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diff --git a/3047-h/3047-h.htm b/3047-h/3047-h.htm new file mode 100644 index 0000000..9094665 --- /dev/null +++ b/3047-h/3047-h.htm @@ -0,0 +1,11647 @@ +<!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 Life's Little Ironies, 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; } + +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; } + +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; } + +.smcap {font-variant: small-caps} + +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 Life’s Little Ironies, 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: Life’s Little Ironies<br /> + A set of tales with some colloquial sketches entitled A Few Crusted Characters</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: January, 2002 [eBook #3047]<br /> +[Most recently updated: October 3, 2021]</div> +<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'>Language: English</div> +<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'>Character set encoding: UTF-8</div> +<div style='display:block; margin-left:2em; text-indent:-2em'>Produced by: David Price</div> +<div style='margin-top:2em; margin-bottom:4em'>*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK LIFE’S LITTLE IRONIES ***</div> + +<h1>Life’s Little Ironies</h1> + +<h3><span class="smcap">a set of tales</span><br/> +<span class="smcap">with some colloquial sketches</span><br/> +<span class="smcap">entitled</span><br/> +A FEW CRUSTED CHARACTERS</h3> + +<h2 class="no-break">by Thomas Hardy</h2> + +<p class="center"> +<span class="smcap">with a map of wessex</span> +</p> + +<p class="center"> +MACMILLAN AND CO., LIMITED<br/> +ST. MARTIN’S STREET, LONDON<br/> +1920 +</p> + +<p class="center"> +COPYRIGHT +</p> + +<p class="center"> +<i>First Collected Edition</i> 1894. <i>New Edition and reprints</i> +1896-1900<br/> +<i>First published by Macmillan & Co.</i>, <i>Crown</i> 8<i>ov</i>, 1903. +<i>Reprinted</i> 1910, 1915<br/> +<i>Pockets Edition</i> 1907, 1910, 1913, 1916, 1919 (<i>twice</i>), 1920<br/> +<i>Wessex Edition</i> 1912 +</p> + +<hr /> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2>Contents</h2> + +<table summary="" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto"> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap01">The Son’s Veto</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap02">For Conscience’ Sake</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap03">A Tragedy of Two Ambitions</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap04">On the Western Circuit</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap05">To Please his Wife</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap06">The Melancholy Hussar of the German Legion</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap07">The Fidler of the Reels</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap08">A Tradition of Eighteen Hundred and Four</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap09">A Few Crusted Characters</a></td> +</tr> + +</table> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap01"></a>THE SON’S VETO</h2> + +<h3>CHAPTER I</h3> + +<p> +To the eyes of a man viewing it from behind, the nut-brown hair was a wonder +and a mystery. Under the black beaver hat, surmounted by its tuft of black +feathers, the long locks, braided and twisted and coiled like the rushes of a +basket, composed a rare, if somewhat barbaric, example of ingenious art. One +could understand such weavings and coilings being wrought to last intact for a +year, or even a calendar month; but that they should be all demolished +regularly at bedtime, after a single day of permanence, seemed a reckless waste +of successful fabrication. +</p> + +<p> +And she had done it all herself, poor thing. She had no maid, and it was almost +the only accomplishment she could boast of. Hence the unstinted pains. +</p> + +<p> +She was a young invalid lady—not so very much of an invalid—sitting +in a wheeled chair, which had been pulled up in the front part of a green +enclosure, close to a bandstand, where a concert was going on, during a warm +June afternoon. It had place in one of the minor parks or private gardens that +are to be found in the suburbs of London, and was the effort of a local +association to raise money for some charity. There are worlds within worlds in +the great city, and though nobody outside the immediate district had ever heard +of the charity, or the band, or the garden, the enclosure was filled with an +interested audience sufficiently informed on all these. +</p> + +<p> +As the strains proceeded many of the listeners observed the chaired lady, whose +back hair, by reason of her prominent position, so challenged inspection. Her +face was not easily discernible, but the aforesaid cunning tress-weavings, the +white ear and poll, and the curve of a cheek which was neither flaccid nor +sallow, were signals that led to the expectation of good beauty in front. Such +expectations are not infrequently disappointed as soon as the disclosure comes; +and in the present case, when the lady, by a turn of the head, at length +revealed herself, she was not so handsome as the people behind her had +supposed, and even hoped—they did not know why. +</p> + +<p> +For one thing (alas! the commonness of this complaint), she was less young than +they had fancied her to be. Yet attractive her face unquestionably was, and not +at all sickly. The revelation of its details came each time she turned to talk +to a boy of twelve or thirteen who stood beside her, and the shape of whose hat +and jacket implied that he belonged to a well-known public school. The +immediate bystanders could hear that he called her ‘Mother.’ +</p> + +<p> +When the end of the recital was reached, and the audience withdrew, many chose +to find their way out by passing at her elbow. Almost all turned their heads to +take a full and near look at the interesting woman, who remained stationary in +the chair till the way should be clear enough for her to be wheeled out without +obstruction. As if she expected their glances, and did not mind gratifying +their curiosity, she met the eyes of several of her observers by lifting her +own, showing these to be soft, brown, and affectionate orbs, a little plaintive +in their regard. +</p> + +<p> +She was conducted out of the gardens, and passed along the pavement till she +disappeared from view, the schoolboy walking beside her. To inquiries made by +some persons who watched her away, the answer came that she was the second wife +of the incumbent of a neighbouring parish, and that she was lame. She was +generally believed to be a woman with a story—an innocent one, but a +story of some sort or other. +</p> + +<p> +In conversing with her on their way home the boy who walked at her elbow said +that he hoped his father had not missed them. +</p> + +<p> +‘He have been so comfortable these last few hours that I am sure he +cannot have missed us,’ she replied. +</p> + +<p> +‘<i>Has</i>, dear mother—not <i>have</i>!’ exclaimed the +public-school boy, with an impatient fastidiousness that was almost harsh. +‘Surely you know that by this time!’ +</p> + +<p> +His mother hastily adopted the correction, and did not resent his making it, or +retaliate, as she might well have done, by bidding him to wipe that crumby +mouth of his, whose condition had been caused by surreptitious attempts to eat +a piece of cake without taking it out of the pocket wherein it lay concealed. +After this the pretty woman and the boy went onward in silence. +</p> + +<p> +That question of grammar bore upon her history, and she fell into reverie, of a +somewhat sad kind to all appearance. It might have been assumed that she was +wondering if she had done wisely in shaping her life as she had shaped it, to +bring out such a result as this. +</p> + +<p> +In a remote nook in North Wessex, forty miles from London, near the thriving +county-town of Aldbrickham, there stood a pretty village with its church and +parsonage, which she knew well enough, but her son had never seen. It was her +native village, Gaymead, and the first event bearing upon her present situation +had occurred at that place when she was only a girl of nineteen. +</p> + +<p> +How well she remembered it, that first act in her little tragi-comedy, the +death of her reverend husband’s first wife. It happened on a spring +evening, and she who now and for many years had filled that first wife’s +place was then parlour-maid in the parson’s house. +</p> + +<p> +When everything had been done that could be done, and the death was announced, +she had gone out in the dusk to visit her parents, who were living in the same +village, to tell them the sad news. As she opened the white swing-gate and +looked towards the trees which rose westward, shutting out the pale light of +the evening sky, she discerned, without much surprise, the figure of a man +standing in the hedge, though she roguishly exclaimed as a matter of form, +‘Oh, Sam, how you frightened me!’ +</p> + +<p> +He was a young gardener of her acquaintance. She told him the particulars of +the late event, and they stood silent, these two young people, in that +elevated, calmly philosophic mind which is engendered when a tragedy has +happened close at hand, and has not happened to the philosophers themselves. +But it had its bearing upon their relations. +</p> + +<p> +‘And will you stay on now at the Vicarage, just the same?’ asked +he. +</p> + +<p> +She had hardly thought of that. ‘Oh, yes—I suppose!’ she +said. ‘Everything will be just as usual, I imagine?’ +</p> + +<p> +He walked beside her towards her mother’s. Presently his arm stole round +her waist. She gently removed it; but he placed it there again, and she yielded +the point. ‘You see, dear Sophy, you don’t know that you’ll +stay on; you may want a home; and I shall be ready to offer one some day, +though I may not be ready just yet. +</p> + +<p> +‘Why, Sam, how can you be so fast! I’ve never even said I liked +’ee; and it is all your own doing, coming after me!’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Still, it is nonsense to say I am not to have a try at you like the +rest.’ He stooped to kiss her a farewell, for they had reached her +mother’s door. +</p> + +<p> +‘No, Sam; you sha’n’t!’ she cried, putting her hand +over his mouth. ‘You ought to be more serious on such a night as +this.’ And she bade him adieu without allowing him to kiss her or to come +indoors. +</p> + +<p> +The vicar just left a widower was at this time a man about forty years of age, +of good family, and childless. He had led a secluded existence in this college +living, partly because there were no resident landowners; and his loss now +intensified his habit of withdrawal from outward observation. He was still less +seen than heretofore, kept himself still less in time with the rhythm and +racket of the movements called progress in the world without. For many months +after his wife’s decease the economy of his household remained as before; +the cook, the housemaid, the parlour-maid, and the man out-of-doors performed +their duties or left them undone, just as Nature prompted them—the vicar +knew not which. It was then represented to him that his servants seemed to have +nothing to do in his small family of one. He was struck with the truth of this +representation, and decided to cut down his establishment. But he was +forestalled by Sophy, the parlour-maid, who said one evening that she wished to +leave him. +</p> + +<p> +‘And why?’ said the parson. +</p> + +<p> +‘Sam Hobson has asked me to marry him, sir.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Well—do you want to marry?’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Not much. But it would be a home for me. And we have heard that one of +us will have to leave.’ +</p> + +<p> +A day or two after she said: ‘I don’t want to leave just yet, sir, +if you don’t wish it. Sam and I have quarrelled.’ +</p> + +<p> +He looked up at her. He had hardly ever observed her before, though he had been +frequently conscious of her soft presence in the room. What a kitten-like, +flexuous, tender creature she was! She was the only one of the servants with +whom he came into immediate and continuous relation. What should he do if Sophy +were gone? +</p> + +<p> +Sophy did not go, but one of the others did, and things went on quietly again. +</p> + +<p> +When Mr. Twycott, the vicar, was ill, Sophy brought up his meals to him, and +she had no sooner left the room one day than he heard a noise on the stairs. +She had slipped down with the tray, and so twisted her foot that she could not +stand. The village surgeon was called in; the vicar got better, but Sophy was +incapacitated for a long time; and she was informed that she must never again +walk much or engage in any occupation which required her to stand long on her +feet. As soon as she was comparatively well she spoke to him alone. Since she +was forbidden to walk and bustle about, and, indeed, could not do so, it became +her duty to leave. She could very well work at something sitting down, and she +had an aunt a seamstress. +</p> + +<p> +The parson had been very greatly moved by what she had suffered on his account, +and he exclaimed, ‘No, Sophy; lame or not lame, I cannot let you go. You +must never leave me again!’ +</p> + +<p> +He came close to her, and, though she could never exactly tell how it happened, +she became conscious of his lips upon her cheek. He then asked her to marry +him. Sophy did not exactly love him, but she had a respect for him which almost +amounted to veneration. Even if she had wished to get away from him she hardly +dared refuse a personage so reverend and august in her eyes, and she assented +forthwith to be his wife. +</p> + +<p> +Thus it happened that one fine morning, when the doors of the church were +naturally open for ventilation, and the singing birds fluttered in and alighted +on the tie-beams of the roof, there was a marriage-service at the +communion-rails, which hardly a soul knew of. The parson and a neighbouring +curate had entered at one door, and Sophy at another, followed by two necessary +persons, whereupon in a short time there emerged a newly-made husband and wife. +</p> + +<p> +Mr. Twycott knew perfectly well that he had committed social suicide by this +step, despite Sophy’s spotless character, and he had taken his measures +accordingly. An exchange of livings had been arranged with an acquaintance who +was incumbent of a church in the south of London, and as soon as possible the +couple removed thither, abandoning their pretty country home, with trees and +shrubs and glebe, for a narrow, dusty house in a long, straight street, and +their fine peal of bells for the wretchedest one-tongued clangour that ever +tortured mortal ears. It was all on her account. They were, however, away from +every one who had known her former position; and also under less observation +from without than they would have had to put up with in any country parish. +</p> + +<p> +Sophy the woman was as charming a partner as a man could possess, though Sophy +the lady had her deficiencies. She showed a natural aptitude for little +domestic refinements, so far as related to things and manners; but in what is +called culture she was less intuitive. She had now been married more than +fourteen years, and her husband had taken much trouble with her education; but +she still held confused ideas on the use of ‘was’ and +‘were,’ which did not beget a respect for her among the few +acquaintances she made. Her great grief in this relation was that her only +child, on whose education no expense had been and would be spared, was now old +enough to perceive these deficiencies in his mother, and not only to see them +but to feel irritated at their existence. +</p> + +<p> +Thus she lived on in the city, and wasted hours in braiding her beautiful hair, +till her once apple cheeks waned to pink of the very faintest. Her foot had +never regained its natural strength after the accident, and she was mostly +obliged to avoid walking altogether. Her husband had grown to like London for +its freedom and its domestic privacy; but he was twenty years his Sophy’s +senior, and had latterly been seized with a serious illness. On this day, +however, he had seemed to be well enough to justify her accompanying her son +Randolph to the concert. +</p> + +<h3>CHAPTER II</h3> + +<p> +The next time we get a glimpse of her is when she appears in the mournful +attire of a widow. +</p> + +<p> +Mr. Twycott had never rallied, and now lay in a well-packed cemetery to the +south of the great city, where, if all the dead it contained had stood erect +and alive, not one would have known him or recognized his name. The boy had +dutifully followed him to the grave, and was now again at school. +</p> + +<p> +Throughout these changes Sophy had been treated like the child she was in +nature though not in years. She was left with no control over anything that had +been her husband’s beyond her modest personal income. In his anxiety lest +her inexperience should be overreached he had safeguarded with trustees all he +possibly could. The completion of the boy’s course at the public school, +to be followed in due time by Oxford and ordination, had been all previsioned +and arranged, and she really had nothing to occupy her in the world but to eat +and drink, and make a business of indolence, and go on weaving and coiling the +nut-brown hair, merely keeping a home open for the son whenever he came to her +during vacations. +</p> + +<p> +Foreseeing his probable decease long years before her, her husband in his +lifetime had purchased for her use a semi-detached villa in the same long, +straight road whereon the church and parsonage faced, which was to be hers as +long as she chose to live in it. Here she now resided, looking out upon the +fragment of lawn in front, and through the railings at the ever-flowing +traffic; or, bending forward over the window-sill on the first floor, +stretching her eyes far up and down the vista of sooty trees, hazy air, and +drab house-façades, along which echoed the noises common to a suburban +main thoroughfare. +</p> + +<p> +Somehow, her boy, with his aristocratic school-knowledge, his grammars, and his +aversions, was losing those wide infantine sympathies, extending as far as to +the sun and moon themselves, with which he, like other children, had been born, +and which his mother, a child of nature herself, had loved in him; he was +reducing their compass to a population of a few thousand wealthy and titled +people, the mere veneer of a thousand million or so of others who did not +interest him at all. He drifted further and further away from her. +Sophy’s <i>milieu</i> being a suburb of minor tradesmen and under-clerks, +and her almost only companions the two servants of her own house, it was not +surprising that after her husband’s death she soon lost the little +artificial tastes she had acquired from him, and became—in her +son’s eyes—a mother whose mistakes and origin it was his painful +lot as a gentleman to blush for. As yet he was far from being man +enough—if he ever would be—to rate these sins of hers at their true +infinitesimal value beside the yearning fondness that welled up and remained +penned in her heart till it should be more fully accepted by him, or by some +other person or thing. If he had lived at home with her he would have had all +of it; but he seemed to require so very little in present circumstances, and it +remained stored. +</p> + +<p> +Her life became insupportably dreary; she could not take walks, and had no +interest in going for drives, or, indeed, in travelling anywhere. Nearly two +years passed without an event, and still she looked on that suburban road, +thinking of the village in which she had been born, and whither she would have +gone back—O how gladly!—even to work in the fields. +</p> + +<p> +Taking no exercise, she often could not sleep, and would rise in the night or +early morning and look out upon the then vacant thoroughfare, where the lamps +stood like sentinels waiting for some procession to go by. An approximation to +such a procession was indeed made early every morning about one o’clock, +when the country vehicles passed up with loads of vegetables for Covent Garden +market. She often saw them creeping along at this silent and dusky +hour—waggon after waggon, bearing green bastions of cabbages nodding to +their fall, yet never falling, walls of baskets enclosing masses of beans and +peas, pyramids of snow-white turnips, swaying howdahs of mixed +produce—creeping along behind aged night-horses, who seemed ever +patiently wondering between their hollow coughs why they had always to work at +that still hour when all other sentient creatures were privileged to rest. +Wrapped in a cloak, it was soothing to watch and sympathize with them when +depression and nervousness hindered sleep, and to see how the fresh green-stuff +brightened to life as it came opposite the lamp, and how the sweating animals +steamed and shone with their miles of travel. +</p> + +<p> +They had an interest, almost a charm, for Sophy, these semirural people and +vehicles moving in an urban atmosphere, leading a life quite distinct from that +of the daytime toilers on the same road. One morning a man who accompanied a +waggon-load of potatoes gazed rather hard at the house-fronts as he passed, and +with a curious emotion she thought his form was familiar to her. She looked out +for him again. His being an old-fashioned conveyance, with a yellow front, it +was easily recognizable, and on the third night after she saw it a second time. +The man alongside was, as she had fancied, Sam Hobson, formerly gardener at +Gaymead, who would at one time have married her. +</p> + +<p> +She had occasionally thought of him, and wondered if life in a cottage with him +would not have been a happier lot than the life she had accepted. She had not +thought of him passionately, but her now dismal situation lent an interest to +his resurrection—a tender interest which it is impossible to exaggerate. +She went back to bed, and began thinking. When did these market-gardeners, who +travelled up to town so regularly at one or two in the morning, come back? She +dimly recollected seeing their empty waggons, hardly noticeable amid the +ordinary day-traffic, passing down at some hour before noon. +</p> + +<p> +It was only April, but that morning, after breakfast, she had the window +opened, and sat looking out, the feeble sun shining full upon her. She affected +to sew, but her eyes never left the street. Between ten and eleven the desired +waggon, now unladen, reappeared on its return journey. But Sam was not looking +round him then, and drove on in a reverie. +</p> + +<p> +‘Sam!’ cried she. +</p> + +<p> +Turning with a start, his face lighted up. He called to him a little boy to +hold the horse, alighted, and came and stood under her window. +</p> + +<p> +‘I can’t come down easily, Sam, or I would!’ she said. +‘Did you know I lived here?’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Well, Mrs. Twycott, I knew you lived along here somewhere. I have often +looked out for ’ee.’ +</p> + +<p> +He briefly explained his own presence on the scene. He had long since given up +his gardening in the village near Aldbrickham, and was now manager at a +market-gardener’s on the south side of London, it being part of his duty +to go up to Covent Garden with waggon-loads of produce two or three times a +week. In answer to her curious inquiry, he admitted that he had come to this +particular district because he had seen in the Aldbrickham paper, a year or two +before, the announcement of the death in South London of the aforetime vicar of +Gaymead, which had revived an interest in her dwelling-place that he could not +extinguish, leading him to hover about the locality till his present post had +been secured. +</p> + +<p> +They spoke of their native village in dear old North Wessex, the spots in which +they had played together as children. She tried to feel that she was a +dignified personage now, that she must not be too confidential with Sam. But +she could not keep it up, and the tears hanging in her eyes were indicated in +her voice. +</p> + +<p> +‘You are not happy, Mrs. Twycott, I’m afraid?’ he said. +</p> + +<p> +‘O, of course not! I lost my husband only the year before last.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Ah! I meant in another way. You’d like to be home again?’ +</p> + +<p> +‘This is my home—for life. The house belongs to me. But I +understand’—She let it out then. ‘Yes, Sam. I long for +home—<i>our</i> home! I <i>should</i> like to be there, and never leave +it, and die there.’ But she remembered herself. ‘That’s only +a momentary feeling. I have a son, you know, a dear boy. He’s at school +now.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Somewhere handy, I suppose? I see there’s lots on ’em along +this road.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘O no! Not in one of these wretched holes! At a public school—one +of the most distinguished in England.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Chok’ it all! of course! I forget, ma’am, that you’ve +been a lady for so many years.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘No, I am not a lady,’ she said sadly. ‘I never shall be. But +he’s a gentleman, and that—makes it—O how difficult for +me!’ +</p> + +<h3>CHAPTER III</h3> + +<p> +The acquaintance thus oddly reopened proceeded apace. She often looked out to +get a few words with him, by night or by day. Her sorrow was that she could not +accompany her one old friend on foot a little way, and talk more freely than +she could do while he paused before the house. One night, at the beginning of +June, when she was again on the watch after an absence of some days from the +window, he entered the gate and said softly, ‘Now, wouldn’t some +air do you good? I’ve only half a load this morning. Why not ride up to +Covent Garden with me? There’s a nice seat on the cabbages, where +I’ve spread a sack. You can be home again in a cab before anybody is +up.’ +</p> + +<p> +She refused at first, and then, trembling with excitement, hastily finished her +dressing, and wrapped herself up in cloak and veil, afterwards sidling +downstairs by the aid of the handrail, in a way she could adopt on an +emergency. When she had opened the door she found Sam on the step, and he +lifted her bodily on his strong arm across the little forecourt into his +vehicle. Not a soul was visible or audible in the infinite length of the +straight, flat highway, with its ever-waiting lamps converging to points in +each direction. The air was fresh as country air at this hour, and the stars +shone, except to the north-eastward, where there was a whitish light—the +dawn. Sam carefully placed her in the seat, and drove on. +</p> + +<p> +They talked as they had talked in old days, Sam pulling himself up now and +then, when he thought himself too familiar. More than once she said with +misgiving that she wondered if she ought to have indulged in the freak. +‘But I am so lonely in my house,’ she added, ‘and this makes +me so happy!’ +</p> + +<p> +‘You must come again, dear Mrs. Twycott. There is no time o’ day +for taking the air like this.’ +</p> + +<p> +It grew lighter and lighter. The sparrows became busy in the streets, and the +city waxed denser around them. When they approached the river it was day, and +on the bridge they beheld the full blaze of morning sunlight in the direction +of St. Paul’s, the river glistening towards it, and not a craft stirring. +</p> + +<p> +Near Covent Garden he put her into a cab, and they parted, looking into each +other’s faces like the very old friends they were. She reached home +without adventure, limped to the door, and let herself in with her latch-key +unseen. +</p> + +<p> +The air and Sam’s presence had revived her: her cheeks were quite +pink—almost beautiful. She had something to live for in addition to her +son. A woman of pure instincts, she knew there had been nothing really wrong in +the journey, but supposed it conventionally to be very wrong indeed. +</p> + +<p> +Soon, however, she gave way to the temptation of going with him again, and on +this occasion their conversation was distinctly tender, and Sam said he never +should forget her, notwithstanding that she had served him rather badly at one +time. After much hesitation he told her of a plan it was in his power to carry +out, and one he should like to take in hand, since he did not care for London +work: it was to set up as a master greengrocer down at Aldbrickham, the +county-town of their native place. He knew of an opening—a shop kept by +aged people who wished to retire. +</p> + +<p> +‘And why don’t you do it, then, Sam?’ she asked with a slight +heartsinking. +</p> + +<p> +‘Because I’m not sure if—you’d join me. I know you +wouldn’t—couldn’t! Such a lady as ye’ve been so long, +you couldn’t be a wife to a man like me.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘I hardly suppose I could!’ she assented, also frightened at the +idea. +</p> + +<p> +‘If you could,’ he said eagerly, ‘you’d on’y have +to sit in the back parlour and look through the glass partition when I was away +sometimes—just to keep an eye on things. The lameness wouldn’t +hinder that . . . I’d keep you as genteel as ever I could, dear +Sophy—if I might think of it!’ he pleaded. +</p> + +<p> +‘Sam, I’ll be frank,’ she said, putting her hand on his. +‘If it were only myself I would do it, and gladly, though everything I +possess would be lost to me by marrying again.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘I don’t mind that! It’s more independent.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘That’s good of you, dear, dear Sam. But there’s something +else. I have a son . . . I almost fancy when I am miserable sometimes that he +is not really mine, but one I hold in trust for my late husband. He seems to +belong so little to me personally, so entirely to his dead father. He is so +much educated and I so little that I do not feel dignified enough to be his +mother . . . Well, he would have to be told.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Yes. Unquestionably.’ Sam saw her thought and her fear. +‘Still, you can do as you like, Sophy—Mrs. Twycott,’ he +added. ‘It is not you who are the child, but he.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Ah, you don’t know! Sam, if I could, I would marry you, some day. +But you must wait a while, and let me think.’ +</p> + +<p> +It was enough for him, and he was blithe at their parting. Not so she. To tell +Randolph seemed impossible. She could wait till he had gone up to Oxford, when +what she did would affect his life but little. But would he ever tolerate the +idea? And if not, could she defy him? +</p> + +<p> +She had not told him a word when the yearly cricket-match came on at +Lord’s between the public schools, though Sam had already gone back to +Aldbrickham. Mrs. Twycott felt stronger than usual: she went to the match with +Randolph, and was able to leave her chair and walk about occasionally. The +bright idea occurred to her that she could casually broach the subject while +moving round among the spectators, when the boy’s spirits were high with +interest in the game, and he would weigh domestic matters as feathers in the +scale beside the day’s victory. They promenaded under the lurid July sun, +this pair, so wide apart, yet so near, and Sophy saw the large proportion of +boys like her own, in their broad white collars and dwarf hats, and all around +the rows of great coaches under which was jumbled the <i>débris</i> of +luxurious luncheons; bones, pie-crusts, champagne-bottles, glasses, plates, +napkins, and the family silver; while on the coaches sat the proud fathers and +mothers; but never a poor mother like her. If Randolph had not appertained to +these, had not centred all his interests in them, had not cared exclusively for +the class they belonged to, how happy would things have been! A great huzza at +some small performance with the bat burst from the multitude of relatives, and +Randolph jumped wildly into the air to see what had happened. Sophy fetched up +the sentence that had been already shaped; but she could not get it out. The +occasion was, perhaps, an inopportune one. The contrast between her story and +the display of fashion to which Randolph had grown to regard himself as akin +would be fatal. She awaited a better time. +</p> + +<p> +It was on an evening when they were alone in their plain suburban residence, +where life was not blue but brown, that she ultimately broke silence, +qualifying her announcement of a probable second marriage by assuring him that +it would not take place for a long time to come, when he would be living quite +independently of her. +</p> + +<p> +The boy thought the idea a very reasonable one, and asked if she had chosen +anybody? She hesitated; and he seemed to have a misgiving. He hoped his +stepfather would be a gentleman? he said. +</p> + +<p> +‘Not what you call a gentleman,’ she answered timidly. +‘He’ll be much as I was before I knew your father;’ and by +degrees she acquainted him with the whole. The youth’s face remained +fixed for a moment; then he flushed, leant on the table, and burst into +passionate tears. +</p> + +<p> +His mother went up to him, kissed all of his face that she could get at, and +patted his back as if he were still the baby he once had been, crying herself +the while. When he had somewhat recovered from his paroxysm he went hastily to +his own room and fastened the door. +</p> + +<p> +Parleyings were attempted through the keyhole, outside which she waited and +listened. It was long before he would reply, and when he did it was to say +sternly at her from within: ‘I am ashamed of you! It will ruin me! A +miserable boor! a churl! a clown! It will degrade me in the eyes of all the +gentlemen of England!’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Say no more—perhaps I am wrong! I will struggle against it!’ +she cried miserably. +</p> + +<p> +Before Randolph left her that summer a letter arrived from Sam to inform her +that he had been unexpectedly fortunate in obtaining the shop. He was in +possession; it was the largest in the town, combining fruit with vegetables, +and he thought it would form a home worthy even of her some day. Might he not +run up to town to see her? +</p> + +<p> +She met him by stealth, and said he must still wait for her final answer. The +autumn dragged on, and when Randolph was home at Christmas for the holidays she +broached the matter again. But the young gentleman was inexorable. +</p> + +<p> +It was dropped for months; renewed again; abandoned under his repugnance; again +attempted; and thus the gentle creature reasoned and pleaded till four or five +long years had passed. Then the faithful Sam revived his suit with some +peremptoriness. Sophy’s son, now an undergraduate, was down from Oxford +one Easter, when she again opened the subject. As soon as he was ordained, she +argued, he would have a home of his own, wherein she, with her bad grammar and +her ignorance, would be an encumbrance to him. Better obliterate her as much as +possible. +</p> + +<p> +He showed a more manly anger now, but would not agree. She on her side was more +persistent, and he had doubts whether she could be trusted in his absence. But +by indignation and contempt for her taste he completely maintained his +ascendency; and finally taking her before a little cross and altar that he had +erected in his bedroom for his private devotions, there bade her kneel, and +swear that she would not wed Samuel Hobson without his consent. ‘I owe +this to my father!’ he said. +</p> + +<p> +The poor woman swore, thinking he would soften as soon as he was ordained and +in full swing of clerical work. But he did not. His education had by this time +sufficiently ousted his humanity to keep him quite firm; though his mother +might have led an idyllic life with her faithful fruiterer and greengrocer, and +nobody have been anything the worse in the world. +</p> + +<p> +Her lameness became more confirmed as time went on, and she seldom or never +left the house in the long southern thoroughfare, where she seemed to be pining +her heart away. ‘Why mayn’t I say to Sam that I’ll marry him? +Why mayn’t I?’ she would murmur plaintively to herself when nobody +was near. +</p> + +<p> +Some four years after this date a middle-aged man was standing at the door of +the largest fruiterer’s shop in Aldbrickham. He was the proprietor, but +to-day, instead of his usual business attire, he wore a neat suit of black; and +his window was partly shuttered. From the railway-station a funeral procession +was seen approaching: it passed his door and went out of the town towards the +village of Gaymead. The man, whose eyes were wet, held his hat in his hand as +the vehicles moved by; while from the mourning coach a young smooth-shaven +priest in a high waistcoat looked black as a cloud at the shop keeper standing +there. +</p> + +<p> +<i>December</i> 1891. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap02"></a>FOR CONSCIENCE’ SAKE</h2> + +<h3>CHAPTER I</h3> + +<p> +Whether the utilitarian or the intuitive theory of the moral sense be upheld, +it is beyond question that there are a few subtle-souled persons with whom the +absolute gratuitousness of an act of reparation is an inducement to perform it; +while exhortation as to its necessity would breed excuses for leaving it +undone. The case of Mr. Millborne and Mrs. Frankland particularly illustrated +this, and perhaps something more. +</p> + +<p> +There were few figures better known to the local crossing-sweeper than Mr. +Millborne’s, in his daily comings and goings along a familiar and quiet +London street, where he lived inside the door marked eleven, though not as +householder. In age he was fifty at least, and his habits were as regular as +those of a person can be who has no occupation but the study of how to keep +himself employed. He turned almost always to the right on getting to the end of +his street, then he went onward down Bond Street to his club, whence he +returned by precisely the same course about six o’clock, on foot; or, if +he went to dine, later on in a cab. He was known to be a man of some means, +though apparently not wealthy. Being a bachelor he seemed to prefer his present +mode of living as a lodger in Mrs. Towney’s best rooms, with the use of +furniture which he had bought ten times over in rent during his tenancy, to +having a house of his own. +</p> + +<p> +None among his acquaintance tried to know him well, for his manner and moods +did not excite curiosity or deep friendship. He was not a man who seemed to +have anything on his mind, anything to conceal, anything to impart. From his +casual remarks it was generally understood that he was country-born, a native +of some place in Wessex; that he had come to London as a young man in a +banking-house, and had risen to a post of responsibility; when, by the death of +his father, who had been fortunate in his investments, the son succeeded to an +income which led him to retire from a business life somewhat early. +</p> + +<p> +One evening, when he had been unwell for several days, Doctor Bindon came in, +after dinner, from the adjoining medical quarter, and smoked with him over the +fire. The patient’s ailment was not such as to require much thought, and +they talked together on indifferent subjects. +</p> + +<p> +‘I am a lonely man, Bindon—a lonely man,’ Millborne took +occasion to say, shaking his head gloomily. ‘You don’t know such +loneliness as mine . . . And the older I get the more I am dissatisfied with +myself. And to-day I have been, through an accident, more than usually haunted +by what, above all other events of my life, causes that +dissatisfaction—the recollection of an unfulfilled promise made twenty +years ago. In ordinary affairs I have always been considered a man of my word +and perhaps it is on that account that a particular vow I once made, and did +not keep, comes back to me with a magnitude out of all proportion (I daresay) +to its real gravity, especially at this time of day. You know the discomfort +caused at night by the half-sleeping sense that a door or window has been left +unfastened, or in the day by the remembrance of unanswered letters. So does +that promise haunt me from time to time, and has done to-day +particularly.’ +</p> + +<p> +There was a pause, and they smoked on. Millborne’s eyes, though fixed on +the fire, were really regarding attentively a town in the West of England. +</p> + +<p> +‘Yes,’ he continued, ‘I have never quite forgotten it, though +during the busy years of my life it was shelved and buried under the pressure +of my pursuits. And, as I say, to-day in particular, an incident in the +law-report of a somewhat similar kind has brought it back again vividly. +However, what it was I can tell you in a few words, though no doubt you, as a +man of the world, will smile at the thinness of my skin when you hear it . . . +I came up to town at one-and-twenty, from Toneborough, in Outer Wessex, where I +was born, and where, before I left, I had won the heart of a young woman of my +own age. I promised her marriage, took advantage of my promise, and—am a +bachelor.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘The old story.’ +</p> + +<p> +The other nodded. +</p> + +<p> +‘I left the place, and thought at the time I had done a very clever thing +in getting so easily out of an entanglement. But I have lived long enough for +that promise to return to bother me—to be honest, not altogether as a +pricking of the conscience, but as a dissatisfaction with myself as a specimen +of the heap of flesh called humanity. If I were to ask you to lend me fifty +pounds, which I would repay you next midsummer, and I did not repay you, I +should consider myself a shabby sort of fellow, especially if you wanted the +money badly. Yet I promised that girl just as distinctly; and then coolly broke +my word, as if doing so were rather smart conduct than a mean action, for which +the poor victim herself, encumbered with a child, and not I, had really to pay +the penalty, in spite of certain pecuniary aid that was given. There, +that’s the retrospective trouble that I am always unearthing; and you may +hardly believe that though so many years have elapsed, and it is all gone by +and done with, and she must be getting on for an old woman now, as I am for an +old man, it really often destroys my sense of self-respect still.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘O, I can understand it. All depends upon the temperament. Thousands of +men would have forgotten all about it; so would you, perhaps, if you had +married and had a family. Did she ever marry?’ +</p> + +<p> +‘I don’t think so. O no—she never did. She left Toneborough, +and later on appeared under another name at Exonbury, in the next county, where +she was not known. It is very seldom that I go down into that part of the +country, but in passing through Exonbury, on one occasion, I learnt that she +was quite a settled resident there, as a teacher of music, or something of the +kind. That much I casually heard when I was there two or three years ago. But I +have never set eyes on her since our original acquaintance, and should not know +her if I met her.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Did the child live?’ asked the doctor. +</p> + +<p> +‘For several years, certainly,’ replied his friend. ‘I cannot +say if she is living now. It was a little girl. She might be married by this +time as far as years go.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘And the mother—was she a decent, worthy young woman?’ +</p> + +<p> +‘O yes; a sensible, quiet girl, neither attractive nor unattractive to +the ordinary observer; simply commonplace. Her position at the time of our +acquaintance was not so good as mine. My father was a solicitor, as I think I +have told you. She was a young girl in a music-shop; and it was represented to +me that it would be beneath my position to marry her. Hence the result.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Well, all I can say is that after twenty years it is probably too late +to think of mending such a matter. It has doubtless by this time mended itself. +You had better dismiss it from your mind as an evil past your control. Of +course, if mother and daughter are alive, or either, you might settle something +upon them, if you were inclined, and had it to spare.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Well, I haven’t much to spare; and I have relations in narrow +circumstances—perhaps narrower than theirs. But that is not the point. +Were I ever so rich I feel I could not rectify the past by money. I did not +promise to enrich her. On the contrary, I told her it would probably be dire +poverty for both of us. But I did promise to make her my wife.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Then find her and do it,’ said the doctor jocularly as he rose to +leave. +</p> + +<p> +‘Ah, Bindon. That, of course, is the obvious jest. But I haven’t +the slightest desire for marriage; I am quite content to live as I have lived. +I am a bachelor by nature, and instinct, and habit, and everything. Besides, +though I respect her still (for she was not an atom to blame), I haven’t +any shadow of love for her. In my mind she exists as one of those women you +think well of, but find uninteresting. It would be purely with the idea of +putting wrong right that I should hunt her up, and propose to do it +off-hand.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘You don’t think of it seriously?’ said his surprised friend. +</p> + +<p> +‘I sometimes think that I would, if it were practicable; simply, as I +say, to recover my sense of being a man of honour.