstract form rather than at the scene +before him. “Such poor liquor do make a man’s throat feel very melancholy—and +is a disgrace to the name of stimmilent.” +</p> + +<p> +“Come in, come in, and draw up to the fire; never mind your shoes,” said Mrs. +Dewy, seeing that all except Dick had paused to wipe them upon the door-mat. “I +am glad that you’ve stepped up-along at last; and, Susan, you run down to +Grammer Kaytes’s and see if you can borrow some larger candles than these +fourteens. Tommy Leaf, don’t ye be afeard! Come and sit here in the settle.” +</p> + +<p> +This was addressed to the young man before mentioned, consisting chiefly of a +human skeleton and a smock-frock, who was very awkward in his movements, +apparently on account of having grown so very fast that before he had had time +to get used to his height he was higher. +</p> + +<p> +“Hee—hee—ay!” replied Leaf, letting his mouth continue to smile for some time +after his mind had done smiling, so that his teeth remained in view as the most +conspicuous members of his body. +</p> + +<p> +“Here, Mr. Penny,” resumed Mrs. Dewy, “you sit in this chair. And how’s your +daughter, Mrs. Brownjohn?” +</p> + +<p> +“Well, I suppose I must say pretty fair.” He adjusted his spectacles a quarter +of an inch to the right. “But she’ll be worse before she’s better, ’a b’lieve.” +</p> + +<p> +“Indeed—poor soul! And how many will that make in all, four or five?” +</p> + +<p> +“Five; they’ve buried three. Yes, five; and she not much more than a maid yet. +She do know the multiplication table onmistakable well. However, ’twas to be, +and none can gainsay it.” +</p> + +<p> +Mrs. Dewy resigned Mr. Penny. “Wonder where your grandfather James is?” she +inquired of one of the children. “He said he’d drop in to-night.” +</p> + +<p> +“Out in fuel-house with grandfather William,” said Jimmy. +</p> + +<p> +“Now let’s see what we can do,” was heard spoken about this time by the tranter +in a private voice to the barrel, beside which he had again established +himself, and was stooping to cut away the cork. +</p> + +<p> +“Reuben, don’t make such a mess o’ tapping that barrel as is mostly made in +this house,” Mrs. Dewy cried from the fireplace. “I’d tap a hundred without +wasting more than you do in one. Such a squizzling and squirting job as ’tis in +your hands! There, he always was such a clumsy man indoors.” +</p> + +<p> +“Ay, ay; I know you’d tap a hundred beautiful, Ann—I know you would; two +hundred, perhaps. But I can’t promise. This is a’ old cask, and the wood’s +rotted away about the tap-hole. The husbird of a feller Sam Lawson—that ever I +should call’n such, now he’s dead and gone, poor heart!—took me in completely +upon the feat of buying this cask. ‘Reub,’ says he—’a always used to call me +plain Reub, poor old heart!—‘Reub,’ he said, says he, ‘that there cask, Reub, +is as good as new; yes, good as new. ’Tis a wine-hogshead; the best port-wine +in the commonwealth have been in that there cask; and you shall have en for ten +shillens, Reub,’—’a said, says he—‘he’s worth twenty, ay, five-and-twenty, if +he’s worth one; and an iron hoop or two put round en among the wood ones will +make en worth thirty shillens of any man’s money, if—’” +</p> + +<p> +“I think I should have used the eyes that Providence gave me to use afore I +paid any ten shillens for a jimcrack wine-barrel; a saint is sinner enough not +to be cheated. But ’tis like all your family was, so easy to be deceived.” +</p> + +<p> +“That’s as true as gospel of this member,” said Reuben. +</p> + +<p> +Mrs. Dewy began a smile at the answer, then altering her lips and refolding +them so that it was not a smile, commenced smoothing little Bessy’s hair; the +tranter having meanwhile suddenly become oblivious to conversation, occupying +himself in a deliberate cutting and arrangement of some more brown paper for +the broaching operation. +</p> + +<p> +“Ah, who can believe sellers!” said old Michael Mail in a carefully-cautious +voice, by way of tiding-over this critical point of affairs. +</p> + +<p> +“No one at all,” said Joseph Bowman, in the tone of a man fully agreeing with +everybody. +</p> + +<p> +“Ay,” said Mail, in the tone of a man who did not agree with everybody as a +rule, though he did now; “I knowed a’ auctioneering feller once—a very friendly +feller ’a was too. And so one hot day as I was walking down the front street o’ +Casterbridge, jist below the King’s Arms, I passed a’ open winder and see him +inside, stuck upon his perch, a-selling off. I jist nodded to en in a friendly +way as I passed, and went my way, and thought no more about it. Well, next day, +as I was oilen my boots by fuel-house door, if a letter didn’t come wi’ a bill +charging me with a feather-bed, bolster, and pillers, that I had bid for at Mr. +Taylor’s sale. The slim-faced martel had knocked ’em down to me because I +nodded to en in my friendly way; and I had to pay for ’em too. Now, I hold that +that was coming it very close, Reuben?” +</p> + +<p> +“’Twas close, there’s no denying,” said the general voice. +</p> + +<p> +“Too close, ’twas,” said Reuben, in the rear of the rest. “And as to Sam +Lawson—poor heart! now he’s dead and gone too!—I’ll warrant, that if so be I’ve +spent one hour in making hoops for that barrel, I’ve spent fifty, first and +last. That’s one of my hoops”—touching it with his elbow—“that’s one of mine, +and that, and that, and all these.” +</p> + +<p> +“Ah, Sam was a man,” said Mr. Penny, contemplatively. +</p> + +<p> +“Sam was!” said Bowman. +</p> + +<p> +“Especially for a drap o’ drink,” said the tranter. +</p> + +<p> +“Good, but not religious-good,” suggested Mr. Penny. +</p> + +<p> +The tranter nodded. Having at last made the tap and hole quite ready, “Now +then, Suze, bring a mug,” he said. “Here’s luck to us, my sonnies!” +</p> + +<p> +The tap went in, and the cider immediately squirted out in a horizontal shower +over Reuben’s hands, knees, and leggings, and into the eyes and neck of +Charley, who, having temporarily put off his grief under pressure of more +interesting proceedings, was squatting down and blinking near his father. +</p> + +<p> +“There ’tis again!” said Mrs. Dewy. +</p> + +<p> +“Devil take the hole, the cask, and Sam Lawson too, that good cider should be +wasted like this!” exclaimed the tranter. “Your thumb! Lend me your thumb, +Michael! Ram it in here, Michael! I must get a bigger tap, my sonnies.” +</p> + +<p> +“Idd it cold inthide te hole?” inquired Charley of Michael, as he continued in +a stooping posture with his thumb in the cork-hole. +</p> + +<p> +“What wonderful odds and ends that chiel has in his head to be sure!” Mrs. Dewy +admiringly exclaimed from the distance. “I lay a wager that he thinks more +about how ’tis inside that barrel than in all the other parts of the world put +together.” +</p> + +<p> +All persons present put on a speaking countenance of admiration for the +cleverness alluded to, in the midst of which Reuben returned. The operation was +then satisfactorily performed; when Michael arose and stretched his head to the +extremest fraction of height that his body would allow of, to re-straighten his +back and shoulders—thrusting out his arms and twisting his features to a mass +of wrinkles to emphasize the relief aquired. A quart or two of the beverage was +then brought to table, at which all the new arrivals reseated themselves with +wide-spread knees, their eyes meditatively seeking out any speck or knot in the +board upon which the gaze might precipitate itself. +</p> + +<p> +“Whatever is father a-biding out in fuel-house so long for?” said the tranter. +“Never such a man as father for two things—cleaving up old dead apple-tree wood +and playing the bass-viol. ’A’d pass his life between the two, that ’a would.” +He stepped to the door and opened it. +</p> + +<p> +“Father!” +</p> + +<p> +“Ay!” rang thinly from round the corner. +</p> + +<p> +“Here’s the barrel tapped, and we all a-waiting!” +</p> + +<p> +A series of dull thuds, that had been heard without for some time past, now +ceased; and after the light of a lantern had passed the window and made +wheeling rays upon the ceiling inside the eldest of the Dewy family appeared. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap03"></a>CHAPTER III.<br/> +THE ASSEMBLED QUIRE</h2> + +<p> +William Dewy—otherwise grandfather William—was now about seventy; yet an ardent +vitality still preserved a warm and roughened bloom upon his face, which +reminded gardeners of the sunny side of a ripe ribstone-pippin; though a narrow +strip of forehead, that was protected from the weather by lying above the line +of his hat-brim, seemed to belong to some town man, so gentlemanly was its +whiteness. His was a humorous and kindly nature, not unmixed with a frequent +melancholy; and he had a firm religious faith. But to his neighbours he had no +character in particular. If they saw him pass by their windows when they had +been bottling off old mead, or when they had just been called long-headed men +who might do anything in the world if they chose, they thought concerning him, +“Ah, there’s that good-hearted man—open as a child!” If they saw him just after +losing a shilling or half-a-crown, or accidentally letting fall a piece of +crockery, they thought, “There’s that poor weak-minded man Dewy again! Ah, he’s +never done much in the world either!” If he passed when fortune neither smiled +nor frowned on them, they merely thought him old William Dewy. +</p> + +<p> +“Ah, so’s—here you be!—Ah, Michael and Joseph and John—and you too, Leaf! a +merry Christmas all! We shall have a rare log-wood fire directly, Reub, to +reckon by the toughness of the job I had in cleaving ’em.” As he spoke he threw +down an armful of logs which fell in the chimney-corner with a rumble, and +looked at them with something of the admiring enmity he would have bestowed on +living people who had been very obstinate in holding their own. “Come in, +grandfather James.” +</p> + +<p> +Old James (grandfather on the maternal side) had simply called as a visitor. He +lived in a cottage by himself, and many people considered him a miser; some, +rather slovenly in his habits. He now came forward from behind grandfather +William, and his stooping figure formed a well-illuminated picture as he passed +towards the fire-place. Being by trade a mason, he wore a long linen apron +reaching almost to his toes, corduroy breeches and gaiters, which, together +with his boots, graduated in tints of whitish-brown by constant friction +against lime and stone. He also wore a very stiff fustian coat, having folds at +the elbows and shoulders as unvarying in their arrangement as those in a pair +of bellows: the ridges and the projecting parts of the coat collectively +exhibiting a shade different from that of the hollows, which were lined with +small ditch-like accumulations of stone and mortar-dust. The extremely large +side-pockets, sheltered beneath wide flaps, bulged out convexly whether empty +or full; and as he was often engaged to work at buildings far away—his +breakfasts and dinners being eaten in a strange chimney-corner, by a garden +wall, on a heap of stones, or walking along the road—he carried in these +pockets a small tin canister of butter, a small canister of sugar, a small +canister of tea, a paper of salt, and a paper of pepper; the bread, cheese, and +meat, forming the substance of his meals, hanging up behind him in his basket +among the hammers and chisels. If a passer-by looked hard at him when he was +drawing forth any of these, “My buttery,” he said, with a pinched smile. +</p> + +<p> +“Better try over number seventy-eight before we start, I suppose?” said +William, pointing to a heap of old Christmas-carol books on a side table. +</p> + +<p> +“Wi’ all my heart,” said the choir generally. +</p> + +<p> +“Number seventy-eight was always a teaser—always. I can mind him ever since I +was growing up a hard boy-chap.” +</p> + +<p> +“But he’s a good tune, and worth a mint o’ practice,” said Michael. +</p> + +<p> +“He is; though I’ve been mad enough wi’ that tune at times to seize en and tear +en all to linnit. Ay, he’s a splendid carrel—there’s no denying that.” +</p> + +<p> +“The first line is well enough,” said Mr. Spinks; “but when you come to ‘O, +thou man,’ you make a mess o’t.” +</p> + +<p> +“We’ll have another go into en, and see what we can make of the martel. +Half-an-hour’s hammering at en will conquer the toughness of en; I’ll warn it.” +</p> + +<p> +“’Od rabbit it all!” said Mr. Penny, interrupting with a flash of his +spectacles, and at the same time clawing at something in the depths of a large +side-pocket. “If so be I hadn’t been as scatter-brained and thirtingill as a +chiel, I should have called at the schoolhouse wi’ a boot as I cam up along. +Whatever is coming to me I really can’t estimate at all!” +</p> + +<p> +“The brain has its weaknesses,” murmured Mr. Spinks, waving his head ominously. +Mr. Spinks was considered to be a scholar, having once kept a night-school, and +always spoke up to that level. +</p> + +<p> +“Well, I must call with en the first thing to-morrow. And I’ll empt my pocket +o’ this last too, if you don’t mind, Mrs. Dewy.” He drew forth a last, and +placed it on a table at his elbow. The eyes of three or four followed it. +</p> + +<p> +“Well,” said the shoemaker, seeming to perceive that the interest the object +had excited was greater than he had anticipated, and warranted the last’s being +taken up again and exhibited; “now, whose foot do ye suppose this last was made +for? It was made for Geoffrey Day’s father, over at Yalbury Wood. Ah, many’s +the pair o’ boots he’ve had off the last! Well, when ’a died, I used the last +for Geoffrey, and have ever since, though a little doctoring was wanted to make +it do. Yes, a very queer natured last it is now, ’a b’lieve,” he continued, +turning it over caressingly. “Now, you notice that there” (pointing to a lump +of leather bradded to the toe), “that’s a very bad bunion that he’ve had ever +since ’a was a boy. Now, this remarkable large piece” (pointing to a patch +nailed to the side), “shows a’ accident he received by the tread of a horse, +that squashed his foot a’most to a pomace. The horseshoe cam full-butt on this +point, you see. And so I’ve just been over to Geoffrey’s, to know if he wanted +his bunion altered or made bigger in the new pair I’m making.” +</p> + +<p> +During the latter part of this speech, Mr. Penny’s left hand wandered towards +the cider-cup, as if the hand had no connection with the person speaking; and +bringing his sentence to an abrupt close, all but the extreme margin of the +bootmaker’s face was eclipsed by the circular brim of the vessel. +</p> + +<p> +“However, I was going to say,” continued Penny, putting down the cup, “I ought +to have called at the school”—here he went groping again in the depths of his +pocket—“to leave this without fail, though I suppose the first thing to-morrow +will do.” +</p> + +<p> +He now drew forth and placed upon the table a boot—small, light, and prettily +shaped—upon the heel of which he had been operating. +</p> + +<p> +“The new schoolmistress’s!” +</p> + +<p> +“Ay, no less, Miss Fancy Day; as neat a little figure of fun as ever I see, and +just husband-high.” +</p> + +<p> +“Never Geoffrey’s daughter Fancy?” said Bowman, as all glances present +converged like wheel-spokes upon the boot in the centre of them. +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, sure,” resumed Mr. Penny, regarding the boot as if that alone were his +auditor; “’tis she that’s come here schoolmistress. You knowed his daughter was +in training?” +</p> + +<p> +“Strange, isn’t it, for her to be here Christmas night, Master Penny?” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes; but here she is, ’a b’lieve.” +</p> + +<p> +“I know how she comes here—so I do!” chirruped one of the children. +</p> + +<p> +“Why?” Dick inquired, with subtle interest. +</p> + +<p> +“Pa’son Maybold was afraid he couldn’t manage us all to-morrow at the dinner, +and he talked o’ getting her jist to come over and help him hand about the +plates, and see we didn’t make pigs of ourselves; and that’s what she’s come +for!” +</p> + +<p> +“And that’s the boot, then,” continued its mender imaginatively, “that she’ll +walk to church in to-morrow morning. I don’t care to mend boots I don’t make; +but there’s no knowing what it may lead to, and her father always comes to me.” +</p> + +<p> +There, between the cider-mug and the candle, stood this interesting receptacle +of the little unknown’s foot; and a very pretty boot it was. A character, in +fact—the flexible bend at the instep, the rounded localities of the small +nestling toes, scratches from careless scampers now forgotten—all, as repeated +in the tell-tale leather, evidencing a nature and a bias. Dick surveyed it with +a delicate feeling that he had no right to do so without having first asked the +owner of the foot’s permission. +</p> + +<p> +“Now, neighbours, though no common eye can see it,” the shoemaker went on, “a +man in the trade can see the likeness between this boot and that last, although +that is so deformed as hardly to recall one of God’s creatures, and this is one +of as pretty a pair as you’d get for ten-and-sixpence in Casterbridge. To you, +nothing; but ’tis father’s voot and daughter’s voot to me, as plain as houses.” +</p> + +<p> +“I don’t doubt there’s a likeness, Master Penny—a mild likeness—a fantastical +likeness,” said Spinks. “But <i>I</i> han’t got imagination enough to see it, +perhaps.” +</p> + +<p> +Mr. Penny adjusted his spectacles. +</p> + +<p> +“Now, I’ll tell ye what happened to me once on this very point. You used to +know Johnson the dairyman, William?” +</p> + +<p> +“Ay, sure; I did.” +</p> + +<p> +“Well, ’twasn’t opposite his house, but a little lower down—by his paddock, in +front o’ Parkmaze Pool. I was a-bearing across towards Bloom’s End, and lo and +behold, there was a man just brought out o’ the Pool, dead; he had un’rayed for +a dip, but not being able to pitch it just there had gone in flop over his +head. Men looked at en; women looked at en; children looked at en; nobody +knowed en. He was covered wi’ a sheet; but I catched sight of his voot, just +showing out as they carried en along. ‘I don’t care what name that man went +by,’ I said, in my way, ‘but he’s John Woodward’s brother; I can swear to the +family voot.’ At that very moment up comes John Woodward, weeping and teaving, +‘I’ve lost my brother! I’ve lost my brother!’” +</p> + +<p> +“Only to think of that!” said Mrs. Dewy. +</p> + +<p> +“’Tis well enough to know this foot and that foot,” said Mr. Spinks. “’Tis +long-headed, in fact, as far as feet do go. I know little, ’tis true—I say no +more; but show <i>me</i> a man’s foot, and I’ll tell you that man’s heart.” +</p> + +<p> +“You must be a cleverer feller, then, than mankind in jineral,” said the +tranter. +</p> + +<p> +“Well, that’s nothing for me to speak of,” returned Mr. Spinks. “A man lives +and learns. Maybe I’ve read a leaf or two in my time. I don’t wish to say +anything large, mind you; but nevertheless, maybe I have.” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, I know,” said Michael soothingly, “and all the parish knows, that ye’ve +read sommat of everything a’most, and have been a great filler of young folks’ +brains. Learning’s a worthy thing, and ye’ve got it, Master Spinks.” +</p> + +<p> +“I make no boast, though I may have read and thought a little; and I know—it +may be from much perusing, but I make no boast—that by the time a man’s head is +finished, ’tis almost time for him to creep underground. I am over forty-five.” +</p> + +<p> +Mr. Spinks emitted a look to signify that if his head was not finished, +nobody’s head ever could be. +</p> + +<p> +“Talk of knowing people by their feet!” said Reuben. “Rot me, my sonnies, then, +if I can tell what a man is from all his members put together, oftentimes.” +</p> + +<p> +“But still, look is a good deal,” observed grandfather William absently, moving +and balancing his head till the tip of grandfather James’s nose was exactly in +a right line with William’s eye and the mouth of a miniature cavern he was +discerning in the fire. “By the way,” he continued in a fresher voice, and +looking up, “that young crater, the schoolmis’ess, must be sung to to-night wi’ +the rest? If her ear is as fine as her face, we shall have enough to do to be +up-sides with her.” +</p> + +<p> +“What about her face?” said young Dewy. +</p> + +<p> +“Well, as to that,” Mr. Spinks replied, “’tis a face you can hardly gainsay. A +very good pink face, as far as that do go. Still, only a face, when all is said +and done.” +</p> + +<p> +“Come, come, Elias Spinks, say she’s a pretty maid, and have done wi’ her,” +said the tranter, again preparing to visit the cider-barrel. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap04"></a>CHAPTER IV.<br/> +GOING THE ROUNDS</h2> + +<p> +Shortly after ten o’clock the singing-boys arrived at the tranter’s house, +which was invariably the place of meeting, and preparations were made for the +start. The older men and musicians wore thick coats, with stiff perpendicular +collars, and coloured handkerchiefs wound round and round the neck till the end +came to hand, over all which they just showed their ears and noses, like people +looking over a wall. The remainder, stalwart ruddy men and boys, were dressed +mainly in snow-white smock-frocks, embroidered upon the shoulders and breasts, +in ornamental forms of hearts, diamonds, and zigzags. The cider-mug was emptied +for the ninth time, the music-books were arranged, and the pieces finally +decided upon. The boys in the meantime put the old horn-lanterns in order, cut +candles into short lengths to fit the lanterns; and, a thin fleece of snow +having fallen since the early part of the evening, those who had no leggings +went to the stable and wound wisps of hay round their ankles to keep the +insidious flakes from the interior of their boots. +</p> + +<p> +Mellstock was a parish of considerable acreage, the hamlets composing it lying +at a much greater distance from each other than is ordinarily the case. Hence +several hours were consumed in playing and singing within hearing of every +family, even if but a single air were bestowed on each. There was Lower +Mellstock, the main village; half a mile from this were the church and +vicarage, and a few other houses, the spot being rather lonely now, though in +past centuries it had been the most thickly-populated quarter of the parish. A +mile north-east lay the hamlet of Upper Mellstock, where the tranter lived; and +at other points knots of cottages, besides solitary farmsteads and dairies. +</p> + +<p> +Old William Dewy, with the violoncello, played the bass; his grandson Dick the +treble violin; and Reuben and Michael Mail the tenor and second violins +respectively. The singers consisted of four men and seven boys, upon whom +devolved the task of carrying and attending to the lanterns, and holding the +books open for the players. Directly music was the theme, old William ever and +instinctively came to the front. +</p> + +<p> +“Now mind, neighbours,” he said, as they all went out one by one at the door, +he himself holding it ajar and regarding them with a critical face as they +passed, like a shepherd counting out his sheep. “You two counter-boys, keep +your ears open to Michael’s fingering, and don’t ye go straying into the treble +part along o’ Dick and his set, as ye did last year; and mind this especially +when we be in ‘Arise, and hail.’ Billy Chimlen, don’t you sing quite so raving +mad as you fain would; and, all o’ ye, whatever ye do, keep from making a great +scuffle on the ground when we go in at people’s gates; but go quietly, so as to +strike up all of a sudden, like spirits.” +</p> + +<p> +“Farmer Ledlow’s first?” +</p> + +<p> +“Farmer Ledlow’s first; the rest as usual.” +</p> + +<p> +“And, Voss,” said the tranter terminatively, “you keep house here till about +half-past two; then heat the metheglin and cider in the warmer you’ll find +turned up upon the copper; and bring it wi’ the victuals to church-hatch, as +th’st know.” +</p> + +<p class="p2"> +Just before the clock struck twelve they lighted the lanterns and started. The +moon, in her third quarter, had risen since the snowstorm; but the dense +accumulation of snow-cloud weakened her power to a faint twilight, which was +rather pervasive of the landscape than traceable to the sky. The breeze had +gone down, and the rustle of their feet and tones of their speech echoed with +an alert rebound from every post, boundary-stone, and ancient wall they passed, +even where the distance of the echo’s origin was less than a few yards. Beyond +their own slight noises nothing was to be heard, save the occasional bark of +foxes in the direction of Yalbury Wood, or the brush of a rabbit among the +grass now and then, as it scampered out of their way. +</p> + +<p> +Most of the outlying homesteads and hamlets had been visited by about two +o’clock; they then passed across the outskirts of a wooded park toward the main +village, nobody being at home at the Manor. Pursuing no recognized track, great +care was necessary in walking lest their faces should come in contact with the +low-hanging boughs of the old lime-trees, which in many spots formed dense +over-growths of interlaced branches. +</p> + +<p> +“Times have changed from the times they used to be,” said Mail, regarding +nobody can tell what interesting old panoramas with an inward eye, and letting +his outward glance rest on the ground, because it was as convenient a position +as any. “People don’t care much about us now! I’ve been thinking we must be +almost the last left in the county of the old string players? Barrel-organs, +and the things next door to ’em that you blow wi’ your foot, have come in +terribly of late years.” +</p> + +<p> +“Ay!” said Bowman, shaking his head; and old William, on seeing him, did the +same thing. +</p> + +<p> +“More’s the pity,” replied another. “Time was—long and merry ago now!—when not +one of the varmits was to be heard of; but it served some of the quires right. +They should have stuck to strings as we did, and kept out clarinets, and done +away with serpents. If you’d thrive in musical religion, stick to strings, says +I.” +</p> + +<p> +“Strings be safe soul-lifters, as far as that do go,” said Mr. Spinks. +</p> + +<p> +“Yet there’s worse things than serpents,” said Mr. Penny. “Old things pass +away, ’tis true; but a serpent was a good old note: a deep rich note was the +serpent.” +</p> + +<p> +“Clar’nets, however, be bad at all times,” said Michael Mail. “One +Christmas—years agone now, years—I went the rounds wi’ the Weatherbury quire. +’Twas a hard frosty night, and the keys of all the clar’nets froze—ah, they did +freeze!—so that ’twas like drawing a cork every time a key was opened; and the +players o’ ’em had to go into a hedger-and-ditcher’s chimley-corner, and thaw +their clar’nets every now and then. An icicle o’ spet hung down from the end of +every man’s clar’net a span long; and as to fingers—well, there, if ye’ll +believe me, we had no fingers at all, to our knowing.” +</p> + +<p> +“I can well bring back to my mind,” said Mr. Penny, “what I said to poor Joseph +Ryme (who took the treble part in Chalk-Newton Church for two-and-forty year) +when they thought of having clar’nets there. ‘Joseph,’ I said, says I, ‘depend +upon’t, if so be you have them tooting clar’nets you’ll spoil the whole +set-out. Clar’nets were not made for the service of the Lard; you can see it by +looking at ’em,’ I said. And what came o’t? Why, souls, the parson set up a +barrel-organ on his own account within two years o’ the time I spoke, and the +old quire went to nothing.” +</p> + +<p> +“As far as look is concerned,” said the tranter, “I don’t for my part see that +a fiddle is much nearer heaven than a clar’net. ’Tis further off. There’s +always a rakish, scampish twist about a fiddle’s looks that seems to say the +Wicked One had a hand in making o’en; while angels be supposed to play +clar’nets in heaven, or som’at like ’em, if ye may believe picters.” +</p> + +<p> +“Robert Penny, you was in the right,” broke in the eldest Dewy. “They should +ha’ stuck to strings. Your brass-man is a rafting dog—well and good; your +reed-man is a dab at stirring ye—well and good; your drum-man is a rare +bowel-shaker—good again. But I don’t care who hears me say it, nothing will +spak to your heart wi’ the sweetness o’ the man of strings!” +</p> + +<p> +“Strings for ever!” said little Jimmy. +</p> + +<p> +“Strings alone would have held their ground against all the new comers in +creation.” (“True, true!” said Bowman.) “But clarinets was death.” (“Death they +was!” said Mr. Penny.) “And harmonions,” William continued in a louder voice, +and getting excited by these signs of approval, “harmonions and barrel-organs” +(“Ah!” and groans from Spinks) “be miserable—what shall I call ’em?—miserable—” +</p> + +<p> +“Sinners,” suggested Jimmy, who made large strides like the men, and did not +lag behind like the other little boys. +</p> + +<p> +“Miserable dumbledores!” +</p> + +<p> +“Right, William, and so they be—miserable dumbledores!” said the choir with +unanimity. +</p> + +<p> +By this time they were crossing to a gate in the direction of the school, +which, standing on a slight eminence at the junction of three ways, now rose in +unvarying and dark flatness against the sky. The instruments were retuned, and +all the band entered the school enclosure, enjoined by old William to keep upon +the grass. +</p> + +<p> +“Number seventy-eight,” he softly gave out as they formed round in a +semicircle, the boys opening the lanterns to get a clearer light, and directing +their rays on the books. +</p> + +<p> +Then passed forth into the quiet night an ancient and time-worn hymn, embodying +a quaint Christianity in words orally transmitted from father to son through +several generations down to the present characters, who sang them out right +earnestly: +</p> + +<p class="poem"> +“Remember Adam’s fall,<br/> + O thou Man:<br/> +Remember Adam’s fall<br/> + From Heaven to Hell.<br/> +Remember Adam’s fall;<br/> +How he hath condemn’d all<br/> +In Hell perpetual<br/> + There for to dwell.<br/> +<br/> +Remember God’s goodnesse,<br/> + O thou Man:<br/> +Remember God’s goodnesse,<br/> + His promise made.<br/> +Remember God’s goodnesse;<br/> +He sent His Son sinlesse<br/> +Our ails for to redress;<br/> + Be not afraid!<br/> +<br/> +In Bethlehem He was born,<br/> + O thou Man:<br/> +In Bethlehem He was born,<br/> + For mankind’s sake.<br/> +In Bethlehem He was born,<br/> +Christmas-day i’ the morn:<br/> +Our Saviour thought no scorn<br/> + Our faults to take.<br/> +<br/> +Give thanks to God alway,<br/> + O thou Man:<br/> +Give thanks to God alway<br/> + With heart-most joy.<br/> +Give thanks to God alway<br/> +On this our joyful day:<br/> +Let all men sing and say,<br/> + Holy, Holy!” +</p> + +<p> +Having concluded the last note, they listened for a minute or two, but found +that no sound issued from the schoolhouse. +</p> + +<p> +“Four breaths, and then, ‘O, what unbounded goodness!’ number fifty-nine,” said +William. +</p> + +<p> +This was duly gone through, and no notice whatever seemed to be taken of the +performance. +</p> + +<p> +“Good guide us, surely ’tisn’t a’ empty house, as befell us in the year +thirty-nine and forty-three!” said old Dewy. +</p> + +<p> +“Perhaps she’s jist come from some musical city, and sneers at our doings?” the +tranter whispered. +</p> + +<p> +“’Od rabbit her!” said Mr. Penny, with an annihilating look at a corner of the +school chimney, “I don’t quite stomach her, if this is it. Your plain music +well done is as worthy as your other sort done bad, a’ b’lieve, souls; so say +I.” +</p> + +<p> +“Four breaths, and then the last,” said the leader authoritatively. “‘Rejoice, +ye Tenants of the Earth,’ number sixty-four.” +</p> + +<p> +At the close, waiting yet another minute, he said in a clear loud voice, as he +had said in the village at that hour and season for the previous forty years—“A +merry Christmas to ye!” +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap05"></a>CHAPTER V.<br/> +THE LISTENERS</h2> + +<p> +When the expectant stillness consequent upon the exclamation had nearly died +out of them all, an increasing light made itself visible in one of the windows +of the upper floor. It came so close to the blind that the exact position of +the flame could be perceived from the outside. Remaining steady for an instant, +the blind went upward from before it, revealing to thirty concentrated eyes a +young girl, framed as a picture by the window architrave, and unconsciously +illuminating her countenance to a vivid brightness by a candle she held in her +left hand, close to her face, her right hand being extended to the side of the +window. She was wrapped in a white robe of some kind, whilst down her shoulders +fell a twining profusion of marvellously rich hair, in a wild disorder which +proclaimed it to be only during the invisible hours of the night that such a +condition was discoverable. Her bright eyes were looking into the grey world +outside with an uncertain expression, oscillating between courage and shyness, +which, as she recognized the semicircular group of dark forms gathered before +her, transformed itself into pleasant resolution. +</p> + +<p> +Opening the window, she said lightly and warmly—“Thank you, singers, thank +you!” +</p> + +<p> +Together went the window quickly and quietly, and the blind started downward on +its return to its place. Her fair forehead and eyes vanished; her little mouth; +her neck and shoulders; all of her. Then the spot of candlelight shone +nebulously as before; then it moved away. +</p> + +<p> +“How pretty!” exclaimed Dick Dewy. +</p> + +<p> +“If she’d been rale wexwork she couldn’t ha’ been comelier,” said Michael Mail. +</p> + +<p> +“As near a thing to a spiritual vision as ever <i>I</i> wish to see!” said +tranter Dewy. +</p> + +<p> +“O, sich I never, never see!” said Leaf fervently. +</p> + +<p> +All the rest, after clearing their throats and adjusting their hats, agreed +that such a sight was worth singing for. +</p> + +<p> +“Now to Farmer Shiner’s, and then replenish our insides, father?” said the +tranter. +</p> + +<p> +“Wi’ all my heart,” said old William, shouldering his bass-viol. +</p> + +<p> +Farmer Shiner’s was a queer lump of a house, standing at the corner of a lane +that ran into the principal thoroughfare. The upper windows were much wider +than they were high, and this feature, together with a broad bay-window where +the door might have been expected, gave it by day the aspect of a human +countenance turned askance, and wearing a sly and wicked leer. To-night nothing +was visible but the outline of the roof upon the sky. +</p> + +<p> +The front of this building was reached, and the preliminaries arranged as +usual. +</p> + +<p> +“Four breaths, and number thirty-two, ‘Behold the Morning Star,’” said old +William. +</p> + +<p> +They had reached the end of the second verse, and the fiddlers were doing the +up bow-stroke previously to pouring forth the opening chord of the third verse, +when, without a light appearing or any signal being given, a roaring voice +exclaimed— +</p> + +<p> +“Shut up, woll ’ee! Don’t make your blaring row here! A feller wi’ a headache +enough to split his skull likes a quiet night!” +</p> + +<p> +Slam went the window. +</p> + +<p> +“Hullo, that’s a’ ugly blow for we!” said the tranter, in a keenly appreciative +voice, and turning to his companions. +</p> + +<p> +“Finish the carrel, all who be friends of harmony!” commanded old William; and +they continued to the end. +</p> + +<p> +“Four breaths, and number nineteen!” said William firmly. “Give it him well; +the quire can’t be insulted in this manner!” +</p> + +<p> +A light now flashed into existence, the window opened, and the farmer stood +revealed as one in a terrific passion. +</p> + +<p> +“Drown en!—drown en!” the tranter cried, fiddling frantically. “Play +fortissimy, and drown his spaking!” +</p> + +<p> +“Fortissimy!” said Michael Mail, and the music and singing waxed so loud that +it was impossible to know what Mr. Shiner had said, was saying, or was about to +say; but wildly flinging his arms and body about in the forms of capital Xs and +Ys, he appeared to utter enough invectives to consign the whole parish to +perdition. +</p> + +<p> +“Very onseemly—very!” said old William, as they retired. “Never such a dreadful +scene in the whole round o’ my carrel practice—never! And he a churchwarden!” +</p> + +<p> +“Only a drap o’ drink got into his head,” said the tranter. “Man’s well enough +when he’s in his religious frame. He’s in his worldly frame now. Must ask en to +our bit of a party to-morrow night, I suppose, and so put en in humour again. +We bear no mortal man ill-will.” +</p> + +<p> +They now crossed Mellstock Bridge, and went along an embowered path beside the +Froom towards the church and vicarage, meeting Voss with the hot mead and +bread-and-cheese as they were approaching the churchyard. This determined them +to eat and drink before proceeding further, and they entered the church and +ascended to the gallery. The lanterns were opened, and the whole body sat round +against the walls on benches and whatever else was available, and made a hearty +meal. In the pauses of conversation there could be heard through the floor +overhead a little world of undertones and creaks from the halting clockwork, +which never spread further than the tower they were born in, and raised in the +more meditative minds a fancy that here lay the direct pathway of Time. +</p> + +<p> +Having done eating and drinking, they again tuned the instruments, and once +more the party emerged into the night air. +</p> + +<p> +“Where’s Dick?” said old Dewy. +</p> + +<p> +Every man looked round upon every other man, as if Dick might have been +transmuted into one or the other; and then they said they didn’t know. +</p> + +<p> +“Well now, that’s what I call very nasty of Master Dicky, that I do,” said +Michael Mail. +</p> + +<p> +“He’ve clinked off home-along, depend upon’t,” another suggested, though not +quite believing that he had. +</p> + +<p> +“Dick!” exclaimed the tranter, and his voice rolled sonorously forth among the +yews. +</p> + +<p> +He suspended his muscles rigid as stone whilst listening for an answer, and +finding he listened in vain, turned to the assemblage. +</p> + +<p> +“The treble man too! Now if he’d been a tenor or counter chap, we might ha’ +contrived the rest o’t without en, you see. But for a quire to lose the treble, +why, my sonnies, you may so well lose your . . . ” The tranter paused, unable +to mention an image vast enough for the occasion. +</p> + +<p> +“Your head at once,” suggested Mr. Penny. +</p> + +<p> +The tranter moved a pace, as if it were puerile of people to complete sentences +when there were more pressing things to be done. +</p> + +<p> +“Was ever heard such a thing as a young man leaving his work half done and +turning tail like this!” +</p> + +<p> +“Never,” replied Bowman, in a tone signifying that he was the last man in the +world to wish to withhold the formal finish required of him. +</p> + +<p> +“I hope no fatal tragedy has overtook the lad!” said his grandfather. +</p> + +<p> +“O no,” replied tranter Dewy placidly. “Wonder where he’s put that there fiddle +of his. Why that fiddle cost thirty shillings, and good words besides. +Somewhere in the damp, without doubt; that instrument will be unglued and +spoilt in ten minutes—ten! ay, two.” +</p> + +<p> +“What in the name o’ righteousness can have happened?” said old William, more +uneasily. “Perhaps he’s drownded!” +</p> + +<p> +Leaving their lanterns and instruments in the belfry they retraced their steps +along the waterside track. “A strapping lad like Dick d’know better than let +anything happen onawares,” Reuben remarked. “There’s sure to be some poor +little scram reason for’t staring us in the face all the while.” He lowered his +voice to a mysterious tone: “Neighbours, have ye noticed any sign of a scornful +woman in his head, or suchlike?” +</p> + +<p> +“Not a glimmer of such a body. He’s as clear as water yet.” +</p> + +<p> +“And Dicky said he should never marry,” cried Jimmy, “but live at home always +along wi’ mother and we!” +</p> + +<p> +“Ay, ay, my sonny; every lad has said that in his time.” +</p> + +<p> +They had now again reached the precincts of Mr. Shiner’s, but hearing nobody in +that direction, one or two went across to the schoolhouse. A light was still +burning in the bedroom, and though the blind was down, the window had been +slightly opened, as if to admit the distant notes of the carollers to the ears +of the occupant of the room. +</p> + +<p> +Opposite the window, leaning motionless against a beech tree, was the lost man, +his arms folded, his head thrown back, his eyes fixed upon the illuminated +lattice. +</p> + +<p> +“Why, Dick, is that thee? What b’st doing here?” +</p> + +<p> +Dick’s body instantly flew into a more rational attitude, and his head was seen +to turn east and west in the gloom, as if endeavouring to discern some proper +answer to that question; and at last he said in rather feeble accents—“Nothing, +father.” +</p> + +<p> +“Th’st take long enough time about it then, upon my body,” said the tranter, as +they all turned anew towards the vicarage. +</p> + +<p> +“I thought you hadn’t done having snap in the gallery,” said Dick. +</p> + +<p> +“Why, we’ve been traypsing and rambling about, looking everywhere, and thinking +you’d done fifty deathly things, and here have you been at nothing at all!” +</p> + +<p> +“The stupidness lies in that point of it being nothing at all,” murmured Mr. +Spinks. +</p> + +<p> +The vicarage front was their next field of operation, and Mr. Maybold, the +lately-arrived incumbent, duly received his share of the night’s harmonies. It +was hoped that by reason of his profession he would have been led to open the +window, and an extra carol in quick time was added to draw him forth. But Mr. +Maybold made no stir. +</p> + +<p> +“A bad sign!” said old William, shaking his head. +</p> + +<p> +However, at that same instant a musical voice was heard exclaiming from inner +depths of bedclothes—“Thanks, villagers!” +</p> + +<p> +“What did he say?” asked Bowman, who was rather dull of hearing. Bowman’s +voice, being therefore loud, had been heard by the vicar within. +</p> + +<p> +“I said, ‘Thanks, villagers!’” cried the vicar again. +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, we didn’t hear ’ee the first time!” cried Bowman. +</p> + +<p> +“Now don’t for heaven’s sake spoil the young man’s temper by answering like +that!” said the tranter. +</p> + +<p> +“You won’t do that, my friends!” the vicar shouted. +</p> + +<p> +“Well to be sure, what ears!” said Mr. Penny in a whisper. “Beats any horse or +dog in the parish, and depend upon’t, that’s a sign he’s a proper clever chap.” +</p> + +<p> +“We shall see that in time,” said the tranter. +</p> + +<p> +Old William, in his gratitude for such thanks from a comparatively new +inhabitant, was anxious to play all the tunes over again; but renounced his +desire on being reminded by Reuben that it would be best to leave well alone. +</p> + +<p> +“Now putting two and two together,” the tranter continued, as they went their +way over the hill, and across to the last remaining houses; “that is, in the +form of that young female vision we zeed just now, and this young tenor-voiced +parson, my belief is she’ll wind en round her finger, and twist the pore young +feller about like the figure of 8—that she will so, my sonnies.” +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap06"></a>CHAPTER VI.