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘I wish you luck in the enterprise,’ said Doctor Bindon. +‘You’ll soon be out of that chair, and then you can put your +impulse to the test. But—after twenty years of silence—I should +say, don’t!’ +</p> + +<h3>CHAPTER II</h3> + +<p> +The doctor’s advice remained counterpoised, in Millborne’s mind, by +the aforesaid mood of seriousness and sense of principle, approximating often +to religious sentiment, which had been evolving itself in his breast for +months, and even years. +</p> + +<p> +The feeling, however, had no immediate effect upon Mr. Millborne’s +actions. He soon got over his trifling illness, and was vexed with himself for +having, in a moment of impulse, confided such a case of conscience to anybody. +</p> + +<p> +But the force which had prompted it, though latent, remained with him and +ultimately grew stronger. The upshot was that about four months after the date +of his illness and disclosure, Millborne found himself on a mild spring morning +at Paddington Station, in a train that was starting for the west. His many +intermittent thoughts on his broken promise from time to time, in those hours +when loneliness brought him face to face with his own personality, had at last +resulted in this course. +</p> + +<p> +The decisive stimulus had been given when, a day or two earlier, on looking +into a Post-Office Directory, he learnt that the woman he had not met for +twenty years was still living on at Exonbury under the name she had assumed +when, a year or two after her disappearance from her native town and his, she +had returned from abroad as a young widow with a child, and taken up her +residence at the former city. Her condition was apparently but little changed, +and her daughter seemed to be with her, their names standing in the Directory +as ‘Mrs. Leonora Frankland and Miss Frankland, Teachers of Music and +Dancing.’ +</p> + +<p> +Mr. Millborne reached Exonbury in the afternoon, and his first business, before +even taking his luggage into the town, was to find the house occupied by the +teachers. Standing in a central and open place it was not difficult to +discover, a well-burnished brass doorplate bearing their names prominently. He +hesitated to enter without further knowledge, and ultimately took lodgings over +a toyshop opposite, securing a sitting-room which faced a similar drawing or +sitting-room at the Franklands’, where the dancing lessons were given. +Installed here he was enabled to make indirectly, and without suspicion, +inquiries and observations on the character of the ladies over the way, which +he did with much deliberateness. +</p> + +<p> +He learnt that the widow, Mrs. Frankland, with her one daughter, Frances, was +of cheerful and excellent repute, energetic and painstaking with her pupils, of +whom she had a good many, and in whose tuition her daughter assisted her. She +was quite a recognized townswoman, and though the dancing branch of her +profession was perhaps a trifle worldly, she was really a serious-minded lady +who, being obliged to live by what she knew how to teach, balanced matters by +lending a hand at charitable bazaars, assisting at sacred concerts, and giving +musical recitations in aid of funds for bewildering happy savages, and other +such enthusiasms of this enlightened country. Her daughter was one of the +foremost of the bevy of young women who decorated the churches at Easter and +Christmas, was organist in one of those edifices, and had subscribed to the +testimonial of a silver broth-basin that was presented to the Reverend Mr. +Walker as a token of gratitude for his faithful and arduous intonations of six +months as sub-precentor in the Cathedral. Altogether mother and daughter +appeared to be a typical and innocent pair among the genteel citizens of +Exonbury. +</p> + +<p> +As a natural and simple way of advertising their profession they allowed the +windows of the music-room to be a little open, so that you had the pleasure of +hearing all along the street at any hour between sunrise and sunset fragmentary +gems of classical music as interpreted by the young people of twelve or +fourteen who took lessons there. But it was said that Mrs. Frankland made most +of her income by letting out pianos on hire, and by selling them as agent for +the makers. +</p> + +<p> +The report pleased Millborne; it was highly creditable, and far better than he +had hoped. He was curious to get a view of the two women who led such blameless +lives. +</p> + +<p> +He had not long to wait to gain a glimpse of Leonora. It was when she was +standing on her own doorstep, opening her parasol, on the morning after his +arrival. She was thin, though not gaunt; and a good, well-wearing, thoughtful +face had taken the place of the one which had temporarily attracted him in the +days of his nonage. She wore black, and it became her in her character of +widow. The daughter next appeared; she was a smoothed and rounded copy of her +mother, with the same decision in her mien that Leonora had, and a bounding +gait in which he traced a faint resemblance to his own at her age. +</p> + +<p> +For the first time he absolutely made up his mind to call on them. But his +antecedent step was to send Leonora a note the next morning, stating his +proposal to visit her, and suggesting the evening as the time, because she +seemed to be so greatly occupied in her professional capacity during the day. +He purposely worded his note in such a form as not to require an answer from +her which would be possibly awkward to write. +</p> + +<p> +No answer came. Naturally he should not have been surprised at this; and yet he +felt a little checked, even though she had only refrained from volunteering a +reply that was not demanded. +</p> + +<p> +At eight, the hour fixed by himself, he crossed over and was passively admitted +by the servant. Mrs. Frankland, as she called herself, received him in the +large music-and-dancing room on the first-floor front, and not in any private +little parlour as he had expected. This cast a distressingly business-like +colour over their first meeting after so many years of severance. The woman he +had wronged stood before him, well-dressed, even to his metropolitan eyes, and +her manner as she came up to him was dignified even to hardness. She certainly +was not glad to see him. But what could he expect after a neglect of twenty +years! +</p> + +<p> +‘How do you do, Mr. Millborne?’ she said cheerfully, as to any +chance caller. ‘I am obliged to receive you here because my daughter has +a friend downstairs.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Your daughter—and mine.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Ah—yes, yes,’ she replied hastily, as if the addition had +escaped her memory. ‘But perhaps the less said about that the better, in +fairness to me. You will consider me a widow, please.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Certainly, Leonora . . . ’ He could not get on, her manner was so +cold and indifferent. The expected scene of sad reproach, subdued to delicacy +by the run of years, was absent altogether. He was obliged to come to the point +without preamble. +</p> + +<p> +‘You are quite free, Leonora—I mean as to marriage? There is nobody +who has your promise, or—’ +</p> + +<p> +‘O yes; quite free, Mr. Millborne,’ she said, somewhat surprised. +</p> + +<p> +‘Then I will tell you why I have come. Twenty years ago I promised to +make you my wife; and I am here to fulfil that promise. Heaven forgive my +tardiness!’ +</p> + +<p> +Her surprise was increased, but she was not agitated. She seemed to become +gloomy, disapproving. ‘I could not entertain such an idea at this time of +life,’ she said after a moment or two. ‘It would complicate matters +too greatly. I have a very fair income, and require no help of any sort. I have +no wish to marry . . . What could have induced you to come on such an errand +now? It seems quite extraordinary, if I may say so!’ +</p> + +<p> +‘It must—I daresay it does,’ Millborne replied vaguely; +‘and I must tell you that impulse—I mean in the sense of +passion—has little to do with it. I wish to marry you, Leonora; I much +desire to marry you. But it is an affair of conscience, a case of fulfilment. I +promised you, and it was dishonourable of me to go away. I want to remove that +sense of dishonour before I die. No doubt we might get to love each other as +warmly as we did in old times?’ +</p> + +<p> +She dubiously shook her head. ‘I appreciate your motives, Mr. Millborne; +but you must consider my position; and you will see that, short of the personal +wish to marry, which I don’t feel, there is no reason why I should change +my state, even though by so doing I should ease your conscience. My position in +this town is a respected one; I have built it up by my own hard labours, and, +in short, I don’t wish to alter it. My daughter, too, is just on the +verge of an engagement to be married, to a young man who will make her an +excellent husband. It will be in every way a desirable match for her. He is +downstairs now.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Does she know—anything about me?’ +</p> + +<p> +‘O no, no; God forbid! Her father is dead and buried to her. So that, you +see, things are going on smoothly, and I don’t want to disturb their +progress.’ +</p> + +<p> +He nodded. ‘Very well,’ he said, and rose to go. At the door, +however, he came back again. +</p> + +<p> +‘Still, Leonora,’ he urged, ‘I have come on purpose; and I +don’t see what disturbance would be caused. You would simply marry an old +friend. Won’t you reconsider? It is no more than right that we should be +united, remembering the girl.’ +</p> + +<p> +She shook her head, and patted with her foot nervously. +</p> + +<p> +‘Well, I won’t detain you,’ he added. ‘I shall not be +leaving Exonbury yet. You will allow me to see you again?’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Yes; I don’t mind,’ she said reluctantly. +</p> + +<p> +The obstacles he had encountered, though they did not reanimate his dead +passion for Leonora, did certainly make it appear indispensable to his peace of +mind to overcome her coldness. He called frequently. The first meeting with the +daughter was a trying ordeal, though he did not feel drawn towards her as he +had expected to be; she did not excite his sympathies. Her mother confided to +Frances the errand of ‘her old friend,’ which was viewed by the +daughter with strong disfavour. His desire being thus uncongenial to both, for +a long time Millborne made not the least impression upon Mrs. Frankland. His +attentions pestered her rather than pleased her. He was surprised at her +firmness, and it was only when he hinted at moral reasons for their union that +she was ever shaken. ‘Strictly speaking,’ he would say, ‘we +ought, as honest persons, to marry; and that’s the truth of it, +Leonora.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘I have looked at it in that light,’ she said quickly. ‘It +struck me at the very first. But I don’t see the force of the argument. I +totally deny that after this interval of time I am bound to marry you for +honour’s sake. I would have married you, as you know well enough, at the +proper time. But what is the use of remedies now?’ +</p> + +<p> +They were standing at the window. A scantly-whiskered young man, in clerical +attire, called at the door below. Leonora flushed with interest. +</p> + +<p> +‘Who is he?’ said Mr. Millborne. +</p> + +<p> +‘My Frances’s lover. I am so sorry—she is not at home! Ah! +they have told him where she is, and he has gone to find her . . . I hope that +suit will prosper, at any rate!’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Why shouldn’t it?’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Well, he cannot marry yet; and Frances sees but little of him now he has +left Exonbury. He was formerly doing duty here, but now he is curate of St. +John’s, Ivell, fifty miles up the line. There is a tacit agreement +between them, but—there have been friends of his who object, because of +our vocation. However, he sees the absurdity of such an objection as that, and +is not influenced by it.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Your marriage with me would help the match, instead of hindering it, as +you have said.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Do you think it would?’ +</p> + +<p> +‘It certainly would, by taking you out of this business +altogether.’ +</p> + +<p> +By chance he had found the way to move her somewhat, and he followed it up. +This view was imparted to Mrs. Frankland’s daughter, and it led her to +soften her opposition. Millborne, who had given up his lodging in Exonbury, +journeyed to and fro regularly, till at last he overcame her negations, and she +expressed a reluctant assent. +</p> + +<p> +They were married at the nearest church; and the goodwill—whatever that +was—of the music-and-dancing connection was sold to a successor only too +ready to jump into the place, the Millbornes having decided to live in London. +</p> + +<h3>CHAPTER III</h3> + +<p> +Millborne was a householder in his old district, though not in his old street, +and Mrs. Millborne and their daughter had turned themselves into Londoners. +Frances was well reconciled to the removal by her lover’s satisfaction at +the change. It suited him better to travel from Ivell a hundred miles to see +her in London, where he frequently had other engagements, than fifty in the +opposite direction where nothing but herself required his presence. So here +they were, furnished up to the attics, in one of the small but popular streets +of the West district, in a house whose front, till lately of the complexion of +a chimney-sweep, had been scraped to show to the surprised wayfarer the bright +yellow and red brick that had lain lurking beneath the soot of fifty years. +</p> + +<p> +The social lift that the two women had derived from the alliance was +considerable; but when the exhilaration which accompanies a first residence in +London, the sensation of standing on a pivot of the world, had passed, their +lives promised to be somewhat duller than when, at despised Exonbury, they had +enjoyed a nodding acquaintance with three-fourths of the town. Mr. Millborne +did not criticise his wife; he could not. Whatever defects of hardness and +acidity his original treatment and the lapse of years might have developed in +her, his sense of a realized idea, of a re-established self-satisfaction, was +always thrown into the scale on her side, and out-weighed all objections. +</p> + +<p> +It was about a month after their settlement in town that the household decided +to spend a week at a watering-place in the Isle of Wight, and while there the +Reverend Percival Cope (the young curate aforesaid) came to see them, Frances +in particular. No formal engagement of the young pair had been announced as +yet, but it was clear that their mutual understanding could not end in anything +but marriage without grievous disappointment to one of the parties at least. +Not that Frances was sentimental. She was rather of the imperious sort, indeed; +and, to say all, the young girl had not fulfilled her father’s +expectations of her. But he hoped and worked for her welfare as sincerely as +any father could do. +</p> + +<p> +Mr. Cope was introduced to the new head of the family, and stayed with them in +the Island two or three days. On the last day of his visit they decided to +venture on a two hours’ sail in one of the small yachts which lay there +for hire. The trip had not progressed far before all, except the curate, found +that sailing in a breeze did not quite agree with them; but as he seemed to +enjoy the experience, the other three bore their condition as well as they +could without grimace or complaint, till the young man, observing their +discomfort, gave immediate directions to tack about. On the way back to port +they sat silent, facing each other. +</p> + +<p> +Nausea in such circumstances, like midnight watching, fatigue, trouble, fright, +has this marked effect upon the countenance, that it often brings out strongly +the divergences of the individual from the norm of his race, accentuating +superficial peculiarities to radical distinctions. Unexpected physiognomies +will uncover themselves at these times in well-known faces; the aspect becomes +invested with the spectral presence of entombed and forgotten ancestors; and +family lineaments of special or exclusive cast, which in ordinary moments are +masked by a stereotyped expression and mien, start up with crude insistence to +the view. +</p> + +<p> +Frances, sitting beside her mother’s husband, with Mr. Cope opposite, was +naturally enough much regarded by the curate during the tedious sail home; at +first with sympathetic smiles. Then, as the middle-aged father and his child +grew each gray-faced, as the pretty blush of Frances disintegrated into spotty +stains, and the soft rotundities of her features diverged from their familiar +and reposeful beauty into elemental lines, Cope was gradually struck with the +resemblance between a pair in their discomfort who in their ease presented +nothing to the eye in common. Mr. Millborne and Frances in their indisposition +were strangely, startlingly alike. +</p> + +<p> +The inexplicable fact absorbed Cope’s attention quite. He forgot to smile +at Frances, to hold her hand; and when they touched the shore he remained +sitting for some moments like a man in a trance. +</p> + +<p> +As they went homeward, and recovered their complexions and contours, the +similarities one by one disappeared, and Frances and Mr. Millborne were again +masked by the commonplace differences of sex and age. It was as if, during the +voyage, a mysterious veil had been lifted, temporarily revealing a strange +pantomime of the past. +</p> + +<p> +During the evening he said to her casually: ‘Is your step-father a cousin +of your mother, dear Frances?’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Oh, no,’ said she. ‘There is no relationship. He was only an +old friend of hers. Why did you suppose such a thing?’ +</p> + +<p> +He did not explain, and the next morning started to resume his duties at Ivell. +</p> + +<p> +Cope was an honest young fellow, and shrewd withal. At home in his quiet rooms +in St. Peter’s Street, Ivell, he pondered long and unpleasantly on the +revelations of the cruise. The tale it told was distinct enough, and for the +first time his position was an uncomfortable one. He had met the Franklands at +Exonbury as parishioners, had been attracted by Frances, and had floated thus +far into an engagement which was indefinite only because of his inability to +marry just yet. The Franklands’ past had apparently contained mysteries, +and it did not coincide with his judgment to marry into a family whose mystery +was of the sort suggested. So he sat and sighed, between his reluctance to lose +Frances and his natural dislike of forming a connection with people whose +antecedents would not bear the strictest investigation. +</p> + +<p> +A passionate lover of the old-fashioned sort might possibly never have halted +to weigh these doubts; but though he was in the church Cope’s affections +were fastidious—distinctly tempered with the alloys of the +century’s decadence. He delayed writing to Frances for some while, simply +because he could not tune himself up to enthusiasm when worried by suspicions +of such a kind. +</p> + +<p> +Meanwhile the Millbornes had returned to London, and Frances was growing +anxious. In talking to her mother of Cope she had innocently alluded to his +curious inquiry if her mother and her step-father were connected by any tie of +cousinship. Mrs. Millborne made her repeat the words. Frances did so, and +watched with inquisitive eyes their effect upon her elder. +</p> + +<p> +‘What is there so startling in his inquiry then?’ she asked. +‘Can it have anything to do with his not writing to me?’ +</p> + +<p> +Her mother flinched, but did not inform her, and Frances also was now drawn +within the atmosphere of suspicion. That night when standing by chance outside +the chamber of her parents she heard for the first time their voices engaged in +a sharp altercation. +</p> + +<p> +The apple of discord had, indeed, been dropped into the house of the +Millbornes. The scene within the chamber-door was Mrs. Millborne standing +before her dressing-table, looking across to her husband in the dressing-room +adjoining, where he was sitting down, his eyes fixed on the floor. +</p> + +<p> +‘Why did you come and disturb my life a second time?’ she harshly +asked. ‘Why did you pester me with your conscience, till I was driven to +accept you to get rid of your importunity? Frances and I were doing well: the +one desire of my life was that she should marry that good young man. And now +the match is broken off by your cruel interference! Why did you show yourself +in my world again, and raise this scandal upon my hard-won +respectability—won by such weary years of labour as none will ever +know!’ She bent her face upon the table and wept passionately. +</p> + +<p> +There was no reply from Mr. Millborne. Frances lay awake nearly all that night, +and when at breakfast-time the next morning still no letter appeared from Mr. +Cope, she entreated her mother to go to Ivell and see if the young man were +ill. +</p> + +<p> +Mrs. Millborne went, returning the same day. Frances, anxious and haggard, met +her at the station. +</p> + +<p> +Was all well? Her mother could not say it was; though he was not ill. +</p> + +<p> +One thing she had found out, that it was a mistake to hunt up a man when his +inclinations were to hold aloof. Returning with her mother in the cab Frances +insisted upon knowing what the mystery was which plainly had alienated her +lover. The precise words which had been spoken at the interview with him that +day at Ivell Mrs. Millborne could not be induced to repeat; but thus far she +admitted, that the estrangement was fundamentally owing to Mr. Millborne having +sought her out and married her. +</p> + +<p> +‘And why did he seek you out—and why were you obliged to marry +him?’ asked the distressed girl. Then the evidences pieced themselves +together in her acute mind, and, her colour gradually rising, she asked her +mother if what they pointed to was indeed the fact. Her mother admitted that it +was. +</p> + +<p> +A flush of mortification succeeded to the flush of shame upon the young +woman’s face. How could a scrupulously correct clergyman and lover like +Mr. Cope ask her to be his wife after this discovery of her irregular birth? +She covered her eyes with her hands in a silent despair. +</p> + +<p> +In the presence of Mr. Millborne they at first suppressed their anguish. But by +and by their feelings got the better of them, and when he was asleep in his +chair after dinner Mrs. Millborne’s irritation broke out. The embittered +Frances joined her in reproaching the man who had come as the spectre to their +intended feast of Hymen, and turned its promise to ghastly failure. +</p> + +<p> +‘Why were you so weak, mother, as to admit such an enemy to your +house—one so obviously your evil genius—much less accept him as a +husband, after so long? If you had only told me all, I could have advised you +better! But I suppose I have no right to reproach him, bitter as I feel, and +even though he has blighted my life for ever!’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Frances, I did hold out; I saw it was a mistake to have any more to say +to a man who had been such an unmitigated curse to me! But he would not listen; +he kept on about his conscience and mine, till I was bewildered, and said Yes! +. . . Bringing us away from a quiet town where we were known and +respected—what an ill-considered thing it was! O the content of those +days! We had society there, people in our own position, who did not expect more +of us than we expected of them. Here, where there is so much, there is nothing! +He said London society was so bright and brilliant that it would be like a new +world. It may be to those who are in it; but what is that to us two lonely +women; we only see it flashing past! . . . O the fool, the fool that I +was!’ +</p> + +<p> +Now Millborne was not so soundly asleep as to prevent his hearing these +animadversions that were almost execrations, and many more of the same sort. As +there was no peace for him at home, he went again to his club, where, since his +reunion with Leonora, he had seldom if ever been seen. But the shadow of the +troubles in his household interfered with his comfort here also; he could not, +as formerly, settle down into his favourite chair with the evening paper, +reposeful in the celibate’s sense that where he was his world’s +centre had its fixture. His world was now an ellipse, with a dual centrality, +of which his own was not the major. +</p> + +<p> +The young curate of Ivell still held aloof, tantalizing Frances by his +elusiveness. Plainly he was waiting upon events. Millborne bore the reproaches +of his wife and daughter almost in silence; but by degrees he grew meditative, +as if revolving a new idea. The bitter cry about blighting their existence at +length became so impassioned that one day Millborne calmly proposed to return +again to the country; not necessarily to Exonbury, but, if they were willing, +to a little old manor-house which he had found was to be let, standing a mile +from Mr. Cope’s town of Ivell. +</p> + +<p> +They were surprised, and, despite their view of him as the bringer of ill, were +disposed to accede. ‘Though I suppose,’ said Mrs. Millborne to him, +‘it will end in Mr. Cope’s asking you flatly about the past, and +your being compelled to tell him; which may dash all my hopes for Frances. She +gets more and more like you every day, particularly when she is in a bad +temper. People will see you together, and notice it; and I don’t know +what may come of it!’ +</p> + +<p> +‘I don’t think they will see us together,’ he said; but he +entered into no argument when she insisted otherwise. The removal was +eventually resolved on; the town-house was disposed of; and again came the +invasion by furniture-men and vans, till all the movables and servants were +whisked away. He sent his wife and daughter to an hotel while this was going +on, taking two or three journeys himself to Ivell to superintend the refixing, +and the improvement of the grounds. When all was done he returned to them in +town. +</p> + +<p> +The house was ready for their reception, he told them, and there only remained +the journey. He accompanied them and their personal luggage to the station +only, having, he said, to remain in town a short time on business with his +lawyer. They went, dubious and discontented—for the much-loved Cope had +made no sign. +</p> + +<p> +‘If we were going down to live here alone,’ said Mrs Millborne to +her daughter in the train; ‘and there was no intrusive tell-tale +presence! . . . But let it be!’ +</p> + +<p> +The house was a lovely little place in a grove of elms, and they liked it much. +The first person to call upon them as new residents was Mr. Cope. He was +delighted to find that they had come so near, and (though he did not say this) +meant to live in such excellent style. He had not, however, resumed the manner +of a lover. +</p> + +<p> +‘Your father spoils all!’ murmured Mrs. Millborne. +</p> + +<p> +But three days later she received a letter from her husband, which caused her +no small degree of astonishment. It was written from Boulogne. +</p> + +<p> +It began with a long explanation of settlements of his property, in which he +had been engaged since their departure. The chief feature in the business was +that Mrs. Millborne found herself the absolute owner of a comfortable sum in +personal estate, and Frances of a life-interest in a larger sum, the principal +to be afterwards divided amongst her children if she had any. The remainder of +his letter ran as hereunder:— +</p> + +<p class="letter"> +‘I have learnt that there are some derelictions of duty which cannot be +blotted out by tardy accomplishment. Our evil actions do not remain isolated in +the past, waiting only to be reversed: like locomotive plants they spread and +re-root, till to destroy the original stem has no material effect in killing +them. I made a mistake in searching you out; I admit it; whatever the remedy +may be in such cases it is not marriage, and the best thing for you and me is +that you do not see me more. You had better not seek me, for you will not be +likely to find me: you are well provided for, and we may do ourselves more harm +than good by meeting again. +</p> + +<p class="right"> +‘F. M.’ +</p> + +<p> +Millborne, in short, disappeared from that day forward. But a searching inquiry +would have revealed that, soon after the Millbornes went to Ivell, an +Englishman, who did not give the name of Millborne, took up his residence in +Brussels; a man who might have been recognized by Mrs. Millborne if she had met +him. One afternoon in the ensuing summer, when this gentleman was looking over +the English papers, he saw the announcement of Miss Frances Frankland’s +marriage. She had become the Reverend Mrs. Cope. +</p> + +<p> +‘Thank God!’ said the gentleman. +</p> + +<p> +But his momentary satisfaction was far from being happiness. As he formerly had +been weighted with a bad conscience, so now was he burdened with the heavy +thought which oppressed Antigone, that by honourable observance of a rite he +had obtained for himself the reward of dishonourable laxity. Occasionally he +had to be helped to his lodgings by his servant from the <i>Cercle</i> he +frequented, through having imbibed a little too much liquor to be able to take +care of himself. But he was harmless, and even when he had been drinking said +little. +</p> + +<p> +<i>March</i> 1891. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap03"></a>A TRAGEDY OF TWO AMBITIONS</h2> + +<h3>CHAPTER I</h3> + +<p> +The shouts of the village-boys came in at the window, accompanied by broken +laughter from loungers at the inn-door; but the brothers Halborough worked on. +</p> + +<p> +They were sitting in a bedroom of the master-millwright’s house, engaged +in the untutored reading of Greek and Latin. It was no tale of Homeric blows +and knocks, Argonautic voyaging, or Theban family woe that inflamed their +imaginations and spurred them onward. They were plodding away at the Greek +Testament, immersed in a chapter of the idiomatic and difficult Epistle to the +Hebrews. +</p> + +<p> +The Dog-day sun in its decline reached the low ceiling with slanting sides, and +the shadows of the great goat’s-willow swayed and interchanged upon the +walls like a spectral army manoeuvring. The open casement which admitted the +remoter sounds now brought the voice of some one close at hand. It was their +sister, a pretty girl of fourteen, who stood in the court below. +</p> + +<p> +‘I can see the tops of your heads! What’s the use of staying up +there? I like you not to go out with the street-boys; but do come and play with +me!’ +</p> + +<p> +They treated her as an inadequate interlocutor, and put her off with some +slight word. She went away disappointed. Presently there was a dull noise of +heavy footsteps at the side of the house, and one of the brothers sat up. +‘I fancy I hear him coming,’ he murmured, his eyes on the window. +</p> + +<p> +A man in the light drab clothes of an old-fashioned country tradesman +approached from round the corner, reeling as he came. The elder son flushed +with anger, rose from his books, and descended the stairs. The younger sat on, +till, after the lapse of a few minutes, his brother re-entered the room. +</p> + +<p> +‘Did Rosa see him?’ +</p> + +<p> +‘No.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Nor anybody?’ +</p> + +<p> +‘No.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘What have you done with him?’ +</p> + +<p> +‘He’s in the straw-shed. I got him in with some trouble, and he has +fallen asleep. I thought this would be the explanation of his absence! No +stones dressed for Miller Kench, the great wheel of the saw-mills waiting for +new float-boards, even the poor folk not able to get their waggons +wheeled.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘What <i>is</i> the use of poring over this!’ said the younger, +shutting up Donnegan’s <i>Lexicon</i> with a slap. ‘O if we had +only been able to keep mother’s nine hundred pounds, what we could have +done!’ +</p> + +<p> +‘How well she had estimated the sum necessary! Four hundred and fifty +each, she thought. And I have no doubt that we could have done it on that, with +care.’ +</p> + +<p> +This loss of the nine hundred pounds was the sharp thorn of their crown. It was +a sum which their mother had amassed with great exertion and self-denial, by +adding to a chance legacy such other small amounts as she could lay hands on +from time to time; and she had intended with the hoard to indulge the dear wish +of her heart—that of sending her sons, Joshua and Cornelius, to one of +the Universities, having been informed that from four hundred to four hundred +and fifty each might carry them through their terms with such great economy as +she knew she could trust them to practise. But she had died a year or two +before this time, worn out by too keen a strain towards these ends; and the +money, coming unreservedly into the hands of their father, had been nearly +dissipated. With its exhaustion went all opportunity and hope of a university +degree for the sons. +</p> + +<p> +‘It drives me mad when I think of it,’ said Joshua, the elder. +‘And here we work and work in our own bungling way, and the utmost we can +hope for is a term of years as national schoolmasters, and possible admission +to a Theological college, and ordination as despised licentiates.’ +</p> + +<p> +The anger of the elder was reflected as simple sadness in the face of the +other. ‘We can preach the Gospel as well without a hood on our surplices +as with one,’ he said with feeble consolation. +</p> + +<p> +‘Preach the Gospel—true,’ said Joshua with a slight pursing +of mouth. ‘But we can’t rise!’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Let us make the best of it, and grind on.’ +</p> + +<p> +The other was silent, and they drearily bent over their books again. +</p> + +<p> +The cause of all this gloom, the millwright Halborough, now snoring in the +shed, had been a thriving master-machinist, notwithstanding his free and +careless disposition, till a taste for a more than adequate quantity of strong +liquor took hold of him; since when his habits had interfered with his business +sadly. Already millers went elsewhere for their gear, and only one set of hands +was now kept going, though there were formerly two. Already he found a +difficulty in meeting his men at the week’s end, and though they had been +reduced in number there was barely enough work to do for those who remained. +</p> + +<p> +The sun dropped lower and vanished, the shouts of the village children ceased +to resound, darkness cloaked the students’ bedroom, and all the scene +outwardly breathed peace. None knew of the fevered youthful ambitions that +throbbed in two breasts within the quiet creeper-covered walls of the +millwright’s house. +</p> + +<p> +In a few months the brothers left the village of their birth to enter +themselves as students in a training college for schoolmasters; first having +placed their young sister Rosa under as efficient a tuition at a fashionable +watering-place as the means at their disposal could command. +</p> + +<h3>CHAPTER II</h3> + +<p> +A man in semi-clerical dress was walking along the road which led from the +railway-station into a provincial town. As he walked he read persistently, only +looking up once now and then to see that he was keeping on the foot track and +to avoid other passengers. At those moments, whoever had known the former +students at the millwright’s would have perceived that one of them, +Joshua Halborough, was the peripatetic reader here. +</p> + +<p> +What had been simple force in the youth’s face was energized judgment in +the man’s. His character was gradually writing itself out in his +countenance. That he was watching his own career with deeper and deeper +interest, that he continually ‘heard his days before him,’ and +cared to hear little else, might have been hazarded from what was seen there. +His ambitions were, in truth, passionate, yet controlled; so that the germs of +many more plans than ever blossomed to maturity had place in him; and forward +visions were kept purposely in twilight, to avoid distraction. +</p> + +<p> +Events so far had been encouraging. Shortly after assuming the mastership of +his first school he had obtained an introduction to the Bishop of a diocese far +from his native county, who had looked upon him as a promising young man and +taken him in hand. He was now in the second year of his residence at the +theological college of the cathedral-town, and would soon be presented for +ordination. +</p> + +<p> +He entered the town, turned into a back street, and then into a yard, keeping +his book before him till he set foot under the arch of the latter place. Round +the arch was written ‘National School,’ and the stonework of the +jambs was worn away as nothing but boys and the waves of ocean will wear it. He +was soon amid the sing-song accents of the scholars. +</p> + +<p> +His brother Cornelius, who was the schoolmaster here, laid down the pointer +with which he was directing attention to the Capes of Europe, and came forward. +</p> + +<p> +‘That’s his brother Jos!’ whispered one of the sixth standard +boys. ‘He’s going to be a pa’son, he’s now at +college.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Corney is going to be one too, when he’s saved enough +money,’ said another. +</p> + +<p> +After greeting his brother, whom he had not seen for several months, the junior +began to explain his system of teaching geography. +</p> + +<p> +But Halborough the elder took no interest in the subject. ‘How about your +own studies?’ he asked. ‘Did you get the books I sent?’ +</p> + +<p> +Cornelius had received them, and he related what he was doing. +</p> + +<p> +‘Mind you work in the morning. What time do you get up?’ +</p> + +<p> +The younger replied: ‘Half-past five.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Half-past four is not a minute too soon this time of the year. There is +no time like the morning for construing. I don’t know why, but when I +feel even too dreary to read a novel I can translate—there is something +mechanical about it I suppose. Now, Cornelius, you are rather behindhand, and +have some heavy reading before you if you mean to get out of this next +Christmas.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘I am afraid I have.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘We must soon sound the Bishop. I am sure you will get a title without +difficulty when he has heard all. The sub-dean, the principal of my college, +says that the best plan will be for you to come there when his lordship is +present at an examination, and he’ll get you a personal interview with +him. Mind you make a good impression upon him. I found in my case that that was +everything and doctrine almost nothing. You’ll do for a deacon, Corney, +if not for a priest.’ +</p> + +<p> +The younger remained thoughtful. ‘Have you heard from Rosa lately?’ +he asked; ‘I had a letter this morning.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Yes. The little minx writes rather too often. She is +homesick—though Brussels must be an attractive place enough. But she must +make the most of her time over there. I thought a year would be enough for her, +after that high-class school at Sandbourne, but I have decided to give her two, +and make a good job of it, expensive as the establishment is.’ +</p> + +<p> +Their two rather harsh faces had softened directly they began to speak of their +sister, whom they loved more ambitiously than they loved themselves. +</p> + +<p> +‘But where is the money to come from, Joshua?’ +</p> + +<p> +‘I have already got it.’ He looked round, and finding that some +boys were near withdrew a few steps. ‘I have borrowed it at five per +cent. from the farmer who used to occupy the farm next our field. You remember +him.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘But about paying him?’ +</p> + +<p> +‘I shall pay him by degrees out of my stipend. No, Cornelius, it was no +use to do the thing by halves. She promises to be a most attractive, not to say +beautiful, girl. I have seen that for years; and if her face is not her +fortune, her face and her brains together will be, if I observe and contrive +aright. That she should be, every inch of her, an accomplished and refined +woman, was indispensable for the fulfilment of her destiny, and for moving +onwards and upwards with us; and she’ll do it, you will see. I’d +half starve myself rather than take her away from that school now.’ +</p> + +<p> +They looked round the school they were in. To Cornelius it was natural and +familiar enough, but to Joshua, with his limited human sympathies, who had just +dropped in from a superior sort of place, the sight jarred unpleasantly, as +being that of something he had left behind. ‘I shall be glad when you are +out of this,’ he said, ‘and in your pulpit, and well through your +first sermon.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘You may as well say inducted into my fat living, while you are about +it.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Ah, well—don’t think lightly of the Church. There’s a +fine work for any man of energy in the Church, as you’ll find,’ he +said fervidly. ‘Torrents of infidelity to be stemmed, new views of old +subjects to be expounded, truths in spirit to be substituted for truths in the +letter . . . ’ He lapsed into reverie with the vision of his career, +persuading himself that it was ardour for Christianity which spurred him on, +and not pride of place. He had shouldered a body of doctrine, and was prepared +to defend it tooth and nail, solely for the honour and glory that warriors win. +</p> + +<p> +‘If the Church is elastic, and stretches to the shape of the time, +she’ll last, I suppose,’ said Cornelius. ‘If not—. Only +think, I bought a copy of Paley’s <i>Evidences</i>, best edition, broad +margins, excellent preservation, at a bookstall the other day +for—ninepence; and I thought that at this rate Christianity must be in +rather a bad way.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘No, no!’ said the other almost, angrily. ‘It only shows that +such defences are no longer necessary. Men’s eyes can see the truth +without extraneous assistance. Besides, we are in for Christianity, and must +stick to her whether or no. I am just now going right through Pusey’s +<i>Library of the Fathers</i>.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘You’ll be a bishop, Joshua, before you have done!’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Ah!’ said the other bitterly, shaking his head. ‘Perhaps I +might have been—I might have been! But where is my D.D. or LL.D.; and how +be a bishop without that kind of appendage? Archbishop Tillotson was the son of +a Sowerby clothier, but he was sent to Clare College. To hail Oxford or +Cambridge as <i>alma mater</i> is not for me—for us! My God! when I think +of what we should have been—what fair promise has been blighted by that +cursed, worthless—’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Hush, hush! . . . But I feel it, too, as much as you. I have seen it +more forcibly lately. You would have obtained your degree long before this +time—possibly fellowship—and I should have been on my way to +mine.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Don’t talk of it,’ said the other. ‘We must do the +best we can.’ +</p> + +<p> +They looked out of the window sadly, through the dusty panes, so high up that +only the sky was visible. By degrees the haunting trouble loomed again, and +Cornelius broke the silence with a whisper: ‘He has called on me!’ +</p> + +<p> +The living pulses died on Joshua’s face, which grew arid as a clinker. +‘When was that?’ he asked quickly. +</p> + +<p> +‘Last week.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘How did he get here—so many miles?’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Came by railway. He came to ask for money.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Ah!’ +</p> + +<p> +‘He says he will call on you.’ +</p> + +<p> +Joshua replied resignedly. The theme of their conversation spoilt his buoyancy +for that afternoon. He returned in the evening, Cornelius accompanying him to +the station; but he did not read in the train which took him back to the +Fountall Theological College, as he had done on the way out. That ineradicable +trouble still remained as a squalid spot in the expanse of his life. He sat +with the other students in the cathedral choir next day; and the recollection +of the trouble obscured the purple splendour thrown by the panes upon the +floor. +</p> + +<p> +It was afternoon. All was as still in the Close as a cathedral-green can be +between the Sunday services, and the incessant cawing of the rooks was the only +sound. Joshua Halborough had finished his ascetic lunch, and had gone into the +library, where he stood for a few moments looking out of the large window +facing the green. He saw walking slowly across it a man in a fustian coat and a +battered white hat with a much-ruffled nap, having upon his arm a tall +gipsy-woman wearing long brass earrings. The man was staring quizzically at the +west front of the cathedral, and Halborough recognized in him the form and +features of his father. Who the woman was he knew not. Almost as soon as Joshua +became conscious of these things, the sub-dean, who was also the principal of +the college, and of whom the young man stood in more awe than of the Bishop +himself, emerged from the gate and entered a path across the Close. The pair +met the dignitary, and to Joshua’s horror his father turned and addressed +the sub-dean. +</p> + +<p> +What passed between them he could not tell. But as he stood in a cold sweat he +saw his father place his hand familiarly on the sub-dean’s shoulder; the +shrinking response of the latter, and his quick withdrawal, told his feeling. +The woman seemed to say nothing, but when the sub-dean had passed by they came +on towards the college gate. +</p> + +<p> +Halborough flew along the corridor and out at a side door, so as to intercept +them before they could reach the front entrance, for which they were making. He +caught them behind a clump of laurel. +</p> + +<p> +‘By Jerry, here’s the very chap! Well, you’re a fine fellow, +Jos, never to send your father as much as a twist o’ baccy on such an +occasion, and to leave him to travel all these miles to find ye out!’ +</p> + +<p> +‘First, who is this?’ said Joshua Halborough with pale dignity, +waving his hand towards the buxom woman with the great earrings. +</p> + +<p> +‘Dammy, the mis’ess! Your step-mother! Didn’t you know +I’d married? She helped me home from market one night, and we came to +terms, and struck the bargain. Didn’t we, Selinar?’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Oi, by the great Lord an’ we did!’ simpered the lady. +</p> + +<p> +‘Well, what sort of a place is this you are living in?’ asked the +millwright. ‘A kind of house-of-correction, apparently?’ +</p> + +<p> +Joshua listened abstractedly, his features set to resignation. Sick at heart he +was going to ask them if they were in want of any necessary, any meal, when his +father cut him short by saying, ‘Why, we’ve called to ask ye to +come round and take pot-luck with us at the Cock-and-Bottle, where we’ve +put up for the day, on our way to see mis’ess’s friends at Binegar +Fair, where they’ll be lying under canvas for a night or two. As for the +victuals at the Cock I can’t testify to ’em at all; but for the +drink, they’ve the rarest drop of Old Tom that I’ve tasted for many +a year.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Thanks; but I am a teetotaller; and I have lunched,’ said Joshua, +who could fully believe his father’s testimony to the gin, from the odour +of his breath. ‘You see we have to observe regular habits here; and I +couldn’t be seen at the Cock-and-Bottle just now.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘O dammy, then don’t come, your reverence. Perhaps you won’t +mind standing treat for those who can be seen there?’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Not a penny,’ said the younger firmly. ‘You’ve had +enough already.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Thank you for nothing. By the bye, who was that spindle-legged, +shoe-buckled parson feller we met by now? He seemed to think we should poison +him!’ +</p> + +<p> +Joshua remarked coldly that it was the principal of his college, guardedly +inquiring, ‘Did you tell him whom you were come to see?’ +</p> + +<p> +His father did not reply. He and his strapping gipsy wife—if she were his +wife—stayed no longer, and disappeared in the direction of the High +Street. Joshua Halborough went back to the library. Determined as was his +nature, he wept hot tears upon the books, and was immeasurably more wretched +that afternoon than the unwelcome millwright. In the evening he sat down and +wrote a letter to his brother, in which, after stating what had happened, and +expatiating upon this new disgrace in the gipsy wife, he propounded a plan for +raising money sufficient to induce the couple to emigrate to Canada. ‘It +is our only chance,’ he said. ‘The case as it stands is maddening. +For a successful painter, sculptor, musician, author, who takes society by +storm, it is no drawback, it is sometimes even a romantic recommendation, to +hail from outcasts and profligates. But for a clergyman of the Church of +England! Cornelius, it is fatal! To succeed in the Church, people must believe +in you, first of all, as a gentleman, secondly as a man of means, thirdly as a +scholar, fourthly as a preacher, fifthly, perhaps, as a Christian,—but +always first as a gentleman, with all their heart and soul and strength. I +would have faced the fact of being a small machinist’s son, and have +taken my chance, if he’d been in any sense respectable and decent. The +essence of Christianity is humility, and by the help of God I would have +brazened it out. But this terrible vagabondage and disreputable connection! If +he does not accept my terms and leave the country, it will extinguish us and +kill me. For how can we live, and relinquish our high aim, and bring down our +dear sister Rosa to the level of a gipsy’s step-daughter?’ +</p> + +<h3>CHAPTER III</h3> + +<p> +There was excitement in the parish of Narrobourne one day. The congregation had +just come out from morning service, and the whole conversation was of the new +curate, Mr. Halborough, who had officiated for the first time, in the absence +of the rector. +</p> + +<p> +Never before had the feeling of the villagers approached a level which could be +called excitement on such a matter as this. The droning which had been the rule +in that quiet old place for a century seemed ended at last. They repeated the +text to each other as a refrain: ‘O Lord, be thou my helper!’ Not +within living memory till to-day had the subject of the sermon formed the topic +of conversation from the church door to church-yard gate, to the exclusion of +personal remarks on those who had been present, and on the week’s news in +general. +</p> + +<p> +The thrilling periods of the preacher hung about their minds all that day. The +parish being steeped in indifferentism, it happened that when the youths and +maidens, middle-aged and old people, who had attended church that morning, +recurred as by a fascination to what Halborough had said, they did so more or +less indirectly, and even with the subterfuge of a light laugh that was not +real, so great was their shyness under the novelty of their sensations. +</p> + +<p> +What was more curious than that these unconventional villagers should have been +excited by a preacher of a new school after forty years of familiarity with the +old hand who had had charge of their souls, was the effect of +Halborough’s address upon the occupants of the manor-house pew, including +the owner of the estate. These thought they knew how to discount the mere +sensational sermon, how to minimize flash oratory to its bare proportions; but +they had yielded like the rest of the assembly to the charm of the newcomer. +</p> + +<p> +Mr. Fellmer, the landowner, was a young widower, whose mother, still in the +prime of life, had returned to her old position in the family mansion since the +death of her son’s wife in the year after her marriage, at the birth of a +fragile little girl. From the date of his loss to the present time, Fellmer had +led an inactive existence in the seclusion of the parish; a lack of motive +seemed to leave him listless. He had gladly reinstated his mother in the gloomy +house, and his main occupation now lay in stewarding his estate, which was not +large. Mrs. Fellmer, who had sat beside him under Halborough this morning, was +a cheerful, straightforward woman, who did her marketing and her alms-giving in +person, was fond of old-fashioned flowers, and walked about the village on very +wet days visiting the parishioners. These, the only two great ones of +Narrobourne, were impressed by Joshua’s eloquence as much as the +cottagers. +</p> + +<p> +Halborough had been briefly introduced to them on his arrival some days before, +and, their interest being kindled, they waited a few moments till he came out +of the vestry, to walk down the churchyard-path with him. Mrs. Fellmer spoke +warmly of the sermon, of the good fortune of the parish in his advent, and +hoped he had found comfortable quarters. +</p> + +<p> +Halborough, faintly flushing, said that he had obtained very fair lodgings in +the roomy house of a farmer, whom he named. +</p> + +<p> +She feared he would find it very lonely, especially in the evenings, and hoped +they would see a good deal of him. When would he dine with them? Could he not +come that day—it must be so dull for him the first Sunday evening in +country lodgings? +</p> + +<p> +Halborough replied that it would give him much pleasure, but that he feared he +must decline. ‘I am not altogether alone,’ he said. ‘My +sister, who has just returned from Brussels, and who felt, as you do, that I +should be rather dismal by myself, has accompanied me hither to stay a few days +till she has put my rooms in order and set me going. She was too fatigued to +come to church, and is waiting for me now at the farm.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Oh, but bring your sister—that will be still better! I shall be +delighted to know her. How I wish I had been aware! Do tell her, please, that +we had no idea of her presence.’ +</p> + +<p> +Halborough assured Mrs. Fellmer that he would certainly bear the message; but +as to her coming he was not so sure. The real truth was, however, that the +matter would be decided by him, Rosa having an almost filial respect for his +wishes. But he was uncertain as to the state of her wardrobe, and had +determined that she should not enter the manor-house at a disadvantage that +evening, when there would probably be plenty of opportunities in the future of +her doing so becomingly. +</p> + +<p> +He walked to the farm in long strides. This, then, was the outcome of his first +morning’s work as curate here. Things had gone fairly well with him. He +had been ordained; he was in a comfortable parish, where he would exercise +almost sole supervision, the rector being infirm. He had made a deep impression +at starting, and the absence of a hood seemed to have done him no harm. +Moreover, by considerable persuasion and payment, his father and the dark woman +had been shipped off to Canada, where they were not likely to interfere greatly +with his interests. +</p> + +<p> +Rosa came out to meet him. ‘Ah! you should have gone to church like a +good girl,’ he said. +</p> + +<p> +‘Yes—I wished I had afterwards. But I do so hate church as a rule +that even your preaching was underestimated in my mind. It was too bad of +me!’ +</p> + +<p> +The girl who spoke thus playfully was fair, tall, and sylph-like, in a muslin +dress, and with just the coquettish <i>désinvolture</i> which an English +girl brings home from abroad, and loses again after a few months of native +life. Joshua was the reverse of playful; the world was too important a concern +for him to indulge in light moods. He told her in decided, practical +phraseology of the invitation. +</p> + +<p> +‘Now, Rosa, we must go—that’s settled—if you’ve a +dress that can be made fit to wear all on the hop like this. You didn’t, +of course, think of bringing an evening dress to such an out-of-the-way +place?’ +</p> + +<p> +But Rosa had come from the wrong city to be caught napping in those matters. +‘Yes, I did,’ said she. ‘One never knows what may turn +up.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Well done! Then off we go at seven.’ +</p> + +<p> +The evening drew on, and at dusk they started on foot, Rosa pulling up the edge +of her skirt under her cloak out of the way of the dews, so that it formed a +great wind-bag all round her, and carrying her satin shoes under her arm. +Joshua would not let her wait till she got indoors before changing them, as she +proposed, but insisted on her performing that operation under a tree, so that +they might enter as if they had not walked. He was nervously formal about such +trifles, while Rosa took the whole proceeding—walk, dressing, dinner, and +all—as a pastime. To Joshua it was a serious step in life. +</p> + +<p> +A more unexpected kind of person for a curate’s sister was never +presented at a dinner. The surprise of Mrs. Fellmer was unconcealed. She had +looked forward to a Dorcas, or Martha, or Rhoda at the outside, and a shade of +misgiving crossed her face. It was possible that, had the young lady +accompanied her brother to church, there would have been no dining at +Narrobourne House that day. +</p> + +<p> +Not so with the young widower, her son. He resembled a sleeper who had awaked +in a summer noon expecting to find it only dawn. He could scarcely help +stretching his arms and yawning in their faces, so strong was his sense of +being suddenly aroused to an unforeseen thing. When they had sat down to table +he at first talked to Rosa somewhat with the air of a ruler in the land; but +the woman lurking in the acquaintance soon brought him to his level, and the +girl from Brussels saw him looking at her mouth, her hands, her contour, as if +he could not quite comprehend how they got created: then he dropped into the +more satisfactory stage which discerns no particulars. +</p> + +<p> +He talked but little; she said much. The homeliness of the Fellmers, to her +view, though they were regarded with such awe down here, quite disembarrassed +her. The squire had become so unpractised, had dropped so far into the shade +during the last year or so of his life, that he had almost forgotten what the +world contained till this evening reminded him. His mother, after her first +moments of doubt, appeared to think that he must be left to his own guidance, +and gave her attention to Joshua. +</p> + +<p> +With all his foresight and doggedness of aim, the result of that dinner +exceeded Halborough’s expectations. In weaving his ambitions he had +viewed his sister Rosa as a slight, bright thing to be helped into notice by +his abilities; but it now began to dawn upon him that the physical gifts of +nature to her might do more for them both than nature’s intellectual +gifts to himself. While he was patiently boring the tunnel Rosa seemed about to +fly over the mountain. +</p> + +<p> +He wrote the next day to his brother, now occupying his own old rooms in the +theological college, telling him exultingly of the unanticipated +<i>début</i> of Rosa at the manor-house. The next post brought him a +reply of congratulation, dashed with the counteracting intelligence that his +father did not like Canada—that his wife had deserted him, which made him +feel so dreary that he thought of returning home. +</p> + +<p> +In his recent satisfaction at his own successes Joshua Halborough had well-nigh +forgotten his chronic trouble—latterly screened by distance. But it now +returned upon him; he saw more in this brief announcement than his brother +seemed to see. It was the cloud no bigger than a man’s hand. +</p> + +<h3>CHAPTER IV</h3> + +<p> +The following December, a day or two before Christmas, Mrs. Fellmer and her son +were walking up and down the broad gravel path which bordered the east front of +the house. Till within the last half-hour the morning had been a drizzling one, +and they had just emerged for a short turn before luncheon. +</p> + +<p> +‘You see, dear mother,’ the son was saying, ‘it is the +peculiarity of my position which makes her appear to me in such a desirable +light. When you consider how I have been crippled at starting, how my life has +been maimed; that I feel anything like publicity distasteful, that I have no +political ambition, and that my chief aim and hope lie in the education of the +little thing Annie has left me, you must see how desirable a wife like Miss +Halborough would be, to prevent my becoming a mere vegetable.