<br/> +CHRISTMAS MORNING</h2> + +<p> +The choir at last reached their beds, and slept like the rest of the parish. +Dick’s slumbers, through the three or four hours remaining for rest, were +disturbed and slight; an exhaustive variation upon the incidents that had +passed that night in connection with the school-window going on in his brain +every moment of the time. +</p> + +<p> +In the morning, do what he would—go upstairs, downstairs, out of doors, speak +of the wind and weather, or what not—he could not refrain from an unceasing +renewal, in imagination, of that interesting enactment. Tilted on the edge of +one foot he stood beside the fireplace, watching his mother grilling rashers; +but there was nothing in grilling, he thought, unless the Vision grilled. The +limp rasher hung down between the bars of the gridiron like a cat in a child’s +arms; but there was nothing in similes, unless She uttered them. He looked at +the daylight shadows of a yellow hue, dancing with the firelight shadows in +blue on the whitewashed chimney corner, but there was nothing in shadows. +“Perhaps the new young wom—sch—Miss Fancy Day will sing in church with us this +morning,” he said. +</p> + +<p> +The tranter looked a long time before he replied, “I fancy she will; and yet I +fancy she won’t.” +</p> + +<p> +Dick implied that such a remark was rather to be tolerated than admired; though +deliberateness in speech was known to have, as a rule, more to do with the +machinery of the tranter’s throat than with the matter enunciated. +</p> + +<p> +They made preparations for going to church as usual; Dick with extreme +alacrity, though he would not definitely consider why he was so religious. His +wonderful nicety in brushing and cleaning his best light boots had features +which elevated it to the rank of an art. Every particle and speck of last +week’s mud was scraped and brushed from toe and heel; new blacking from the +packet was carefully mixed and made use of, regardless of expense. A coat was +laid on and polished; then another coat for increased blackness; and lastly a +third, to give the perfect and mirror-like jet which the hoped-for rencounter +demanded. +</p> + +<p> +It being Christmas-day, the tranter prepared himself with Sunday particularity. +Loud sousing and snorting noises were heard to proceed from a tub in the back +quarters of the dwelling, proclaiming that he was there performing his great +Sunday wash, lasting half-an-hour, to which his washings on working-day +mornings were mere flashes in the pan. Vanishing into the outhouse with a large +brown towel, and the above-named bubblings and snortings being carried on for +about twenty minutes, the tranter would appear round the edge of the door, +smelling like a summer fog, and looking as if he had just narrowly escaped a +watery grave with the loss of much of his clothes, having since been weeping +bitterly till his eyes were red; a crystal drop of water hanging ornamentally +at the bottom of each ear, one at the tip of his nose, and others in the form +of spangles about his hair. +</p> + +<p> +After a great deal of crunching upon the sanded stone floor by the feet of +father, son, and grandson as they moved to and fro in these preparations, the +bass-viol and fiddles were taken from their nook, and the strings examined and +screwed a little above concert-pitch, that they might keep their tone when the +service began, to obviate the awkward contingency of having to retune them at +the back of the gallery during a cough, sneeze, or amen—an inconvenience which +had been known to arise in damp wintry weather. +</p> + +<p> +The three left the door and paced down Mellstock-lane and across the ewe-lease, +bearing under their arms the instruments in faded green-baize bags, and old +brown music-books in their hands; Dick continually finding himself in advance +of the other two, and the tranter moving on with toes turned outwards to an +enormous angle. +</p> + +<p> +At the foot of an incline the church became visible through the north gate, or +‘church hatch,’ as it was called here. Seven agile figures in a clump were +observable beyond, which proved to be the choristers waiting; sitting on an +altar-tomb to pass the time, and letting their heels dangle against it. The +musicians being now in sight, the youthful party scampered off and rattled up +the old wooden stairs of the gallery like a regiment of cavalry; the other boys +of the parish waiting outside and observing birds, cats, and other creatures +till the vicar entered, when they suddenly subsided into sober church-goers, +and passed down the aisle with echoing heels. +</p> + +<p> +The gallery of Mellstock Church had a status and sentiment of its own. A +stranger there was regarded with a feeling altogether differing from that of +the congregation below towards him. Banished from the nave as an intruder whom +no originality could make interesting, he was received above as a curiosity +that no unfitness could render dull. The gallery, too, looked down upon and +knew the habits of the nave to its remotest peculiarity, and had an extensive +stock of exclusive information about it; whilst the nave knew nothing of the +gallery folk, as gallery folk, beyond their loud-sounding minims and chest +notes. Such topics as that the clerk was always chewing tobacco except at the +moment of crying amen; that he had a dust-hole in his pew; that during the +sermon certain young daughters of the village had left off caring to read +anything so mild as the marriage service for some years, and now regularly +studied the one which chronologically follows it; that a pair of lovers touched +fingers through a knot-hole between their pews in the manner ordained by their +great exemplars, Pyramus and Thisbe; that Mrs. Ledlow, the farmer’s wife, +counted her money and reckoned her week’s marketing expenses during the first +lesson—all news to those below—were stale subjects here. +</p> + +<p> +Old William sat in the centre of the front row, his violoncello between his +knees and two singers on each hand. Behind him, on the left, came the treble +singers and Dick; and on the right the tranter and the tenors. Farther back was +old Mail with the altos and supernumeraries. +</p> + +<p> +But before they had taken their places, and whilst they were standing in a +circle at the back of the gallery practising a psalm or two, Dick cast his eyes +over his grandfather’s shoulder, and saw the vision of the past night enter the +porch-door as methodically as if she had never been a vision at all. A new +atmosphere seemed suddenly to be puffed into the ancient edifice by her +movement, which made Dick’s body and soul tingle with novel sensations. +Directed by Shiner, the churchwarden, she proceeded to the small aisle on the +north side of the chancel, a spot now allotted to a throng of Sunday-school +girls, and distinctly visible from the gallery-front by looking under the curve +of the furthermost arch on that side. +</p> + +<p> +Before this moment the church had seemed comparatively empty—now it was +thronged; and as Miss Fancy rose from her knees and looked around her for a +permanent place in which to deposit herself—finally choosing the remotest +corner—Dick began to breathe more freely the warm new air she had brought with +her; to feel rushings of blood, and to have impressions that there was a tie +between her and himself visible to all the congregation. +</p> + +<p> +Ever afterwards the young man could recollect individually each part of the +service of that bright Christmas morning, and the trifling occurrences which +took place as its minutes slowly drew along; the duties of that day dividing +themselves by a complete line from the services of other times. The tunes they +that morning essayed remained with him for years, apart from all others; also +the text; also the appearance of the layer of dust upon the capitals of the +piers; that the holly-bough in the chancel archway was hung a little out of the +centre—all the ideas, in short, that creep into the mind when reason is only +exercising its lowest activity through the eye. +</p> + +<p> +By chance or by fate, another young man who attended Mellstock Church on that +Christmas morning had towards the end of the service the same instinctive +perception of an interesting presence, in the shape of the same bright maiden, +though his emotion reached a far less developed stage. And there was this +difference, too, that the person in question was surprised at his condition, +and sedulously endeavoured to reduce himself to his normal state of mind. He +was the young vicar, Mr. Maybold. +</p> + +<p> +The music on Christmas mornings was frequently below the standard of +church-performances at other times. The boys were sleepy from the heavy +exertions of the night; the men were slightly wearied; and now, in addition to +these constant reasons, there was a dampness in the atmosphere that still +further aggravated the evil. Their strings, from the recent long exposure to +the night air, rose whole semitones, and snapped with a loud twang at the most +silent moment; which necessitated more retiring than ever to the back of the +gallery, and made the gallery throats quite husky with the quantity of coughing +and hemming required for tuning in. The vicar looked cross. +</p> + +<p> +When the singing was in progress there was suddenly discovered to be a strong +and shrill reinforcement from some point, ultimately found to be the +school-girls’ aisle. At every attempt it grew bolder and more distinct. At the +third time of singing, these intrusive feminine voices were as mighty as those +of the regular singers; in fact, the flood of sound from this quarter assumed +such an individuality, that it had a time, a key, almost a tune of its own, +surging upwards when the gallery plunged downwards, and the reverse. +</p> + +<p> +Now this had never happened before within the memory of man. The girls, like +the rest of the congregation, had always been humble and respectful followers +of the gallery; singing at sixes and sevens if without gallery leaders; never +interfering with the ordinances of these practised artists—having no will, +union, power, or proclivity except it was given them from the established choir +enthroned above them. +</p> + +<p> +A good deal of desperation became noticeable in the gallery throats and +strings, which continued throughout the musical portion of the service. +Directly the fiddles were laid down, Mr. Penny’s spectacles put in their +sheath, and the text had been given out, an indignant whispering began. +</p> + +<p> +“Did ye hear that, souls?” Mr. Penny said, in a groaning breath. +</p> + +<p> +“Brazen-faced hussies!” said Bowman. +</p> + +<p> +“True; why, they were every note as loud as we, fiddles and all, if not +louder!” +</p> + +<p> +“Fiddles and all!” echoed Bowman bitterly. +</p> + +<p> +“Shall anything saucier be found than united ’ooman?” Mr. Spinks murmured. +</p> + +<p> +“What I want to know is,” said the tranter (as if he knew already, but that +civilization required the form of words), “what business people have to tell +maidens to sing like that when they don’t sit in a gallery, and never have +entered one in their lives? That’s the question, my sonnies.” +</p> + +<p> +“’Tis the gallery have got to sing, all the world knows,” said Mr. Penny. “Why, +souls, what’s the use o’ the ancients spending scores of pounds to build +galleries if people down in the lowest depths of the church sing like that at a +moment’s notice?” +</p> + +<p> +“Really, I think we useless ones had better march out of church, fiddles and +all!” said Mr. Spinks, with a laugh which, to a stranger, would have sounded +mild and real. Only the initiated body of men he addressed could understand the +horrible bitterness of irony that lurked under the quiet words ‘useless ones,’ +and the ghastliness of the laughter apparently so natural. +</p> + +<p> +“Never mind! Let ’em sing too—’twill make it all the louder—hee, hee!” said +Leaf. +</p> + +<p> +“Thomas Leaf, Thomas Leaf! Where have you lived all your life?” said +grandfather William sternly. +</p> + +<p> +The quailing Leaf tried to look as if he had lived nowhere at all. +</p> + +<p> +“When all’s said and done, my sonnies,” Reuben said, “there’d have been no real +harm in their singing if they had let nobody hear ’em, and only jined in now +and then.” +</p> + +<p> +“None at all,” said Mr. Penny. “But though I don’t wish to accuse people +wrongfully, I’d say before my lord judge that I could hear every note o’ that +last psalm come from ’em as much as from us—every note as if ’twas their own.” +</p> + +<p> +“Know it! ah, I should think I did know it!” Mr. Spinks was heard to observe at +this moment, without reference to his fellow players—shaking his head at some +idea he seemed to see floating before him, and smiling as if he were attending +a funeral at the time. “Ah, do I or don’t I know it!” +</p> + +<p> +No one said “Know what?” because all were aware from experience that what he +knew would declare itself in process of time. +</p> + +<p> +“I could fancy last night that we should have some trouble wi’ that young man,” +said the tranter, pending the continuance of Spinks’s speech, and looking +towards the unconscious Mr. Maybold in the pulpit. +</p> + +<p> +“<i>I</i> fancy,” said old William, rather severely, “I fancy there’s too much +whispering going on to be of any spiritual use to gentle or simple.” Then +folding his lips and concentrating his glance on the vicar, he implied that +none but the ignorant would speak again; and accordingly there was silence in +the gallery, Mr. Spinks’s telling speech remaining for ever unspoken. +</p> + +<p> +Dick had said nothing, and the tranter little, on this episode of the morning; +for Mrs. Dewy at breakfast expressed it as her intention to invite the youthful +leader of the culprits to the small party it was customary with them to have on +Christmas night—a piece of knowledge which had given a particular brightness to +Dick’s reflections since he had received it. And in the tranter’s +slightly-cynical nature, party feeling was weaker than in the other members of +the choir, though friendliness and faithful partnership still sustained in him +a hearty earnestness on their account. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap07"></a>CHAPTER VII.<br/> +THE TRANTER’S PARTY</h2> + +<p> +During the afternoon unusual activity was seen to prevail about the precincts +of tranter Dewy’s house. The flagstone floor was swept of dust, and a +sprinkling of the finest yellow sand from the innermost stratum of the +adjoining sand-pit lightly scattered thereupon. Then were produced large knives +and forks, which had been shrouded in darkness and grease since the last +occasion of the kind, and bearing upon their sides, “Shear-steel, warranted,” +in such emphatic letters of assurance, that the warranter’s name was not +required as further proof, and not given. The key was left in the tap of the +cider-barrel, instead of being carried in a pocket. And finally the tranter had +to stand up in the room and let his wife wheel him round like a turnstile, to +see if anything discreditable was visible in his appearance. +</p> + +<p> +“Stand still till I’ve been for the scissors,” said Mrs. Dewy. +</p> + +<p> +The tranter stood as still as a sentinel at the challenge. +</p> + +<p> +The only repairs necessary were a trimming of one or two whiskers that had +extended beyond the general contour of the mass; a like trimming of a +slightly-frayed edge visible on his shirt-collar; and a final tug at a grey +hair—to all of which operations he submitted in resigned silence, except the +last, which produced a mild “Come, come, Ann,” by way of expostulation. +</p> + +<p> +“Really, Reuben, ’tis quite a disgrace to see such a man,” said Mrs. Dewy, with +the severity justifiable in a long-tried companion, giving him another turn +round, and picking several of Smiler’s hairs from the shoulder of his coat. +Reuben’s thoughts seemed engaged elsewhere, and he yawned. “And the collar of +your coat is a shame to behold—so plastered with dirt, or dust, or grease, or +something. Why, wherever could you have got it?” +</p> + +<p> +“’Tis my warm nater in summer-time, I suppose. I always did get in such a heat +when I bustle about.” +</p> + +<p> +“Ay, the Dewys always were such a coarse-skinned family. There’s your brother +Bob just as bad—as fat as a porpoise—wi’ his low, mean, ‘How’st do, Ann?’ +whenever he meets me. I’d ‘How’st do’ him indeed! If the sun only shines out a +minute, there be you all streaming in the face—I never see!” +</p> + +<p> +“If I be hot week-days, I must be hot Sundays.” +</p> + +<p> +“If any of the girls should turn after their father ’twill be a bad look-out +for ’em, poor things! None of my family were sich vulgar sweaters, not one of +’em. But, Lord-a-mercy, the Dewys! I don’t know how ever I cam’ into such a +family!” +</p> + +<p> +<i>“</i>Your woman’s weakness when I asked ye to jine us. That’s how it was I +suppose.” But the tranter appeared to have heard some such words from his wife +before, and hence his answer had not the energy it might have shown if the +inquiry had possessed the charm of novelty. +</p> + +<p> +“You never did look so well in a pair o’ trousers as in them,” she continued in +the same unimpassioned voice, so that the unfriendly criticism of the Dewy +family seemed to have been more normal than spontaneous. “Such a cheap pair as +’twas too. As big as any man could wish to have, and lined inside, and +double-lined in the lower parts, and an extra piece of stiffening at the +bottom. And ’tis a nice high cut that comes up right under your armpits, and +there’s enough turned down inside the seams to make half a pair more, besides a +piece of cloth left that will make an honest waistcoat—all by my contriving in +buying the stuff at a bargain, and having it made up under my eye. It only +shows what may be done by taking a little trouble, and not going straight to +the rascally tailors.” +</p> + +<p> +The discourse was cut short by the sudden appearance of Charley on the scene, +with a face and hands of hideous blackness, and a nose like a guttering candle. +Why, on that particularly cleanly afternoon, he should have discovered that the +chimney-crook and chain from which the hams were suspended should have +possessed more merits and general interest as playthings than any other +articles in the house, is a question for nursing mothers to decide. However, +the humour seemed to lie in the result being, as has been seen, that any given +player with these articles was in the long-run daubed with soot. The last that +was seen of Charley by daylight after this piece of ingenuity was when in the +act of vanishing from his father’s presence round the corner of the +house—looking back over his shoulder with an expression of great sin on his +face, like Cain as the Outcast in Bible pictures. +</p> + +<p class="p2"> +The guests had all assembled, and the tranter’s party had reached that degree +of development which accords with ten o’clock P.M. in rural assemblies. At that +hour the sound of a fiddle in process of tuning was heard from the inner +pantry. +</p> + +<p> +“That’s Dick,” said the tranter. “That lad’s crazy for a jig.” +</p> + +<p> +“Dick! Now I cannot—really, I cannot have any dancing at all till Christmas-day +is out,” said old William emphatically. “When the clock ha’ done striking +twelve, dance as much as ye like.” +</p> + +<p> +“Well, I must say there’s reason in that, William,” said Mrs. Penny. “If you do +have a party on Christmas-night, ’tis only fair and honourable to the sky-folk +to have it a sit-still party. Jigging parties be all very well on the Devil’s +holidays; but a jigging party looks suspicious now. O yes; stop till the clock +strikes, young folk—so say I.” +</p> + +<p> +It happened that some warm mead accidentally got into Mr. Spinks’s head about +this time. +</p> + +<p> +“Dancing,” he said, “is a most strengthening, livening, and courting movement, +’specially with a little beverage added! And dancing is good. But why disturb +what is ordained, Richard and Reuben, and the company zhinerally? Why, I ask, +as far as that do go?” +</p> + +<p> +“Then nothing till after twelve,” said William. +</p> + +<p> +Though Reuben and his wife ruled on social points, religious questions were +mostly disposed of by the old man, whose firmness on this head quite +counterbalanced a certain weakness in his handling of domestic matters. The +hopes of the younger members of the household were therefore relegated to a +distance of one hour and three-quarters—a result that took visible shape in +them by a remote and listless look about the eyes—the singing of songs being +permitted in the interim. +</p> + +<p> +At five minutes to twelve the soft tuning was again heard in the back quarters; +and when at length the clock had whizzed forth the last stroke, Dick appeared +ready primed, and the instruments were boldly handled; old William very readily +taking the bass-viol from its accustomed nail, and touching the strings as +irreligiously as could be desired. +</p> + +<p> +The country-dance called the ‘Triumph, or Follow my Lover,’ was the figure with +which they opened. The tranter took for his partner Mrs. Penny, and Mrs. Dewy +was chosen by Mr. Penny, who made so much of his limited height by a judicious +carriage of the head, straightening of the back, and important flashes of his +spectacle-glasses, that he seemed almost as tall as the tranter. Mr. Shiner, +age about thirty-five, farmer and church-warden, a character principally +composed of a crimson stare, vigorous breath, and a watch-chain, with a mouth +hanging on a dark smile but never smiling, had come quite willingly to the +party, and showed a wondrous obliviousness of all his antics on the previous +night. But the comely, slender, prettily-dressed prize Fancy Day fell to Dick’s +lot, in spite of some private machinations of the farmer, for the reason that +Mr. Shiner, as a richer man, had shown too much assurance in asking the favour, +whilst Dick had been duly courteous. +</p> + +<p> +We gain a good view of our heroine as she advances to her place in the ladies’ +line. She belonged to the taller division of middle height. Flexibility was her +first characteristic, by which she appeared to enjoy the most easeful rest when +she was in gliding motion. Her dark eyes—arched by brows of so keen, slender, +and soft a curve, that they resembled nothing so much as two slurs in +music—showed primarily a bright sparkle each. This was softened by a frequent +thoughtfulness, yet not so frequent as to do away, for more than a few minutes +at a time, with a certain coquettishness; which in its turn was never so +decided as to banish honesty. Her lips imitated her brows in their clearly-cut +outline and softness of bend; and her nose was well shaped—which is saying a +great deal, when it is remembered that there are a hundred pretty mouths and +eyes for one pretty nose. Add to this, plentiful knots of dark-brown hair, a +gauzy dress of white, with blue facings; and the slightest idea may be gained +of the young maiden who showed, amidst the rest of the dancing-ladies, like a +flower among vegetables. And so the dance proceeded. Mr. Shiner, according to +the interesting rule laid down, deserted his own partner, and made off down the +middle with this fair one of Dick’s—the pair appearing from the top of the room +like two persons tripping down a lane to be married. Dick trotted behind with +what was intended to be a look of composure, but which was, in fact, a rather +silly expression of feature—implying, with too much earnestness, that such an +elopement could not be tolerated. Then they turned and came back, when Dick +grew more rigid around his mouth, and blushed with ingenuous ardour as he +joined hands with the rival and formed the arch over his lady’s head; which +presumably gave the figure its name; relinquishing her again at setting to +partners, when Mr. Shiner’s new chain quivered in every link, and all the loose +flesh upon the tranter—who here came into action again—shook like jelly. Mrs. +Penny, being always rather concerned for her personal safety when she danced +with the tranter, fixed her face to a chronic smile of timidity the whole time +it lasted—a peculiarity which filled her features with wrinkles, and reduced +her eyes to little straight lines like hyphens, as she jigged up and down +opposite him; repeating in her own person not only his proper movements, but +also the minor flourishes which the richness of the tranter’s imagination led +him to introduce from time to time—an imitation which had about it something of +slavish obedience, not unmixed with fear. +</p> + +<p> +The ear-rings of the ladies now flung themselves wildly about, turning violent +summersaults, banging this way and that, and then swinging quietly against the +ears sustaining them. Mrs. Crumpler—a heavy woman, who, for some reason which +nobody ever thought worth inquiry, danced in a clean apron—moved so smoothly +through the figure that her feet were never seen; conveying to imaginative +minds the idea that she rolled on castors. +</p> + +<p> +Minute after minute glided by, and the party reached the period when ladies’ +back-hair begins to look forgotten and dissipated; when a perceptible dampness +makes itself apparent upon the faces even of delicate girls—a ghastly dew +having for some time rained from the features of their masculine partners; when +skirts begin to be torn out of their gathers; when elderly people, who have +stood up to please their juniors, begin to feel sundry small tremblings in the +region of the knees, and to wish the interminable dance was at Jericho; when +(at country parties of the thorough sort) waistcoats begin to be unbuttoned, +and when the fiddlers’ chairs have been wriggled, by the frantic bowing of +their occupiers, to a distance of about two feet from where they originally +stood. +</p> + +<p> +Fancy was dancing with Mr. Shiner. Dick knew that Fancy, by the law of good +manners, was bound to dance as pleasantly with one partner as with another; yet +he could not help suggesting to himself that she need not have put <i>quite</i> +so much spirit into her steps, nor smiled <i>quite</i> so frequently whilst in +the farmer’s hands. +</p> + +<p> +“I’m afraid you didn’t cast off,” said Dick mildly to Mr. Shiner, before the +latter man’s watch-chain had done vibrating from a recent whirl. +</p> + +<p> +Fancy made a motion of accepting the correction; but her partner took no +notice, and proceeded with the next movement, with an affectionate bend towards +her. +</p> + +<p> +“That Shiner’s too fond of her,” the young man said to himself as he watched +them. They came to the top again, Fancy smiling warmly towards her partner, and +went to their places. +</p> + +<p> +“Mr. Shiner, you didn’t cast off,” said Dick, for want of something else to +demolish him with; casting off himself, and being put out at the farmer’s +irregularity. +</p> + +<p> +“Perhaps I sha’n’t cast off for any man,” said Mr. Shiner. +</p> + +<p> +“I think you ought to, sir.” +</p> + +<p> +Dick’s partner, a young lady of the name of Lizzy—called Lizz for short—tried +to mollify. +</p> + +<p> +“I can’t say that I myself have much feeling for casting off,” she said. +</p> + +<p> +“Nor I,” said Mrs. Penny, following up the argument, “especially if a friend +and neighbour is set against it. Not but that ’tis a terrible tasty thing in +good hands and well done; yes, indeed, so say I.” +</p> + +<p> +“All I meant was,” said Dick, rather sorry that he had spoken correctingly to a +guest, “that ’tis in the dance; and a man has hardly any right to hack and +mangle what was ordained by the regular dance-maker, who, I daresay, got his +living by making ’em, and thought of nothing else all his life.” +</p> + +<p> +“I don’t like casting off: then very well; I cast off for no dance-maker that +ever lived.” +</p> + +<p> +Dick now appeared to be doing mental arithmetic, the act being really an effort +to present to himself, in an abstract form, how far an argument with a +formidable rival ought to be carried, when that rival was his mother’s guest. +The dead-lock was put an end to by the stamping arrival up the middle of the +tranter, who, despising minutiæ on principle, started a theme of his own. +</p> + +<p> +“I assure you, neighbours,” he said, “the heat of my frame no tongue can tell!” +He looked around and endeavoured to give, by a forcible gaze of self-sympathy, +some faint idea of the truth. +</p> + +<p> +Mrs. Dewy formed one of the next couple. +</p> + +<p> +“Yes,” she said, in an auxiliary tone, “Reuben always was such a hot man.” +</p> + +<p> +Mrs. Penny implied the species of sympathy that such a class of affliction +required, by trying to smile and to look grieved at the same time. +</p> + +<p> +“If he only walk round the garden of a Sunday morning, his shirt-collar is as +limp as no starch at all,” continued Mrs. Dewy, her countenance lapsing +parenthetically into a housewifely expression of concern at the reminiscence. +</p> + +<p> +“Come, come, you women-folk; ’tis hands across—come, come!” said the tranter; +and the conversation ceased for the present. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap08"></a>CHAPTER VIII.<br/> +THEY DANCE MORE WILDLY</h2> + +<p> +Dick had at length secured Fancy for that most delightful of country-dances, +opening with six-hands-round. +</p> + +<p> +“Before we begin,” said the tranter, “my proposal is, that ’twould be a right +and proper plan for every mortal man in the dance to pull off his jacket, +considering the heat.” +</p> + +<p> +“Such low notions as you have, Reuben! Nothing but strip will go down with you +when you are a-dancing. Such a hot man as he is!” +</p> + +<p> +“Well, now, look here, my sonnies,” he argued to his wife, whom he often +addressed in the plural masculine for economy of epithet merely; “I don’t see +that. You dance and get hot as fire; therefore you lighten your clothes. Isn’t +that nature and reason for gentle and simple? If I strip by myself and not +necessary, ’tis rather pot-housey I own; but if we stout chaps strip one and +all, why, ’tis the native manners of the country, which no man can gainsay? +Hey—what did you say, my sonnies?” +</p> + +<p> +“Strip we will!” said the three other heavy men who were in the dance; and +their coats were accordingly taken off and hung in the passage, whence the four +sufferers from heat soon reappeared, marching in close column, with flapping +shirt-sleeves, and having, as common to them all, a general glance of being now +a match for any man or dancer in England or Ireland. Dick, fearing to lose +ground in Fancy’s good opinion, retained his coat like the rest of the thinner +men; and Mr. Shiner did the same from superior knowledge. +</p> + +<p> +And now a further phase of revelry had disclosed itself. It was the time of +night when a guest may write his name in the dust upon the tables and chairs, +and a bluish mist pervades the atmosphere, becoming a distinct halo round the +candles; when people’s nostrils, wrinkles, and crevices in general, seem to be +getting gradually plastered up; when the very fiddlers as well as the dancers +get red in the face, the dancers having advanced further still towards +incandescence, and entered the cadaverous phase; the fiddlers no longer sit +down, but kick back their chairs and saw madly at the strings, with legs firmly +spread and eyes closed, regardless of the visible world. Again and again did +Dick share his Love’s hand with another man, and wheel round; then, more +delightfully, promenade in a circle with her all to himself, his arm holding +her waist more firmly each time, and his elbow getting further and further +behind her back, till the distance reached was rather noticeable; and, most +blissful, swinging to places shoulder to shoulder, her breath curling round his +neck like a summer zephyr that had strayed from its proper date. Threading the +couples one by one they reached the bottom, when there arose in Dick’s mind a +minor misery lest the tune should end before they could work their way to the +top again, and have anew the same exciting run down through. Dick’s feelings on +actually reaching the top in spite of his doubts were supplemented by a mortal +fear that the fiddling might even stop at this supreme moment; which prompted +him to convey a stealthy whisper to the far-gone musicians, to the effect that +they were not to leave off till he and his partner had reached the bottom of +the dance once more, which remark was replied to by the nearest of those +convulsed and quivering men by a private nod to the anxious young man between +two semiquavers of the tune, and a simultaneous “All right, ay, ay,” without +opening the eyes. Fancy was now held so closely that Dick and she were +practically one person. The room became to Dick like a picture in a dream; all +that he could remember of it afterwards being the look of the fiddlers going to +sleep, as humming-tops sleep, by increasing their motion and hum, together with +the figures of grandfather James and old Simon Crumpler sitting by the +chimney-corner, talking and nodding in dumb-show, and beating the air to their +emphatic sentences like people near a threshing machine. +</p> + +<p> +The dance ended. “Piph-h-h-h!” said tranter Dewy, blowing out his breath in the +very finest stream of vapour that a man’s lips could form. “A regular +tightener, that one, sonnies!” He wiped his forehead, and went to the cider and +ale mugs on the table. +</p> + +<p> +“Well!” said Mrs. Penny, flopping into a chair, “my heart haven’t been in such +a thumping state of uproar since I used to sit up on old Midsummer-eves to see +who my husband was going to be.” +</p> + +<p> +“And that’s getting on for a good few years ago now, from what I’ve heard you +tell,” said the tranter, without lifting his eyes from the cup he was filling. +Being now engaged in the business of handing round refreshments, he was +warranted in keeping his coat off still, though the other heavy men had resumed +theirs. +</p> + +<p> +“And a thing I never expected would come to pass, if you’ll believe me, came to +pass then,” continued Mrs. Penny. “Ah, the first spirit ever I see on a +Midsummer-eve was a puzzle to me when he appeared, a hard puzzle, so say I!” +</p> + +<p> +“So I should have fancied,” said Elias Spinks. +</p> + +<p> +“Yes,” said Mrs. Penny, throwing her glance into past times, and talking on in +a running tone of complacent abstraction, as if a listener were not a +necessity. “Yes; never was I in such a taking as on that Midsummer-eve! I sat +up, quite determined to see if John Wildway was going to marry me or no. I put +the bread-and-cheese and beer quite ready, as the witch’s book ordered, and I +opened the door, and I waited till the clock struck twelve, my nerves all alive +and so strained that I could feel every one of ’em twitching like bell-wires. +Yes, sure! and when the clock had struck, lo and behold, I could see through +the door a <i>little small</i> man in the lane wi’ a shoemaker’s apron on.” +</p> + +<p> +Here Mr. Penny stealthily enlarged himself half an inch. +</p> + +<p> +“Now, John Wildway,” Mrs. Penny continued, “who courted me at that time, was a +shoemaker, you see, but he was a very fair-sized man, and I couldn’t believe +that any such a little small man had anything to do wi’ me, as anybody might. +But on he came, and crossed the threshold—not John, but actually the same +little small man in the shoemaker’s apron—” +</p> + +<p> +“You needn’t be so mighty particular about little and small!” said her husband. +</p> + +<p> +“In he walks, and down he sits, and O my goodness me, didn’t I flee upstairs, +body and soul hardly hanging together! Well, to cut a long story short, by-long +and by-late, John Wildway and I had a miff and parted; and lo and behold, the +coming man came! Penny asked me if I’d go snacks with him, and afore I knew +what I was about a’most, the thing was done.” +</p> + +<p> +“I’ve fancied you never knew better in your life; but I mid be mistaken,” said +Mr. Penny in a murmur. +</p> + +<p> +After Mrs. Penny had spoken, there being no new occupation for her eyes, she +still let them stay idling on the past scenes just related, which were +apparently visible to her in the centre of the room. Mr. Penny’s remark +received no reply. +</p> + +<p> +During this discourse the tranter and his wife might have been observed +standing in an unobtrusive corner, in mysterious closeness to each other, a +just perceptible current of intelligence passing from each to each, which had +apparently no relation whatever to the conversation of their guests, but much +to their sustenance. A conclusion of some kind having at length been drawn, the +palpable confederacy of man and wife was once more obliterated, the tranter +marching off into the pantry, humming a tune that he couldn’t quite recollect, +and then breaking into the words of a song of which he could remember about one +line and a quarter. Mrs. Dewy spoke a few words about preparations for a bit of +supper. +</p> + +<p> +That elder portion of the company which loved eating and drinking put on a look +to signify that till this moment they had quite forgotten that it was customary +to expect suppers on these occasions; going even further than this politeness +of feature, and starting irrelevant subjects, the exceeding flatness and forced +tone of which rather betrayed their object. The younger members said they were +quite hungry, and that supper would be delightful though it was so late. +</p> + +<p> +Good luck attended Dick’s love-passes during the meal. He sat next Fancy, and +had the thrilling pleasure of using permanently a glass which had been taken by +Fancy in mistake; of letting the outer edge of the sole of his boot touch the +lower verge of her skirt; and to add to these delights the cat, which had lain +unobserved in her lap for several minutes, crept across into his own, touching +him with fur that had touched her hand a moment before. There were, besides, +some little pleasures in the shape of helping her to vegetable she didn’t want, +and when it had nearly alighted on her plate taking it across for his own use, +on the plea of waste not, want not. He also, from time to time, sipped sweet +sly glances at her profile; noticing the set of her head, the curve of her +throat, and other artistic properties of the lively goddess, who the while kept +up a rather free, not to say too free, conversation with Mr. Shiner sitting +opposite; which, after some uneasy criticism, and much shifting of argument +backwards and forwards in Dick’s mind, he decided not to consider of alarming +significance. +</p> + +<p> +“A new music greets our ears now,” said Miss Fancy, alluding, with the +sharpness that her position as village sharpener demanded, to the contrast +between the rattle of knives and forks and the late notes of the fiddlers. +</p> + +<p> +“Ay; and I don’t know but what ’tis sweeter in tone when you get above forty,” +said the tranter; “except, in faith, as regards father there. Never such a +mortal man as he for tunes. They do move his soul; don’t ’em, father?” +</p> + +<p> +The eldest Dewy smiled across from his distant chair an assent to Reuben’s +remark. +</p> + +<p> +“Spaking of being moved in soul,” said Mr. Penny, “I shall never forget the +first time I heard the ‘Dead March.’ ’Twas at poor Corp’l Nineman’s funeral at +Casterbridge. It fairly made my hair creep and fidget about like a vlock of +sheep—ah, it did, souls! And when they had done, and the last trump had +sounded, and the guns was fired over the dead hero’s grave, a’ icy-cold drop o’ +moist sweat hung upon my forehead, and another upon my jawbone. Ah, ’tis a very +solemn thing!” +</p> + +<p> +“Well, as to father in the corner there,” the tranter said, pointing to old +William, who was in the act of filling his mouth; “he’d starve to death for +music’s sake now, as much as when he was a boy-chap of fifteen.” +</p> + +<p> +“Truly, now,” said Michael Mail, clearing the corner of his throat in the +manner of a man who meant to be convincing; “there’s a friendly tie of some +sort between music and eating.” He lifted the cup to his mouth, and drank +himself gradually backwards from a perpendicular position to a slanting one, +during which time his looks performed a circuit from the wall opposite him to +the ceiling overhead. Then clearing the other corner of his throat: “Once I was +a-setting in the little kitchen of the Dree Mariners at Casterbridge, having a +bit of dinner, and a brass band struck up in the street. Such a beautiful band +as that were! I was setting eating fried liver and lights, I well can mind—ah, +I was! and to save my life, I couldn’t help chawing to the tune. Band played +six-eight time; six-eight chaws I, willynilly. Band plays common; common time +went my teeth among the liver and lights as true as a hair. Beautiful ’twere! +Ah, I shall never forget that there band!” +</p> + +<p> +“That’s as tuneful a thing as ever I heard of,” said grandfather James, with +the absent gaze which accompanies profound criticism. +</p> + +<p> +“I don’t like Michael’s tuneful stories then,” said Mrs. Dewy. “They are quite +coarse to a person o’ decent taste.” +</p> + +<p> +Old Michael’s mouth twitched here and there, as if he wanted to smile but +didn’t know where to begin, which gradually settled to an expression that it +was not displeasing for a nice woman like the tranter’s wife to correct him. +</p> + +<p> +“Well, now,” said Reuben, with decisive earnestness, “that sort o’ coarse touch +that’s so upsetting to Ann’s feelings is to my mind a recommendation; for it do +always prove a story to be true. And for the same reason, I like a story with a +bad moral. My sonnies, all true stories have a coarse touch or a bad moral, +depend upon’t. If the story-tellers could ha’ got decency and good morals from +true stories, who’d ha’ troubled to invent parables?” Saying this the tranter +arose to fetch a new stock of cider, ale, mead, and home-made wines. +</p> + +<p> +Mrs. Dewy sighed, and appended a remark (ostensibly behind her husband’s back, +though that the words should reach his ears distinctly was understood by both): +“Such a man as Dewy is! Nobody do know the trouble I have to keep that man +barely respectable. And did you ever hear too—just now at supper-time—talking +about ‘taties’ with Michael in such a work-folk way. Well, ’tis what I was +never brought up to! With our family ’twas never less than ‘taters,’ and very +often ‘pertatoes’ outright; mother was so particular and nice with us girls +there was no family in the parish that kept them selves up more than we.” +</p> + +<p> +The hour of parting came. Fancy could not remain for the night, because she had +engaged a woman to wait up for her. She disappeared temporarily from the +flagging party of dancers, and then came downstairs wrapped up and looking +altogether a different person from whom she had been hitherto, in fact (to +Dick’s sadness and disappointment), a woman somewhat reserved and of a +phlegmatic temperament—nothing left in her of the romping girl that she had +seemed but a short quarter-hour before, who had not minded the weight of Dick’s +hand upon her waist, nor shirked the purlieus of the mistletoe. +</p> + +<p> +“What a difference!” thought the young man—hoary cynic <i>pro tem. “</i>What a +miserable deceiving difference between the manners of a maid’s life at dancing +times and at others! Look at this lovely Fancy! Through the whole past evening +touchable, squeezeable—even kissable! For whole half-hours I held her so chose +to me that not a sheet of paper could have been shipped between us; and I could +feel her heart only just outside my own, her life beating on so close to mine, +that I was aware of every breath in it. A flit is made upstairs—a hat and a +cloak put on—and I no more dare to touch her than—” Thought failed him, and he +returned to realities. +</p> + +<p> +But this was an endurable misery in comparison with what followed. Mr. Shiner +and his watch-chain, taking the intrusive advantage that ardent bachelors who +are going homeward along the same road as a pretty young woman always do take +of that circumstance, came forward to assure Fancy—with a total disregard of +Dick’s emotions, and in tones which were certainly not frigid—that he (Shiner) +was not the man to go to bed before seeing his Lady Fair safe within her own +door—not he, nobody should say he was that;—and that he would not leave her +side an inch till the thing was done—drown him if he would. The proposal was +assented to by Miss Day, in Dick’s foreboding judgment, with one degree—or at +any rate, an appreciable fraction of a degree—of warmth beyond that required by +a disinterested desire for protection from the dangers of the night. +</p> + +<p> +All was over; and Dick surveyed the chair she had last occupied, looking now +like a setting from which the gem has been torn. There stood her glass, and the +romantic teaspoonful of elder wine at the bottom that she couldn’t drink by +trying ever so hard, in obedience to the mighty arguments of the tranter (his +hand coming down upon her shoulder the while, like a Nasmyth hammer); but the +drinker was there no longer. There were the nine or ten pretty little crumbs +she had left on her plate; but the eater was no more seen. +</p> + +<p> +There seemed a disagreeable closeness of relationship between himself and the +members of his family, now that they were left alone again face to face. His +father seemed quite offensive for appearing to be in just as high spirits as +when the guests were there; and as for grandfather James (who had not yet +left), he was quite fiendish in being rather glad they were gone. +</p> + +<p> +“Really,” said the tranter, in a tone of placid satisfaction, “I’ve had so +little time to attend to myself all the evenen, that I mean to enjoy a quiet +meal now! A slice of this here ham—neither too fat nor too lean—so; and then a +drop of this vinegar and pickles—there, that’s it—and I shall be as fresh as a +lark again! And to tell the truth, my sonny, my inside has been as dry as a +lime-basket all night.” +</p> + +<p> +“I like a party very well once in a while,” said Mrs. Dewy, leaving off the +adorned tones she had been bound to use throughout the evening, and returning +to the natural marriage voice; “but, Lord, ’tis such a sight of heavy work next +day! What with the dirty plates, and knives and forks, and dust and smother, +and bits kicked off your furniture, and I don’t know what all, why a body could +a’most wish there were no such things as Christmases . . . Ah-h dear!” she +yawned, till the clock in the corner had ticked several beats. She cast her +eyes round upon the displaced, dust-laden furniture, and sank down overpowered +at the sight. +</p> + +<p> +“Well, I be getting all right by degrees, thank the Lord for’t!” said the +tranter cheerfully through a mangled mass of ham and bread, without lifting his +eyes from his plate, and chopping away with his knife and fork as if he were +felling trees. “Ann, you may as well go on to bed at once, and not bide there +making such sleepy faces; you look as long-favoured as a fiddle, upon my life, +Ann. There, you must be wearied out, ’tis true. I’ll do the doors and draw up +the clock; and you go on, or you’ll be as white as a sheet to-morrow.” +</p> + +<p> +“Ay; I don’t know whether I shan’t or no.” The matron passed her hand across +her eyes to brush away the film of sleep till she got upstairs. +</p> + +<p> +Dick wondered how it was that when people were married they could be so blind +to romance; and was quite certain that if he ever took to wife that dear +impossible Fancy, he and she would never be so dreadfully practical and +undemonstrative of the Passion as his father and mother were. The most +extraordinary thing was, that all the fathers and mothers he knew were just as +undemonstrative as his own. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap09"></a>CHAPTER IX.<br/> +DICK CALLS AT THE SCHOOL</h2> + +<p> +The early days of the year drew on, and Fancy, having spent the holiday weeks +at home, returned again to Mellstock. +</p> + +<p> +Every spare minute of the week following her return was used by Dick in +accidentally passing the schoolhouse in his journeys about the neighbourhood; +but not once did she make herself visible. A handkerchief belonging to her had +been providentially found by his mother in clearing the rooms the day after +that of the dance; and by much contrivance Dick got it handed over to him, to +leave with her at any time he should be near the school after her return. But +he delayed taking the extreme measure of calling with it lest, had she really +no sentiment of interest in him, it might be regarded as a slightly absurd +errand, the reason guessed; and the sense of the ludicrous, which was rather +keen in her, do his dignity considerable injury in her eyes; and what she +thought of him, even apart from the question of her loving, was all the world +to him now. +</p> + +<p> +But the hour came when the patience of love at twenty-one could endure no +longer. One Saturday he approached the school with a mild air of indifference, +and had the satisfaction of seeing the object of his quest at the further end +of her garden, trying, by the aid of a spade and gloves, to root a bramble that +had intruded itself there. +</p> + +<p> +He disguised his feelings from some suspicious-looking cottage-windows opposite +by endeavouring to appear like a man in a great hurry of business, who wished +to leave the handkerchief and have done with such trifling errands. +</p> + +<p> +This endeavour signally failed; for on approaching the gate he found it locked +to keep the children, who were playing ‘cross-dadder’ in the front, from +running into her private grounds. +</p> + +<p> +She did not see him; and he could only think of one thing to be done, which was +to shout her name. +</p> + +<p> +“Miss Day!” +</p> + +<p> +The words were uttered with a jerk and a look meant to imply to the cottages +opposite that he was now simply one who liked shouting as a pleasant way of +passing his time, without any reference to persons in gardens. The name died +away, and the unconscious Miss Day continued digging and pulling as before. +</p> + +<p> +He screwed himself up to enduring the cottage-windows yet more stoically, and +shouted again. Fancy took no notice whatever. +</p> + +<p> +He shouted the third time, with desperate vehemence, turning suddenly about and +retiring a little distance, as if it were by no means for his own pleasure that +he had come. +</p> + +<p> +This time she heard him, came down the garden, and entered the school at the +back. Footsteps echoed across the interior, the door opened, and three-quarters +of the blooming young schoolmistress’s face and figure stood revealed before +him; a slice on her left-hand side being cut off by the edge of the door. +Having surveyed and recognized him, she came to the gate. +</p> + +<p> +At sight of him had the pink of her cheeks increased, lessened, or did it +continue to cover its normal area of ground? It was a question meditated +several hundreds of times by her visitor in after-hours—the meditation, after +wearying involutions, always ending in one way, that it was impossible to say. +</p> + +<p> +“Your handkerchief: Miss Day: I called with.” He held it out spasmodically and +awkwardly. “Mother found it: under a chair.” +</p> + +<p> +“O, thank you very much for bringing it, Mr. Dewy. I couldn’t think where I had +dropped it.” +</p> + +<p> +Now Dick, not being an experienced lover—indeed, never before having been +engaged in the practice of love-making at all, except in a small schoolboy +way—could not take advantage of the situation; and out came the blunder, which +afterwards cost him so many bitter moments and a sleepless night:- +</p> + +<p> +“Good morning, Miss Day.” +</p> + +<p> +“Good morning, Mr. Dewy.” +</p> + +<p> +The gate was closed; she was gone; and Dick was standing outside, unchanged in +his condition from what he had been before he called. Of course the Angel was +not to blame—a young woman living alone in a house could not ask him indoors +unless she had known him better—he should have kept her outside before +floundering into that fatal farewell. He wished that before he called he had +realized more fully than he did the pleasure of being about to call; and turned +away. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="part02"></a>PART THE SECOND—SPRING</h2> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap10"></a>CHAPTER I.<br/> +PASSING BY THE SCHOOL</h2> + +<p> +It followed that, as the spring advanced, Dick walked abroad much more +frequently than had hitherto been usual with him, and was continually finding +that his nearest way to or from home lay by the road which skirted the garden +of the school. The first-fruits of his perseverance were that, on turning the +angle on the nineteenth journey by that track, he saw Miss Fancy’s figure, +clothed in a dark-gray dress, looking from a high open window upon the crown of +his hat. The friendly greeting resulting from this rencounter was considered so +valuable an elixir that Dick passed still oftener; and by the time he had +almost trodden a little path under the fence where never a path was before, he +was rewarded with an actual meeting face to face on the open road before her +gate. This brought another meeting, and another, Fancy faintly showing by her +bearing that it was a pleasure to her of some kind to see him there; but the +sort of pleasure she derived, whether exultation at the hope her exceeding +fairness inspired, or the true feeling which was alone Dick’s concern, he could +not anyhow decide, although he meditated on her every little movement for hours +after it was made. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap11"></a>CHAPTER II.<br/> +A MEETING OF THE QUIRE</h2> + +<p> +It was the evening of a fine spring day. The descending sun appeared as a +nebulous blaze of amber light, its outline being lost in cloudy masses hanging +round it, like wild locks of hair. +</p> + +<p> +The chief members of Mellstock parish choir were standing in a group in front +of Mr. Penny’s workshop in the lower village. They were all brightly +illuminated, and each was backed up by a shadow as long as a steeple; the +lowness of the source of light rendering the brims of their hats of no use at +all as a protection to the eyes. +</p> + +<p> +Mr. Penny’s was the last house in that part of the parish, and stood in a +hollow by the roadside so that cart-wheels and horses’ legs were about level +with the sill of his shop-window. This was low and wide, and was open from +morning till evening, Mr. Penny himself being invariably seen working inside, +like a framed portrait of a shoemaker by some modern Moroni. He sat facing the +road, with a boot on his knees and the awl in his hand, only looking up for a +moment as he stretched out his arms and bent forward at the pull, when his +spectacles flashed in the passer’s face with a shine of flat whiteness, and +then returned again to the boot as usual. Rows of lasts, small and large, stout +and slender, covered the wall which formed the background, in the extreme +shadow of which a kind of dummy was seen sitting, in the shape of an apprentice +with a string tied round his hair (probably to keep it out of his eyes). He +smiled at remarks that floated in from without, but was never known to answer +them in Mr. Penny’s presence. Outside the window the upper-leather of a +Wellington-boot was usually hung, pegged to a board as if to dry. No sign was +over his door; in fact—as with old banks and mercantile houses—advertising in +any shape was scorned, and it would have been felt as beneath his dignity to +paint up, for the benefit of strangers, the name of an establishment whose +trade came solely by connection based on personal respect. +</p> + +<p> +His visitors now came and stood on the outside of his window, sometimes leaning +against the sill, sometimes moving a pace or two backwards and forwards in +front of it. They talked with deliberate gesticulations to Mr. Penny, enthroned +in the shadow of the interior. +</p> + +<p> +“I do like a man to stick to men who be in the same line o’ life—o’ Sundays, +anyway—that I do so.” +</p> + +<p> +“’Tis like all the doings of folk who don’t know what a day’s work is, that’s +what I say.” +</p> + +<p> +“My belief is the man’s not to blame; ’tis <i>she—</i>she’s the bitter weed!” +</p> + +<p> +“No, not altogether. He’s a poor gawk-hammer. Look at his sermon yesterday.” +</p> + +<p> +“His sermon was well enough, a very good guessable sermon, only he couldn’t put +it into words and speak it. That’s all was the matter wi’ the sermon. He hadn’t +been able to get it past his pen.” +</p> + +<p> +“Well—ay, the sermon might have been good; for, ’tis true, the sermon of Old +Eccl’iastes himself lay in Eccl’iastes’s ink-bottle afore he got it out.” +</p> + +<p> +Mr. Penny, being in the act of drawing the last stitch tight, could afford time +to look up and throw in a word at this point. +</p> + +<p> +“He’s no spouter—that must be said, ’a b’lieve.” +</p> + +<p> +“’Tis a terrible muddle sometimes with the man, as far as spout do go,” said +Spinks. +</p> + +<p> +“Well, we’ll say nothing about that,” the tranter answered; “for I don’t +believe ’twill make a penneth o’ difference to we poor martels here or +hereafter whether his sermons be good or bad, my sonnies.” +</p> + +<p> +Mr. Penny made another hole with his awl, pushed in the thread, and looked up +and spoke again at the extension of arms. +</p> + +<p> +“’Tis his goings-on, souls, that’s what it is.” He clenched his features for an +Herculean addition to the ordinary pull, and continued, “The first thing he +done when he came here was to be hot and strong about church business.” +</p> + +<p> +“True,” said Spinks; “that was the very first thing he done.” +</p> + +<p> +Mr. Penny, having now been offered the ear of the assembly, accepted it, ceased +stitching, swallowed an unimportant quantity of air as if it were a pill, and +continued: +</p> + +<p> +“The next thing he do do is to think about altering the church, until he found +’twould be a matter o’ cost and what not, and then not to think no more about +it.” +</p> + +<p> +“True: that was the next thing he done.” +</p> + +<p> +“And the next thing was to tell the young chaps that they were not on no +account to put their hats in the christening font during service.” +</p> + +<p> +“True.” +</p> + +<p> +“And then ’twas this, and then ’twas that, and now ’tis—” +</p> + +<p> +Words were not forcible enough to conclude the sentence, and Mr. Penny gave a +huge pull to signify the concluding word. +</p> + +<p> +“Now ’tis to turn us out of the quire neck and crop,” said the tranter after an +interval of half a minute, not by way of explaining the pause and pull, which +had been quite understood, but as a means of keeping the subject well before +the meeting. +</p> + +<p> +Mrs. Penny came to the door at this point in the discussion. Like all good +wives, however much she was inclined to play the Tory to her husband’s +Whiggism, and <i>vice versâ</i>, in times of peace, she coalesced with +him heartily enough in time of war. +</p> + +<p> +“It must be owned he’s not all there,” she replied in a general way to the +fragments of talk she had heard from indoors. “Far below poor Mr. Grinham” (the +late vicar). +</p> + +<p> +“Ay, there was this to be said for he, that you were quite sure he’d never come +mumbudgeting to see ye, just as you were in the middle of your work, and put +you out with his fuss and trouble about ye.” +</p> + +<p> +“Never. But as for this new Mr. Maybold, though he mid be a very well-intending +party in that respect, he’s unbearable; for as to sifting your cinders, +scrubbing your floors, or emptying your slops, why, you can’t do it. I assure +you I’ve not been able to empt them for several days, unless I throw ’em up the +chimley or out of winder; for as sure as the sun you meet him at the door, +coming to ask how you are, and ’tis such a confusing thing to meet a gentleman +at the door when ye are in the mess o’ washing.” +</p> + +<p> +“’Tis only for want of knowing better, poor gentleman,” said the tranter. “His +meaning’s good enough. Ay, your pa’son comes by fate: ’tis heads or tails, like +pitch-halfpenny, and no choosing; so we must take en as he is, my sonnies, and +thank God he’s no worse, I suppose.” +</p> + +<p> +“I fancy I’ve seen him look across at Miss Day in a warmer way than +Christianity asked for,” said Mrs. Penny musingly; “but I don’t quite like to +say it.” +</p> + +<p> +“O no; there’s nothing in that,” said grandfather William. +</p> + +<p> +“If there’s nothing, we shall see nothing,” Mrs. Penny replied, in the tone of +a woman who might possibly have private opinions still. +</p> + +<p> +“Ah, Mr. Grinham was the man!” said Bowman. “Why, he never troubled us wi’ a +visit from year’s end to year’s end. You might go anywhere, do anything: you’d +be sure never to see him.” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, he was a right sensible pa’son,” said Michael. “He never entered our door +but once in his life, and that was to tell my poor wife—ay, poor soul, dead and +gone now, as we all shall!—that as she was such a’ old aged person, and lived +so far from the church, he didn’t at all expect her to come any more to the +service.” +</p> + +<p> +“And ’a was a very jinerous gentleman about choosing the psalms and hymns o’ +Sundays. ‘Confound ye,’ says he, ‘blare and scrape what ye will, but don’t +bother me!’” +</p> + +<p> +“And he was a very honourable man in not wanting any of us to come and hear him +if we were all on-end for a jaunt or spree, or to bring the babies to be +christened if they were inclined to squalling. There’s good in a man’s not +putting a parish to unnecessary trouble.” +</p> + +<p> +“And there’s this here man never letting us have a bit o’ peace; but keeping on +about being good and upright till ’tis carried to such a pitch as I never see +the like afore nor since!” +</p> + +<p> +“No sooner had he got here than he found the font wouldn’t hold water, as it +hadn’t for years off and on; and when I told him that Mr. Grinham never minded +it, but used to spet upon his vinger and christen ’em just as well, ’a said, +‘Good Heavens! Send for a workman immediate. What place have I come to!’ Which +was no compliment to us, come to that.” +</p> + +<p> +“Still, for my part,” said old William, “though he’s arrayed against us, I like +the hearty borussnorus ways of the new pa’son.” +</p> + +<p> +“You, ready to die for the quire,” said Bowman reproachfully, “to stick up for +the quire’s enemy, William!” +</p> + +<p> +“Nobody will feel the loss of our church-work so much as I,” said the old man +firmly; “that you d’all know. I’ve a-been in the quire man and boy ever since I +was a chiel of eleven. But for all that ’tisn’t in me to call the man a bad +man, because I truly and sincerely believe en to be a good young feller.” +</p> + +<p> +Some of the youthful sparkle that used to reside there animated William’s eye +as he uttered the words, and a certain nobility of aspect was also imparted to +him by the setting sun, which gave him a Titanic shadow at least thirty feet in +length, stretching away to the east in outlines of imposing magnitude, his head +finally terminating upon the trunk of a grand old oak-tree. +</p> + +<p> +“Mayble’s a hearty feller enough,” the tranter replied, “and will spak to you +be you dirty or be you clane. The first time I met en was in a drong, and +though ’a didn’t know me no more than the dead, ’a passed the time of day. +‘D’ye do?’ he said, says he, nodding his head. ‘A fine day.’ Then the second +time I met en was full-buff in town street, when my breeches were tore into a +long strent by getting through a copse of thorns and brimbles for a short cut +home-along; and not wanting to disgrace the man by spaking in that state, I +fixed my eye on the weathercock to let en pass me as a stranger. But no: ‘How +d’ye do, Reuben?’ says he, right hearty, and shook my hand. If I’d been dressed +in silver spangles from top to toe, the man couldn’t have been civiller.” +</p> + +<p> +At this moment Dick was seen coming up the village-street, and they turned and +watched him. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap12"></a>CHAPTER III.<br/> +A TURN IN THE DISCUSSION</h2> + +<p> +“I’m afraid Dick’s a lost man,” said the tranter. +</p> + +<p> +“What?—no!” said Mail, implying by his manner that it was a far commoner thing +for his ears to report what was not said than that his judgment should be at +fault. +</p> + +<p> +“Ay,” said the tranter, still gazing at Dick’s unconscious advance. “I don’t at +all like what I see! There’s too many o’ them looks out of the winder without +noticing anything; too much shining of boots; too much peeping round corners; +too much looking at the clock; telling about clever things <i>she</i> did till +you be sick of it; and then upon a hint to that effect a horrible silence about +her. I’ve walked the path once in my life and know the country, neighbours; and +Dick’s a lost man!” The tranter turned a quarter round and smiled a smile of +miserable satire at the setting new moon, which happened to catch his eye. +</p> + +<p> +The others became far too serious at this announcement to allow them to speak; +and they still regarded Dick in the distance. +</p> + +<p> +“’Twas his mother’s fault,” the tranter continued, “in asking the young woman +to our party last Christmas. When I eyed the blue frock and light heels o’ the +maid, I had my thoughts directly. ‘God bless thee, Dicky my sonny,’ I said to +myself; ‘there’s a delusion for thee!’” +</p> + +<p> +“They seemed to be rather distant in manner last Sunday, I thought?” Mail +tentatively observed, as became one who was not a member of the family. +</p> + +<p> +“Ay, that’s a part of the zickness. Distance belongs to it, slyness belongs to +it, queerest things on earth belongs to it! There, ’tmay as well come early as +late s’far as I know. The sooner begun, the sooner over; for come it will.” +</p> + +<p> +“The question I ask is,” said Mr. Spinks, connecting into one thread the two +subjects of discourse, as became a man learned in rhetoric, and beating with +his hand in a way which signified that the manner rather than the matter of his +speech was to be observed, “how did Mr. Maybold know she could play the organ? +You know we had it from her own lips, as far as lips go, that she has never, +first or last, breathed such a thing to him; much less that she ever would +play.” +</p> + +<p> +In the midst of this puzzle Dick joined the party, and the news which had +caused such a convulsion among the ancient musicians was unfolded to him. +“Well,” he said, blushing at the allusion to Miss Day, “I know by some words of +hers that she has a particular wish not to play, because she is a friend of +ours; and how the alteration comes, I don’t know.” +</p> + +<p> +“Now, this is my plan,” said the tranter, reviving the spirit of the discussion +by the infusion of new ideas, as was his custom—“this is my plan; if you don’t +like it, no harm’s done. We all know one another very well, don’t we, +neighbours?” +</p> + +<p> +That they knew one another very well was received as a statement which, though +familiar, should not be omitted in introductory speeches. +</p> + +<p> +“Then I say this”—and the tranter in his emphasis slapped down his hand on Mr. +Spinks’s shoulder with a momentum of several pounds, upon which Mr. Spinks +tried to look not in the least startled—“I say that we all move down-along +straight as a line to Pa’son Mayble’s when the clock has gone six to-morrow +night. There we one and all stand in the passage, then one or two of us go in +and spak to en, man and man; and say, ‘Pa’son Mayble, every tradesman d’like to +have his own way in his workshop, and Mellstock Church is yours. Instead of +turning us out neck and crop, let us stay on till Christmas, and we’ll gie way +to the young woman, Mr. Mayble, and make no more ado about it. And we shall +always be quite willing to touch our hats when we meet ye, Mr. Mayble, just as +before.’ That sounds very well? Hey?” +</p> + +<p> +“Proper well, in faith, Reuben Dewy.” +</p> + +<p> +“And we won’t sit down in his house; ’twould be looking too familiar when only +just reconciled?” +</p> + +<p> +“No need at all to sit down. Just do our duty man and man, turn round, and +march out—he’ll think all the more of us for it.” +</p> + +<p> +“I hardly think Leaf had better go wi’ us?” said Michael, turning to Leaf and +taking his measure from top to bottom by the eye. “He’s so terrible silly that +he might ruin the concern.” +</p> + +<p> +“He don’t want to go much; do ye, Thomas Leaf?” said William. +</p> + +<p> +“Hee-hee! no; I don’t want to. Only a teeny bit!” +</p> + +<p> +“I be mortal afeard, Leaf, that you’ll never be able to tell how many cuts +d’take to sharpen a spar,” said Mail. +</p> + +<p> +“I never had no head, never! that’s how it happened to happen, hee-hee!” +</p> + +<p> +They all assented to this, not with any sense of humiliating Leaf by +disparaging him after an open confession, but because it was an accepted thing +that Leaf didn’t in the least mind having no head, that deficiency of his being +an unimpassioned matter of parish history. +</p> + +<p> +“But I can sing my treble!” continued Thomas Leaf, quite delighted at being +called a fool in such a friendly way; “I can sing my treble as well as any +maid, or married woman either, and better! And if Jim had lived, I should have +had a clever brother! To-morrow is poor Jim’s birthday. He’d ha’ been +twenty-six if he’d lived till to-morrow.” +</p> + +<p> +“You always seem very sorry for Jim,” said old William musingly. +</p> + +<p> +“Ah! I do. Such a stay to mother as he’d always ha’ been! She’d never have had +to work in her old age if he had continued strong, poor Jim!” +</p> + +<p> +“What was his age when ’a died?” +</p> + +<p> +“Four hours and twenty minutes, poor Jim. ’A was born as might be at night; and +’a didn’t last as might be till the morning. No, ’a didn’t last. Mother called +en Jim on the day that would ha’ been his christening day if he had lived; and +she’s always thinking about en. You see he died so very young.” +</p> + +<p> +“Well, ’twas rather youthful,” said Michael. +</p> + +<p> +“Now to my mind that woman is very romantical on the matter o’ children?” said +the tranter, his eye sweeping his audience. +</p> + +<p> +“Ah, well she mid be,” said Leaf. “She had twelve regular one after another, +and they all, except myself, died very young; either before they was born or +just afterwards.” +</p> + +<p> +“Pore feller, too. I suppose th’st want to come wi’ us?” the tranter murmured. +</p> + +<p> +“Well, Leaf, you shall come wi’ us as yours is such a melancholy family,” said +old William rather sadly. +</p> + +<p> +“I never see such a melancholy family as that afore in my life,” said Reuben. +“There’s Leaf’s mother, poor woman! Every morning I see her eyes mooning out +through the panes of glass like a pot-sick winder-flower; and as Leaf sings a +very high treble, and we don’t know what we should do without en for upper G, +we’ll let en come as a trate, poor feller.” +</p> + +<p> +“Ay, we’ll let en come, ’a b’lieve,” said Mr. Penny, looking up, as the pull +happened to be at that moment. +</p> + +<p> +“Now,” continued the tranter, dispersing by a new tone of voice these +digressions about Leaf; “as to going to see the pa’son, one of us might call +and ask en his meaning, and ’twould be just as well done; but it will add a bit +of flourish to the cause if the quire waits on him as a body. Then the great +thing to mind is, not for any of our fellers to be nervous; so before starting +we’ll one and all come to my house and have a rasher of bacon; then every +man-jack het a pint of cider into his inside; then we’ll warm up an extra drop +wi’ some mead and a bit of ginger; every one take a thimbleful—just a glimmer +of a drop, mind ye, no more, to finish off his inner man—and march off to +Pa’son Mayble. Why, sonnies, a man’s not himself till he is fortified wi’ a bit +and a drop? We shall be able to look any gentleman in the face then without +shrink or shame.” +</p> + +<p> +Mail recovered from a deep meditation and downward glance into the earth in +time to give a cordial approval to this line of action, and the meeting +adjourned. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap13"></a>CHAPTER IV.<br/> +THE INTERVIEW WITH THE VICAR</h2> + +<p> +At six o’clock the next day, the whole body of men in the choir emerged from +the tranter’s door, and advanced with a firm step down the lane. This dignity +of march gradually became obliterated as they went on, and by the time they +reached the hill behind the vicarage a faint resemblance to a flock of sheep +might have been discerned in the venerable party. A word from the tranter, +however, set them right again; and as they descended the hill, the regular +tramp, tramp, tramp of the united feet was clearly audible from the vicarage +garden. At the opening of the gate there was another short interval of +irregular shuffling, caused by a rather peculiar habit the gate had, when swung +open quickly, of striking against the bank and slamming back into the opener’s +face. +</p> + +<p> +“Now keep step again, will ye?” said the tranter. “It looks better, and more +becomes the high class of arrant which has brought us here.” Thus they advanced +to the door. +</p> + +<p> +At Reuben’s ring the more modest of the group turned aside, adjusted their +hats, and looked critically at any shrub that happened to lie in the line of +vision; endeavouring thus to give a person who chanced to look out of the +windows the impression that their request, whatever it was going to be, was +rather a casual thought occurring whilst they were inspecting the vicar’s +shrubbery and grass-plot than a predetermined thing. The tranter, who, coming +frequently to the vicarage with luggage, coals, firewood, etc., had none of the +awe for its precincts that filled the breasts of most of the others, fixed his +eyes firmly on the knocker during this interval of waiting. The knocker having +no characteristic worthy of notice, he relinquished it for a knot in one of the +door-panels, and studied the winding lines of the grain. +</p> + +<p class="p2"> +“O, sir, please, here’s Tranter Dewy, and old William Dewy, and young Richard +Dewy, O, and all the quire too, sir, except the boys, a-come to see you!” said +Mr. Maybold’s maid-servant to Mr. Maybold, the pupils of her eyes dilating like +circles in a pond. +</p> + +<p> +“All the choir?” said the astonished vicar (who may be shortly described as a +good-looking young man with courageous eyes, timid mouth, and neutral nose), +abandoning his writing and looking at his parlour-maid after speaking, like a +man who fancied he had seen her face before but couldn’t recollect where. +</p> + +<p> +“And they looks very firm, and Tranter Dewy do turn neither to the right hand +nor to the left, but stares quite straight and solemn with his mind made up!” +</p> + +<p> +“O, all the choir,” repeated the vicar to himself, trying by that simple device +to trot out his thoughts on what the choir could come for. +</p> + +<p> +“Yes; every man-jack of ’em, as I be alive!” (The parlour-maid was rather local +in manner, having in fact been raised in the same village.) “Really, sir, ’tis +thoughted by many in town and country that—” +</p> + +<p> +“Town and country!—Heavens, I had no idea that I was public property in this +way!” said the vicar, his face acquiring a hue somewhere between that of the +rose and the peony. “Well, ‘It is thought in town and country that—’” +</p> + +<p> +“It is thought that you be going to get it hot and strong!—excusen my +incivility, sir.” +</p> + +<p> +The vicar suddenly recalled to his recollection that he had long ago settled it +to be decidedly a mistake to encourage his servant Jane in giving personal +opinions. The servant Jane saw by the vicar’s face that he recalled this fact +to his mind; and removing her forehead from the edge of the door, and rubbing +away the indent that edge had made, vanished into the passage as Mr. Maybold +remarked, “Show them in, Jane.” +</p> + +<p> +A few minutes later a shuffling and jostling (reduced to as refined a form as +was compatible with the nature of shuffles and jostles) was heard in the +passage; then an earnest and prolonged wiping of shoes, conveying the notion +that volumes of mud had to be removed; but the roads being so clean that not a +particle of dirt appeared on the choir’s boots (those of all the elder members +being newly oiled, and Dick’s brightly polished), this wiping might have been +set down simply as a desire to show that respectable men had no wish to take a +mean advantage of clean roads for curtailing proper ceremonies. Next there came +a powerful whisper from the same quarter:- +</p> + +<p> +“Now stand stock-still there, my sonnies, one and all! And don’t make no noise; +and keep your backs close to the wall, that company may pass in and out easy if +they want to without squeezing through ye: and we two are enough to go in.” . . +. The voice was the tranter’s. +</p> + +<p> +“I wish I could go in too and see the sight!” said a reedy voice—that of Leaf. +</p> + +<p> +“’Tis a pity Leaf is so terrible silly, or else he might,” said another. +</p> + +<p> +“I never in my life seed a quire go into a study to have it out about the +playing and singing,” pleaded Leaf; “and I should like to see it just once!” +</p> + +<p> +“Very well; we’ll let en come in,” said the tranter. “You’ll be like chips in +porridge, <a name="citation1"></a><a href="#footnote1">{1}</a> Leaf—neither +good nor hurt. All right, my sonny, come along;” and immediately himself, old +William, and Leaf appeared in the room. +</p> + +<p> +“We took the liberty to come and see ’ee, sir,” said Reuben, letting his hat +hang in his left hand, and touching with his right the brim of an imaginary one +on his head. “We’ve come to see ’ee, sir, man and man, and no offence, I hope?” +</p> + +<p> +“None at all,” said Mr. Maybold. +</p> + +<p> +“This old aged man standing by my side is father; William Dewy by name, sir.” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes; I see it is,” said the vicar, nodding aside to old William, who smiled. +</p> + +<p> +“I thought you mightn’t know en without his bass-viol,” the tranter apologized. +“You see, he always wears his best clothes and his bass-viol a-Sundays, and it +do make such a difference in a’ old man’s look.” +</p> + +<p> +“And who’s that young man?” the vicar said. +</p> + +<p> +“Tell the pa’son yer name,” said the tranter, turning to Leaf, who stood with +his elbows nailed back to a bookcase. +</p> + +<p> +“Please, Thomas Leaf, your holiness!” said Leaf, trembling. +</p> + +<p> +“I hope you’ll excuse his looks being so very thin,” continued the tranter +deprecatingly, turning to the vicar again. “But ’tisn’t his fault, poor feller. +He’s rather silly by nature, and could never get fat; though he’s a’ excellent +treble, and so we keep him on.” +</p> + +<p> +“I never had no head, sir,” said Leaf, eagerly grasping at this opportunity for +being forgiven his existence. +</p> + +<p> +“Ah, poor young man!” said Mr. Maybold. +</p> + +<p> +“Bless you, he don’t mind it a bit, if you don’t, sir,” said the tranter +assuringly. “Do ye, Leaf?” +</p> + +<p> +“Not I—not a morsel—hee, hee! I was afeard it mightn’t please your holiness, +sir, that’s all.” +</p> + +<p> +The tranter, finding Leaf get on so very well through his negative qualities, +was tempted in a fit of generosity to advance him still higher, by giving him +credit for positive ones. “He’s very clever for a silly chap, good-now, sir. +You never knowed a young feller keep his smock-frocks so clane; very honest +too. His ghastly looks is all there is against en, poor feller; but we can’t +help our looks, you know, sir.” +</p> + +<p> +“True: we cannot. You live with your mother, I think, Leaf?” +</p> + +<p> +The tranter looked at Leaf to express that the most friendly assistant to his +tongue could do no more for him now, and that he must be left to his own +resources. +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, sir: a widder, sir. Ah, if brother Jim had lived she’d have had a clever +son to keep her without work!” +</p> + +<p> +“Indeed! poor woman. Give her this half-crown. I’ll call and see your mother.” +</p> + +<p> +“Say, ‘Thank you, sir,’” the tranter whispered imperatively towards Leaf. +</p> + +<p> +“Thank you, sir!” said Leaf. +</p> + +<p> +“That’s it, then; sit down, Leaf,” said Mr. Maybold. +</p> + +<p> +“Y-yes, sir!” +</p> + +<p> +The tranter cleared his throat after this accidental parenthesis about Leaf, +rectified his bodily position, and began his speech. +</p> + +<p> +“Mr. Mayble,” he said, “I hope you’ll excuse my common way, but I always like +to look things in the face.” +</p> + +<p> +Reuben made a point of fixing this sentence in the vicar’s mind by gazing hard +at him at the conclusion of it, and then out of the window. +</p> + +<p> +Mr. Maybold and old William looked in the same direction, apparently under the +impression that the things’ faces alluded to were there visible. +</p> + +<p> +“What I have been thinking”—the tranter implied by this use of the past tense +that he was hardly so discourteous as to be positively thinking it then—“is +that the quire ought to be gie’d a little time, and not done away wi’ till +Christmas, as a fair thing between man and man. And, Mr. Mayble, I hope you’ll +excuse my common way?” +</p> + +<p> +“I will, I will. Till Christmas,” the vicar murmured, stretching the two words +to a great length, as if the distance to Christmas might be measured in that +way. “Well, I want you all to understand that I have no personal fault to find, +and that I don’t wish to change the church music by forcible means, or in a way +which should hurt the feelings of any parishioners. Why I have at last spoken +definitely on the subject is that a player has been brought under—I may say +pressed upon—my notice several times by one of the churchwardens. And as the +organ I brought with me is here waiting” (pointing to a cabinet-organ standing +in the study), “there is no reason for longer delay.” +</p> + +<p> +“We made a mistake I suppose then, sir? But we understood the young woman +didn’t want to play particularly?” The tranter arranged his countenance to +signify that he did not want to be inquisitive in the least. +</p> + +<p> +“No, nor did she. Nor did I definitely wish her to just yet; for your playing +is very good. But, as I said, one of the churchwardens has been so anxious for +a change, that, as matters stand, I couldn’t consistently refuse my consent.” +</p> + +<p> +Now for some reason or other, the vicar at this point seemed to have an idea +that he had prevaricated; and as an honest vicar, it was a thing he determined +not to do. He corrected himself, blushing as he did so, though why he should +blush was not known to Reuben. +</p> + +<p> +“Understand me rightly,” he said: “the church-warden proposed it to me, but I +had thought myself of getting—Miss Day to play.” +</p> + +<p> +“Which churchwarden might that be who proposed her, sir?—excusing my common +way.” The tranter intimated by his tone that, so far from being inquisitive, he +did not even wish to ask a single question. +</p> + +<p> +“Mr. Shiner, I believe.” +</p> + +<p> +“Clk, my sonny!—beg your pardon, sir, that’s only a form of words of mine, and +slipped out accidental—he nourishes enmity against us for some reason or +another; perhaps because we played rather hard upon en Christmas night. Anyhow +’tis certain sure that Mr. Shiner’s real love for music of a particular kind +isn’t his reason. He’ve no more ear than that chair. But let that be.” +</p> + +<p> +“I don’t think you should conclude that, because Mr. Shiner wants a different +music, he has any ill-feeling for you. I myself, I must own, prefer organ-music +to any other. I consider it most proper, and feel justified in endeavouring to +introduce it; but then, although other music is better, I don’t say yours is +not good.” +</p> + +<p> +“Well then, Mr. Mayble, since death’s to be, we’ll die like men any day you +name (excusing my common way).” +</p> + +<p> +Mr. Maybold bowed his head. +</p> + +<p> +“All we thought was, that for us old ancient singers to be choked off quiet at +no time in particular, as now, in the Sundays after Easter, would seem rather +mean in the eyes of other parishes, sir. But if we fell glorious with a bit of +a flourish at Christmas, we should have a respectable end, and not dwindle away +at some nameless paltry second-Sunday-after or Sunday-next-before something, +that’s got no name of his own.” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, yes, that’s reasonable; I own it’s reasonable.” +</p> + +<p> +“You see, Mr. Mayble, we’ve got—do I keep you inconvenient long, sir?” +</p> + +<p> +“No, no.” +</p> + +<p> +“We’ve got our feelings—father there especially.” +</p> + +<p> +The tranter, in his earnestness, had advanced his person to within six inches +of the vicar’s. +</p> + +<p> +“Certainly, certainly!” said Mr. Maybold, retreating a little for convenience +of seeing. “You are all enthusiastic on the subject, and I am all the more +gratified to find you so. A Laodicean lukewarmness is worse than +wrongheadedness itself.” +</p> + +<p> +“Exactly, sir. In fact now, Mr. Mayble,” Reuben continued, more impressively, +and advancing a little closer still to the vicar, “father there is a perfect +figure o’ wonder, in the way of being fond of music!” +</p> + +<p> +The vicar drew back a little further, the tranter suddenly also standing back a +foot or two, to throw open the view of his father, and pointing to him at the +same time. +</p> + +<p> +Old William moved uneasily in the large chair, and with a minute smile on the +mere edge of his lips, for good-manners, said he was indeed very fond of tunes. +</p> + +<p> +“Now, you see exactly how it is,” Reuben continued, appealing to Mr. Maybold’s +sense of justice by looking sideways into his eyes. The vicar seemed to see how +it was so well that the gratified tranter walked up to him again with even +vehement eagerness, so that his waistcoat-buttons almost rubbed against the +vicar’s as he continued: “As to father, if you or I, or any man or woman of the +present generation, at the time music is a-playing, was to shake your fist in +father’s face, as may be this way, and say, ‘Don’t you be delighted with that +music!’”—the tranter went back to where Leaf was sitting, and held his fist so +close to Leaf’s face that the latter pressed his head back against the wall: +“All right, Leaf, my sonny, I won’t hurt you; ’tis just to show my meaning to +Mr. Mayble.—As I was saying, if you or I, or any man, was to shake your fist in +father’s face this way, and say, ‘William, your life or your music!’ he’d say, +‘My life!’ Now that’s father’s nature all over; and you see, sir, it must hurt +the feelings of a man of that kind for him and his bass-viol to be done away +wi’ neck and crop.” +</p> + +<p> +The tranter went back to the vicar’s front and again looked earnestly at his +face. +</p> + +<p> +“True, true, Dewy,” Mr. Maybold answered, trying to withdraw his head and +shoulders without moving his feet; but finding this impracticable, edging back +another inch. These frequent retreats had at last jammed Mr. Maybold between +his easy-chair and the edge of the table. +</p> + +<p> +And at the moment of the announcement of the choir, Mr. Maybold had just +re-dipped the pen he was using; at their entry, instead of wiping it, he had +laid it on the table with the nib overhanging. At the last retreat his +coat-tails came in contact with the pen, and down it rolled, first against the +back of the chair, thence turning a summersault into the seat, thence falling +to the floor with a rattle. +</p> + +<p> +The vicar stooped for his pen, and the tranter, wishing to show that, however +great their ecclesiastical differences, his mind was not so small as to let +this affect his social feelings, stooped also. +</p> + +<p> +“And have you anything else you want to explain to me, Dewy?” said Mr. Maybold +from under the table. +</p> + +<p> +“Nothing, sir. And, Mr. Mayble, you be not offended? I hope you see our desire +is reason?” said the tranter from under the chair. +</p> + +<p> +“Quite, quite; and I shouldn’t think of refusing to listen to such a reasonable +request,” the vicar replied. Seeing that Reuben had secured the pen, he resumed +his vertical position, and added, “You know, Dewy, it is often said how +difficult a matter it is to act up to our convictions and please all parties. +It may be said with equal truth, that it is difficult for a man of any +appreciativeness to have convictions at all. Now in my case, I see right in +you, and right in Shiner. I see that violins are good, and that an organ is +good; and when we introduce the organ, it will not be that fiddles were bad, +but that an organ was better. That you’ll clearly understand, Dewy?” +</p> + +<p> +“I will; and thank you very much for such feelings, sir. Piph-h-h-h! How the +blood do get into my head, to be sure, whenever I quat down like that!” said +Reuben, who having also risen to his feet stuck the pen vertically in the +inkstand and almost through the bottom, that it might not roll down again under +any circumstances whatever. +</p> + +<p> +Now the ancient body of minstrels in the passage felt their curiosity surging +higher and higher as the minutes passed. Dick, not having much affection for +this errand, soon grew tired, and went away in the direction of the school. Yet +their sense of propriety would probably have restrained them from any attempt +to discover what was going on in the study had not the vicar’s pen fallen to +the floor. The conviction that the movement of chairs, etc., necessitated by +the search, could only have been caused by the catastrophe of a bloody fight +beginning, overpowered all other considerations; and they advanced to the door, +which had only just fallen to. Thus, when Mr. Maybold raised his eyes after the +stooping he beheld glaring through the door Mr. Penny in full-length +portraiture, Mail’s face and shoulders above Mr. Penny’s head, Spinks’s +forehead and eyes over Mail’s crown, and a fractional part of Bowman’s +countenance under Spinks’s arm—crescent-shaped portions of other heads and +faces being visible behind these—the whole dozen and odd eyes bristling with +eager inquiry. +</p> + +<p> +Mr. Penny, as is the case with excitable boot-makers and men, seeing the vicar +look at him and hearing no word spoken, thought it incumbent upon himself to +say something of any kind. Nothing suggested itself till he had looked for +about half a minute at the vicar. +</p> + +<p> +“You’ll excuse my naming of it, sir,” he said, regarding with much +commiseration the mere surface of the vicar’s face; “but perhaps you don’t know +that your chin have bust out a-bleeding where you cut yourself a-shaving this +morning, sir.” +</p> + +<p> +“Now, that was the stooping, depend upon’t,” the tranter suggested, also +looking with much interest at the vicar’s chin. “Blood always will bust out +again if you hang down the member that’s been bleeding.” +</p> + +<p> +Old William raised his eyes and watched the vicar’s bleeding chin likewise; and +Leaf advanced two or three paces from the bookcase, absorbed in the +contemplation of the same phenomenon, with parted lips and delighted eyes. +</p> + +<p> +“Dear me, dear me!” said Mr. Maybold hastily, looking very red, and brushing +his chin with his hand, then taking out his handkerchief and wiping the place. +</p> + +<p> +“That’s it, sir; all right again now, ’a b’lieve—a mere nothing,” said Mr. +Penny. “A little bit of fur off your hat will stop it in a minute if it should +bust out again.” +</p> + +<p> +“I’ll let ’ee have a bit off mine,” said Reuben, to show his good feeling; “my +hat isn’t so new as yours, sir, and ’twon’t hurt mine a bit.” +</p> + +<p> +“No, no; thank you, thank you,” Mr. Maybold again nervously replied. +</p> + +<p> +“’Twas rather a deep cut seemingly?” said Reuben, feeling these to be the +kindest and best remarks he could make. +</p> + +<p> +“O, no; not particularly.” +</p> + +<p> +“Well, sir, your hand will shake sometimes a-shaving, and just when it comes +into your head that you may cut yourself, there’s the blood.” +</p> + +<p> +“I have been revolving in my mind that question of the time at which we make +the change,” said Mr. Maybold, “and I know you’ll meet me half-way. I think +Christmas-day as much too late for me as the present time is too early for you. +I suggest Michaelmas or thereabout as a convenient time for both parties; for I +think your objection to a Sunday which has no name is not one of any real +weight.” +</p> + +<p> +“Very good, sir. I suppose mortal men mustn’t expect their own way entirely; +and I express in all our names that we’ll make shift and be satisfied with what +you say.” The tranter touched the brim of his imaginary hat again, and all the +choir did the same. “About Michaelmas, then, as far as you are concerned, sir, +and then we make room for the next generation.” +</p> + +<p> +“About Michaelmas,” said the vicar. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap14"></a>CHAPTER V.<br/> +RETURNING HOME WARD</h2> + +<p> +“‘A took it very well, then?” said Mail, as they all walked up the hill. +</p> + +<p> +“He behaved like a man, ’a did so,” said the tranter. “And I’m glad we’ve let +en know our minds. And though, beyond that, we ha’n’t got much by going, ’twas +worth while. He won’t forget it. Yes, he took it very well. Supposing this tree +here was Pa’son Mayble, and I standing here, and thik gr’t stone is father +sitting in the easy-chair. ‘Dewy,’ says he, ‘I don’t wish to change the church +music in a forcible way.’” +</p> + +<p> +“That was very nice o’ the man, even though words be wind.” +</p> + +<p> +“Proper nice—out and out nice. The fact is,” said Reuben confidentially, “’tis +how you take a man. Everybody must be managed. Queens must be managed: kings +must be managed; for men want managing almost as much as women, and that’s +saying a good deal.” +</p> + +<p> +“’Tis truly!” murmured the husbands. +</p> + +<p> +“Pa’son Mayble and I were as good friends all through it as if we’d been sworn +brothers. Ay, the man’s well enough; ’tis what’s put in his head that spoils +him, and that’s why we’ve got to go.” +</p> + +<p> +“There’s really no believing half you hear about people nowadays.” +</p> + +<p> +“Bless ye, my sonnies! ’tisn’t the pa’son’s move at all. That gentleman over +there” (the tranter nodded in the direction of Shiner’s farm) “is at the root +of the mischty.” +</p> + +<p> +“What! Shiner?” +</p> + +<p> +“Ay; and I see what the pa’son don’t see. Why, Shiner is for putting forward +that young woman that only last night I was saying was our Dick’s sweet-heart, +but I suppose can’t be, and making much of her in the sight of the +congregation, and thinking he’ll win her by showing her off. Well, perhaps ’a +woll.” +</p> + +<p> +“Then the music is second to the woman, the other churchwarden is second to +Shiner, the pa’son is second to the churchwardens, and God A’mighty is nowhere +at all.” +</p> + +<p> +“That’s true; and you see,” continued Reuben, “at the very beginning it put me +in a stud as to how to quarrel wi’ en. In short, to save my soul, I couldn’t +quarrel wi’ such a civil man without belying my conscience. Says he to father +there, in a voice as quiet as a lamb’s, ‘William, you are a’ old aged man, as +all shall be, so sit down in my easy-chair, and rest yourself.’ And down father +zot. I could fain ha’ laughed at thee, father; for thou’st take it so +unconcerned at first, and then looked so frightened when the chair-bottom sunk +in.” +</p> + +<p> +“You see,” said old William, hastening to explain, “I was scared to find the +bottom gie way—what should I know o’ spring bottoms?—and thought I had broke it +down: and of course as to breaking down a man’s chair, I didn’t wish any such +thing.” +</p> + +<p> +“And, neighbours, when a feller, ever so much up for a miff, d’see his own +father sitting in his enemy’s easy-chair, and a poor chap like Leaf made the +best of, as if he almost had brains—why, it knocks all the wind out of his sail +at once: it did out of mine.” +</p> + +<p> +“If that young figure of fun—Fance Day, I mean,” said Bowman, “hadn’t been so +mighty forward wi’ showing herself off to Shiner and Dick and the rest, ’tis my +belief we should never ha’ left the gallery.” +</p> + +<p> +“’Tis my belief that though Shiner fired the bullets, the parson made ’em,” +said Mr. Penny. “My wife sticks to it that he’s in love wi’ her.” +</p> + +<p> +“That’s a thing we shall never know. I can’t onriddle her, nohow.” +</p> + +<p> +“Thou’st ought to be able to onriddle such a little chiel as she,” the tranter +observed. +</p> + +<p> +“The littler the maid, the bigger the riddle, to my mind. And coming of such a +stock, too, she may well be a twister.” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes; Geoffrey Day is a clever man if ever there was one. Never says anything: +not he.” +</p> + +<p> +“Never.” +</p> + +<p> +“You might live wi’ that man, my sonnies, a hundred years, and never know there +was anything in him.” +</p> + +<p> +“Ay; one o’ these up-country London ink-bottle chaps would call Geoffrey a +fool.” +</p> + +<p> +“Ye never find out what’s in that man: never,” said Spinks. “Close? ah, he is +close! He can hold his tongue well. That man’s dumbness is wonderful to listen +to.” +</p> + +<p> +“There’s so much sense in it. Every moment of it is brimmen over wi’ sound +understanding.” +</p> + +<p> +“’A can hold his tongue very clever—very clever truly,” echoed Leaf. “’A do +look at me as if ’a could see my thoughts running round like the works of a +clock.” +</p> + +<p> +“Well, all will agree that the man can halt well in his talk, be it a long time +or be it a short time. And though we can’t expect his daughter to inherit his +closeness, she may have a few dribblets from his sense.” +</p> + +<p> +“And his pocket, perhaps.” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes; the nine hundred pound that everybody says he’s worth; but I call it four +hundred and fifty; for I never believe more than half I hear.” +</p> + +<p> +“Well, he’ve made a pound or two, and I suppose the maid will have it, since +there’s nobody else. But ’tis rather sharp upon her, if she’s been born to +fortune, to bring her up as if not born for it, and letting her work so hard.” +</p> + +<p> +“’Tis all upon his principle. A long-headed feller!” +</p> + +<p> +“Ah,” murmured Spinks, “’twould be sharper upon her if she were born for +fortune, and not to it! I suffer from that affliction.” +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap15"></a>CHAPTER VI.<br/> +YALBURY WOOD AND THE KEEPER’S HOUSE</h2> + +<p> +A mood of blitheness rarely experienced even by young men was Dick’s on the +following Monday morning. It was the week after the Easter holidays, and he was +journeying along with Smart the mare and the light spring-cart, watching the +damp slopes of the hill-sides as they streamed in the warmth of the sun, which +at this unsettled season shone on the grass with the freshness of an occasional +inspector rather than as an accustomed proprietor. His errand was to fetch +Fancy, and some additional household goods, from her father’s house in the +neighbouring parish to her dwelling at Mellstock. The distant view was darkly +shaded with clouds; but the nearer parts of the landscape were whitely +illumined by the visible rays of the sun streaming down across the heavy gray +shade behind. +</p> + +<p> +The tranter had not yet told his son of the state of Shiner’s heart that had +been suggested to him by Shiner’s movements. He preferred to let such delicate +affairs right themselves; experience having taught him that the uncertain +phenomenon of love, as it existed in other people, was not a groundwork upon +which a single action of his own life could be founded. +</p> + +<p> +Geoffrey Day lived in the depths of Yalbury Wood, which formed portion of one +of the outlying estates of the Earl of Wessex, to whom Day was head +game-keeper, timber-steward, and general overlooker for this district. The wood +was intersected by the highway from Casterbridge to London at a place not far +from the house, and some trees had of late years been felled between its +windows and the ascent of Yalbury Hill, to give the solitary cottager a glimpse +of the passers-by. +</p> + +<p> +It was a satisfaction to walk into the keeper’s house, even as a stranger, on a +fine spring morning like the present. A curl of wood-smoke came from the +chimney, and drooped over the roof like a blue feather in a lady’s hat; and the +sun shone obliquely upon the patch of grass in front, which reflected its +brightness through the open doorway and up the staircase opposite, lighting up +each riser with a shiny green radiance, and leaving the top of each step in +shade. +</p> + +<p> +The window-sill of the front room was between four and five feet from the +floor, dropping inwardly to a broad low bench, over which, as well as over the +whole surface of the wall beneath, there always hung a deep shade, which was +considered objectionable on every ground save one, namely, that the perpetual +sprinkling of seeds and water by the caged canary above was not noticed as an +eyesore by visitors. The window was set with thickly-leaded diamond glazing, +formed, especially in the lower panes, of knotty glass of various shades of +green. Nothing was better known to Fancy than the extravagant manner in which +these circular knots or eyes distorted everything seen through them from the +outside—lifting hats from heads, shoulders from bodies; scattering the spokes +of cart-wheels, and bending the straight fir-trunks into semicircles. The +ceiling was carried by a beam traversing its midst, from the side of which +projected a large nail, used solely and constantly as a peg for Geoffrey’s hat; +the nail was arched by a rainbow-shaped stain, imprinted by the brim of the +said hat when it was hung there dripping wet. +</p> + +<p> +The most striking point about the room was the furniture. This was a repetition +upon inanimate objects of the old principle introduced by Noah, consisting for +the most part of two articles of every sort. The duplicate system of furnishing +owed its existence to the forethought of Fancy’s mother, exercised from the +date of Fancy’s birthday onwards. The arrangement spoke for itself: nobody who +knew the tone of the household could look at the goods without being aware that +the second set was a provision for Fancy, when she should marry and have a +house of her own. The most noticeable instance was a pair of green-faced +eight-day clocks, ticking alternately, which were severally two and half +minutes and three minutes striking the hour of twelve, one proclaiming, in +Italian flourishes, Thomas Wood as the name of its maker, and the other—arched +at the top, and altogether of more cynical appearance—that of Ezekiel Saunders. +They were two departed clockmakers of Casterbridge, whose desperate rivalry +throughout their lives was nowhere more emphatically perpetuated than here at +Geoffrey’s. These chief specimens of the marriage provision were supported on +the right by a couple of kitchen dressers, each fitted complete with their +cups, dishes, and plates, in their turn followed by two dumb-waiters, two +family Bibles, two warming-pans, and two intermixed sets of chairs. +</p> + +<p> +But the position last reached—the chimney-corner—was, after all, the most +attractive side of the parallelogram. It was large enough to admit, in addition +to Geoffrey himself, Geoffrey’s wife, her chair, and her work-table, entirely +within the line of the mantel, without danger or even inconvenience from the +heat of the fire; and was spacious enough overhead to allow of the insertion of +wood poles for the hanging of bacon, which were cloaked with long shreds of +soot, floating on the draught like the tattered banners on the walls of ancient +aisles. +</p> + +<p> +These points were common to most chimney corners of the neighbourhood; but one +feature there was which made Geoffrey’s fireside not only an object of interest +to casual aristocratic visitors—to whom every cottage fireside was more or less +a curiosity—but the admiration of friends who were accustomed to fireplaces of +the ordinary hamlet model. This peculiarity was a little window in the +chimney-back, almost over the fire, around which the smoke crept caressingly +when it left the perpendicular course. The window-board was curiously stamped +with black circles, burnt thereon by the heated bottoms of drinking-cups, which +had rested there after previously standing on the hot ashes of the hearth for +the purpose of warming their contents, the result giving to the ledge the look +of an envelope which has passed through innumerable post-offices. +</p> + +<p> +Fancy was gliding about the room preparing dinner, her head inclining now to +the right, now to the left, and singing the tips and ends of tunes that sprang +up in her mind like mushrooms. The footsteps of Mrs. Day could be heard in the +room overhead. Fancy went finally to the door. +</p> + +<p> +“Father! Dinner.” +</p> + +<p> +A tall spare figure was seen advancing by the window with periodical steps, and +the keeper entered from the garden. He appeared to be a man who was always +looking down, as if trying to recollect something he said yesterday. The +surface of his face was fissured rather than wrinkled, and over and under his +eyes were folds which seemed as a kind of exterior eyelids. His nose had been +thrown backwards by a blow in a poaching fray, so that when the sun was low and +shining in his face, people could see far into his head. There was in him a +quiet grimness, which would in his moments of displeasure have become +surliness, had it not been tempered by honesty of soul, and which was often +wrongheadedness because not allied with subtlety. +</p> + +<p> +Although not an extraordinarily taciturn man among friends slightly richer than +himself, he never wasted words upon outsiders, and to his trapper Enoch his +ideas were seldom conveyed by any other means than nods and shakes of the head. +Their long acquaintance with each other’s ways, and the nature of their +labours, rendered words between them almost superfluous as vehicles of thought, +whilst the coincidence of their horizons, and the astonishing equality of their +social views, by startling the keeper from time to time as very damaging to the +theory of master and man, strictly forbade any indulgence in words as +courtesies. +</p> + +<p> +Behind the keeper came Enoch (who had been assisting in the garden) at the +well-considered chronological distance of three minutes—an interval of +non-appearance on the trapper’s part not arrived at without some reflection. +Four minutes had been found to express indifference to indoor arrangements, and +simultaneousness had implied too great an anxiety about meals. +</p> + +<p> +“A little earlier than usual, Fancy,” the keeper said, as he sat down and +looked at the clocks. “That Ezekiel Saunders o’ thine is tearing on afore +Thomas Wood again.” +</p> + +<p> +“I kept in the middle between them,” said Fancy, also looking at the two +clocks. +</p> + +<p> +“Better stick to Thomas,” said her father. “There’s a healthy beat in Thomas +that would lead a man to swear by en offhand. He is as true as the town time. +How is it your stap-mother isn’t here?” +</p> + +<p> +As Fancy was about to reply, the rattle of wheels was heard, and “Weh-hey, +Smart!” in Mr. Richard Dewy’s voice rolled into the cottage from round the +corner of the house. +</p> + +<p> +“Hullo! there’s Dewy’s cart come for thee, Fancy—Dick driving—afore time, too. +Well, ask the lad to have pot-luck with us.” +</p> + +<p> +Dick on entering made a point of implying by his general bearing that he took +an interest in Fancy simply as in one of the same race and country as himself; +and they all sat down. Dick could have wished her manner had not been so +entirely free from all apparent consciousness of those accidental meetings of +theirs: but he let the thought pass. Enoch sat diagonally at a table afar off, +under the corner cupboard, and drank his cider from a long perpendicular pint +cup, having tall fir-trees done in brown on its sides. He threw occasional +remarks into the general tide of conversation, and with this advantage to +himself, that he participated in the pleasures of a talk (slight as it was) at +meal-times, without saddling himself with the responsibility of sustaining it. +</p> + +<p> +“Why don’t your stap-mother come down, Fancy?” said Geoffrey. “You’ll excuse +her, Mister Dick, she’s a little queer sometimes.” +</p> + +<p> +“O yes,—quite,” said Richard, as if he were in the habit of excusing people +every day. +</p> + +<p> +“She d’belong to that class of womankind that become second wives: a rum class +rather.” +</p> + +<p> +“Indeed,” said Dick, with sympathy for an indefinite something. +</p> + +<p> +“Yes; and ’tis trying to a female, especially if you’ve been a first wife, as +she hev.” +</p> + +<p> +“Very trying it must be.” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes: you see her first husband was a young man, who let her go too far; in +fact, she used to kick up Bob’s-a-dying at the least thing in the world. And +when I’d married her and found it out, I thought, thinks I, ‘’Tis too late now +to begin to cure ’e;’ and so I let her bide. But she’s queer,—very queer, at +times!” +</p> + +<p> +“I’m sorry to hear that.” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes: there; wives be such a provoking class o’ society, because though they be +never right, they be never more than half wrong.” +</p> + +<p> +Fancy seemed uneasy under the infliction of this household moralizing, which +might tend to damage the airy-fairy nature that Dick, as maiden shrewdness told +her, had accredited her with. Her dead silence impressed Geoffrey with the +notion that something in his words did not agree with her educated ideas, and +he changed the conversation. +</p> + +<p> +“Did Fred Shiner send the cask o’ drink, Fancy?” +</p> + +<p> +“I think he did: O yes, he did.” +</p> + +<p> +“Nice solid feller, Fred Shiner!” said Geoffrey to Dick as he helped himself to +gravy, bringing the spoon round to his plate by way of the potato-dish, to +obviate a stain on the cloth in the event of a spill. +</p> + +<p> +Now Geoffrey’s eyes had been fixed upon his plate for the previous four or five +minutes, and in removing them he had only carried them to the spoon, which, +from its fulness and the distance of its transit, necessitated a steady +watching through the whole of the route. Just as intently as the keeper’s eyes +had been fixed on the spoon, Fancy’s had been fixed on her father’s, without +premeditation or the slightest phase of furtiveness; but there they were +fastened. This was the reason why: +</p> + +<p> +Dick was sitting next to her on the right side, and on the side of the table +opposite to her father. Fancy had laid her right hand lightly down upon the +table-cloth for an instant, and to her alarm Dick, after dropping his fork and +brushing his forehead as a reason, flung down his own left hand, overlapping a +third of Fancy’s with it, and keeping it there. So the innocent Fancy, instead +of pulling her hand from the trap, settled her eyes on her father’s, to guard +against his discovery of this perilous game of Dick’s. Dick finished his +mouthful; Fancy finished her crumb, and nothing was done beyond watching +Geoffrey’s eyes. Then the hands slid apart; Fancy’s going over six inches of +cloth, Dick’s over one. Geoffrey’s eye had risen. +</p> + +<p> +“I said Fred Shiner is a nice solid feller,” he repeated, more emphatically. +</p> + +<p> +“He is; yes, he is,” stammered Dick; “but to me he is little more than a +stranger.” +</p> + +<p> +“O, sure. Now I know en as well as any man can be known. And you know en very +well too, don’t ye, Fancy?” +</p> + +<p> +Geoffrey put on a tone expressing that these words signified at present about +one hundred times the amount of meaning they conveyed literally. +</p> + +<p> +Dick looked anxious. +</p> + +<p> +“Will you pass me some bread?” said Fancy in a flurry, the red of her face +becoming slightly disordered, and looking as solicitous as a human being could +look about a piece of bread. +</p> + +<p> +“Ay, that I will,” replied the unconscious Geoffrey. “Ay,” he continued, +returning to the displaced idea, “we are likely to remain friendly wi’ Mr. +Shiner if the wheels d’run smooth.” +</p> + +<p> +“An excellent thing—a very capital thing, as I should say,” the youth answered +with exceeding relevance, considering that his thoughts, instead of following +Geoffrey’s remark, were nestling at a distance of about two feet on his left +the whole time. +</p> + +<p> +“A young woman’s face will turn the north wind, Master Richard: my heart if +’twon’t.” Dick looked more anxious and was attentive in earnest at these words. +“Yes; turn the north wind,” added Geoffrey after an impressive pause. “And +though she’s one of my own flesh and blood . . . ” +</p> + +<p> +“Will you fetch down a bit of raw-mil’ cheese from pantry-shelf?” Fancy +interrupted, as if she were famishing. +</p> + +<p> +“Ay, that I will, chiel; chiel, says I, and Mr. Shiner only asking last +Saturday night . . . cheese you said, Fancy?” +</p> + +<p> +Dick controlled his emotion at these mysterious allusions to Mr. Shiner,—the +better enabled to do so by perceiving that Fancy’s heart went not with her +father’s—and spoke like a stranger to the affairs of the neighbourhood. “Yes, +there’s a great deal to be said upon the power of maiden faces in settling your +courses,” he ventured, as the keeper retreated for the cheese. +</p> + +<p> +“The conversation is taking a very strange turn: nothing that <i>I</i> have +ever done warrants such things being said!” murmured Fancy with emphasis, just +loud enough to reach Dick’s ears. +</p> + +<p> +“You think to yourself, ’twas to be,” cried Enoch from his distant corner, by +way of filling up the vacancy caused by Geoffrey’s momentary absence. “And so +you marry her, Master Dewy, and there’s an end o’t.” +</p> + +<p> +“Pray don’t say such things, Enoch,” came from Fancy severely, upon which Enoch +relapsed into servitude. +</p> + +<p> +“If we be doomed to marry, we marry; if we be doomed to remain single, we do,” +replied Dick. +</p> + +<p> +Geoffrey had by this time sat down again, and he now made his lips thin by +severely straining them across his gums, and looked out of the window along the +vista to the distant highway up Yalbury Hill. “That’s not the case with some +folk,” he said at length, as if he read the words on a board at the further end +of the vista. +</p> + +<p> +Fancy looked interested, and Dick said, “No?” +</p> + +<p> +“There’s that wife o’ mine. It was her doom to be nobody’s wife at all in the +wide universe. But she made up her mind that she would, and did it twice over. +Doom? Doom is nothing beside a elderly woman—quite a chiel in her hands!” +</p> + +<p> +A movement was now heard along the upstairs passage, and footsteps descending. +The door at the foot of the stairs opened, and the second Mrs. Day appeared in +view, looking fixedly at the table as she advanced towards it, with apparent +obliviousness of the presence of any other human being than herself. In short, +if the table had been the personages, and the persons the table, her glance +would have been the most natural imaginable. +</p> + +<p> +She showed herself to possess an ordinary woman’s face, iron-grey hair, hardly +any hips, and a great deal of cleanliness in a broad white apron-string, as it +appeared upon the waist of her dark stuff dress. +</p> + +<p> +“People will run away with a story now, I suppose,” she began saying, “that +Jane Day’s tablecloths are as poor and ragged as any union beggar’s!” +</p> + +<p> +Dick now perceived that the tablecloth was a little the worse for wear, and +reflecting for a moment, concluded that ‘people’ in step-mother language +probably meant himself. On lifting his eyes he found that Mrs. Day had vanished +again upstairs, and presently returned with an armful of new damask-linen +tablecloths, folded square and hard as boards by long compression. These she +flounced down into a chair; then took one, shook it out from its folds, and +spread it on the table by instalments, transferring the plates and dishes one +by one from the old to the new cloth. +</p> + +<p> +“And I suppose they’ll say, too, that she ha’n’t a decent knife and fork in her +house!” +</p> + +<p> +“I shouldn’t say any such ill-natured thing, I am sure—” began Dick. But Mrs. +Day had vanished into the next room. Fancy appeared distressed. +</p> + +<p> +“Very strange woman, isn’t she?” said Geoffrey, quietly going on with his +dinner. “But ’tis too late to attempt curing. My heart! ’tis so growed into her +that ’twould kill her to take it out. Ay, she’s very queer: you’d be amazed to +see what valuable goods we’ve got stowed away upstairs.” +</p> + +<p> +Back again came Mrs. Day with a box of bright steel horn-handled knives, +silver-plated forks, carver, and all complete. These were wiped of the +preservative oil which coated them, and then a knife and fork were laid down to +each individual with a bang, the carving knife and fork thrust into the meat +dish, and the old ones they had hitherto used tossed away. +</p> + +<p> +Geoffrey placidly cut a slice with the new knife and fork, and asked Dick if he +wanted any more. +</p> + +<p> +The table had been spread for the mixed midday meal of dinner and tea, which +was common among frugal countryfolk. “The parishioners about here,” continued +Mrs. Day, not looking at any living being, but snatching up the brown delf +tea-things, “are the laziest, gossipest, poachest, jailest set of any ever I +came among. And they’ll talk about my teapot and tea-things next, I suppose!” +She vanished with the teapot, cups, and saucers, and reappeared with a +tea-service in white china, and a packet wrapped in brown paper. This was +removed, together with folds of tissue-paper underneath; and a brilliant silver +teapot appeared. +</p> + +<p> +“I’ll help to put the things right,” said Fancy soothingly, and rising from her +seat. “I ought to have laid out better things, I suppose. But” (here she +enlarged her looks so as to include Dick) “I have been away from home a good +deal, and I make shocking blunders in my housekeeping.” Smiles and suavity were +then dispensed all around by this bright little bird. +</p> + +<p> +After a little more preparation and modification, Mrs. Day took her seat at the +head of the table, and during the latter or tea division of the meal, presided +with much composure. It may cause some surprise to learn that, now her vagary +was over, she showed herself to be an excellent person with much common sense, +and even a religious seriousness of tone on matters pertaining to her +afflictions. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap16"></a>CHAPTER VII.<br/> +DICK MAKES HIMSELF USEFUL</h2> + +<p> +The effect of Geoffrey’s incidental allusions to Mr. Shiner was to restrain a +considerable flow of spontaneous chat that would otherwise have burst from +young Dewy along the drive homeward. And a certain remark he had hazarded to +her, in rather too blunt and eager a manner, kept the young lady herself even +more silent than Dick. On both sides there was an unwillingness to talk on any +but the most trivial subjects, and their sentences rarely took a larger form +than could be expressed in two or three words. +</p> + +<p> +Owing to Fancy being later in the day than she had promised, the charwoman had +given up expecting her; whereupon Dick could do no less than stay and see her +comfortably tided over the disagreeable time of entering and establishing +herself in an empty house after an absence of a week. The additional furniture +and utensils that had been brought (a canary and cage among the rest) were +taken out of the vehicle, and the horse was unharnessed and put in the plot +opposite, where there was some tender grass. Dick lighted the fire already +laid; and activity began to loosen their tongues a little. +</p> + +<p> +“There!” said Fancy, “we forgot to bring the fire-irons!” +</p> + +<p> +She had originally found in her sitting-room, to bear out the expression +‘nearly furnished’ which the school-manager had used in his letter to her, a +table, three chairs, a fender, and a piece of carpet. This ‘nearly’ had been +supplemented hitherto by a kind friend, who had lent her fire-irons and +crockery until she should fetch some from home. +</p> + +<p> +Dick attended to the young lady’s fire, using his whip-handle for a poker till +it was spoilt, and then flourishing a hurdle stick for the remainder of the +time. +</p> + +<p> +“The kettle boils; now you shall have a cup of tea,” said Fancy, diving into +the hamper she had brought. +</p> + +<p> +“Thank you,” said Dick, whose drive had made him ready for some, especially in +her company. +</p> + +<p> +“Well, here’s only one cup-and-saucer, as I breathe! Whatever could mother be +thinking about? Do you mind making shift, Mr. Dewy?” +</p> + +<p> +“Not at all, Miss Day,” said that civil person. +</p> + +<p> +“—And only having a cup by itself? or a saucer by itself?” +</p> + +<p> +“Don’t mind in the least.” +</p> + +<p> +“Which do you mean by that?” +</p> + +<p> +“I mean the cup, if you like the saucer.” +</p> + +<p> +“And the saucer, if I like the cup?” +</p> + +<p> +“Exactly, Miss Day.” +</p> + +<p> +“Thank you, Mr. Dewy, for I like the cup decidedly. Stop a minute; there are no +spoons now!” She dived into the hamper again, and at the end of two or three +minutes looked up and said, “I suppose you don’t mind if I can’t find a spoon?” +</p> + +<p> +“Not at all,” said the agreeable Richard. +</p> + +<p> +“The fact is, the spoons have slipped down somewhere; right under the other +things. O yes, here’s one, and only one. You would rather have one than not, I +suppose, Mr. Dewy?” +</p> + +<p> +“Rather not. I never did care much about spoons.” +</p> + +<p> +“Then I’ll have it. I do care about them. You must stir up your tea with a +knife. Would you mind lifting the kettle off, that it may not boil dry?” +</p> + +<p> +Dick leapt to the fireplace, and earnestly removed the kettle. +</p> + +<p> +“There! you did it so wildly that you have made your hand black. We always use +kettle-holders; didn’t you learn housewifery as far as that, Mr. Dewy? Well, +never mind the soot on your hand. Come here. I am going to rinse mine, too.” +</p> + +<p> +They went to a basin she had placed in the back room. “This is the only basin I +have,” she said. “Turn up your sleeves, and by that time my hands will be +washed, and you can come.” +</p> + +<p> +Her hands were in the water now. “O, how vexing!” she exclaimed. “There’s not a +drop of water left for you, unless you draw it, and the well is I don’t know +how many furlongs deep; all that was in the pitcher I used for the kettle and +this basin. Do you mind dipping the tips of your fingers in the same?” +</p> + +<p> +“Not at all. And to save time I won’t wait till you have done, if you have no +objection?” +</p> + +<p> +Thereupon he plunged in his hands, and they paddled together. It being the +first time in his life that he had touched female fingers under water, Dick +duly registered the sensation as rather a nice one. +</p> + +<p> +“Really, I hardly know which are my own hands and which are yours, they have +got so mixed up together,” she said, withdrawing her own very suddenly. +</p> + +<p> +“It doesn’t matter at all,” said Dick, “at least as far as I am concerned.” +</p> + +<p> +“There! no towel! Whoever thinks of a towel till the hands are wet?” +</p> + +<p> +“Nobody.” +</p> + +<p> +“‘Nobody.’ How very dull it is when people are so friendly! Come here, Mr. +Dewy. Now do you think you could lift the lid of that box with your elbow, and +then, with something or other, take out a towel you will find under the clean +clothes? Be <i>sure</i> don’t touch any of them with your wet hands, for the +things at the top are all Starched and Ironed.” +</p> + +<p> +Dick managed, by the aid of a knife and fork, to extract a towel from under a +muslin dress without wetting the latter; and for a moment he ventured to assume +a tone of criticism. +</p> + +<p> +“I fear for that dress,” he said, as they wiped their hands together. +</p> + +<p> +“What?” said Miss Day, looking into the box at the dress alluded to. “O, I know +what you mean—that the vicar will never let me wear muslin?” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes.” +</p> + +<p> +“Well, I know it is condemned by all orders in the church as flaunting, and +unfit for common wear for girls who’ve their living to get; but we’ll see.” +</p> + +<p> +“In the interest of the church, I hope you don’t speak seriously.” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, I do; but we’ll see.” There was a comely determination on her lip, very +pleasant to a beholder who was neither bishop, priest, nor deacon. “I think I +can manage any vicar’s views about me if he’s under forty.” +</p> + +<p> +Dick rather wished she had never thought of managing vicars. +</p> + +<p> +“I certainly shall be glad to get some of your delicious tea,” he said in +rather a free way, yet modestly, as became one in a position between that of +visitor and inmate, and looking wistfully at his lonely saucer. +</p> + +<p> +“So shall I. Now is there anything else we want, Mr Dewy?” +</p> + +<p> +“I really think there’s nothing else, Miss Day.” +</p> + +<p> +She prepared to sit down, looking musingly out of the window at Smart’s +enjoyment of the rich grass. “Nobody seems to care about me,” she murmured, +with large lost eyes fixed upon the sky beyond Smart. +</p> + +<p> +“Perhaps Mr. Shiner does,” said Dick, in the tone of a slightly injured man. +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, I forgot—he does, I know.” Dick precipitately regretted that he had +suggested Shiner, since it had produced such a miserable result as this. +</p> + +<p> +“I’ll warrant you’ll care for somebody very much indeed another day, won’t you, +Mr. Dewy?” she continued, looking very feelingly into the mathematical centre +of his eyes. +</p> + +<p> +“Ah, I’ll warrant I shall,” said Dick, feelingly too, and looking back into her +dark pupils, whereupon they were turned aside. +</p> + +<p> +“I meant,” she went on, preventing him from speaking just as he was going to +narrate a forcible story about his feelings; “I meant that nobody comes to see +if I have returned—not even the vicar.” +</p> + +<p> +“If you want to see him, I’ll call at the vicarage directly we have had some +tea.” +</p> + +<p> +“No, no! Don’t let him come down here, whatever you do, whilst I am in such a +state of disarrangement. Parsons look so miserable and awkward when one’s house +is in a muddle; walking about, and making impossible suggestions in quaint +academic phrases till your flesh creeps and you wish them dead. Do you take +sugar?” +</p> + +<p> +Mr. Maybold was at this instant seen coming up the path. +</p> + +<p> +“There! That’s he coming! How I wish you were not here!—that is, how +awkward—dear, dear!” she exclaimed, with a quick ascent of blood to her face, +and irritated with Dick rather than the vicar, as it seemed. +</p> + +<p> +“Pray don’t be alarmed on my account, Miss Day—good-afternoon!” said Dick in a +huff, putting on his hat, and leaving the room hastily by the back-door. +</p> + +<p> +The horse was caught and put in, and on mounting the shafts to start he saw +through the window the vicar, standing upon some books piled in a chair, and +driving a nail into the wall; Fancy, with a demure glance, holding the +canary-cage up to him, as if she had never in her life thought of anything but +vicars and canaries. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap17"></a>CHAPTER VIII.<br/> +DICK MEETS HIS FATHER</h2> + +<p> +For several minutes Dick drove along homeward, with the inner eye of reflection +so anxiously set on his passages at arms with Fancy, that the road and scenery +were as a thin mist over the real pictures of his mind. Was she a coquette? The +balance between the evidence that she did love him and that she did not was so +nicely struck, that his opinion had no stability. She had let him put his hand +upon hers; she had allowed her gaze to drop plumb into the depths of his—his +into hers—three or four times; her manner had been very free with regard to the +basin and towel; she had appeared vexed at the mention of Shiner. On the other +hand, she had driven him about the house like a quiet dog or cat, said Shiner +cared for her, and seemed anxious that Mr. Maybold should do the same. +</p> + +<p> +Thinking thus as he neared the handpost at Mellstock Cross, sitting on the +front board of the spring cart—his legs on the outside, and his whole frame +jigging up and down like a candle-flame to the time of Smart’s trotting—who +should he see coming down the hill but his father in the light wagon, quivering +up and down on a smaller scale of shakes, those merely caused by the stones in +the road. They were soon crossing each other’s front. +</p> + +<p> +“Weh-hey!” said the tranter to Smiler. +</p> + +<p> +“Weh-hey!” said Dick to Smart, in an echo of the same voice. +</p> + +<p> +“Th’st hauled her back, I suppose?” Reuben inquired peaceably. +</p> + +<p> +“Yes,” said Dick, with such a clinching period at the end that it seemed he was +never going to add another word. Smiler, thinking this the close of the +conversation, prepared to move on. +</p> + +<p> +“Weh-hey!” said the tranter. “I tell thee what it is, Dick. That there maid is +taking up thy thoughts more than’s good for thee, my sonny. Thou’rt never happy +now unless th’rt making thyself miserable about her in one way or another.” +</p> + +<p> +“I don’t know about that, father,” said Dick rather stupidly. +</p> + +<p> +“But I do—Wey, Smiler!—’Od rot the women, ’tis nothing else wi’ ’em nowadays +but getting young men and leading ’em astray.” +</p> + +<p> +“Pooh, father! you just repeat what all the common world says; that’s all you +do.” +</p> + +<p> +“The world’s a very sensible feller on things in jineral, Dick; very sensible +indeed.” +</p> + +<p> +Dick looked into the distance at a vast expanse of mortgaged estate. “I wish I +was as rich as a squire when he’s as poor as a crow,” he murmured; “I’d soon +ask Fancy something.” +</p> + +<p> +“I wish so too, wi’ all my heart, sonny; that I do. Well, mind what beest +about, that’s all.” +</p> + +<p> +Smart moved on a step or two. “Supposing now, father,—We-hey, Smart!—I did +think a little about her, and I had a chance, which I ha’n’t; don’t you think +she’s a very good sort of—of—one?” +</p> + +<p> +“Ay, good; she’s good enough. When you’ve made up your mind to marry, take the +first respectable body that comes to hand—she’s as good as any other; they be +all alike in the groundwork; ’tis only in the flourishes there’s a difference. +She’s good enough; but I can’t see what the nation a young feller like you—wi’ +a comfortable house and home, and father and mother to take care o’ thee, and +who sent ’ee to a school so good that ’twas hardly fair to the other +children—should want to go hollering after a young woman for, when she’s +quietly making a husband in her pocket, and not troubled by chick nor chiel, to +make a poverty-stric’ wife and family of her, and neither hat, cap, wig, nor +waistcoat to set ’em up with: be drowned if I can see it, and that’s the long +and the short o’t, my sonny.” +</p> + +<p> +Dick looked at Smart’s ears, then up the hill; but no reason was suggested by +any object that met his gaze. +</p> + +<p> +“For about the same reason that you did, father, I suppose.” +</p> + +<p> +“Dang it, my sonny, thou’st got me there!” And the tranter gave vent to a grim +admiration, with the mien of a man who was too magnanimous not to appreciate +artistically a slight rap on the knuckles, even if they were his own. +</p> + +<p> +“Whether or no,” said Dick, “I asked her a thing going along the road.” +</p> + +<p> +“Come to that, is it? Turk! won’t thy mother be in a taking! Well, she’s ready, +I don’t doubt?” +</p> + +<p> +“I didn’t ask her anything about having me; and if you’ll let me speak, I’ll +tell ’ee what I want to know. I just said, Did she care about me?” +</p> + +<p> +“Piph-ph-ph!” +</p> + +<p> +“And then she said nothing for a quarter of a mile, and then she said she +didn’t know. Now, what I want to know is, what was the meaning of that speech?” +The latter words were spoken resolutely, as if he didn’t care for the ridicule +of all the fathers in creation. +</p> + +<p> +“The meaning of that speech is,” the tranter replied deliberately, “that the +meaning is meant to be rather hid at present. Well, Dick, as an honest father +to thee, I don’t pretend to deny what you d’know well enough; that is, that her +father being rather better in the pocket than we, I should welcome her ready +enough if it must be somebody.” +</p> + +<p> +“But what d’ye think she really did mean?” said the unsatisfied Dick. +</p> + +<p> +“I’m afeard I am not o’ much account in guessing, especially as I was not there +when she said it, and seeing that your mother was the only ’ooman I ever cam’ +into such close quarters as that with.” +</p> + +<p> +“And what did mother say to you when you asked her?” said Dick musingly. +</p> + +<p> +“I don’t see that that will help ’ee.” +</p> + +<p> +“The principle is the same.” +</p> + +<p> +“Well—ay: what did she say? Let’s see. I was oiling my working-day boots +without taking ’em off, and wi’ my head hanging down, when she just brushed on +by the garden hatch like a flittering leaf. ‘Ann,’ I said, says I, and +then,—but, Dick I’m afeard ’twill be no help to thee; for we were such a rum +couple, your mother and I, leastways one half was, that is myself—and your +mother’s charms was more in the manner than the material.” +</p> + +<p> +“Never mind! ‘Ann,’ said you.” +</p> + +<p> +“‘Ann,’ said I, as I was saying . . . ‘Ann,’ I said to her when I was oiling my +working-day boots wi’ my head hanging down, ‘Woot hae me?’ . . . What came next +I can’t quite call up at this distance o’ time. Perhaps your mother would +know,—she’s got a better memory for her little triumphs than I. However, the +long and the short o’ the story is that we were married somehow, as I found +afterwards. ’Twas on White Tuesday,—Mellstock Club walked the same day, every +man two and two, and a fine day ’twas,—hot as fire,—how the sun did strike down +upon my back going to church! I well can mind what a bath o’ sweating I was in, +body and soul! But Fance will ha’ thee, Dick—she won’t walk with another +chap—no such good luck.” +</p> + +<p> +“I don’t know about that,” said Dick, whipping at Smart’s flank in a fanciful +way, which, as Smart knew, meant nothing in connection with going on. “There’s +Pa’son Maybold, too—that’s all against me.” +</p> + +<p> +“What about he? She’s never been stuffing into thy innocent heart that he’s in +hove with her? Lord, the vanity o’ maidens!” +</p> + +<p> +“No, no. But he called, and she looked at him in such a way, and at me in such +a way—quite different the ways were,—and as I was coming off, there was he +hanging up her birdcage.” +</p> + +<p> +“Well, why shouldn’t the man hang up her bird-cage? Turk seize it all, what’s +that got to do wi’ it? Dick, that thou beest a white-lyvered chap I don’t say, +but if thou beestn’t as mad as a cappel-faced bull, let me smile no more.” +</p> + +<p> +“O, ay.” +</p> + +<p> +“And what’s think now, Dick?” +</p> + +<p> +“I don’t know.” +</p> + +<p> +“Here’s another pretty kettle o’ fish for thee. Who d’ye think’s the bitter +weed in our being turned out? Did our party tell ’ee?” +</p> + +<p> +“No. Why, Pa’son Maybold, I suppose.” +</p> + +<p> +“Shiner,—because he’s in love with thy young woman, and d’want to see her young +figure sitting up at that queer instrument, and her young fingers rum-strumming +upon the keys.” +</p> + +<p> +A sharp ado of sweet and bitter was going on in Dick during this communication +from his father. “Shiner’s a fool!—no, that’s not it; I don’t believe any such +thing, father. Why, Shiner would never take a bold step like that, unless she’d +been a little made up to, and had taken it kindly. Pooh!” +</p> + +<p> +“Who’s to say she didn’t?” +</p> + +<p> +“I do.” +</p> + +<p> +“The more fool you.” +</p> + +<p> +“Why, father of me?” +</p> + +<p> +“Has she ever done more to thee?” +</p> + +<p> +“No.” +</p> + +<p> +“Then she has done as much to he—rot ’em! Now, Dick, this is how a maid is. +She’ll swear she’s dying for thee, and she is dying for thee, and she will die +for thee; but she’ll fling a look over t’other shoulder at another young +feller, though never leaving off dying for thee just the same.” +</p> + +<p> +“She’s not dying for me, and so she didn’t fling a look at him.” +</p> + +<p> +“But she may be dying for him, for she looked at thee.” +</p> + +<p> +“I don’t know what to make of it at all,” said Dick gloomily. +</p> + +<p> +“All I can make of it is,” the tranter said, raising his whip, arranging his +different joints and muscles, and motioning to the horse to move on, “that if +you can’t read a maid’s mind by her motions, nature d’seem to say thou’st ought +to be a bachelor. Clk, clk! Smiler!” And the tranter moved on. +</p> + +<p> +Dick held Smart’s rein firmly, and the whole concern of horse, cart, and man +remained rooted in the lane. How long this condition would have lasted is +unknown, had not Dick’s thoughts, after adding up numerous items of misery, +gradually wandered round to the fact that as something must be done, it could +not be done by staying there all night. +</p> + +<p> +Reaching home he went up to his bedroom, shut the door as if he were going to +be seen no more in this life, and taking a sheet of paper and uncorking the +ink-bottle, he began a letter. The dignity of the writer’s mind was so +powerfully apparent in every line of this effusion that it obscured the logical +sequence of facts and intentions to an appreciable degree; and it was not at +all clear to a reader whether he there and then left off loving Miss Fancy Day; +whether he had never loved her seriously, and never meant to; whether he had +been dying up to the present moment, and now intended to get well again; or +whether he had hitherto been in good health, and intended to die for her +forthwith. +</p> + +<p> +He put this letter in an envelope, sealed it up, directed it in a stern +handwriting of straight dashes—easy flourishes being rigorously excluded. He +walked with it in his pocket down the lane in strides not an inch less than +three feet long. Reaching her gate he put on a resolute expression—then put it +off again, turned back homeward, tore up his letter, and sat down. +</p> + +<p> +That letter was altogether in a wrong tone—that he must own. A heartless +man-of-the-world tone was what the juncture required. That he rather wanted +her, and rather did not want her—the latter for choice; but that as a member of +society he didn’t mind making a query in jaunty terms, which could only be +answered in the same way: did she mean anything by her bearing towards him, or +did she not? +</p> + +<p> +This letter was considered so satisfactory in every way that, being put into +the hands of a little boy, and the order given that he was to run with it to +the school, he was told in addition not to look behind him if Dick called after +him to bring it back, but to run along with it just the same. Having taken this +precaution against vacillation, Dick watched his messenger down the road, and +turned into the house whistling an air in such ghastly jerks and starts, that +whistling seemed to be the act the very furthest removed from that which was +instinctive in such a youth. +</p> + +<p> +The letter was left as ordered: the next morning came and passed—and no answer. +The next. The next. Friday night came. Dick resolved that if no answer or sign +were given by her the next day, on Sunday he would meet her face to face, and +have it all out by word of mouth. +</p> + +<p> +“Dick,” said his father, coming in from the garden at that moment—in each hand +a hive of bees tied in a cloth to prevent their egress—“I think you’d better +take these two swarms of bees to Mrs. Maybold’s to-morrow, instead o’ me, and +I’ll go wi’ Smiler and the wagon.” +</p> + +<p> +It was a relief; for Mrs. Maybold, the vicar’s mother, who had just taken into +her head a fancy for keeping bees (pleasantly disguised under the pretence of +its being an economical wish to produce her own honey), lived near the +watering-place of Budmouth-Regis, ten miles off, and the business of +transporting the hives thither would occupy the whole day, and to some extent +annihilate the vacant time between this evening and the coming Sunday. The best +spring-cart was washed throughout, the axles oiled, and the bees placed therein +for the journey. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="part03"></a>PART THE THIRD—SUMMER</h2> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap18"></a>CHAPTER I.<br/> +DRIVING OUT OF BUDMOUTH</h2> + +<p> +An easy bend of neck and graceful set of head; full and wavy bundles of +dark-brown hair; light fall of little feet; pretty devices on the skirt of the +dress; clear deep eyes; in short, a bunch of sweets: it was Fancy! Dick’s heart +went round to her with a rush. +</p> + +<p> +The scene was the corner of Mary Street in Budmouth-Regis, near the King’s +statue, at which point the white angle of the last house in the row cut +perpendicularly an embayed and nearly motionless expanse of salt water +projected from the outer ocean—to-day lit in bright tones of green and opal. +Dick and Smart had just emerged from the street, and there on the right, +against the brilliant sheet of liquid colour, stood Fancy Day; and she turned +and recognized him. +</p> + +<p> +Dick suspended his thoughts of the letter and wonder at how she came there by +driving close to the chains of the Esplanade—incontinently displacing two +chairmen, who had just come to life for the summer in new clean shirts and +revivified clothes, and being almost displaced in turn by a rigid boy rattling +along with a baker’s cart, and looking neither to the right nor the left. He +asked if she were going to Mellstock that night. +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, I’m waiting for the carrier,” she replied, seeming, too, to suspend +thoughts of the letter. +</p> + +<p> +“Now I can drive you home nicely, and you save half an hour. Will ye come with +me?” +</p> + +<p> +As Fancy’s power to will anything seemed to have departed in some mysterious +manner at that moment, Dick settled the matter by getting out and assisting her +into the vehicle without another word. +</p> + +<p> +The temporary flush upon her cheek changed to a lesser hue, which was +permanent, and at length their eyes met; there was present between them a +certain feeling of embarrassment, which arises at such moments when all the +instinctive acts dictated by the position have been performed. Dick, being +engaged with the reins, thought less of this awkwardness than did Fancy, who +had nothing to do but to feel his presence, and to be more and more conscious +of the fact, that by accepting a seat beside him in this way she succumbed to +the tone of his note. Smart jogged along, and Dick jogged, and the helpless +Fancy necessarily jogged, too; and she felt that she was in a measure captured +and made a prisoner. +</p> + +<p> +“I am so much obliged to you for your company, Miss Day,” he observed, as they +drove past the two semicircular bays of the Old Royal Hotel, where His Majesty +King George the Third had many a time attended the balls of the burgesses. +</p> + +<p> +To Miss Day, crediting him with the same consciousness of mastery—a +consciousness of which he was perfectly innocent—this remark sounded like a +magnanimous intention to soothe her, the captive. +</p> + +<p> +“I didn’t come for the pleasure of obliging you with my company,” she said. +</p> + +<p> +The answer had an unexpected manner of incivility in it that must have been +rather surprising to young Dewy. At the same time it may be observed, that when +a young woman returns a rude answer to a young man’s civil remark, her heart is +in a state which argues rather hopefully for his case than otherwise. +</p> + +<p> +There was silence between them till they had left the sea-front and passed +about twenty of the trees that ornamented the road leading up out of the town +towards Casterbridge and Mellstock. +</p> + +<p> +“Though I didn’t come for that purpose either, I would have done it,” said Dick +at the twenty-first tree. +</p> + +<p> +“Now, Mr. Dewy, no flirtation, because it’s wrong, and I don’t wish it.” +</p> + +<p> +Dick seated himself afresh just as he had been sitting before, arranged his +looks very emphatically, and cleared his throat. +</p> + +<p> +“Really, anybody would think you had met me on business and were just going to +commence,” said the lady intractably. +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, they would.” +</p> + +<p> +“Why, you never have, to be sure!” +</p> + +<p> +This was a shaky beginning. He chopped round, and said cheerily, as a man who +had resolved never to spoil his jollity by loving one of womankind— +</p> + +<p> +“Well, how are you getting on, Miss Day, at the present time? Gaily, I don’t +doubt for a moment.” +</p> + +<p> +“I am not gay, Dick; you know that.” +</p> + +<p> +“Gaily doesn’t mean decked in gay dresses.” +</p> + +<p> +“I didn’t suppose gaily was gaily dressed. Mighty me, what a scholar you’ve +grown!” +</p> + +<p> +“Lots of things have happened to you this spring, I see.” +</p> + +<p> +“What have you seen?” +</p> + +<p> +“O, nothing; I’ve heard, I mean!” +</p> + +<p> +“What have you heard?” +</p> + +<p> +“The name of a pretty man, with brass studs and a copper ring and a tin +watch-chain, a little mixed up with your own. That’s all.” +</p> + +<p> +“That’s a very unkind picture of Mr. Shiner, for that’s who you mean! The studs +are gold, as you know, and it’s a real silver chain; the ring I can’t +conscientiously defend, and he only wore it once.” +</p> + +<p> +“He might have worn it a hundred times without showing it half so much.” +</p> + +<p> +“Well, he’s nothing to me,” she serenely observed. +</p> + +<p> +“Not any more than I am?” +</p> + +<p> +“Now, Mr. Dewy,” said Fancy severely, “certainly he isn’t any more to me than +you are!” +</p> + +<p> +“Not so much?” +</p> + +<p> +She looked aside to consider the precise compass of that question. “That I +can’t exactly answer,” she replied with soft archness. +</p> + +<p> +As they were going rather slowly, another spring-cart, containing a farmer, +farmer’s wife, and farmer’s man, jogged past them; and the farmer’s wife and +farmer’s man eyed the couple very curiously. The farmer never looked up from +the horse’s tail. +</p> + +<p> +“Why can’t you exactly answer?” said Dick, quickening Smart a little, and +jogging on just behind the farmer and farmer’s wife and man. +</p> + +<p> +As no answer came, and as their eyes had nothing else to do, they both +contemplated the picture presented in front, and noticed how the farmer’s wife +sat flattened between the two men, who bulged over each end of the seat to give +her room, till they almost sat upon their respective wheels; and they looked +too at the farmer’s wife’s silk mantle, inflating itself between her shoulders +like a balloon and sinking flat again, at each jog of the horse. The farmer’s +wife, feeling their eyes sticking into her back, looked over her shoulder. Dick +dropped ten yards further behind. +</p> + +<p> +“Fancy, why can’t you answer?” he repeated. +</p> + +<p> +“Because how much you are to me depends upon how much I am to you,” said she in +low tones. +</p> + +<p> +“Everything,” said Dick, putting his hand towards hers, and casting emphatic +eyes upon the upper curve of her cheek. +</p> + +<p> +“Now, Richard Dewy, no touching me! I didn’t say in what way your thinking of +me affected the question—perhaps inversely, don’t you see? No touching, sir! +Look; goodness me, don’t, Dick!” +</p> + +<p> +The cause of her sudden start was the unpleasant appearance over Dick’s right +shoulder of an empty timber-wagon and four journeymen-carpenters reclining in +lazy postures inside it, their eyes directed upwards at various oblique angles +into the surrounding world, the chief object of their existence being +apparently to criticize to the very backbone and marrow every animate object +that came within the compass of their vision. This difficulty of Dick’s was +overcome by trotting on till the wagon and carpenters were beginning to look +rather misty by reason of a film of dust that accompanied their wagon-wheels, +and rose around their heads like a fog. +</p> + +<p> +“Say you love me, Fancy.” +</p> + +<p> +“No, Dick, certainly not; ’tisn’t time to do that yet.” +</p> + +<p> +“Why, Fancy?” +</p> + +<p> +“‘Miss Day’ is better at present—don’t mind my saying so; and I ought not to +have called you Dick.” +</p> + +<p> +“Nonsense! when you know that I would do anything on earth for your love. Why, +you make any one think that loving is a thing that can be done and undone, and +put on and put off at a mere whim.” +</p> + +<p> +“No, no, I don’t,” she said gently; “but there are things which tell me I ought +not to give way to much thinking about you, even if—” +</p> + +<p> +“But you want to, don’t you? Yes, say you do; it is best to be truthful. +Whatever they may say about a woman’s right to conceal where her love lies, and +pretend it doesn’t exist, and things like that, it is not best; I do know it, +Fancy. And an honest woman in that, as well as in all her daily concerns, +shines most brightly, and is thought most of in the long-run.” +</p> + +<p> +“Well then, perhaps, Dick, I do love you a little,” she whispered tenderly; +“but I wish you wouldn’t say any more now.” +</p> + +<p> +“I won’t say any more now, then, if you don’t like it, dear. But you do love me +a little, don’t you?” +</p> + +<p> +“Now you ought not to want me to keep saying things twice; I can’t say any more +now, and you must be content with what you have.” +</p> + +<p> +“I may at any rate call you Fancy? There’s no harm in that.” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, you may.” +</p> + +<p> +“And you’ll not call me Mr. Dewy any more?” +</p> + +<p> +“Very well.” +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap19"></a>CHAPTER II.<br/> +FURTHER ALONG THE ROAD</h2> + +<p> +Dick’s spirits having risen in the course of these admissions of his +sweetheart, he now touched Smart with the whip; and on Smart’s neck, not far +behind his ears. Smart, who had been lost in thought for some time, never +dreaming that Dick could reach so far with a whip which, on this particular +journey, had never been extended further than his flank, tossed his head, and +scampered along with exceeding briskness, which was very pleasant to the young +couple behind him till, turning a bend in the road, they came instantly upon +the farmer, farmer’s man, and farmer’s wife with the flapping mantle, all +jogging on just the same as ever. +</p> + +<p> +“Bother those people! Here we are upon them again.” +</p> + +<p> +“Well, of course. They have as much right to the road as we.” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, but it is provoking to be overlooked so. I like a road all to myself. +Look what a lumbering affair theirs is!” The wheels of the farmer’s cart, just +at that moment, jogged into a depression running across the road, giving the +cart a twist, whereupon all three nodded to the left, and on coming out of it +all three nodded to the right, and went on jerking their backs in and out as +usual. “We’ll pass them when the road gets wider.” +</p> + +<p> +When an opportunity seemed to offer itself for carrying this intention into +effect, they heard light flying wheels behind, and on their quartering there +whizzed along past them a brand-new gig, so brightly polished that the spokes +of the wheels sent forth a continual quivering light at one point in their +circle, and all the panels glared like mirrors in Dick and Fancy’s eyes. The +driver, and owner as it appeared, was really a handsome man; his companion was +Shiner. Both turned round as they passed Dick and Fancy, and stared with bold +admiration in her face till they were obliged to attend to the operation of +passing the farmer. Dick glanced for an instant at Fancy while she was +undergoing their scrutiny; then returned to his driving with rather a sad +countenance. +</p> + +<p> +“Why are you so silent?” she said, after a while, with real concern. +</p> + +<p> +“Nothing.” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, it is, Dick. I couldn’t help those people passing.” +</p> + +<p> +“I know that.” +</p> + +<p> +“You look offended with me. What have I done?” +</p> + +<p> +“I can’t tell without offending you.” +</p> + +<p> +“Better out.” +</p> + +<p> +“Well,” said Dick, who seemed longing to tell, even at the risk of offending +her, “I was thinking how different you in love are from me in love. Whilst +those men were staring, you dismissed me from your thoughts altogether, and—” +</p> + +<p> +“You can’t offend me further now; tell all!” +</p> + +<p> +“And showed upon your face a pleased sense of being attractive to ’em.” +</p> + +<p> +“Don’t be silly, Dick! You know very well I didn’t.” +</p> + +<p> +Dick shook his head sceptically, and smiled. +</p> + +<p> +“Dick, I always believe flattery <i>if possible—</i>and it was possible then. +Now there’s an open confession of weakness. But I showed no consciousness of +it.” +</p> + +<p> +Dick, perceiving by her look that she would adhere to her statement, charitably +forbore saying anything that could make her prevaricate. The sight of Shiner, +too, had recalled another branch of the subject to his mind; that which had +been his greatest trouble till her company and words had obscured its +probability. +</p> + +<p> +“By the way, Fancy, do you know why our quire is to be dismissed?” +</p> + +<p> +“No: except that it is Mr. Maybold’s wish for me to play the organ.” +</p> + +<p> +“Do you know how it came to be his wish?” +</p> + +<p> +“That I don’t.” +</p> + +<p> +“Mr. Shiner, being churchwarden, has persuaded the vicar; who, however, was +willing enough before. Shiner, I know, is crazy to see you playing every +Sunday; I suppose he’ll turn over your music, for the organ will be close to +his pew. But—I know you have never encouraged him?” +</p> + +<p> +“Never once!” said Fancy emphatically, and with eyes full of earnest truth. “I +don’t like him indeed, and I never heard of his doing this before! I have +always felt that I should like to play in a church, but I never wished to turn +you and your choir out; and I never even said that I could play till I was +asked. You don’t think for a moment that I did, surely, do you?” +</p> + +<p> +“I know you didn’t, dear.” +</p> + +<p> +“Or that I care the least morsel of a bit for him?” +</p> + +<p> +“I know you don’t.” +</p> + +<p> +The distance between Budmouth and Mellstock was ten or eleven miles, and there +being a good inn, ‘The Ship,’ four miles out of Budmouth, with a mast and +cross-trees in front, Dick’s custom in driving thither was to divide the +journey into three stages by resting at this inn going and coming, and not +troubling the Budmouth stables at all, whenever his visit to the town was a +mere call and deposit, as to-day. +</p> + +<p> +Fancy was ushered into a little tea-room, and Dick went to the stables to see +to the feeding of Smart. In face of the significant twitches of feature that +were visible in the ostler and labouring men idling around, Dick endeavoured to +look unconscious of the fact that there was any sentiment between him and Fancy +beyond a tranter’s desire to carry a passenger home. He presently entered the +inn and opened the door of Fancy’s room. +</p> + +<p> +“Dick, do you know, it has struck me that it is rather awkward, my being here +alone with you like this. I don’t think you had better come in with me.” +</p> + +<p> +“That’s rather unpleasant, dear.” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, it is, and I wanted you to have some tea as well as myself too, because +you must be tired.” +</p> + +<p> +“Well, let me have some with you, then. I was denied once before, if you +recollect, Fancy.” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, yes, never mind! And it seems unfriendly of me now, but I don’t know what +to do.” +</p> + +<p> +“It shall be as you say, then.” Dick began to retreat with a dissatisfied +wrinkling of face, and a farewell glance at the cosy tea-tray. +</p> + +<p> +“But you don’t see how it is, Dick, when you speak like that,” she said, with +more earnestness than she had ever shown before. “You do know, that even if I +care very much for you, I must remember that I have a difficult position to +maintain. The vicar would not like me, as his schoolmistress, to indulge in a +<i>tête-à-tête</i> anywhere with anybody.” +</p> + +<p> +“But I am not <i>any</i> body!” exclaimed Dick. +</p> + +<p> +“No, no, I mean with a young man;” and she added softly, “unless I were really +engaged to be married to him.” +</p> + +<p> +“Is that all? Then, dearest, dearest, why we’ll be engaged at once, to be sure +we will, and down I sit! There it is, as easy as a glove!” +</p> + +<p> +“Ah! but suppose I won’t! And, goodness me, what have I done!” she faltered, +getting very red. “Positively, it seems as if I meant you to say that!” +</p> + +<p> +“Let’s do it! I mean get engaged,” said Dick. “Now, Fancy, will you be my +wife?” +</p> + +<p> +“Do you know, Dick, it was rather unkind of you to say what you did coming +along the road,” she remarked, as if she had not heard the latter part of his +speech; though an acute observer might have noticed about her breast, as the +word ‘wife’ fell from Dick’s lips, a soft silent escape of breaths, with very +short rests between each. +</p> + +<p> +“What did I say?” +</p> + +<p> +“About my trying to look attractive to those men in the gig.” +</p> + +<p> +“You couldn’t help looking so, whether you tried or no. And, Fancy, you do care +for me?” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes.” +</p> + +<p> +“Very much?” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes.” +</p> + +<p> +“And you’ll be my own wife?” +</p> + +<p> +Her heart quickened, adding to and withdrawing from her cheek varying tones of +red to match each varying thought. Dick looked expectantly at the ripe tint of +her delicate mouth, waiting for what was coming forth. +</p> + +<p> +“Yes—if father will let me.” +</p> + +<p> +Dick drew himself close to her, compressing his lips and pouting them out, as +if he were about to whistle the softest melody known. +</p> + +<p> +“O no!” said Fancy solemnly. +</p> + +<p> +The modest Dick drew back a little. +</p> + +<p> +“Dick, Dick, kiss me and let me go instantly!—here’s somebody coming!” she +whisperingly exclaimed. +</p> + +<p class="p2"> +Half an hour afterwards Dick emerged from the inn, and if Fancy’s lips had been +real cherries probably Dick’s would have appeared deeply stained. The landlord +was standing in the yard. +</p> + +<p> +“Heu-heu! hay-hay, Master Dewy! Ho-ho!” he laughed, letting the laugh slip out +gently and by degrees that it might make little noise in its exit, and smiting +Dick under the fifth rib at the same time. “This will never do, upon my life, +Master Dewy! calling for tay for a feymel passenger, and then going in and +sitting down and having some too, and biding such a fine long time!” +</p> + +<p> +“But surely you know?” said Dick, with great apparent surprise. “Yes, yes! +Ha-ha!” smiting the landlord under the ribs in return. +</p> + +<p> +“Why, what? Yes, yes; ha-ha!” +</p> + +<p> +“You know, of course!” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, of course! But—that is—I don’t.” +</p> + +<p> +“Why about—between that young lady and me?” nodding to the window of the room +that Fancy occupied. +</p> + +<p> +“No; not I!” said the innkeeper, bringing his eyes into circles. +</p> + +<p> +“And you don’t!” +</p> + +<p> +“Not a word, I’ll take my oath!” +</p> + +<p> +“But you laughed when I laughed.” +</p> + +<p> +“Ay, that was me sympathy; so did you when I laughed!” +</p> + +<p> +“Really, you don’t know? Goodness—not knowing that!” +</p> + +<p> +“I’ll take my oath I don’t!” +</p> + +<p> +“O yes,” said Dick, with frigid rhetoric of pitying astonishment, “we’re +engaged to be married, you see, and I naturally look after her.” +</p> + +<p> +“Of course, of course! I didn’t know that, and I hope ye’ll excuse any little +freedom of mine, Mr. Dewy. But it is a very odd thing; I was talking to your +father very intimate about family matters only last Friday in the world, and +who should come in but Keeper Day, and we all then fell a-talking o’ family +matters; but neither one o’ them said a mortal word about it; knowen me too so +many years, and I at your father’s own wedding. ’Tisn’t what I should have +expected from an old neighbour!” +</p> + +<p> +“Well, to say the truth, we hadn’t told father of the engagement at that time; +in fact, ’twasn’t settled.” +</p> + +<p> +“Ah! the business was done Sunday. Yes, yes, Sunday’s the courting day. +Heu-heu!” +</p> + +<p> +“No, ’twasn’t done Sunday in particular.” +</p> + +<p> +“After school-hours this week? Well, a very good time, a very proper good +time.” +</p> + +<p> +“O no, ’twasn’t done then.” +</p> + +<p> +“Coming along the road to-day then, I suppose?” +</p> + +<p> +“Not at all; I wouldn’t think of getting engaged in a dog-cart.” +</p> + +<p> +“Dammy—might as well have said at once, the <i>when</i> be blowed! Anyhow, ’tis +a fine day, and I hope next time you’ll come as one.” +</p> + +<p> +Fancy was duly brought out and assisted into the vehicle, and the newly +affianced youth and maiden passed up the steep hill to the Ridgeway, and +vanished in the direction of Mellstock. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap20"></a>CHAPTER III.<br/> +A CONFESSION</h2> + +<p> +It was a morning of the latter summer-time; a morning of lingering dews, when +the grass is never dry in the shade. Fuchsias and dahlias were laden till +eleven o’clock with small drops and dashes of water, changing the colour of +their sparkle at every movement of the air; and elsewhere hanging on twigs like +small silver fruit. The threads of garden spiders appeared thick and polished. +In the dry and sunny places, dozens of long-legged crane-flies whizzed off the +grass at every step the passer took. +</p> + +<p> +Fancy Day and her friend Susan Dewy the tranter’s daughter, were in such a spot +as this, pulling down a bough laden with early apples. Three months had elapsed +since Dick and Fancy had journeyed together from Budmouth, and the course of +their love had run on vigorously during the whole time. There had been just +enough difficulty attending its development, and just enough finesse required +in keeping it private, to lend the passion an ever-increasing freshness on +Fancy’s part, whilst, whether from these accessories or not, Dick’s heart had +been at all times as fond as could be desired. But there was a cloud on Fancy’s +horizon now. +</p> + +<p> +“She is so well off—better than any of us,” Susan Dewy was saying. “Her father +farms five hundred acres, and she might marry a doctor or curate or anything of +that kind if she contrived a little.” +</p> + +<p> +“I don’t think Dick ought to have gone to that gipsy-party at all when he knew +I couldn’t go,” replied Fancy uneasily. +</p> + +<p> +“He didn’t know that you would not be there till it was too late to refuse the +invitation,” said Susan. +</p> + +<p> +“And what was she like? Tell me.” +</p> + +<p> +“Well, she was rather pretty, I must own.” +</p> + +<p> +“Tell straight on about her, can’t you! Come, do, Susan. How many times did you +say he danced with her?” +</p> + +<p> +“Once.” +</p> + +<p> +“Twice, I think you said?” +</p> + +<p> +“Indeed I’m sure I didn’t.” +</p> + +<p> +“Well, and he wanted to again, I expect.” +</p> + +<p> +“No; I don’t think he did. She wanted to dance with him again bad enough, I +know. Everybody does with Dick, because he’s so handsome and such a clever +courter.” +</p> + +<p> +“O, I wish!—How did you say she wore her hair?” +</p> + +<p> +“In long curls,—and her hair is light, and it curls without being put in paper: +that’s how it is she’s so attractive.” +</p> + +<p> +“She’s trying to get him away! yes, yes, she is! And through keeping this +miserable school I mustn’t wear my hair in curls! But I will; I don’t care if I +leave the school and go home, I will wear my curls! Look, Susan, do! is her +hair as soft and long as this?” Fancy pulled from its coil under her hat a +twine of her own hair, and stretched it down her shoulder to show its length, +looking at Susan to catch her opinion from her eyes. +</p> + +<p> +“It is about the same length as that, I think,” said Miss Dewy. +</p> + +<p> +Fancy paused hopelessly. “I wish mine was lighter, like hers!” she continued +mournfully. “But hers isn’t so soft, is it? Tell me, now.” +</p> + +<p> +“I don’t know.” +</p> + +<p> +Fancy abstractedly extended her vision to survey a yellow butterfly and a +red-and-black butterfly that were flitting along in company, and then became +aware that Dick was advancing up the garden. +</p> + +<p> +“Susan, here’s Dick coming; I suppose that’s because we’ve been talking about +him.” +</p> + +<p> +“Well, then, I shall go indoors now—you won’t want me;” and Susan turned +practically and walked off. +</p> + +<p> +Enter the single-minded Dick, whose only fault at the gipsying, or picnic, had +been that of loving Fancy too exclusively, and depriving himself of the +innocent pleasure the gathering might have afforded him, by sighing regretfully +at her absence,—who had danced with the rival in sheer despair of ever being +able to get through that stale, flat, and unprofitable afternoon in any other +way; but this she would not believe. +</p> + +<p> +Fancy had settled her plan of emotion. To reproach Dick? O no, no. “I am in +great trouble,” said she, taking what was intended to be a hopelessly +melancholy survey of a few small apples lying under the tree; yet a critical +ear might have noticed in her voice a tentative tone as to the effect of the +words upon Dick when she uttered them. +</p> + +<p> +“What are you in trouble about? Tell me of it,” said Dick earnestly. “Darling, +I will share it with ’ee and help ’ee.” +</p> + +<p> +“No, no: you can’t! Nobody can!” +</p> + +<p> +“Why not? You don’t deserve it, whatever it is. Tell me, dear.” +</p> + +<p> +“O, it isn’t what you think! It is dreadful: my own sin!” +</p> + +<p> +“Sin, Fancy! as if you could sin! I know it can’t be.” +</p> + +<p> +“’Tis, ’tis!” said the young lady, in a pretty little frenzy of sorrow. “I have +done wrong, and I don’t like to tell it! Nobody will forgive me, nobody! and +you above all will not! . . . I have allowed myself to—to—fl—” +</p> + +<p> +“What,—not flirt!” he said, controlling his emotion as it were by a sudden +pressure inward from his surface. “And you said only the day before yesterday +that you hadn’t flirted in your life!” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, I did; and that was a wicked story! I have let another love me, and—” +</p> + +<p> +“Good G—! Well, I’ll forgive you,—yes, if you couldn’t help it,—yes, I will!” +said the now dismal Dick. “Did you encourage him?” +</p> + +<p> +“O,—I don’t know,—yes—no. O, I think so!” +</p> + +<p> +“Who was it?” A pause. “Tell me!” +</p> + +<p> +“Mr. Shiner.” +</p> + +<p> +After a silence that was only disturbed by the fall of an apple, a long-checked +sigh from Dick, and a sob from Fancy, he said with real austerity— +</p> + +<p> +“Tell it all;—every word!” +</p> + +<p> +“He looked at me, and I looked at him, and he said, ‘Will you let me show you +how to catch bullfinches down here by the stream?’ And I—wanted to know very +much—I did so long to have a bullfinch! I couldn’t help that and I said, ‘Yes!’ +and then he said, ‘Come here.’ And I went with him down to the lovely river, +and then he said to me, ‘Look and see how I do it, and then you’ll know: I put +this birdlime round this twig, and then I go here,’ he said, ‘and hide away +under a bush; and presently clever Mister Bird comes and perches upon the twig, +and flaps his wings, and you’ve got him before you can say Jack’—something; O, +O, O, I forget what!” +</p> + +<p> +“Jack Sprat,” mournfully suggested Dick through the cloud of his misery. +</p> + +<p> +“No, not Jack Sprat,” she sobbed. +</p> + +<p> +“Then ’twas Jack Robinson!” he said, with the emphasis of a man who had +resolved to discover every iota of the truth, or die. +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, that was it! And then I put my hand upon the rail of the bridge to get +across, and—That’s all.” +</p> + +<p> +“Well, that isn’t much, either,” said Dick critically, and more cheerfully. +“Not that I see what business Shiner has to take upon himself to teach you +anything. But it seems—it do seem there must have been more than that to set +you up in such a dreadful taking?” +</p> + +<p> +He looked into Fancy’s eyes. Misery of miseries!—guilt was written there still. +</p> + +<p> +“Now, Fancy, you’ve not told me all!” said Dick, rather sternly for a quiet +young man. +</p> + +<p> +“O, don’t speak so cruelly! I am afraid to tell now! If you hadn’t been harsh, +I was going on to tell all; now I can’t!” +</p> + +<p> +“Come, dear Fancy, tell: come. I’ll forgive; I must,—by heaven and earth, I +must, whether I will or no; I love you so!” +</p> + +<p> +“Well, when I put my hand on the bridge, he touched it—” +</p> + +<p> +“A scamp!” said Dick, grinding an imaginary human frame to powder. +</p> + +<p> +“And then he looked at me, and at last he said, ‘Are you in love with Dick +Dewy?’ And I said, ‘Perhaps I am!’ and then he said, ‘I wish you weren’t then, +for I want to marry you, with all my soul.’” +</p> + +<p> +“There’s a villain now! Want to marry you!” And Dick quivered with the +bitterness of satirical laughter. Then suddenly remembering that he might be +reckoning without his host: “Unless, to be sure, you are willing to have +him,—perhaps you are,” he said, with the wretched indifference of a castaway. +</p> + +<p> +“No, indeed I am not!” she said, her sobs just beginning to take a favourable +turn towards cure. +</p> + +<p> +“Well, then,” said Dick, coming a little to his senses, “you’ve been stretching +it very much in giving such a dreadful beginning to such a mere nothing. And I +know what you’ve done it for,—just because of that gipsy-party!” He turned away +from her and took five paces decisively, as if he were tired of an ungrateful +country, including herself. “You did it to make me jealous, and I won’t stand +it!” He flung the words to her over his shoulder and then stalked on, +apparently very anxious to walk to the remotest of the Colonies that very +minute. +</p> + +<p> +“O, O, O, Dick—Dick!” she cried, trotting after him like a pet lamb, and really +seriously alarmed at last, “you’ll kill me! My impulses are bad—miserably +wicked,—and I can’t help it; forgive me, Dick! And I love you always; and those +times when you look silly and don’t seem quite good enough for me,—just the +same, I do, Dick! And there is something more serious, though not concerning +that walk with him.” +</p> + +<p> +“Well, what is it?” said Dick, altering his mind about walking to the Colonies; +in fact, passing to the other extreme, and standing so rooted to the road that +he was apparently not even going home. +</p> + +<p> +“Why this,” she said, drying the beginning of a new flood of tears she had been +going to shed, “this is the serious part. Father has told Mr. Shiner that he +would like him for a son-in-law, if he could get me;—that he has his right +hearty consent to come courting me!” +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap21"></a>CHAPTER IV.<br/> +AN ARRANGEMENT</h2> + +<p> +“That <i>is</i> serious,” said Dick, more intellectually than he had spoken for +a long time. +</p> + +<p> +The truth was that Geoffrey knew nothing about his daughter’s continued walks +and meetings with Dick. When a hint that there were symptoms of an attachment +between them had first reached Geoffrey’s ears, he stated so emphatically that +he must think the matter over before any such thing could be allowed that, +rather unwisely on Dick’s part, whatever it might have been on the lady’s, the +lovers were careful to be seen together no more in public; and Geoffrey, +forgetting the report, did not think over the matter at all. So Mr. Shiner +resumed his old position in Geoffrey’s brain by mere flux of time. Even Shiner +began to believe that Dick existed for Fancy no more,—though that remarkably +easy-going man had taken no active steps on his own account as yet. +</p> + +<p> +“And father has not only told Mr. Shiner that,” continued Fancy, “but he has +written me a letter, to say he should wish me to encourage Mr. Shiner, if ’twas +convenient!” +</p> + +<p> +“I must start off and see your father at once!” said Dick, taking two or three +vehement steps to the south, recollecting that Mr. Day lived to the north, and +coming back again. +</p> + +<p> +“I think we had better see him together. Not tell him what you come for, or +anything of the kind, until he likes you, and so win his brain through his +heart, which is always the way to manage people. I mean in this way: I am going +home on Saturday week to help them in the honey-taking. You might come there to +me, have something to eat and drink, and let him guess what your coming +signifies, without saying it in so many words.” +</p> + +<p> +“We’ll do it, dearest. But I shall ask him for you, flat and plain; not wait +for his guessing.” And the lover then stepped close to her, and attempted to +give her one little kiss on the cheek, his lips alighting, however, on an +outlying tract of her back hair by reason of an impulse that had caused her to +turn her head with a jerk. “Yes, and I’ll put on my second-best suit and a +clean shirt and collar, and black my boots as if ’twas a Sunday. ’Twill have a +good appearance, you see, and that’s a great deal to start with.” +</p> + +<p> +“You won’t wear that old waistcoat, will you, Dick?” +</p> + +<p> +“Bless you, no! Why I—” +</p> + +<p> +“I didn’t mean to be personal, dear Dick,” she said, fearing she had hurt his +feelings. “’Tis a very nice waistcoat, but what I meant was, that though it is +an excellent waistcoat for a settled-down man, it is not quite one for” (she +waited, and a blush expanded over her face, and then she went on again)—“for +going courting in.” +</p> + +<p> +“No, I’ll wear my best winter one, with the leather lining, that mother made. +It is a beautiful, handsome waistcoat inside, yes, as ever anybody saw. In +fact, only the other day, I unbuttoned it to show a chap that very lining, and +he said it was the strongest, handsomest lining you could wish to see on the +king’s waistcoat himself.” +</p> + +<p> +“<i>I</i> don’t quite know what to wear,” she said, as if her habitual +indifference alone to dress had kept back so important a subject till now. +</p> + +<p> +“Why, that blue frock you wore last week.” +</p> + +<p> +“Doesn’t set well round the neck. I couldn’t wear that.” +</p> + +<p> +“But I shan’t care.” +</p> + +<p> +“No, you won’t mind.” +</p> + +<p> +“Well, then it’s all right. Because you only care how you look to me, do you, +dear? I only dress for you, that’s certain.” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, but you see I couldn’t appear in it again very well.” +</p> + +<p> +“Any strange gentleman you mid meet in your journey might notice the set of it, +I suppose. Fancy, men in love don’t think so much about how they look to other +women.” It is difficult to say whether a tone of playful banter or of gentle +reproach prevailed in the speech. +</p> + +<p> +“Well then, Dick,” she said, with good-humoured frankness, “I’ll own it. I +shouldn’t like a stranger to see me dressed badly, even though I am in love. +’Tis our nature, I suppose.” +</p> + +<p> +“You perfect woman!” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes; if you lay the stress on ‘woman,’” she murmured, looking at a group of +hollyhocks in flower, round which a crowd of butterflies had gathered like +female idlers round a bonnet-shop. +</p> + +<p> +“But about the dress. Why not wear the one you wore at our party?” +</p> + +<p> +“That sets well, but a girl of the name of Bet Tallor, who lives near our +house, has had one made almost like it (only in pattern, though of miserably +cheap stuff), and I couldn’t wear it on that account. Dear me, I am afraid I +can’t go now.” +</p> + +<p> +“O yes, you must; I know you will!” said Dick, with dismay. “Why not wear what +you’ve got on?” +</p> + +<p> +“What! this old one! After all, I think that by wearing my gray one Saturday, I +can make the blue one do for Sunday. Yes, I will. A hat or a bonnet, which +shall it be? Which do I look best in?” +</p> + +<p> +“Well, I think the bonnet is nicest, more quiet and matronly.” +</p> + +<p> +“What’s the objection to the hat? Does it make me look old?” +</p> + +<p> +“O no; the hat is well enough; but it makes you look rather too—you won’t mind +me saying it, dear?” +</p> + +<p> +“Not at all, for I shall wear the bonnet.” +</p> + +<p> +“—Rather too coquettish and flirty for an engaged young woman.” +</p> + +<p> +She reflected a minute. “Yes; yes. Still, after all, the hat would do best; +hats <i>are</i> best, you see. Yes, I must wear the hat, dear Dicky, because I +ought to wear a hat, you know.” +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="part04"></a>PART THE FOURTH—AUTUMN</h2> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap22"></a>CHAPTER I.<br/> +GOING NUTTING</h2> + +<p> +Dick, dressed in his ‘second-best’ suit, burst into Fancy’s sitting-room with a +glow of pleasure on his face. +</p> + +<p> +It was two o’clock on Friday, the day before her contemplated visit to her +father, and for some reason connected with cleaning the school the children had +been given this Friday afternoon for pastime, in addition to the usual +Saturday. +</p> + +<p> +“Fancy! it happens just right that it is a leisure half day with you. Smart is +lame in his near-foot-afore, and so, as I can’t do anything, I’ve made a +holiday afternoon of it, and am come for you to go nutting with me!” +</p> + +<p> +She was sitting by the parlour window, with a blue frock lying across her lap +and scissors in her hand. +</p> + +<p> +“Go nutting! Yes. But I’m afraid I can’t go for an hour or so.” +</p> + +<p> +“Why not? ’Tis the only spare afternoon we may both have together for weeks.” +</p> + +<p> +“This dress of mine, that I am going to wear on Sunday at Yalbury;—I find it +fits so badly that I must alter it a little, after all. I told the dressmaker +to make it by a pattern I gave her at the time; instead of that, she did it her +own way, and made me look a perfect fright.” +</p> + +<p> +“How long will you be?” he inquired, looking rather disappointed. +</p> + +<p> +“Not long. Do wait and talk to me; come, do, dear.” +</p> + +<p> +Dick sat down. The talking progressed very favourably, amid the snipping and +sewing, till about half-past two, at which time his conversation began to be +varied by a slight tapping upon his toe with a walking-stick he had cut from +the hedge as he came along. Fancy talked and answered him, but sometimes the +answers were so negligently given, that it was evident her thoughts lay for the +greater part in her lap with the blue dress. +</p> + +<p> +The clock struck three. Dick arose from his seat, walked round the room with +his hands behind him, examined all the furniture, then sounded a few notes on +the harmonium, then looked inside all the books he could find, then smoothed +Fancy’s head with his hand. Still the snipping and sewing went on. +</p> + +<p> +The clock struck four. Dick fidgeted about, yawned privately; counted the knots +in the table, yawned publicly; counted the flies on the ceiling, yawned +horribly; went into the kitchen and scullery, and so thoroughly studied the +principle upon which the pump was constructed that he could have delivered a +lecture on the subject. Stepping back to Fancy, and finding still that she had +not done, he went into her garden and looked at her cabbages and potatoes, and +reminded himself that they seemed to him to wear a decidedly feminine aspect; +then pulled up several weeds, and came in again. The clock struck five, and +still the snipping and sewing went on. +</p> + +<p> +Dick attempted to kill a fly, peeled all the rind off his walking-stick, then +threw the stick into the scullery because it was spoilt, produced hideous +discords from the harmonium, and accidentally overturned a vase of flowers, the +water from which ran in a rill across the table and dribbled to the floor, +where it formed a lake, the shape of which, after the lapse of a few minutes, +he began to modify considerably with his foot, till it was like a map of +England and Wales. +</p> + +<p> +“Well, Dick, you needn’t have made quite such a mess.” +</p> + +<p> +“Well, I needn’t, I suppose.” He walked up to the blue dress, and looked at it +with a rigid gaze. Then an idea seemed to cross his brain. +</p> + +<p> +“Fancy.” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes.” +</p> + +<p> +“I thought you said you were going to wear your gray gown all day to-morrow on +your trip to Yalbury, and in the evening too, when I shall be with you, and ask +your father for you?” +</p> + +<p> +“So I am.” +</p> + +<p> +“And the blue one only on Sunday?” +</p> + +<p> +“And the blue one Sunday.” +</p> + +<p> +“Well, dear, I sha’n’t be at Yalbury Sunday to see it.” +</p> + +<p> +“No, but I shall walk to Longpuddle church in the afternoon with father, and +such lots of people will be looking at me there, you know; and it did set so +badly round the neck.” +</p> + +<p> +“I never noticed it, and ’tis like nobody else would.” +</p> + +<p> +“They might.” +</p> + +<p> +“Then why not wear the gray one on Sunday as well? ’Tis as pretty as the blue +one.” +</p> + +<p> +“I might make the gray one do, certainly. But it isn’t so good; it didn’t cost +half so much as this one, and besides, it would be the same I wore Saturday.” +</p> + +<p> +“Then wear the striped one, dear.” +</p> + +<p> +“I might.” +</p> + +<p> +“Or the dark one.” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, I might; but I want to wear a fresh one they haven’t seen.” +</p> + +<p> +“I see, I see,” said Dick, in a voice in which the tones of love were decidedly +inconvenienced by a considerable emphasis, his thoughts meanwhile running as +follows: “I, the man she loves best in the world, as she says, am to understand +that my poor half-holiday is to be lost, because she wants to wear on Sunday a +gown there is not the slightest necessity for wearing, simply, in fact, to +appear more striking than usual in the eyes of Longpuddle young men; and I not +there, either.” +</p> + +<p> +“Then there are three dresses good enough for my eyes, but neither is good +enough for the youths of Longpuddle,” he said. +</p> + +<p> +“No, not that exactly, Dick. Still, you see, I do want—to look pretty to +them—there, that’s honest! But I sha’n’t be much longer.” +</p> + +<p> +“How much?” +</p> + +<p> +“A quarter of an hour.” +</p> + +<p> +“Very well; I’ll come in in a quarter of an hour.” +</p> + +<p> +“Why go away?” +</p> + +<p> +“I mid as well.” +</p> + +<p> +He went out, walked down the road, and sat upon a gate. Here he meditated and +meditated, and the more he meditated the more decidedly did he begin to fume, +and the more positive was he that his time had been scandalously trifled with +by Miss Fancy Day—that, so far from being the simple girl who had never had a +sweetheart before, as she had solemnly assured him time after time, she was, if +not a flirt, a woman who had had no end of admirers; a girl most certainly too +anxious about her frocks; a girl, whose feelings, though warm, were not deep; a +girl who cared a great deal too much how she appeared in the eyes of other men. +“What she loves best in the world,” he thought, with an incipient spice of his +father’s grimness, “is her hair and complexion. What she loves next best, her +gowns and hats; what she loves next best, myself, perhaps!” +</p> + +<p> +Suffering great anguish at this disloyalty in himself and harshness to his +darling, yet disposed to persevere in it, a horribly cruel thought crossed his +mind. He would not call for her, as he had promised, at the end of a quarter of +an hour! Yes, it would be a punishment she well deserved. Although the best +part of the afternoon had been wasted he would go nutting as he had intended, +and go by himself. +</p> + +<p> +He leaped over the gate, and pushed up the lane for nearly two miles, till a +winding path called Snail-Creep sloped up a hill and entered a hazel copse by a +hole like a rabbit’s burrow. In he plunged, vanished among the bushes, and in a +short time there was no sign of his existence upon earth, save an occasional +rustling of boughs and snapping of twigs in divers points of Grey’s Wood. +</p> + +<p> +Never man nutted as Dick nutted that afternoon. He worked like a galley slave. +Half-hour after half-hour passed away, and still he gathered without ceasing. +At last, when the sun had set, and bunches of nuts could not be distinguished +from the leaves which nourished them, he shouldered his bag, containing quite +two pecks of the finest produce of the wood, about as much use to him as two +pecks of stones from the road, strolled down the woodland track, crossed the +highway and entered the homeward lane, whistling as he went. +</p> + +<p> +Probably, Miss Fancy Day never before or after stood so low in Mr. Dewy’s +opinion as on that afternoon. In fact, it is just possible that a few more blue +dresses on the Longpuddle young men’s account would have clarified Dick’s brain +entirely, and made him once more a free man. +</p> + +<p> +But Venus had planned other developments, at any rate for the present. +Cuckoo-Lane, the way he pursued, passed over a ridge which rose keenly against +the sky about fifty yards in his van. Here, upon the bright after-glow about +the horizon, was now visible an irregular shape, which at first he conceived to +be a bough standing a little beyond the line of its neighbours. Then it seemed +to move, and, as he advanced still further, there was no doubt that it was a +living being sitting in the bank, head bowed on hand. The grassy margin +entirely prevented his footsteps from being heard, and it was not till he was +close that the figure recognized him. Up it sprang, and he was face to face +with Fancy. +</p> + +<p> +“Dick, Dick! O, is it you, Dick!” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, Fancy,” said Dick, in a rather repentant tone, and lowering his nuts. +</p> + +<p> +She ran up to him, flung her parasol on the grass, put her little head against +his breast, and then there began a narrative, disjointed by such a hysterical +weeping as was never surpassed for intensity in the whole history of love. +</p> + +<p> +“O Dick,” she sobbed out, “where have you been away from me? O, I have suffered +agony, and thought you would never come any more! ’Tis cruel, Dick; no ’tisn’t, +it is justice! I’ve been walking miles and miles up and down Grey’s Wood, +trying to find you, till I was wearied and worn out, and I could walk no +further, and had come back this far! O Dick, directly you were gone, I thought +I had offended you and I put down the dress; ’tisn’t finished now, and I never +will finish, it, and I’ll wear an old one Sunday! Yes, Dick, I will, because I +don’t care what I wear when you are not by my side—ha, you think I do, but I +don’t!—and I ran after you, and I saw you go up Snail-Creep and not look back +once, and then you plunged in, and I after you; but I was too far behind. O, I +did wish the horrid bushes had been cut down, so that I could see your dear +shape again! And then I called out to you, and nobody answered, and I was +afraid to call very loud, lest anybody else should hear me. Then I kept +wandering and wandering about, and it was dreadful misery, Dick. And then I +shut my eyes and fell to picturing you looking at some other woman, very pretty +and nice, but with no affection or truth in her at all, and then imagined you +saying to yourself, ‘Ah, she’s as good as Fancy, for Fancy told me a story, and +was a flirt, and cared for herself more than me, so now I’ll have this one for +my sweetheart.’ O, you won’t, will you, Dick, for I do love you so!” +</p> + +<p> +It is scarcely necessary to add that Dick renounced his freedom there and then, +and kissed her ten times over, and promised that no pretty woman of the kind +alluded to should ever engross his thoughts; in short, that though he had been +vexed with her, all such vexation was past, and that henceforth and for ever it +was simply Fancy or death for him. And then they set about proceeding +homewards, very slowly on account of Fancy’s weariness, she leaning upon his +shoulder, and in addition receiving support from his arm round her waist; +though she had sufficiently recovered from her desperate condition to sing to +him, ‘Why are you wandering here, I pray?’ during the latter part of their +walk. Nor is it necessary to describe in detail how the bag of nuts was quite +forgotten until three days later, when it was found among the brambles and +restored empty to Mrs. Dewy, her initials being marked thereon in red cotton; +and how she puzzled herself till her head ached upon the question of how on +earth her meal-bag could have got into Cuckoo-Lane. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap23"></a>CHAPTER II.<br/> +HONEY-TAKING, AND AFTERWARDS</h2> + +<p> +Saturday evening saw Dick Dewy journeying on foot to Yalbury Wood, according to +the arrangement with Fancy. +</p> + +<p> +The landscape being concave, at the going down of the sun everything suddenly +assumed a uniform robe of shade. The evening advanced from sunset to dusk long +before Dick’s arrival, and his progress during the latter portion of his walk +through the trees was indicated by the flutter of terrified birds that had been +roosting over the path. And in crossing the glades, masses of hot dry air, that +had been formed on the hills during the day, greeted his cheeks alternately +with clouds of damp night air from the valleys. He reached the keeper-steward’s +house, where the grass-plot and the garden in front appeared light and pale +against the unbroken darkness of the grove from which he had emerged, and +paused at the garden gate. +</p> + +<p> +He had scarcely been there a minute when he beheld a sort of procession +advancing from the door in his front. It consisted first of Enoch the trapper, +carrying a spade on his shoulder and a lantern dangling in his hand; then came +Mrs. Day, the light of the lantern revealing that she bore in her arms curious +objects about a foot long, in the form of Latin crosses (made of lath and brown +paper dipped in brimstone—called matches by bee-masters); next came Miss Day, +with a shawl thrown over her head; and behind all, in the gloom, Mr. Frederic +Shiner. +</p> + +<p> +Dick, in his consternation at finding Shiner present, was at a loss how to +proceed, and retired under a tree to collect his thoughts. +</p> + +<p> +“Here I be, Enoch,” said a voice; and the procession advancing farther, the +lantern’s rays illuminated the figure of Geoffrey, awaiting their arrival +beside a row of bee-hives, in front of the path. Taking the spade from Enoch, +he proceeded to dig two holes in the earth beside the hives, the others +standing round in a circle, except Mrs. Day, who deposited her matches in the +fork of an apple-tree and returned to the house. The party remaining were now +lit up in front by the lantern in their midst, their shadows radiating each way +upon the garden-plot like the spokes of a wheel. An apparent embarrassment of +Fancy at the presence of Shiner caused a silence in the assembly, during which +the preliminaries of execution were arranged, the matches fixed, the stake +kindled, the two hives placed over the two holes, and the earth stopped round +the edges. Geoffrey then stood erect, and rather more, to straighten his +backbone after the digging. +</p> + +<p> +“They were a peculiar family,” said Mr. Shiner, regarding the hives +reflectively. +</p> + +<p> +Geoffrey nodded. +</p> + +<p> +“Those holes will be the grave of thousands!” said Fancy. “I think ’tis rather +a cruel thing to do.” +</p> + +<p> +Her father shook his head. “No,” he said, tapping the hives to shake the dead +bees from their cells, “if you suffocate ’em this way, they only die once: if +you fumigate ’em in the new way, they come to life again, and die o’ +starvation; so the pangs o’ death be twice upon ’em.” +</p> + +<p> +“I incline to Fancy’s notion,” said Mr. Shiner, laughing lightly. +</p> + +<p> +“The proper way to take honey, so that the bees be neither starved nor +murdered, is a puzzling matter,” said the keeper steadily. +</p> + +<p> +“I should like never to take it from them,” said Fancy. +</p> + +<p> +“But ’tis the money,” said Enoch musingly. “For without money man is a +shadder!” +</p> + +<p> +The lantern-light had disturbed many bees that had escaped from hives destroyed +some days earlier, and, demoralized by affliction, were now getting a living as +marauders about the doors of other hives. Several flew round the head and neck +of Geoffrey; then darted upon him with an irritated bizz. +</p> + +<p> +Enoch threw down the lantern, and ran off and pushed his head into a currant +bush; Fancy scudded up the path; and Mr. Shiner floundered away helter-skelter +among the cabbages. Geoffrey stood his ground, unmoved and firm as a rock. +Fancy was the first to return, followed by Enoch picking up the lantern. Mr. +Shiner still remained invisible. +</p> + +<p> +“Have the craters stung ye?” said Enoch to Geoffrey. +</p> + +<p> +“No, not much—on’y a little here and there,” he said with leisurely solemnity, +shaking one bee out of his shirt sleeve, pulling another from among his hair, +and two or three more from his neck. The rest looked on during this proceeding +with a complacent sense of being out of it,—much as a European nation in a +state of internal commotion is watched by its neighbours. +</p> + +<p> +“Are those all of them, father?” said Fancy, when Geoffrey had pulled away +five. +</p> + +<p> +“Almost all,—though I feel one or two more sticking into my shoulder and side. +Ah! there’s another just begun again upon my backbone. You lively young +mortals, how did you get inside there? However, they can’t sting me many times +more, poor things, for they must be getting weak. They mid as well stay in me +till bedtime now, I suppose.” +</p> + +<p> +As he himself was the only person affected by this arrangement, it seemed +satisfactory enough; and after a noise of feet kicking against cabbages in a +blundering progress among them, the voice of Mr. Shiner was heard from the +darkness in that direction. +</p> + +<p> +“Is all quite safe again?” +</p> + +<p> +No answer being returned to this query, he apparently assumed that he might +venture forth, and gradually drew near the lantern again. The hives were now +removed from their position over the holes, one being handed to Enoch to carry +indoors, and one being taken by Geoffrey himself. +</p> + +<p> +“Bring hither the lantern, Fancy: the spade can bide.” +</p> + +<p> +Geoffrey and Enoch then went towards the house, leaving Shiner and Fancy +standing side by side on the garden-plot. +</p> + +<p> +“Allow me,” said Shiner, stooping for the lantern and seizing it at the same +time with Fancy. +</p> + +<p> +“I can carry it,” said Fancy, religiously repressing all inclination to trifle. +She had thoroughly considered that subject after the tearful explanation of the +bird-catching adventure to Dick, and had decided that it would be dishonest in +her, as an engaged young woman, to trifle with men’s eyes and hands any more. +Finding that Shiner still retained his hold of the lantern, she relinquished +it, and he, having found her retaining it, also let go. The lantern fell, and +was extinguished. Fancy moved on. +</p> + +<p> +“Where is the path?” said Mr. Shiner. +</p> + +<p> +“Here,” said Fancy. “Your eyes will get used to the dark in a minute or two.” +</p> + +<p> +“Till that time will ye lend me your hand?” Fancy gave him the extreme tips of +her fingers, and they stepped from the plot into the path. +</p> + +<p> +“You don’t accept attentions very freely.” +</p> + +<p> +“It depends upon who offers them.” +</p> + +<p> +“A fellow like me, for instance.” A dead silence. +</p> + +<p> +“Well, what do you say, Missie?” +</p> + +<p> +“It then depends upon how they are offered.” +</p> + +<p> +“Not wildly, and yet not careless-like; not purposely, and yet not by chance; +not too quick nor yet too slow.” +</p> + +<p> +“How then?” said Fancy. +</p> + +<p> +“Coolly and practically,” he said. “How would that kind of love be taken?” +</p> + +<p> +“Not anxiously, and yet not indifferently; neither blushing nor pale; nor +religiously nor yet quite wickedly.” +</p> + +<p> +“Well, how?” +</p> + +<p> +“Not at all.” +</p> + +<p class="p2"> +Geoffrey Day’s storehouse at the back of his dwelling was hung with bunches of +dried horehound, mint, and sage; brown-paper bags of thyme and lavender; and +long ropes of clean onions. On shelves were spread large red and yellow apples, +and choice selections of early potatoes for seed next year;—vulgar crowds of +commoner kind lying beneath in heaps. A few empty beehives were clustered +around a nail in one corner, under which stood two or three barrels of new +cider of the first crop, each bubbling and squirting forth from the yet open +bunghole. +</p> + +<p> +Fancy was now kneeling beside the two inverted hives, one of which rested +against her lap, for convenience in operating upon the contents. She thrust her +sleeves above her elbows, and inserted her small pink hand edgewise between +each white lobe of honeycomb, performing the act so adroitly and gently as not +to unseal a single cell. Then cracking the piece off at the crown of the hive +by a slight backward and forward movement, she lifted each portion as it was +loosened into a large blue platter, placed on a bench at her side. +</p> + +<p> +“Bother these little mortals!” said Geoffrey, who was holding the light to her, +and giving his back an uneasy twist. “I really think I may as well go indoors +and take ’em out, poor things! for they won’t let me alone. There’s two a +stinging wi’ all their might now. I’m sure I wonder their strength can last so +long.” +</p> + +<p> +“All right, friend; I’ll hold the candle whilst you are gone,” said Mr. Shiner, +leisurely taking the light, and allowing Geoffrey to depart, which he did with +his usual long paces. +</p> + +<p> +He could hardly have gone round to the house-door when other footsteps were +heard approaching the outbuilding; the tip of a finger appeared in the hole +through which the wood latch was lifted, and Dick Dewy came in, having been all +this time walking up and down the wood, vainly waiting for Shiner’s departure. +</p> + +<p> +Fancy looked up and welcomed him rather confusedly. Shiner grasped the +candlestick more firmly, and, lest doing this in silence should not imply to +Dick with sufficient force that he was quite at home and cool, he sang +invincibly— +</p> + +<p class="poem"> +“‘King Arthur he had three sons.’” +</p> + +<p> +“Father here?” said Dick. +</p> + +<p> +“Indoors, I think,” said Fancy, looking pleasantly at him. +</p> + +<p> +Dick surveyed the scene, and did not seem inclined to hurry off just at that +moment. Shiner went on singing— +</p> + +<p class="poem"> +“‘The miller was drown’d in his pond,<br/> + The weaver was hung in his yarn,<br/> +And the d--- ran away with the little tail-or,<br/> + With the broadcloth under his arm.’” +</p> + +<p> +“That’s a terrible crippled rhyme, if that’s your rhyme!” said Dick, with a +grain of superciliousness in his tone. +</p> + +<p> +“It’s no use your complaining to me about the rhyme!” said Mr. Shiner. “You +must go to the man that made it.” +</p> + +<p> +Fancy by this time had acquired confidence. +</p> + +<p> +“Taste a bit, Mr. Dewy,” she said, holding up to him a small circular piece of +honeycomb that had been the last in the row of layers, remaining still on her +knees and flinging back her head to look in his face; “and then I’ll taste a +bit too.” +</p> + +<p> +“And I, if you please,” said Mr. Shiner. Nevertheless the farmer looked +superior, as if he could even now hardly join the trifling from very importance +of station; and after receiving the honeycomb from Fancy, he turned it over in +his hand till the cells began to be crushed, and the liquid honey ran down from +his fingers in a thin string. +</p> + +<p> +Suddenly a faint cry from Fancy caused them to gaze at her. +</p> + +<p> +“What’s the matter, dear?” said Dick. +</p> + +<p> +“It is nothing, but O-o! a bee has stung the inside of my lip! He was in one of +the cells I was eating!” +</p> + +<p> +“We must keep down the swelling, or it may be serious!” said Shiner, stepping +up and kneeling beside her. “Let me see it.” +</p> + +<p> +“No, no!” +</p> + +<p> +“Just let <i>me</i> see it,” said Dick, kneeling on the other side: and after +some hesitation she pressed down her lip with one finger to show the place. “O, +I hope ’twill soon be better! I don’t mind a sting in ordinary places, but it +is so bad upon your lip,” she added with tears in her eyes, and writhing a +little from the pain. +</p> + +<p> +Shiner held the light above his head and pushed his face close to Fancy’s, as +if the lip had been shown exclusively to himself, upon which Dick pushed +closer, as if Shiner were not there at all. +</p> + +<p> +“It is swelling,” said Dick to her right aspect. +</p> + +<p> +“It isn’t swelling,” said Shiner to her left aspect. +</p> + +<p> +“Is it dangerous on the lip?” cried Fancy. “I know it is dangerous on the +tongue.” +</p> + +<p> +“O no, not dangerous!” answered Dick. +</p> + +<p> +“Rather dangerous,” had answered Shiner simultaneously. +</p> + +<p> +“I must try to bear it!” said Fancy, turning again to the hives. +</p> + +<p> +“Hartshorn-and-oil is a good thing to put to it, Miss Day,” said Shiner with +great concern. +</p> + +<p> +“Sweet-oil-and-hartshorn I’ve found to be a good thing to cure stings, Miss +Day,” said Dick with greater concern. +</p> + +<p> +“We have some mixed indoors; would you kindly run and get it for me?” she said. +</p> + +<p> +Now, whether by inadvertence, or whether by mischievous intention, the +individuality of the <i>you</i> was so carelessly denoted that both Dick and +Shiner sprang to their feet like twin acrobats, and marched abreast to the +door; both seized the latch and lifted it, and continued marching on, shoulder +to shoulder, in the same manner to the dwelling-house. Not only so, but +entering the room, they marched as before straight up to Mrs. Day’s chair, +letting the door in the oak partition slam so forcibly, that the rows of pewter +on the dresser rang like a bell. +</p> + +<p> +“Mrs. Day, Fancy has stung her lip, and wants you to give me the hartshorn, +please,” said Mr. Shiner, very close to Mrs. Day’s face. +</p> + +<p> +“O, Mrs. Day, Fancy has asked me to bring out the hartshorn, please, because +she has stung her lip!” said Dick, a little closer to Mrs. Day’s face. +</p> + +<p> +“Well, men alive! that’s no reason why you should eat me, I suppose!” said Mrs. +Day, drawing back. +</p> + +<p> +She searched in the corner-cupboard, produced the bottle, and began to dust the +cork, the rim, and every other part very carefully, Dick’s hand and Shiner’s +hand waiting side by side. +</p> + +<p> +“Which is head man?” said Mrs. Day. “Now, don’t come mumbudgeting so close +again. Which is head man?” +</p> + +<p> +Neither spoke; and the bottle was inclined towards Shiner. Shiner, as a +high-class man, would not look in the least triumphant, and turned to go off +with it as Geoffrey came downstairs after the search in his linen for concealed +bees. +</p> + +<p> +“O—that you, Master Dewy?” +</p> + +<p> +Dick assured the keeper that it was; and the young man then determined upon a +bold stroke for the attainment of his end, forgetting that the worst of bold +strokes is the disastrous consequences they involve if they fail. +</p> + +<p> +“I’ve come on purpose to speak to you very particular, Mr. Day,” he said, with +a crushing emphasis intended for the ears of Mr. Shiner, who was vanishing +round the door-post at that moment. +</p> + +<p> +“Well, I’ve been forced to go upstairs and unrind myself, and shake some bees +out o’ me” said Geoffrey, walking slowly towards the open door, and standing on +the threshold. “The young rascals got into my shirt and wouldn’t be quiet +nohow.” +</p> + +<p> +Dick followed him to the door. +</p> + +<p> +“I’ve come to speak a word to you,” he repeated, looking out at the pale mist +creeping up from the gloom of the valley. “You may perhaps guess what it is +about.” +</p> + +<p> +The keeper lowered his hands into the depths of his pockets, twirled his eyes, +balanced himself on his toes, looked as perpendicularly downward as if his +glance were a plumb-line, then horizontally, collecting together the cracks +that lay about his face till they were all in the neighbourhood of his eyes. +</p> + +<p> +“Maybe I don’t know,” he replied. +</p> + +<p> +Dick said nothing; and the stillness was disturbed only by some small bird that +was being killed by an owl in the adjoining wood, whose cry passed into the +silence without mingling with it. +</p> + +<p> +“I’ve left my hat up in chammer,” said Geoffrey; “wait while I step up and get +en.” +</p> + +<p> +“I’ll be in the garden,” said Dick. +</p> + +<p> +He went round by a side wicket into the garden, and Geoffrey went upstairs. It +was the custom in Mellstock and its vicinity to discuss matters of pleasure and +ordinary business inside the house, and to reserve the garden for very +important affairs: a custom which, as is supposed, originated in the +desirability of getting away at such times from the other members of the family +when there was only one room for living in, though it was now quite as +frequently practised by those who suffered from no such limitation to the size +of their domiciles. +</p> + +<p> +The head-keeper’s form appeared in the dusky garden, and Dick walked towards +him. The elder paused and leant over the rail of a piggery that stood on the +left of the path, upon which Dick did the same; and they both contemplated a +whitish shadowy shape that was moving about and grunting among the straw of the +interior. +</p> + +<p> +“I’ve come to ask for Fancy,” said Dick. +</p> + +<p> +“I’d as lief you hadn’t.” +</p> + +<p> +“Why should that be, Mr. Day?” +</p> + +<p> +“Because it makes me say that you’ve come to ask what ye be’n’t likely to have. +Have ye come for anything else?” +</p> + +<p> +“Nothing.” +</p> + +<p> +“Then I’ll just tell ’ee you’ve come on a very foolish errand. D’ye know what +her mother was?” +</p> + +<p> +“No.” +</p> + +<p> +“A teacher in a landed family’s nursery, who was foolish enough to marry the +keeper of the same establishment; for I was only a keeper then, though now I’ve +a dozen other irons in the fire as steward here for my lord, what with the +timber sales and the yearly fellings, and the gravel and sand sales and one +thing and ’tother. However, d’ye think Fancy picked up her good manners, the +smooth turn of her tongue, her musical notes, and her knowledge of books, in a +homely hole like this?” +</p> + +<p> +“No.” +</p> + +<p> +“D’ye know where?” +</p> + +<p> +“No.” +</p> + +<p> +“Well, when I went a-wandering after her mother’s death, she lived with her +aunt, who kept a boarding-school, till her aunt married Lawyer Green—a man as +sharp as a needle—and the school was broke up. Did ye know that then she went +to the training-school, and that her name stood first among the Queen’s +scholars of her year?” +</p> + +<p> +“I’ve heard so.” +</p> + +<p> +“And that when she sat for her certificate as Government teacher, she had the +highest of the first class?” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes.” +</p> + +<p> +“Well, and do ye know what I live in such a miserly way for when I’ve got +enough to do without it, and why I make her work as a schoolmistress instead of +living here?” +</p> + +<p> +“No.” +</p> + +<p> +“That if any gentleman, who sees her to be his equal in polish, should want to +marry her, and she want to marry him, he sha’n’t be superior to her in pocket. +Now do ye think after this that you be good enough for her?” +</p> + +<p> +“No.” +</p> + +<p> +“Then good-night t’ee, Master Dewy.” +</p> + +<p> +“Good-night, Mr. Day.” +</p> + +<p> +Modest Dick’s reply had faltered upon his tongue, and he turned away wondering +at his presumption in asking for a woman whom he had seen from the beginning to +be so superior to him. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap24"></a>CHAPTER III.<br/> +FANCY IN THE RAIN</h2> + +<p> +The next scene is a tempestuous afternoon in the following month, and Fancy Day +is discovered walking from her father’s home towards Mellstock. +</p> + +<p> +A single vast gray cloud covered the country, from which the small rain and +mist had just begun to blow down in wavy sheets, alternately thick and thin. +The trees of the fields and plantations writhed like miserable men as the air +wound its way swiftly among them: the lowest portions of their trunks, that had +hardly ever been known to move, were visibly rocked by the fiercer gusts, +distressing the mind by its painful unwontedness, as when a strong man is seen +to shed tears. Low-hanging boughs went up and down; high and erect boughs went +to and fro; the blasts being so irregular, and divided into so many +cross-currents, that neighbouring branches of the same tree swept the skies in +independent motions, crossed each other, or became entangled. Across the open +spaces flew flocks of green and yellowish leaves, which, after travelling a +long distance from their parent trees, reached the ground, and lay there with +their under-sides upward. +</p> + +<p> +As the rain and wind increased, and Fancy’s bonnet-ribbons leapt more and more +snappishly against her chin, she paused on entering Mellstock Lane to consider +her latitude, and the distance to a place of shelter. The nearest house was +Elizabeth Endorfield’s, in Higher Mellstock, whose cottage and garden stood not +far from the junction of that hamlet with the road she followed. Fancy hastened +onward, and in five minutes entered a gate, which shed upon her toes a flood of +water-drops as she opened it. +</p> + +<p> +“Come in, chiel!” a voice exclaimed, before Fancy had knocked: a promptness +that would have surprised her had she not known that Mrs. Endorfield was an +exceedingly and exceptionally sharp woman in the use of her eyes and ears. +</p> + +<p> +Fancy went in and sat down. Elizabeth was paring potatoes for her husband’s +supper. +</p> + +<p> +Scrape, scrape, scrape; then a toss, and splash went a potato into a bucket of +water. +</p> + +<p> +Now, as Fancy listlessly noted these proceedings of the dame, she began to +reconsider an old subject that lay uppermost in her heart. Since the interview +between her father and Dick, the days had been melancholy days for her. +Geoffrey’s firm opposition to the notion of Dick as a son-in-law was more than +she had expected. She had frequently seen her lover since that time, it is +true, and had loved him more for the opposition than she would have otherwise +dreamt of doing—which was a happiness of a certain kind. Yet, though love is +thus an end in itself, it must be believed to be the means to another end if it +is to assume the rosy hues of an unalloyed pleasure. And such a belief Fancy +and Dick were emphatically denied just now. +</p> + +<p> +Elizabeth Endorfield had a repute among women which was in its nature something +between distinction and notoriety. It was founded on the following items of +character. She was shrewd and penetrating; her house stood in a lonely place; +she never went to church; she wore a red cloak; she always retained her bonnet +indoors and she had a pointed chin. Thus far her attributes were distinctly +Satanic; and those who looked no further called her, in plain terms, a witch. +But she was not gaunt, nor ugly in the upper part of her face, nor particularly +strange in manner; so that, when her more intimate acquaintances spoke of her +the term was softened, and she became simply a Deep Body, who was as +long-headed as she was high. It may be stated that Elizabeth belonged to a +class of suspects who were gradually losing their mysterious characteristics +under the administration of the young vicar; though, during the long reign of +Mr. Grinham, the parish of Mellstock had proved extremely favourable to the +growth of witches. +</p> + +<p> +While Fancy was revolving all this in her mind, and putting it to herself +whether it was worth while to tell her troubles to Elizabeth, and ask her +advice in getting out of them, the witch spoke. +</p> + +<p> +“You be down—proper down,” she said suddenly, dropping another potato into the +bucket. +</p> + +<p> +Fancy took no notice. +</p> + +<p> +“About your young man.” +</p> + +<p> +Fancy reddened. Elizabeth seemed to be watching her thoughts. Really, one would +almost think she must have the powers people ascribed to her. +</p> + +<p> +“Father not in the humour for’t, hey?” Another potato was finished and flung +in. “Ah, I know about it. Little birds tell me things that people don’t dream +of my knowing.” +</p> + +<p> +Fancy was desperate about Dick, and here was a chance—O, such a wicked +chance—of getting help; and what was goodness beside love! +</p> + +<p> +“I wish you’d tell me how to put him in the humour for it?” she said. +</p> + +<p> +“That I could soon do,” said the witch quietly. +</p> + +<p> +“Really? O, do; anyhow—I don’t care—so that it is done! How could I do it, Mrs. +Endorfield?” +</p> + +<p> +“Nothing so mighty wonderful in it.” +</p> + +<p> +“Well, but how?” +</p> + +<p> +“By witchery, of course!” said Elizabeth. +</p> + +<p> +“No!” said Fancy. +</p> + +<p> +“’Tis, I assure ye. Didn’t you ever hear I was a witch?” +</p> + +<p> +“Well,” hesitated Fancy, “I have heard you called so.” +</p> + +<p> +“And you believed it?” +</p> + +<p> +“I can’t say that I did exactly believe it, for ’tis very horrible and wicked; +but, O, how I do wish it was possible for you to be one!” +</p> + +<p> +“So I am. And I’ll tell you how to bewitch your father to let you marry Dick +Dewy.” +</p> + +<p> +“Will it hurt him, poor thing?” +</p> + +<p> +“Hurt who?” +</p> + +<p> +“Father.” +</p> + +<p> +“No; the charm is worked by common sense, and the spell can only be broke by +your acting stupidly.” +</p> + +<p> +Fancy looked rather perplexed, and Elizabeth went on: +</p> + +<p class="poem"> +“This fear of Lizz—whatever ’tis—<br/> + By great and small;<br/> +She makes pretence to common sense,<br/> + And that’s all. +</p> + +<p class="noindent"> +“You must do it like this.” The witch laid down her knife and potato, and then +poured into Fancy’s ear a long and detailed list of directions, glancing up +from the corner of her eye into Fancy’s face with an expression of sinister +humour. Fancy’s face brightened, clouded, rose and sank, as the narrative +proceeded. “There,” said Elizabeth at length, stooping for the knife and +another potato, “do that, and you’ll have him by-long and by-late, my dear.” +</p> + +<p> +“And do it I will!” said Fancy. +</p> + +<p> +She then turned her attention to the external world once more. The rain +continued as usual, but the wind had abated considerably during the discourse. +Judging that it was now possible to keep an umbrella erect, she pulled her hood +again over her bonnet, bade the witch good-bye, and went her way. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap25"></a>CHAPTER IV.<br/> +THE SPELL</h2> + +<p> +Mrs. Endorfield’s advice was duly followed. +</p> + +<p> +“I be proper sorry that your daughter isn’t so well as she might be,” said a +Mellstock man to Geoffrey one morning. +</p> + +<p> +“But is there anything in it?” said Geoffrey uneasily, as he shifted his hat to +the right. “I can’t understand the report. She didn’t complain to me a bit when +I saw her.” +</p> + +<p> +“No appetite at all, they say.” +</p> + +<p> +Geoffrey crossed to Mellstock and called at the school that afternoon. Fancy +welcomed him as usual, and asked him to stay and take tea with her. +</p> + +<p> +“I be’n’t much for tea, this time o’ day,” he said, but stayed. +</p> + +<p> +During the meal he watched her narrowly. And to his great consternation +discovered the following unprecedented change in the healthy girl—that she cut +herself only a diaphanous slice of bread-and-butter, and, laying it on her +plate, passed the meal-time in breaking it into pieces, but eating no more than +about one-tenth of the slice. Geoffrey hoped she would say something about +Dick, and finish up by weeping, as she had done after the decision against him +a few days subsequent to the interview in the garden. But nothing was said, and +in due time Geoffrey departed again for Yalbury Wood. +</p> + +<p> +“’Tis to be hoped poor Miss Fancy will be able to keep on her school,” said +Geoffrey’s man Enoch to Geoffrey the following week, as they were shovelling up +ant-hills in the wood. +</p> + +<p> +Geoffrey stuck in the shovel, swept seven or eight ants from his sleeve, and +killed another that was prowling round his ear, then looked perpendicularly +into the earth as usual, waiting for Enoch to say more. “Well, why shouldn’t +she?” said the keeper at last. +</p> + +<p> +“The baker told me yesterday,” continued Enoch, shaking out another emmet that +had run merrily up his thigh, “that the bread he’ve left at that there +school-house this last month would starve any mouse in the three creations; +that ’twould so! And afterwards I had a pint o’ small down at Morrs’s, and +there I heard more.” +</p> + +<p> +“What might that ha’ been?” +</p> + +<p> +“That she used to have a pound o’ the best rolled butter a week, regular as +clockwork, from Dairyman Viney’s for herself, as well as just so much salted +for the helping girl, and the ’ooman she calls in; but now the same quantity +d’last her three weeks, and then ’tis thoughted she throws it away sour.” +</p> + +<p> +“Finish doing the emmets, and carry the bag home-along.” The keeper resumed his +gun, tucked it under his arm, and went on without whistling to the dogs, who +however followed, with a bearing meant to imply that they did not expect any +such attentions when their master was reflecting. +</p> + +<p> +On Saturday morning a note came from Fancy. He was not to trouble about sending +her the couple of rabbits, as was intended, because she feared she should not +want them. Later in the day Geoffrey went to Casterbridge and called upon the +butcher who served Fancy with fresh meat, which was put down to her father’s +account. +</p> + +<p> +“I’ve called to pay up our little bill, Neighbour Haylock, and you can gie me +the chiel’s account at the same time.” +</p> + +<p> +Mr. Haylock turned round three quarters of a circle in the midst of a heap of +joints, altered the expression of his face from meat to money, went into a +little office consisting only of a door and a window, looked very vigorously +into a book which possessed length but no breadth; and then, seizing a piece of +paper and scribbling thereupon, handed the bill. +</p> + +<p> +Probably it was the first time in the history of commercial transactions that +the quality of shortness in a butcher’s bill was a cause of tribulation to the +debtor. “Why, this isn’t all she’ve had in a whole month!” said Geoffrey. +</p> + +<p> +“Every mossel,” said the butcher—“(now, Dan, take that leg and shoulder to Mrs. +White’s, and this eleven pound here to Mr. Martin’s)—you’ve been treating her +to smaller joints lately, to my thinking, Mr. Day?” +</p> + +<p> +“Only two or three little scram rabbits this last week, as I am alive—I wish I +had!” +</p> + +<p> +“Well, my wife said to me—(Dan! not too much, not too much on that tray at a +time; better go twice)—my wife said to me as she posted up the books: she says, +‘Miss Day must have been affronted this summer during that hot muggy weather +that spolit so much for us; for depend upon’t,’ she says, ‘she’ve been trying +John Grimmett unknown to us: see her account else.’ ’Tis little, of course, at +the best of times, being only for one, but now ’tis next kin to nothing.” +</p> + +<p> +“I’ll inquire,” said Geoffrey despondingly. +</p> + +<p> +He returned by way of Mellstock, and called upon Fancy, in fulfilment of a +promise. It being Saturday, the children were enjoying a holiday, and on +entering the residence Fancy was nowhere to be seen. Nan, the charwoman, was +sweeping the kitchen. +</p> + +<p> +“Where’s my da’ter?” said the keeper. +</p> + +<p> +“Well, you see she was tired with the week’s teaching, and this morning she +said, ‘Nan, I sha’n’t get up till the evening.’ You see, Mr. Day, if people +don’t eat, they can’t work; and as she’ve gie’d up eating, she must gie up +working.” +</p> + +<p> +“Have ye carried up any dinner to her?” +</p> + +<p> +“No; she don’t want any. There, we all know that such things don’t come without +good reason—not that I wish to say anything about a broken heart, or anything +of the kind.” +</p> + +<p> +Geoffrey’s own heart felt inconveniently large just then. He went to the +staircase and ascended to his daughter’s door. +</p> + +<p> +“Fancy!” +</p> + +<p> +“Come in, father.” +</p> + +<p> +To see a person in bed from any cause whatever, on a fine afternoon, is +depressing enough; and here was his only child Fancy, not only in bed, but +looking very pale. Geoffrey was visibly disturbed. +</p> + +<p> +“Fancy, I didn’t expect to see thee here, chiel,” he said. “What’s the matter?” +</p> + +<p> +“I’m not well, father.” +</p> + +<p> +“How’s that?” +</p> + +<p> +“Because I think of things.” +</p> + +<p> +“What things can you have to think o’ so mortal much?” +</p> + +<p> +“You know, father.” +</p> + +<p> +“You think I’ve been cruel to thee in saying that that penniless Dick o’ thine +sha’n’t marry thee, I suppose?” +</p> + +<p> +No answer. +</p> + +<p> +“Well, you know, Fancy, I do it for the best, and he isn’t good enough for +thee. You know that well enough.” Here he again looked at her as she lay. +“Well, Fancy, I can’t let my only chiel die; and if you can’t live without en, +you must ha’ en, I suppose.” +</p> + +<p> +“O, I don’t want him like that; all against your will, and everything so +disobedient!” sighed the invalid. +</p> + +<p> +“No, no, ’tisn’t against my will. My wish is, now I d’see how ’tis hurten thee +to live without en, that he shall marry thee as soon as we’ve considered a +little. That’s my wish flat and plain, Fancy. There, never cry, my little maid! +You ought to ha’ cried afore; no need o’ crying now ’tis all over. Well, +howsoever, try to step over and see me and mother-law to-morrow, and ha’ a bit +of dinner wi’ us.” +</p> + +<p> +“And—Dick too?” +</p> + +<p> +“Ay, Dick too, ’far’s I know.” +</p> + +<p> +“And <i>when</i> do you think you’ll have considered, father, and he may marry +me?” she coaxed. +</p> + +<p> +“Well, there, say next Midsummer; that’s not a day too long to wait.” +</p> + +<p> +On leaving the school Geoffrey went to the tranter’s. Old William opened the +door. +</p> + +<p> +“Is your grandson Dick in ’ithin, William?” +</p> + +<p> +“No, not just now, Mr. Day. Though he’ve been at home a good deal lately.” +</p> + +<p> +“O, how’s that?” +</p> + +<p> +“What wi’ one thing, and what wi’ t’other, he’s all in a mope, as might be +said. Don’t seem the feller he used to. Ay, ’a will sit studding and thinking +as if ’a were going to turn chapel-member, and then do nothing but traypse and +wamble about. Used to be such a chatty boy, too, Dick did; and now ’a don’t +speak at all. But won’t ye step inside? Reuben will be home soon, ’a b’lieve.” +</p> + +<p> +“No, thank you, I can’t stay now. Will ye just ask Dick if he’ll do me the +kindness to step over to Yalbury to-morrow with my da’ter Fancy, if she’s well +enough? I don’t like her to come by herself, now she’s not so terrible topping +in health.” +</p> + +<p> +“So I’ve heard. Ay, sure, I’ll tell him without fail.” +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap26"></a>CHAPTER V.<br/> +AFTER GAINING HER POINT</h2> + +<p> +The visit to Geoffrey passed off as delightfully as a visit might have been +expected to pass off when it was the first day of smooth experience in a +hitherto obstructed love-course. And then came a series of several happy days, +of the same undisturbed serenity. Dick could court her when he chose; stay away +when he chose,—which was never; walk with her by winding streams and waterfalls +and autumn scenery till dews and twilight sent them home. And thus they drew +near the day of the Harvest Thanksgiving, which was also the time chosen for +opening the organ in Mellstock Church. +</p> + +<p> +It chanced that Dick on that very day was called away from Mellstock. A young +acquaintance had died of consumption at Charmley, a neighbouring village, on +the previous Monday, and Dick, in fulfilment of a long-standing promise, was to +assist in carrying him to the grave. When on Tuesday, Dick went towards the +school to acquaint Fancy with the fact, it is difficult to say whether his own +disappointment at being denied the sight of her triumphant <i>début</i> +as organist, was greater than his vexation that his pet should on this great +occasion be deprived of the pleasure of his presence. However, the intelligence +was communicated. She bore it as she best could, not without many expressions +of regret, and convictions that her performance would be nothing to her now. +</p> + +<p> +Just before eleven o’clock on Sunday he set out upon his sad errand. The +funeral was to be immediately after the morning service, and as there were four +good miles to walk, driving being inconvenient, it became necessary to start +comparatively early. Half an hour later would certainly have answered his +purpose quite as well, yet at the last moment nothing would content his ardent +mind but that he must go a mile out of his way in the direction of the school, +in the hope of getting a glimpse of his Love as she started for church. +</p> + +<p> +Striking, therefore, into the lane towards the school, instead of across the +ewelease direct to Charmley, he arrived opposite her door as his goddess +emerged. +</p> + +<p> +If ever a woman looked a divinity, Fancy Day appeared one that morning as she +floated down those school steps, in the form of a nebulous collection of +colours inclining to blue. With an audacity unparalleled in the whole history +of village-school-mistresses at this date—partly owing, no doubt, to papa’s +respectable accumulation of cash, which rendered her profession not altogether +one of necessity—she had actually donned a hat and feather, and lowered her +hitherto plainly looped-up hair, which now fell about her shoulders in a +profusion of curls. Poor Dick was astonished: he had never seen her look so +distractingly beautiful before, save on Christmas-eve, when her hair was in the +same luxuriant condition of freedom. But his first burst of delighted surprise +was followed by less comfortable feelings, as soon as his brain recovered its +power to think. +</p> + +<p> +Fancy had blushed;—was it with confusion? She had also involuntarily pressed +back her curls. She had not expected him. +</p> + +<p> +“Fancy, you didn’t know me for a moment in my funeral clothes, did you?” +</p> + +<p> +“Good-morning, Dick—no, really, I didn’t know you for an instant in such a sad +suit.” +</p> + +<p> +He looked again at the gay tresses and hat. “You’ve never dressed so charming +before, dearest.” +</p> + +<p> +“I like to hear you praise me in that way, Dick,” she said, smiling archly. “It +is meat and drink to a woman. Do I look nice really?” +</p> + +<p> +“Fie! you know it. Did you remember,—I mean didn’t you remember about my going +away to-day?” +</p> + +<p> +“Well, yes, I did, Dick; but, you know, I wanted to look well;—forgive me.” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, darling; yes, of course,—there’s nothing to forgive. No, I was only +thinking that when we talked on Tuesday and Wednesday and Thursday and Friday +about my absence to-day, and I was so sorry for it, you said, Fancy, so were +you sorry, and almost cried, and said it would be no pleasure to you to be the +attraction of the church to-day, since I could not be there.” +</p> + +<p> +“My dear one, neither will it be so much pleasure to me . . . But I do take a +little delight in my life, I suppose,” she pouted. +</p> + +<p> +“Apart from mine?” +</p> + +<p> +She looked at him with perplexed eyes. “I know you are vexed with me, Dick, and +it is because the first Sunday I have curls and a hat and feather since I have +been here happens to be the very day you are away and won’t be with me. Yes, +say it is, for that is it! And you think that all this week I ought to have +remembered you wouldn’t be here to-day, and not have cared to be better dressed +than usual. Yes, you do, Dick, and it is rather unkind!” +</p> + +<p> +“No, no,” said Dick earnestly and simply, “I didn’t think so badly of you as +that. I only thought that—if <i>you</i> had been going away, I shouldn’t have +tried new attractions for the eyes of other people. But then of course you and +I are different, naturally.” +</p> + +<p> +“Well, perhaps we are.” +</p> + +<p> +“Whatever will the vicar say, Fancy?” +</p> + +<p> +“I don’t fear what he says in the least!” she answered proudly. “But he won’t +say anything of the sort you think. No, no.” +</p> + +<p> +“He can hardly have conscience to, indeed.” +</p> + +<p> +“Now come, you say, Dick, that you quite forgive me, for I must go,” she said +with sudden gaiety, and skipped backwards into the porch. “Come here, sir;—say +you forgive me, and then you shall kiss me;—you never have yet when I have worn +curls, you know. Yes, just where you want to so much,—yes, you may!” +</p> + +<p> +Dick followed her into the inner corner, where he was probably not slow in +availing himself of the privilege offered. +</p> + +<p> +“Now that’s a treat for you, isn’t it?” she continued. “Good-bye, or I shall be +late. Come and see me to-morrow: you’ll be tired to-night.” +</p> + +<p> +Thus they parted, and Fancy proceeded to the church. The organ stood on one +side of the chancel, close to and under the immediate eye of the vicar when he +was in the pulpit, and also in full view of the congregation. Here she sat +down, for the first time in such a conspicuous position, her seat having +previously been in a remote spot in the aisle. +</p> + +<p> +“Good heavens—disgraceful! Curls and a hat and feather!” said the daughters of +the small gentry, who had either only curly hair without a hat and feather, or +a hat and feather without curly hair. “A bonnet for church always,” said sober +matrons. +</p> + +<p> +That Mr. Maybold was conscious of her presence close beside him during the +sermon; that he was not at all angry at her development of costume; that he +admired her, she perceived. But she did not see that he loved her during that +sermon-time as he had never loved a woman before; that her proximity was a +strange delight to him; and that he gloried in her musical success that morning +in a spirit quite beyond a mere cleric’s glory at the inauguration of a new +order of things. +</p> + +<p> +The old choir, with humbled hearts, no longer took their seats in the gallery +as heretofore (which was now given up to the school-children who were not +singers, and a pupil-teacher), but were scattered about with their wives in +different parts of the church. Having nothing to do with conducting the service +for almost the first time in their lives, they all felt awkward, out of place, +abashed, and inconvenienced by their hands. The tranter had proposed that they +should stay away to-day and go nutting, but grandfather William would not hear +of such a thing for a moment. “No,” he replied reproachfully, and quoted a +verse: “Though this has come upon us, let not our hearts be turned back, or our +steps go out of the way.” +</p> + +<p> +So they stood and watched the curls of hair trailing down the back of the +successful rival, and the waving of her feather, as she swayed her head. After +a few timid notes and uncertain touches her playing became markedly correct, +and towards the end full and free. But, whether from prejudice or unbiassed +judgment, the venerable body of musicians could not help thinking that the +simpler notes they had been wont to bring forth were more in keeping with the +simplicity of their old church than the crowded chords and interludes it was +her pleasure to produce. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap27"></a>CHAPTER VI.<br/> +INTO TEMPTATION</h2> + +<p> +The day was done, and Fancy was again in the school-house. About five o’clock +it began to rain, and in rather a dull frame of mind she wandered into the +schoolroom, for want of something better to do. She was thinking—of her lover +Dick Dewy? Not precisely. Of how weary she was of living alone: how unbearable +it would be to return to Yalbury under the rule of her strange-tempered +step-mother; that it was far better to be married to anybody than do that; that +eight or nine long months had yet to be lived through ere the wedding could +take place. +</p> + +<p> +At the side of the room were high windows of Ham-hill stone, upon either sill +of which she could sit by first mounting a desk and using it as a footstool. As +the evening advanced here she perched herself, as was her custom on such wet +and gloomy occasions, put on a light shawl and bonnet, opened the window, and +looked out at the rain. +</p> + +<p> +The window overlooked a field called the Grove, and it was the position from +which she used to survey the crown of Dick’s passing hat in the early days of +their acquaintance and meetings. Not a living soul was now visible anywhere; +the rain kept all people indoors who were not forced abroad by necessity, and +necessity was less importunate on Sundays than during the week. +</p> + +<p> +Sitting here and thinking again—of her lover, or of the sensation she had +created at church that day?—well, it is unknown—thinking and thinking she saw a +dark masculine figure arising into distinctness at the further end of the +Grove—a man without an umbrella. Nearer and nearer he came, and she perceived +that he was in deep mourning, and then that it was Dick. Yes, in the fondness +and foolishness of his young heart, after walking four miles, in a drizzling +rain without overcoat or umbrella, and in face of a remark from his love that +he was not to come because he would be tired, he had made it his business to +wander this mile out of his way again, from sheer wish of spending ten minutes +in her presence. +</p> + +<p> +“O Dick, how wet you are!” she said, as he drew up under the window. “Why, your +coat shines as if it had been varnished, and your hat—my goodness, there’s a +streaming hat!” +</p> + +<p> +“O, I don’t mind, darling!” said Dick cheerfully. “Wet never hurts me, though I +am rather sorry for my best clothes. However, it couldn’t be helped; we lent +all the umbrellas to the women. I don’t know when I shall get mine back!” +</p> + +<p> +“And look, there’s a nasty patch of something just on your shoulder.” +</p> + +<p> +“Ah, that’s japanning; it rubbed off the clamps of poor Jack’s coffin when we +lowered him from our shoulders upon the bier! I don’t care about that, for +’twas the last deed I could do for him; and ’tis hard if you can’t afford a +coat for an old friend.” +</p> + +<p> +Fancy put her hand to her mouth for half a minute. Underneath the palm of that +little hand there existed for that half-minute a little yawn. +</p> + +<p> +“Dick, I don’t like you to stand there in the wet. And you mustn’t sit down. Go +home and change your things. Don’t stay another minute.” +</p> + +<p> +“One kiss after coming so far,” he pleaded. +</p> + +<p> +“If I can reach, then.” +</p> + +<p> +He looked rather disappointed at not being invited round to the door. She +twisted from her seated position and bent herself downwards, but not even by +standing on the plinth was it possible for Dick to get his lips into contact +with hers as she held them. By great exertion she might have reached a little +lower; but then she would have exposed her head to the rain. +</p> + +<p> +“Never mind, Dick; kiss my hand,” she said, flinging it down to him. “Now, +good-bye.” +</p> + +<p> +“Good-bye.” +</p> + +<p> +He walked slowly away, turning and turning again to look at her till he was out +of sight. During the retreat she said to herself, almost involuntarily, and +still conscious of that morning’s triumph—“I like Dick, and I love him; but how +plain and sorry a man looks in the rain, with no umbrella, and wet through!” +</p> + +<p> +As he vanished, she made as if to descend from her seat; but glancing in the +other direction she saw another form coming along the same track. It was also +that of a man. He, too, was in black from top to toe; but he carried an +umbrella. +</p> + +<p> +He drew nearer, and the direction of the rain caused him so to slant his +umbrella that from her height above the ground his head was invisible, as she +was also to him. He passed in due time directly beneath her, and in looking +down upon the exterior of his umbrella her feminine eyes perceived it to be of +superior silk—less common at that date than since—and of elegant make. He +reached the entrance to the building, and Fancy suddenly lost sight of him. +Instead of pursuing the roadway as Dick had done he had turned sharply round +into her own porch. +</p> + +<p> +She jumped to the floor, hastily flung off her shawl and bonnet, smoothed and +patted her hair till the curls hung in passable condition, and listened. No +knock. Nearly a minute passed, and still there was no knock. Then there arose a +soft series of raps, no louder than the tapping of a distant woodpecker, and +barely distinct enough to reach her ears. She composed herself and flung open +the door. +</p> + +<p> +In the porch stood Mr. Maybold. +</p> + +<p> +There was a warm flush upon his face, and a bright flash in his eyes, which +made him look handsomer than she had ever seen him before. +</p> + +<p> +“Good-evening, Miss Day.” +</p> + +<p> +“Good-evening, Mr. Maybold,” she said, in a strange state of mind. She had +noticed, beyond the ardent hue of his face, that his voice had a singular +tremor in it, and that his hand shook like an aspen leaf when he laid his +umbrella in the corner of the porch. Without another word being spoken by +either, he came into the schoolroom, shut the door, and moved close to her. +Once inside, the expression of his face was no more discernible, by reason of +the increasing dusk of evening. +</p> + +<p> +“I want to speak to you,” he then said; “seriously—on a perhaps unexpected +subject, but one which is all the world to me—I don’t know what it may be to +you, Miss Day.” +</p> + +<p> +No reply. +</p> + +<p> +“Fancy, I have come to ask you if you will be my wife?” +</p> + +<p> +As a person who has been idly amusing himself with rolling a snowball might +start at finding he had set in motion an avalanche, so did Fancy start at these +words from the vicar. And in the dead silence which followed them, the +breathings of the man and of the woman could be distinctly and separately +heard; and there was this difference between them—his respirations gradually +grew quieter and less rapid after the enunciation, hers, from having been low +and regular, increased in quickness and force, till she almost panted. +</p> + +<p> +“I cannot, I cannot, Mr. Maybold—I cannot! Don’t ask me!” she said. +</p> + +<p> +“Don’t answer in a hurry!” he entreated. “And do listen to me. This is no +sudden feeling on my part. I have loved you for more than six months! Perhaps +my late interest in teaching the children here has not been so single-minded as +it seemed. You will understand my motive—like me better, perhaps, for honestly +telling you that I have struggled against my emotion continually, because I +have thought that it was not well for me to love you! But I resolved to +struggle no longer; I have examined the feeling; and the love I bear you is as +genuine as that I could bear any woman! I see your great charm; I respect your +natural talents, and the refinement they have brought into your nature—they are +quite enough, and more than enough for me! They are equal to anything ever +required of the mistress of a quiet parsonage-house—the place in which I shall +pass my days, wherever it may be situated. O Fancy, I have watched you, +criticized you even severely, brought my feelings to the light of judgment, and +still have found them rational, and such as any man might have expected to be +inspired with by a woman like you! So there is nothing hurried, secret, or +untoward in my desire to do this. Fancy, will you marry me?” +</p> + +<p> +No answer was returned. +</p> + +<p> +“Don’t refuse; don’t,” he implored. “It would be foolish of you—I mean cruel! +Of course we would not live here, Fancy. I have had for a long time the offer +of an exchange of livings with a friend in Yorkshire, but I have hitherto +refused on account of my mother. There we would go. Your musical powers shall +be still further developed; you shall have whatever pianoforte you like; you +shall have anything, Fancy, anything to make you happy—pony-carriage, flowers, +birds, pleasant society; yes, you have enough in you for any society, after a +few months of travel with me! Will you, Fancy, marry me?” +</p> + +<p> +Another pause ensued, varied only by the surging of the rain against the +window-panes, and then Fancy spoke, in a faint and broken voice. +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, I will,” she said. +</p> + +<p> +“God bless you, my own!” He advanced quickly, and put his arm out to embrace +her. She drew back hastily. “No no, not now!” she said in an agitated whisper. +“There are things;—but the temptation is, O, too strong, and I can’t resist it; +I can’t tell you now, but I must tell you! Don’t, please, don’t come near me +now! I want to think, I can scarcely get myself used to the idea of what I have +promised yet.” The next minute she turned to a desk, buried her face in her +hands, and burst into a hysterical fit of weeping. “O, leave me to myself!” she +sobbed; “leave me! O, leave me!” +</p> + +<p> +“Don’t be distressed; don’t, dearest!” It was with visible difficulty that he +restrained himself from approaching her. “You shall tell me at your leisure +what it is that grieves you so; I am happy—beyond all measure happy!—at having +your simple promise.” +</p> + +<p> +“And do go and leave me now!” +</p> + +<p> +“But I must not, in justice to you, leave for a minute, until you are yourself +again.” +</p> + +<p> +“There then,” she said, controlling her emotion, and standing up; “I am not +disturbed now.” +</p> + +<p> +He reluctantly moved towards the door. “Good-bye!” he murmured tenderly. “I’ll +come to-morrow about this time.” +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap28"></a>CHAPTER VII.<br/> +SECOND THOUGHTS</h2> + +<p> +The next morning the vicar rose early. The first thing he did was to write a +long and careful letter to his friend in Yorkshire. Then, eating a little +breakfast, he crossed the meadows in the direction of Casterbridge, bearing his +letter in his pocket, that he might post it at the town office, and obviate the +loss of one day in its transmission that would have resulted had he left it for +the foot-post through the village. +</p> + +<p> +It was a foggy morning, and the trees shed in noisy water-drops the moisture +they had collected from the thick air, an acorn occasionally falling from its +cup to the ground, in company with the drippings. In the meads, sheets of +spiders’-web, almost opaque with wet, hung in folds over the fences, and the +falling leaves appeared in every variety of brown, green, and yellow hue. +</p> + +<p> +A low and merry whistling was heard on the highway he was approaching, then the +light footsteps of a man going in the same direction as himself. On reaching +the junction of his path with the road, the vicar beheld Dick Dewy’s open and +cheerful face. Dick lifted his hat, and the vicar came out into the highway +that Dick was pursuing. +</p> + +<p> +“Good-morning, Dewy. How well you are looking!” said Mr. Maybold. +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, sir, I am well—quite well! I am going to Casterbridge now, to get Smart’s +collar; we left it there Saturday to be repaired.” +</p> + +<p> +“I am going to Casterbridge, so we’ll walk together,” the vicar said. Dick gave +a hop with one foot to put himself in step with Mr. Maybold, who proceeded: “I +fancy I didn’t see you at church yesterday, Dewy. Or were you behind the pier?” +</p> + +<p> +“No; I went to Charmley. Poor John Dunford chose me to be one of his bearers a +long time before he died, and yesterday was the funeral. Of course I couldn’t +refuse, though I should have liked particularly to have been at home as ’twas +the day of the new music.” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, you should have been. The musical portion of the service was +successful—very successful indeed; and what is more to the purpose, no +ill-feeling whatever was evinced by any of the members of the old choir. They +joined in the singing with the greatest good-will.” +</p> + +<p> +“’Twas natural enough that I should want to be there, I suppose,” said Dick, +smiling a private smile; “considering who the organ-player was.” +</p> + +<p> +At this the vicar reddened a little, and said, “Yes, yes,” though not at all +comprehending Dick’s true meaning, who, as he received no further reply, +continued hesitatingly, and with another smile denoting his pride as a lover— +</p> + +<p> +“I suppose you know what I mean, sir? You’ve heard about me and—Miss Day?” +</p> + +<p> +The red in Maybold’s countenance went away: he turned and looked Dick in the +face. +</p> + +<p> +“No,” he said constrainedly, “I’ve heard nothing whatever about you and Miss +Day.” +</p> + +<p> +“Why, she’s my sweetheart, and we are going to be married next Midsummer. We +are keeping it rather close just at present, because ’tis a good many months to +wait; but it is her father’s wish that we don’t marry before, and of course we +must submit. But the time ’ill soon slip along.” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, the time will soon slip along—Time glides away every day—yes.” +</p> + +<p> +Maybold said these words, but he had no idea of what they were. He was +conscious of a cold and sickly thrill throughout him; and all he reasoned was +this that the young creature whose graces had intoxicated him into making the +most imprudent resolution of his life, was less an angel than a woman. +</p> + +<p> +“You see, sir,” continued the ingenuous Dick, “’twill be better in one sense. I +shall by that time be the regular manager of a branch o’ father’s business, +which has very much increased lately, and business, which we think of starting +elsewhere. It has very much increased lately, and we expect next year to keep +a’ extra couple of horses. We’ve already our eye on one—brown as a berry, neck +like a rainbow, fifteen hands, and not a gray hair in her—offered us at +twenty-five want a crown. And to kip pace with the times I have had some cards +prented and I beg leave to hand you one, sir.” +</p> + +<p> +“Certainly,” said the vicar, mechanically taking the card that Dick offered +him. +</p> + +<p> +“I turn in here by Grey’s Bridge,” said Dick. “I suppose you go straight on and +up town?” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes.” +</p> + +<p> +“Good-morning, sir.” +</p> + +<p> +“Good-morning, Dewy.” +</p> + +<p> +Maybold stood still upon the bridge, holding the card as it had been put into +his hand, and Dick’s footsteps died away towards Durnover Mill. The vicar’s +first voluntary action was to read the card:— +</p> + +<p class="center"> +DEWY AND SON,<br/> +TRANTERS AND HAULIERS,<br/> +MELLSTOCK.<br/> +<i>NB.—Furniture, Coals, Potatoes, Live and Dead Stock, removed to any distance on +the shortest notice.</i> +</p> + +<p> +Mr. Maybold leant over the parapet of the bridge and looked into the river. He +saw—without heeding—how the water came rapidly from beneath the arches, glided +down a little steep, then spread itself over a pool in which dace, trout, and +minnows sported at ease among the long green locks of weed that lay heaving and +sinking with their roots towards the current. At the end of ten minutes spent +leaning thus, he drew from his pocket the letter to his friend, tore it +deliberately into such minute fragments that scarcely two syllables remained in +juxtaposition, and sent the whole handful of shreds fluttering into the water. +Here he watched them eddy, dart, and turn, as they were carried downwards +towards the ocean and gradually disappeared from his view. Finally he moved +off, and pursued his way at a rapid pace back again to Mellstock Vicarage. +</p> + +<p> +Nerving himself by a long and intense effort, he sat down in his study and +wrote as follows: +</p> + +<div class="letter"> +<p> +“Dear Miss Day,—The meaning of your words, ‘the temptation is too strong,’ of +your sadness and your tears, has been brought home to me by an accident. I know +to-day what I did not know yesterday—that you are not a free woman. +</p> + +<p> +“Why did you not tell me—why didn’t you? Did you suppose I knew? No. Had I +known, my conduct in coming to you as I did would have been reprehensible. +</p> + +<p> +“But I don’t chide you! Perhaps no blame attaches to you—I can’t tell. Fancy, +though my opinion of you is assailed and disturbed in a way which cannot be +expressed, I love you still, and my word to you holds good yet. But will you, +in justice to an honest man who relies upon your word to him, consider whether, +under the circumstances, you can honourably forsake him? +</p> +</div> + +<p class="right"> +“Yours ever sincerely, <br/> +A<small>RTHUR</small> M<small>AYBOLD</small>.” +</p> + +<p> +He rang the bell. “Tell Charles to take these copybooks and this note to the +school at once.” +</p> + +<p> +The maid took the parcel and the letter, and in a few minutes a boy was seen to +leave the vicarage gate, with the one under his arm, and the other in his hand. +The vicar sat with his hand to his brow, watching the lad as he descended +Church Lane and entered the waterside path which intervened between that spot +and the school. +</p> + +<p> +Here he was met by another boy, and after a free salutation and pugilistic +frisk had passed between the two, the second boy came on his way to the +vicarage, and the other vanished out of sight. +</p> + +<p> +The boy came to the door, and a note for Mr. Maybold was brought in. +</p> + +<p> +He knew the writing. Opening the envelope with an unsteady hand, he read the +subjoined words: +</p> + +<div class="letter"> +<p> +“Dear Mr. Maybold,—I have been thinking seriously and sadly through the whole +of the night of the question you put to me last evening and of my answer. That +answer, as an honest woman, I had no right to give. +</p> + +<p> +“It is my nature—perhaps all women’s—to love refinement of mind and manners; +but even more than this, to be ever fascinated with the idea of surroundings +more elegant and pleasing than those which have been customary. And you praised +me, and praise is life to me. It was alone my sensations at these things which +prompted my reply. Ambition and vanity they would be called; perhaps they are +so. +</p> + +<p> +“After this explanation I hope you will generously allow me to withdraw the +answer I too hastily gave. +</p> + +<p> +“And one more request. To keep the meeting of last night, and all that passed +between us there, for ever a secret. Were it to become known, it would utterly +blight the happiness of a trusting and generous man, whom I love still, and +shall love always. +</p> +</div> + +<p class="right"> +“Yours sincerely, <br/> +F<small>ANCY</small> D<small>AY</small>. +</p> + +<p> +The last written communication that ever passed from the vicar to Fancy, was a +note containing these words only: +</p> + +<p class="letter"> +“Tell him everything; it is best. He will forgive you.” +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="part05"></a>PART THE FIFTH: CONCLUSION</h2> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap29"></a>CHAPTER I.<br/> +‘THE KNOT THERE’S NO UNTYING’</h2> + +<p> +The last day of the story is dated just subsequent to that point in the +development of the seasons when country people go to bed among nearly naked +trees, are lulled to sleep by a fall of rain, and awake next morning among +green ones; when the landscape appears embarrassed with the sudden weight and +brilliancy of its leaves; when the night-jar comes and strikes up for the +summer his tune of one note; when the apple-trees have bloomed, and the roads +and orchard-grass become spotted with fallen petals; when the faces of the +delicate flowers are darkened, and their heads weighed down, by the throng of +honey-bees, which increase their humming till humming is too mild a term for +the all-pervading sound; and when cuckoos, blackbirds, and sparrows, that have +hitherto been merry and respectful neighbours, become noisy and persistent +intimates. +</p> + +<p> +The exterior of Geoffrey Day’s house in Yalbury Wood appeared exactly as was +usual at that season, but a frantic barking of the dogs at the back told of +unwonted movements somewhere within. Inside the door the eyes beheld a +gathering, which was a rarity indeed for the dwelling of the solitary +wood-steward and keeper. +</p> + +<p> +About the room were sitting and standing, in various gnarled attitudes, our old +acquaintance, grandfathers James and William, the tranter, Mr. Penny, two or +three children, including Jimmy and Charley, besides three or four country +ladies and gentlemen from a greater distance who do not require any distinction +by name. Geoffrey was seen and heard stamping about the outhouse and among the +bushes of the garden, attending to details of daily routine before the proper +time arrived for their performance, in order that they might be off his hands +for the day. He appeared with his shirt-sleeves rolled up; his best new nether +garments, in which he had arrayed himself that morning, being temporarily +disguised under a weekday apron whilst these proceedings were in operation. He +occasionally glanced at the hives in passing, to see if his wife’s bees were +swarming, ultimately rolling down his shirt-sleeves and going indoors, talking +to tranter Dewy whilst buttoning the wristbands, to save time; next going +upstairs for his best waistcoat, and coming down again to make another remark +whilst buttoning that, during the time looking fixedly in the tranter’s face as +if he were a looking-glass. +</p> + +<p> +The furniture had undergone attenuation to an alarming extent, every duplicate +piece having been removed, including the clock by Thomas Wood; Ezekiel Saunders +being at last left sole referee in matters of time. +</p> + +<p> +Fancy was stationary upstairs, receiving her layers of clothes and adornments, +and answering by short fragments of laughter which had more fidgetiness than +mirth in them, remarks that were made from time to time by Mrs. Dewy and Mrs. +Penny, who were assisting her at the toilet, Mrs. Day having pleaded a +queerness in her head as a reason for shutting herself up in an inner bedroom +for the whole morning. Mrs. Penny appeared with nine corkscrew curls on each +side of her temples, and a back comb stuck upon her crown like a castle on a +steep. +</p> + +<p> +The conversation just now going on was concerning the banns, the last +publication of which had been on the Sunday previous. +</p> + +<p> +“And how did they sound?” Fancy subtly inquired. +</p> + +<p> +“Very beautiful indeed,” said Mrs. Penny. “I never heard any sound better.” +</p> + +<p> +“But <i>how</i>?” +</p> + +<p> +<i>“</i>O, <i>so</i> natural and elegant, didn’t they, Reuben!” she cried, +through the chinks of the unceiled floor, to the tranter downstairs. +</p> + +<p> +“What’s that?” said the tranter, looking up inquiringly at the floor above him +for an answer. +</p> + +<p> +“Didn’t Dick and Fancy sound well when they were called home in church last +Sunday?” came downwards again in Mrs. Penny’s voice. +</p> + +<p> +“Ay, that they did, my sonnies!—especially the first time. There was a terrible +whispering piece of work in the congregation, wasn’t there, neighbour Penny?” +said the tranter, taking up the thread of conversation on his own account and, +in order to be heard in the room above, speaking very loud to Mr. Penny, who +sat at the distance of three feet from him, or rather less. +</p> + +<p> +“I never can mind seeing such a whispering as there was,” said Mr. Penny, also +loudly, to the room above. “And such sorrowful envy on the maidens’ faces; +really, I never did see such envy as there was!” +</p> + +<p> +Fancy’s lineaments varied in innumerable little flushes, and her heart +palpitated innumerable little tremors of pleasure. “But perhaps,” she said, +with assumed indifference, “it was only because no religion was going on just +then?” +</p> + +<p> +“O, no; nothing to do with that. ’Twas because of your high standing in the +parish. It was just as if they had one and all caught Dick kissing and coling +ye to death, wasn’t it, Mrs. Dewy?” +</p> + +<p> +“Ay; that ’twas.” +</p> + +<p> +“How people will talk about one’s doings!” Fancy exclaimed. +</p> + +<p> +“Well, if you make songs about yourself, my dear, you can’t blame other people +for singing ’em.” +</p> + +<p> +“Mercy me! how shall I go through it?” said the young lady again, but merely to +those in the bedroom, with a breathing of a kind between a sigh and a pant, +round shining eyes, and warm face. +</p> + +<p> +“O, you’ll get through it well enough, child,” said Mrs. Dewy placidly. “The +edge of the performance is took off at the calling home; and when once you get +up to the chancel end o’ the church, you feel as saucy as you please. I’m sure +I felt as brave as a sodger all through the deed—though of course I dropped my +face and looked modest, as was becoming to a maid. Mind you do that, Fancy.” +</p> + +<p> +“And I walked into the church as quiet as a lamb, I’m sure,” subjoined Mrs. +Penny. “There, you see Penny is such a little small man. But certainly, I was +flurried in the inside o’ me. Well, thinks I, ’tis to be, and here goes! And do +you do the same: say, ‘’Tis to be, and here goes!’” +</p> + +<p> +“Is there such wonderful virtue in ‘’Tis to be, and here goes!’” inquired +Fancy. +</p> + +<p> +“Wonderful! ’Twill carry a body through it all from wedding to churching, if +you only let it out with spirit enough.” +</p> + +<p> +“Very well, then,” said Fancy, blushing. “’Tis to be, and here goes!” +</p> + +<p> +“That’s a girl for a husband!” said Mrs. Dewy. +</p> + +<p> +“I do hope he’ll come in time!” continued the bride-elect, inventing a new +cause of affright, now that the other was demolished. +</p> + +<p> +“’Twould be a thousand pities if he didn’t come, now you be so brave,” said +Mrs. Penny. +</p> + +<p> +Grandfather James, having overheard some of these remarks, said downstairs with +mischievous loudness— +</p> + +<p> +“I’ve known some would-be weddings when the men didn’t come.” +</p> + +<p> +“They’ve happened not to come, before now, certainly,” said Mr. Penny, cleaning +one of the glasses of his spectacles. +</p> + +<p> +“O, do hear what they are saying downstairs,” whispered Fancy. “Hush, hush!” +</p> + +<p> +She listened. +</p> + +<p> +“They have, haven’t they, Geoffrey?” continued grandfather James, as Geoffrey +entered. +</p> + +<p> +“Have what?” said Geoffrey. +</p> + +<p> +“The men have been known not to come.” +</p> + +<p> +“That they have,” said the keeper. +</p> + +<p> +“Ay; I’ve knowed times when the wedding had to be put off through his not +appearing, being tired of the woman. And another case I knowed was when the man +was catched in a man-trap crossing Oaker’s Wood, and the three months had run +out before he got well, and the banns had to be published over again.” +</p> + +<p> +“How horrible!” said Fancy. +</p> + +<p> +“They only say it on purpose to tease ’ee, my dear,” said Mrs. Dewy. +</p> + +<p> +“’Tis quite sad to think what wretched shifts poor maids have been put to,” +came again from downstairs. “Ye should hear Clerk Wilkins, my brother-law, tell +his experiences in marrying couples these last thirty year: sometimes one +thing, sometimes another—’tis quite heart-rending—enough to make your hair +stand on end.” +</p> + +<p> +“Those things don’t happen very often, I know,” said Fancy, with smouldering +uneasiness. +</p> + +<p> +“Well, really ’tis time Dick was here,” said the tranter. +</p> + +<p> +“Don’t keep on at me so, grandfather James and Mr. Dewy, and all you down +there!” Fancy broke out, unable to endure any longer. “I am sure I shall die, +or do something, if you do!” +</p> + +<p> +“Never you hearken to these old chaps, Miss Day!” cried Nat Callcome, the best +man, who had just entered, and threw his voice upward through the chinks of the +floor as the others had done. “’Tis all right; Dick’s coming on like a wild +feller; he’ll be here in a minute. The hive o’ bees his mother gie’d en for his +new garden swarmed jist as he was starting, and he said, ‘I can’t afford to +lose a stock o’ bees; no, that I can’t, though I fain would; and Fancy wouldn’t +wish it on any account.’ So he jist stopped to ting to ’em and shake ’em.” +</p> + +<p> +“A genuine wise man,” said Geoffrey. +</p> + +<p> +“To be sure, what a day’s work we had yesterday!” Mr. Callcome continued, +lowering his voice as if it were not necessary any longer to include those in +the room above among his audience, and selecting a remote corner of his best +clean handkerchief for wiping his face. “To be sure!” +</p> + +<p> +“Things so heavy, I suppose,” said Geoffrey, as if reading through the +chimney-window from the far end of the vista. +</p> + +<p> +“Ay,” said Nat, looking round the room at points from which furniture had been +removed. “And so awkward to carry, too. ’Twas ath’art and across Dick’s garden; +in and out Dick’s door; up and down Dick’s stairs; round and round Dick’s +chammers till legs were worn to stumps: and Dick is so particular, too. And the +stores of victuals and drink that lad has laid in: why, ’tis enough for Noah’s +ark! I’m sure I never wish to see a choicer half-dozen of hams than he’s got +there in his chimley; and the cider I tasted was a very pretty drop, +indeed;—none could desire a prettier cider.” +</p> + +<p> +“They be for the love and the stalled ox both. Ah, the greedy martels!” said +grandfather James. +</p> + +<p> +“Well, may-be they be. Surely,” says I, “that couple between ’em have heaped up +so much furniture and victuals, that anybody would think they were going to +take hold the big end of married life first, and begin wi’ a grown-up family. +Ah, what a bath of heat we two chaps were in, to be sure, a-getting that +furniture in order!” +</p> + +<p> +“I do so wish the room below was ceiled,” said Fancy, as the dressing went on; +“we can hear all they say and do down there.” +</p> + +<p> +“Hark! Who’s that?” exclaimed a small pupil-teacher, who also assisted this +morning, to her great delight. She ran half-way down the stairs, and peeped +round the banister. “O, you should, you should, you should!” she exclaimed, +scrambling up to the room again. +</p> + +<p> +“What?” said Fancy. +</p> + +<p> +“See the bridesmaids! They’ve just a come! ’Tis wonderful, really! ’tis +wonderful how muslin can be brought to it. There, they don’t look a bit like +themselves, but like some very rich sisters o’ theirs that nobody knew they +had!” +</p> + +<p> +“Make ’em come up to me, make ’em come up!” cried Fancy ecstatically; and the +four damsels appointed, namely, Miss Susan Dewy, Miss Bessie Dewy, Miss Vashti +Sniff, and Miss Mercy Onmey, surged upstairs, and floated along the passage. +</p> + +<p> +“I wish Dick would come!” was again the burden of Fancy. +</p> + +<p> +The same instant a small twig and flower from the creeper outside the door flew +in at the open window, and a masculine voice said, “Ready, Fancy dearest?” +</p> + +<p> +“There he is, he is!” cried Fancy, tittering spasmodically, and breathing as it +were for the first time that morning. +</p> + +<p> +The bridesmaids crowded to the window and turned their heads in the direction +pointed out, at which motion eight earrings all swung as one:—not looking at +Dick because they particularly wanted to see him, but with an important sense +of their duty as obedient ministers of the will of that apotheosised being—the +Bride. +</p> + +<p> +“He looks very taking!” said Miss Vashti Sniff, a young lady who blushed +cream-colour and wore yellow bonnet ribbons. +</p> + +<p> +Dick was advancing to the door in a painfully new coat of shining cloth, +primrose-coloured waistcoat, hat of the same painful style of newness, and with +an extra quantity of whiskers shaved off his face, and hair cut to an unwonted +shortness in honour of the occasion. +</p> + +<p> +“Now, I’ll run down,” said Fancy, looking at herself over her shoulder in the +glass, and flitting off. +</p> + +<p> +“O Dick!” she exclaimed, “I am so glad you are come! I knew you would, of +course, but I thought, Oh if you shouldn’t!” +</p> + +<p> +“Not come, Fancy! Het or wet, blow or snow, here come I to-day! Why, what’s +possessing your little soul? You never used to mind such things a bit.” +</p> + +<p> +“Ah, Mr. Dick, I hadn’t hoisted my colours and committed myself then!” said +Fancy. +</p> + +<p> +“’Tis a pity I can’t marry the whole five of ye!” said Dick, surveying them all +round. +</p> + +<p> +“Heh-heh-heh!” laughed the four bridesmaids, and Fancy privately touched Dick +and smoothed him down behind his shoulder, as if to assure herself that he was +there in flesh and blood as her own property. +</p> + +<p> +“Well, whoever would have thought such a thing?” said Dick, taking off his hat, +sinking into a chair, and turning to the elder members of the company. +</p> + +<p> +The latter arranged their eyes and lips to signify that in their opinion nobody +could have thought such a thing, whatever it was. +</p> + +<p> +“That my bees should ha’ swarmed just then, of all times and seasons!” +continued Dick, throwing a comprehensive glance like a net over the whole +auditory. “And ’tis a fine swarm, too: I haven’t seen such a fine swarm for +these ten years.” +</p> + +<p> +“A’ excellent sign,” said Mrs. Penny, from the depths of experience. “A’ +excellent sign.” +</p> + +<p> +“I am glad everything seems so right,” said Fancy with a breath of relief. +</p> + +<p> +“And so am I,” said the four bridesmaids with much sympathy. +</p> + +<p> +“Well, bees can’t be put off,” observed the inharmonious grandfather James. +“Marrying a woman is a thing you can do at any moment; but a swarm o’ bees +won’t come for the asking.” +</p> + +<p> +Dick fanned himself with his hat. “I can’t think,” he said thoughtfully, +“whatever ’twas I did to offend Mr. Maybold, a man I like so much too. He +rather took to me when he came first, and used to say he should like to see me +married, and that he’d marry me, whether the young woman I chose lived in his +parish or no. I just hinted to him of it when I put in the banns, but he didn’t +seem to take kindly to the notion now, and so I said no more. I wonder how it +was.” +</p> + +<p> +“I wonder!” said Fancy, looking into vacancy with those beautiful eyes of +hers—too refined and beautiful for a tranter’s wife; but, perhaps, not too +good. +</p> + +<p> +“Altered his mind, as folks will, I suppose,” said the tranter. “Well, my +sonnies, there’ll be a good strong party looking at us to-day as we go along.” +</p> + +<p> +“And the body of the church,” said Geoffrey, “will be lined with females, and a +row of young fellers’ heads, as far down as the eyes, will be noticed just +above the sills of the chancel-winders.” +</p> + +<p> +“Ay, you’ve been through it twice,” said Reuben, “and well mid know.” +</p> + +<p> +“I can put up with it for once,” said Dick, “or twice either, or a dozen +times.” +</p> + +<p> +“O Dick!” said Fancy reproachfully. +</p> + +<p> +“Why, dear, that’s nothing,—only just a bit of a flourish. You be as nervous as +a cat to-day.” +</p> + +<p> +“And then, of course, when ’tis all over,” continued the tranter, “we shall +march two and two round the parish.” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, sure,” said Mr. Penny: “two and two: every man hitched up to his woman, +’a b’lieve.” +</p> + +<p> +“I never can make a show of myself in that way!” said Fancy, looking at Dick to +ascertain if he could. +</p> + +<p> +“I’m agreed to anything you and the company like, my dear!” said Mr. Richard +Dewy heartily. +</p> + +<p> +“Why, we did when we were married, didn’t we, Ann?” said the tranter; “and so +do everybody, my sonnies.” +</p> + +<p> +“And so did we,” said Fancy’s father. +</p> + +<p> +“And so did Penny and I,” said Mrs. Penny: “I wore my best Bath clogs, I +remember, and Penny was cross because it made me look so tall.” +</p> + +<p> +“And so did father and mother,” said Miss Mercy Onmey. +</p> + +<p> +“And I mean to, come next Christmas!” said Nat the groomsman vigorously, and +looking towards the person of Miss Vashti Sniff. +</p> + +<p> +“Respectable people don’t nowadays,” said Fancy. “Still, since poor mother did, +I will.” +</p> + +<p> +“Ay,” resumed the tranter, “’twas on a White Tuesday when I committed it. +Mellstock Club walked the same day, and we new-married folk went a-gaying round +the parish behind ’em. Everybody used to wear something white at Whitsuntide in +them days. My sonnies, I’ve got the very white trousers that I wore, at home in +box now. Ha’n’t I, Ann?” +</p> + +<p> +“You had till I cut ’em up for Jimmy,” said Mrs. Dewy. +</p> + +<p> +“And we ought, by rights, after doing this parish, to go round Higher and Lower +Mellstock, and call at Viney’s, and so work our way hither again across He’th,” +said Mr. Penny, recovering scent of the matter in hand. “Dairyman Viney is a +very respectable man, and so is Farmer Kex, and we ought to show ourselves to +them.” +</p> + +<p> +“True,” said the tranter, “we ought to go round Mellstock to do the thing well. +We shall form a very striking object walking along in rotation, good-now, +neighbours?” +</p> + +<p> +“That we shall: a proper pretty sight for the nation,” said Mrs. Penny. +</p> + +<p> +“Hullo!” said the tranter, suddenly catching sight of a singular human figure +standing in the doorway, and wearing a long smock-frock of pillow-case cut and +of snowy whiteness. “Why, Leaf! whatever dost thou do here?” +</p> + +<p> +“I’ve come to know if so be I can come to the wedding—hee-hee!” said Leaf in a +voice of timidity. +</p> + +<p> +“Now, Leaf,” said the tranter reproachfully, “you know we don’t want ’ee here +to-day: we’ve got no room for ye, Leaf.” +</p> + +<p> +“Thomas Leaf, Thomas Leaf, fie upon ye for prying!” said old William. +</p> + +<p> +“I know I’ve got no head, but I thought, if I washed and put on a clane shirt +and smock-frock, I might just call,” said Leaf, turning away disappointed and +trembling. +</p> + +<p> +“Poor feller!” said the tranter, turning to Geoffrey. “Suppose we must let en +come? His looks are rather against en, and he is terrible silly; but ’a have +never been in jail, and ’a won’t do no harm.” +</p> + +<p> +Leaf looked with gratitude at the tranter for these praises, and then anxiously +at Geoffrey, to see what effect they would have in helping his cause. +</p> + +<p> +“Ay, let en come,” said Geoffrey decisively. “Leaf, th’rt welcome, ’st know;” +and Leaf accordingly remained. +</p> + +<p> +They were now all ready for leaving the house, and began to form a procession +in the following order: Fancy and her father, Dick and Susan Dewy, Nat Callcome +and Vashti Sniff, Ted Waywood and Mercy Onmey, and Jimmy and Bessie Dewy. These +formed the executive, and all appeared in strict wedding attire. Then came the +tranter and Mrs. Dewy, and last of all Mr. and Mrs. Penny;—the tranter +conspicuous by his enormous gloves, size eleven and three-quarters, which +appeared at a distance like boxing gloves bleached, and sat rather awkwardly +upon his brown hands; this hall-mark of respectability having been set upon +himself to-day (by Fancy’s special request) for the first time in his life. +</p> + +<p> +“The proper way is for the bridesmaids to walk together,” suggested Fancy. +</p> + +<p> +“What? ’Twas always young man and young woman, arm in crook, in my time!” said +Geoffrey, astounded. +</p> + +<p> +“And in mine!” said the tranter. +</p> + +<p> +“And in ours!” said Mr. and Mrs. Penny. +</p> + +<p> +“Never heard o’ such a thing as woman and woman!” said old William; who, with +grandfather James and Mrs. Day, was to stay at home. +</p> + +<p> +“Whichever way you and the company like, my dear!” said Dick, who, being on the +point of securing his right to Fancy, seemed willing to renounce all other +rights in the world with the greatest pleasure. The decision was left to Fancy. +</p> + +<p> +“Well, I think I’d rather have it the way mother had it,” she said, and the +couples moved along under the trees, every man to his maid. +</p> + +<p> +“Ah!” said grandfather James to grandfather William as they retired, “I wonder +which she thinks most about, Dick or her wedding raiment!” +</p> + +<p> +“Well, ’tis their nature,” said grandfather William. “Remember the words of the +prophet Jeremiah: ‘Can a maid forget her ornaments, or a bride her attire?’” +</p> + +<p> +Now among dark perpendicular firs, like the shafted columns of a cathedral; now +through a hazel copse, matted with primroses and wild hyacinths; now under +broad beeches in bright young leaves they threaded their way into the high road +over Yalbury Hill, which dipped at that point directly into the village of +Geoffrey Day’s parish; and in the space of a quarter of an hour Fancy found +herself to be Mrs. Richard Dewy, though, much to her surprise, feeling no other +than Fancy Day still. +</p> + +<p> +On the circuitous return walk through the lanes and fields, amid much +chattering and laughter, especially when they came to stiles, Dick discerned a +brown spot far up a turnip field. +</p> + +<p> +“Why, ’tis Enoch!” he said to Fancy. “I thought I missed him at the house this +morning. How is it he’s left you?” +</p> + +<p> +“He drank too much cider, and it got into his head, and they put him in +Weatherbury stocks for it. Father was obliged to get somebody else for a day or +two, and Enoch hasn’t had anything to do with the woods since.” +</p> + +<p> +“We might ask him to call down to-night. Stocks are nothing for once, +considering ’tis our wedding day.” The bridal party was ordered to halt. +</p> + +<p> +“Eno-o-o-o-ch!” cried Dick at the top of his voice. +</p> + +<p> +“Y-a-a-a-a-a-as!” said Enoch from the distance. +</p> + +<p> +“D’ye know who I be-e-e-e-e-e?” +</p> + +<p> +“No-o-o-o-o-o-o!” +</p> + +<p> +“Dick Dew-w-w-w-wy!” +</p> + +<p> +“O-h-h-h-h-h!” +</p> + +<p> +“Just a-ma-a-a-a-a-arried!” +</p> + +<p> +“O-h-h-h-h-h!” +</p> + +<p> +“This is my wife, Fa-a-a-a-a-ancy!” (holding her up to Enoch’s view as if she +had been a nosegay.) +</p> + +<p> +“O-h-h-h-h-h!” +</p> + +<p> +“Will ye come across to the party to-ni-i-i-i-i-i-ight!” +</p> + +<p> +“Ca-a-a-a-a-an’t!” +</p> + +<p> +“Why n-o-o-o-o-ot?” +</p> + +<p> +“Don’t work for the family no-o-o-o-ow!” +</p> + +<p> +“Not nice of Master Enoch,” said Dick, as they resumed their walk. +</p> + +<p> +“You mustn’t blame en,” said Geoffrey; “the man’s not hisself now; he’s in his +morning frame of mind. When he’s had a gallon o’ cider or ale, or a pint or two +of mead, the man’s well enough, and his manners be as good as anybody’s in the +kingdom.” +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap30"></a>CHAPTER II.<br/> +UNDER THE GREENWOOD TREE</h2> + +<p> +The point in Yalbury Wood which abutted on the end of Geoffrey Day’s premises +was closed with an ancient tree, horizontally of enormous extent, though having +no great pretensions to height. Many hundreds of birds had been born amidst the +boughs of this single tree; tribes of rabbits and hares had nibbled at its bark +from year to year; quaint tufts of fungi had sprung from the cavities of its +forks; and countless families of moles and earthworms had crept about its +roots. Beneath and beyond its shade spread a carefully-tended grass-plot, its +purpose being to supply a healthy exercise-ground for young chickens and +pheasants; the hens, their mothers, being enclosed in coops placed upon the +same green flooring. +</p> + +<p> +All these encumbrances were now removed, and as the afternoon advanced, the +guests gathered on the spot, where music, dancing, and the singing of songs +went forward with great spirit throughout the evening. The propriety of every +one was intense by reason of the influence of Fancy, who, as an additional +precaution in this direction, had strictly charged her father and the tranter +to carefully avoid saying ‘thee’ and ‘thou’ in their conversation, on the plea +that those ancient words sounded so very humiliating to persons of newer taste; +also that they were never to be seen drawing the back of the hand across the +mouth after drinking—a local English custom of extraordinary antiquity, but +stated by Fancy to be decidedly dying out among the better classes of society. +</p> + +<p> +In addition to the local musicians present, a man who had a thorough knowledge +of the tambourine was invited from the village of Tantrum Clangley,—a place +long celebrated for the skill of its inhabitants as performers on instruments +of percussion. These important members of the assembly were relegated to a +height of two or three feet from the ground, upon a temporary erection of +planks supported by barrels. Whilst the dancing progressed the older persons +sat in a group under the trunk of the tree,—the space being allotted to them +somewhat grudgingly by the young ones, who were greedy of pirouetting room,—and +fortified by a table against the heels of the dancers. Here the gaffers and +gammers, whose dancing days were over, told stories of great impressiveness, +and at intervals surveyed the advancing and retiring couples from the same +retreat, as people on shore might be supposed to survey a naval engagement in +the bay beyond; returning again to their tales when the pause was over. Those +of the whirling throng, who, during the rests between each figure, turned their +eyes in the direction of these seated ones, were only able to discover, on +account of the music and bustle, that a very striking circumstance was in +course of narration—denoted by an emphatic sweep of the hand, snapping of the +fingers, close of the lips, and fixed look into the centre of the listener’s +eye for the space of a quarter of a minute, which raised in that listener such +a reciprocating working of face as to sometimes make the distant dancers half +wish to know what such an interesting tale could refer to. +</p> + +<p> +Fancy caused her looks to wear as much matronly expression as was obtainable +out of six hours’ experience as a wife, in order that the contrast between her +own state of life and that of the unmarried young women present might be duly +impressed upon the company: occasionally stealing glances of admiration at her +left hand, but this quite privately; for her ostensible bearing concerning the +matter was intended to show that, though she undoubtedly occupied the most +wondrous position in the eyes of the world that had ever been attained, she was +almost unconscious of the circumstance, and that the somewhat prominent +position in which that wonderfully-emblazoned left hand was continually found +to be placed, when handing cups and saucers, knives, forks, and glasses, was +quite the result of accident. As to wishing to excite envy in the bosoms of her +maiden companions, by the exhibition of the shining ring, every one was to know +it was quite foreign to the dignity of such an experienced married woman. +Dick’s imagination in the meantime was far less capable of drawing so much +wontedness from his new condition. He had been for two or three hours trying to +feel himself merely a newly-married man, but had been able to get no further in +the attempt than to realize that he was Dick Dewy, the tranter’s son, at a +party given by Lord Wessex’s head man-in-charge, on the outlying Yalbury +estate, dancing and chatting with Fancy Day. +</p> + +<p> +Five country dances, including ‘Haste to the Wedding,’ two reels, and three +fragments of horn-pipes, brought them to the time for supper, which, on account +of the dampness of the grass from the immaturity of the summer season, was +spread indoors. At the conclusion of the meal Dick went out to put the horse +in; and Fancy, with the elder half of the four bridesmaids, retired upstairs to +dress for the journey to Dick’s new cottage near Mellstock. +</p> + +<p> +“How long will you be putting on your bonnet, Fancy?” Dick inquired at the foot +of the staircase. Being now a man of business and married, he was strong on the +importance of time, and doubled the emphasis of his words in conversing, and +added vigour to his nods. +</p> + +<p> +“Only a minute.” +</p> + +<p> +“How long is that?” +</p> + +<p> +“Well, dear, five.” +</p> + +<p> +“Ah, sonnies!” said the tranter, as Dick retired, “’tis a talent of the female +race that low numbers should stand for high, more especially in matters of +waiting, matters of age, and matters of money.” +</p> + +<p> +“True, true, upon my body,” said Geoffrey. +</p> + +<p> +“Ye spak with feeling, Geoffrey, seemingly.” +</p> + +<p> +“Anybody that d’know my experience might guess that.” +</p> + +<p> +“What’s she doing now, Geoffrey?” +</p> + +<p> +“Claning out all the upstairs drawers and cupboards, and dusting the +second-best chainey—a thing that’s only done once a year. ‘If there’s work to +be done I must do it,’ says she, ‘wedding or no.’” +</p> + +<p> +“’Tis my belief she’s a very good woman at bottom.” +</p> + +<p> +“She’s terrible deep, then.” +</p> + +<p> +Mrs. Penny turned round. “Well, ’tis humps and hollers with the best of us; but +still and for all that, Dick and Fancy stand as fair a chance of having a bit +of sunsheen as any married pair in the land.” +</p> + +<p> +“Ay, there’s no gainsaying it.” +</p> + +<p> +Mrs. Dewy came up, talking to one person and looking at another. “Happy, yes,” +she said. “’Tis always so when a couple is so exactly in tune with one another +as Dick and she.” +</p> + +<p> +“When they be’n’t too poor to have time to sing,” said grandfather James. +</p> + +<p> +“I tell ye, neighbours, when the pinch comes,” said the tranter: “when the +oldest daughter’s boots be only a size less than her mother’s, and the rest o’ +the flock close behind her. A sharp time for a man that, my sonnies; a very +sharp time! Chanticleer’s comb is a-cut then, ’a believe.” +</p> + +<p> +“That’s about the form o’t,” said Mr. Penny. “That’ll put the stuns upon a man, +when you must measure mother and daughter’s lasts to tell ’em apart.” +</p> + +<p> +“You’ve no cause to complain, Reuben, of such a close-coming flock,” said Mrs. +Dewy; “for ours was a straggling lot enough, God knows!” +</p> + +<p> +“I d’know it, I d’know it,” said the tranter. “You be a well-enough woman, +Ann.” +</p> + +<p> +Mrs. Dewy put her mouth in the form of a smile, and put it back again without +smiling. +</p> + +<p> +“And if they come together, they go together,” said Mrs. Penny, whose family +had been the reverse of the tranter’s; “and a little money will make either +fate tolerable. And money can be made by our young couple, I know.” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, that it can!” said the impulsive voice of Leaf, who had hitherto humbly +admired the proceedings from a corner. “It can be done—all that’s wanted is a +few pounds to begin with. That’s all! I know a story about it!” +</p> + +<p> +“Let’s hear thy story, Leaf,” said the tranter. “I never knew you were clever +enough to tell a story. Silence, all of ye! Mr. Leaf will tell a story.” +</p> + +<p> +“Tell your story, Thomas Leaf,” said grandfather William in the tone of a +schoolmaster. +</p> + +<p> +“Once,” said the delighted Leaf, in an uncertain voice, “there was a man who +lived in a house! Well, this man went thinking and thinking night and day. At +last, he said to himself, as I might, ‘If I had only ten pound, I’d make a +fortune.’ At last by hook or by crook, behold he got the ten pounds!” +</p> + +<p> +“Only think of that!” said Nat Callcome satirically. +</p> + +<p> +“Silence!” said the tranter. +</p> + +<p> +“Well, now comes the interesting part of the story! In a little time he made +that ten pounds twenty. Then a little time after that he doubled it, and made +it forty. Well, he went on, and a good while after that he made it eighty, and +on to a hundred. Well, by-and-by he made it two hundred! Well, you’d never +believe it, but—he went on and made it four hundred! He went on, and what did +he do? Why, he made it eight hundred! Yes, he did,” continued Leaf, in the +highest pitch of excitement, bringing down his fist upon his knee with such +force that he quivered with the pain; “yes, and he went on and made it A +THOUSAND!” +</p> + +<p> +“Hear, hear!” said the tranter. “Better than the history of England, my +sonnies!” +</p> + +<p> +“Thank you for your story, Thomas Leaf,” said grandfather William; and then +Leaf gradually sank into nothingness again. +</p> + +<p class="p2"> +Amid a medley of laughter, old shoes, and elder-wine, Dick and his bride took +their departure, side by side in the excellent new spring-cart which the young +tranter now possessed. The moon was just over the full, rendering any light +from lamps or their own beauties quite unnecessary to the pair. They drove +slowly along Yalbury Bottom, where the road passed between two copses. Dick was +talking to his companion. +</p> + +<p> +“Fancy,” he said, “why we are so happy is because there is such full confidence +between us. Ever since that time you confessed to that little flirtation with +Shiner by the river (which was really no flirtation at all), I have thought how +artless and good you must be to tell me o’ such a trifling thing, and to be so +frightened about it as you were. It has won me to tell you my every deed and +word since then. We’ll have no secrets from each other, darling, will we +ever?—no secret at all.” +</p> + +<p> +“None from to-day,” said Fancy. “Hark! what’s that?” +</p> + +<p> +From a neighbouring thicket was suddenly heard to issue in a loud, musical, and +liquid voice— +</p> + +<p> +“Tippiwit! swe-e-et! ki-ki-ki! Come hither, come hither, come hither!” +</p> + +<p> +“O, ’tis the nightingale,” murmured she, and thought of a secret she would +never tell. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2>Footnotes:</h2> + +<p> +<a name="footnote1"></a><a href="#citation1">{1}</a> This, a local expression, +must be a corruption of something less questionable. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div style='display:block; margin-top:4em'>*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK UNDER THE GREENWOOD TREE ***</div> +<div style='text-align:left'> + +<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> +Updated editions will replace the previous one—the old editions will +be renamed. +</div> + +<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> +Creating the works from print editions not protected by U.S. copyright +law means that no one owns a United States copyright in these works, +so the Foundation (and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United +States without permission and without paying copyright +royalties. 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