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘If you adore her, I suppose you must have her!’ replied his mother +with dry indirectness. ‘But you’ll find that she will not be +content to live on here as you do, giving her whole mind to a young +child.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘That’s just where we differ. Her very disqualification, that of +being a nobody, as you call it, is her recommendation in my eyes. Her lack of +influential connections limits her ambition. From what I know of her, a life in +this place is all that she would wish for. She would never care to go outside +the park-gates if it were necessary to stay within.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Being in love with her, Albert, and meaning to marry her, you invent +your practical reasons to make the case respectable. Well, do as you will; I +have no authority over you, so why should you consult me? You mean to propose +on this very occasion, no doubt. Don’t you, now?’ +</p> + +<p> +‘By no means. I am merely revolving the idea in my mind. If on further +acquaintance she turns out to be as good as she has hitherto seemed—well, +I shall see. Admit, now, that you like her.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘I readily admit it. She is very captivating at first sight. But as a +stepmother to your child! You seem mighty anxious, Albert, to get rid of +me!’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Not at all. And I am not so reckless as you think. I don’t make up +my mind in a hurry. But the thought having occurred to me, I mention it to you +at once, mother. If you dislike it, say so.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘I don’t say anything. I will try to make the best of it if you are +determined. When does she come?’ +</p> + +<p> +‘To-morrow.’ +</p> + +<p> +All this time there were great preparations in train at the curate’s, who +was now a householder. Rosa, whose two or three weeks’ stay on two +occasions earlier in the year had so affected the squire, was coming again, and +at the same time her younger brother Cornelius, to make up a family party. +Rosa, who journeyed from the Midlands, could not arrive till late in the +evening, but Cornelius was to get there in the afternoon, Joshua going out to +meet him in his walk across the fields from the railway. +</p> + +<p> +Everything being ready in Joshua’s modest abode he started on his way, +his heart buoyant and thankful, if ever it was in his life. He was of such good +report himself that his brother’s path into holy orders promised to be +unexpectedly easy; and he longed to compare experiences with him, even though +there was on hand a more exciting matter still. From his youth he had held +that, in old-fashioned country places, the Church conferred social prestige up +to a certain point at a cheaper price than any other profession or pursuit; and +events seemed to be proving him right. +</p> + +<p> +He had walked about half an hour when he saw Cornelius coming along the path; +and in a few minutes the two brothers met. The experiences of Cornelius had +been less immediately interesting than those of Joshua, but his personal +position was satisfactory, and there was nothing to account for the singularly +subdued manner that he exhibited, which at first Joshua set down to the fatigue +of over-study; and he proceeded to the subject of Rosa’s arrival in the +evening, and the probable consequences of this her third visit. ‘Before +next Easter she’ll be his wife, my boy,’ said Joshua with grave +exultation. +</p> + +<p> +Cornelius shook his head. ‘She comes too late!’ he returned. +</p> + +<p> +‘What do you mean?’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Look here.’ He produced the Fountall paper, and placed his finger +on a paragraph, which Joshua read. It appeared under the report of Petty +Sessions, and was a commonplace case of disorderly conduct, in which a man was +sent to prison for seven days for breaking windows in that town. +</p> + +<p> +‘Well?’ said Joshua. +</p> + +<p> +‘It happened during an evening that I was in the street; and the offender +is our father.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Not—how—I sent him more money on his promising to stay in +Canada?’ +</p> + +<p> +‘He is home, safe enough.’ Cornelius in the same gloomy tone gave +the remainder of his information. He had witnessed the scene, unobserved of his +father, and had heard him say that he was on his way to see his daughter, who +was going to marry a rich gentleman. The only good fortune attending the +untoward incident was that the millwright’s name had been printed as +Joshua Alborough. +</p> + +<p> +‘Beaten! We are to be beaten on the eve of our expected victory!’ +said the elder brother. ‘How did he guess that Rosa was likely to marry? +Good Heaven Cornelius, you seem doomed to bring bad news always, do you +not!’ +</p> + +<p> +‘I do,’ said Cornelius. ‘Poor Rosa!’ +</p> + +<p> +It was almost in tears, so great was their heart-sickness and shame, that the +brothers walked the remainder of the way to Joshua’s dwelling. In the +evening they set out to meet Rosa, bringing her to the village in a fly; and +when she had come into the house, and was sitting down with them, they almost +forgot their secret anxiety in contemplating her, who knew nothing about it. +</p> + +<p> +Next day the Fellmers came, and the two or three days after that were a lively +time. That the squire was yielding to his impulses—making up his +mind—there could be no doubt. On Sunday Cornelius read the lessons, and +Joshua preached. Mrs. Fellmer was quite maternal towards Rosa, and it appeared +that she had decided to welcome the inevitable with a good grace. The pretty +girl was to spend yet another afternoon with the elder lady, superintending +some parish treat at the house in observance of Christmas, and afterwards to +stay on to dinner, her brothers to fetch her in the evening. They were also +invited to dine, but they could not accept owing to an engagement. +</p> + +<p> +The engagement was of a sombre sort. They were going to meet their father, who +would that day be released from Fountall Gaol, and try to persuade him to keep +away from Narrobourne. Every exertion was to be made to get him back to Canada, +to his old home in the Midlands—anywhere, so that he would not impinge +disastrously upon their courses, and blast their sister’s prospects of +the auspicious marriage which was just then hanging in the balance. +</p> + +<p> +As soon as Rosa had been fetched away by her friends at the manor-house her +brothers started on their expedition, without waiting for dinner or tea. +Cornelius, to whom the millwright always addressed his letters when he wrote +any, drew from his pocket and re-read as he walked the curt note which had led +to this journey being undertaken; it was despatched by their father the night +before, immediately upon his liberation, and stated that he was setting out for +Narrobourne at the moment of writing; that having no money he would be obliged +to walk all the way; that he calculated on passing through the intervening town +of Ivell about six on the following day, where he should sup at the Castle Inn, +and where he hoped they would meet him with a carriage-and-pair, or some other +such conveyance, that he might not disgrace them by arriving like a tramp. +</p> + +<p> +‘That sounds as if he gave a thought to our position,’ said +Cornelius. +</p> + +<p> +Joshua knew the satire that lurked in the paternal words, and said nothing. +Silence prevailed during the greater part of their journey. The lamps were +lighted in Ivell when they entered the streets, and Cornelius, who was quite +unknown in this neighbourhood, and who, moreover, was not in clerical attire, +decided that he should be the one to call at the Castle Inn. Here, in answer to +his inquiry under the darkness of the archway, they told him that such a man as +he had described left the house about a quarter of an hour earlier, after +making a meal in the kitchen-settle. He was rather the worse for liquor. +</p> + +<p> +‘Then,’ said Joshua, when Cornelius joined him outside with this +intelligence, ‘we must have met and passed him! And now that I think of +it, we did meet some one who was unsteady in his gait, under the trees on the +other side of Hendford Hill, where it was too dark to see him.’ +</p> + +<p> +They rapidly retraced their steps; but for a long stretch of the way home could +discern nobody. When, however, they had gone about three-quarters of the +distance, they became conscious of an irregular footfall in front of them, and +could see a whitish figure in the gloom. They followed dubiously. The figure +met another wayfarer—the single one that had been encountered upon this +lonely road—and they distinctly heard him ask the way to Narrobourne. The +stranger replied—what was quite true—that the nearest way was by +turning in at the stile by the next bridge, and following the footpath which +branched thence across the meadows. +</p> + +<p> +When the brothers reached the stile they also entered the path, but did not +overtake the subject of their worry till they had crossed two or three meads, +and the lights from Narrobourne manor-house were visible before them through +the trees. Their father was no longer walking; he was seated against the wet +bank of an adjoining hedge. Observing their forms he shouted, ‘I’m +going to Narrobourne; who may you be?’ +</p> + +<p> +They went up to him, and revealed themselves, reminding him of the plan which +he had himself proposed in his note, that they should meet him at Ivell. +</p> + +<p> +‘By Jerry, I’d forgot it!’ he said. ‘Well, what do you +want me to do?’ His tone was distinctly quarrelsome. +</p> + +<p> +A long conversation followed, which became embittered at the first hint from +them that he should not come to the village. The millwright drew a quart bottle +from his pocket, and challenged them to drink if they meant friendly and called +themselves men. Neither of the two had touched alcohol for years, but for once +they thought it best to accept, so as not to needlessly provoke him. +</p> + +<p> +‘What’s in it?’ said Joshua. +</p> + +<p> +‘A drop of weak gin-and-water. It won’t hurt ye. Drin’ from +the bottle.’ Joshua did so, and his father pushed up the bottom of the +vessel so as to make him swallow a good deal in spite of himself. It went down +into his stomach like molten lead. +</p> + +<p> +‘Ha, ha, that’s right!’ said old Halborough. ‘But +’twas raw spirit—ha, ha!’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Why should you take me in so!’ said Joshua, losing his +self-command, try as he would to keep calm. +</p> + +<p> +‘Because you took me in, my lad, in banishing me to that cursed country +under pretence that it was for my good. You were a pair of hypocrites to say +so. It was done to get rid of me—no more nor less. But, by Jerry, +I’m a match for ye now! I’ll spoil your souls for preaching. My +daughter is going to be married to the squire here. I’ve heard the +news—I saw it in a paper!’ +</p> + +<p> +‘It is premature—’ +</p> + +<p> +‘I know it is true; and I’m her father, and I shall give her away, +or there’ll be a hell of a row, I can assure ye! Is that where the +gennleman lives?’ +</p> + +<p> +Joshua Halborough writhed in impotent despair. Fellmer had not yet positively +declared himself, his mother was hardly won round; a scene with their father in +the parish would demolish as fair a palace of hopes as was ever builded. The +millwright rose. ‘If that’s where the squire lives I’m going +to call. Just arrived from Canady with her fortune—ha, ha! I wish no harm +to the gennleman, and the gennleman will wish no harm to me. But I like to take +my place in the family, and stand upon my rights, and lower people’s +pride!’ +</p> + +<p> +‘You’ve succeeded already! Where’s that woman you took with +you—’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Woman! She was my wife as lawful as the Constitution—a sight more +lawful than your mother was till some time after you were born!’ +</p> + +<p> +Joshua had for many years before heard whispers that his father had cajoled his +mother in their early acquaintance, and had made somewhat tardy amends; but +never from his father’s lips till now. It was the last stroke, and he +could not bear it. He sank back against the hedge. ‘It is over!’ he +said. ‘He ruins us all!’ +</p> + +<p> +The millwright moved on, waving his stick triumphantly, and the two brothers +stood still. They could see his drab figure stalking along the path, and over +his head the lights from the conservatory of Narrobourne House, inside which +Albert Fellmer might possibly be sitting with Rosa at that moment, holding her +hand, and asking her to share his home with him. +</p> + +<p> +The staggering whitey-brown form, advancing to put a blot on all this, had been +diminishing in the shade; and now suddenly disappeared beside a weir. There was +the noise of a flounce in the water. +</p> + +<p> +‘He has fallen in!’ said Cornelius, starting forward to run for the +place at which his father had vanished. +</p> + +<p> +Joshua, awaking from the stupefied reverie into which he had sunk, rushed to +the other’s side before he had taken ten steps. ‘Stop, stop, what +are you thinking of?’ he whispered hoarsely, grasping Cornelius’s +arm. +</p> + +<p> +‘Pulling him out!’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Yes, yes—so am I. But—wait a moment—’ +</p> + +<p> +‘But, Joshua!’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Her life and happiness, you know—Cornelius—and your +reputation and mine—and our chance of rising together, all +three—’ +</p> + +<p> +He clutched his brother’s arm to the bone; and as they stood breathless +the splashing and floundering in the weir continued; over it they saw the +hopeful lights from the manor-house conservatory winking through the trees as +their bare branches waved to and fro. +</p> + +<p> +The floundering and splashing grew weaker, and they could hear gurgling words: +‘Help—I’m drownded! Rosie—Rosie!’ +</p> + +<p> +‘We’ll go—we must save him. O Joshua!’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Yes, yes! we must!’ +</p> + +<p> +Still they did not move, but waited, holding each other, each thinking the same +thought. Weights of lead seemed to be affixed to their feet, which would no +longer obey their wills. The mead became silent. Over it they fancied they +could see figures moving in the conservatory. The air up there seemed to emit +gentle kisses. +</p> + +<p> +Cornelius started forward at last, and Joshua almost simultaneously. Two or +three minutes brought them to the brink of the stream. At first they could see +nothing in the water, though it was not so deep nor the night so dark but that +their father’s light kerseymere coat would have been visible if he had +lain at the bottom. Joshua looked this way and that. +</p> + +<p> +‘He has drifted into the culvert,’ he said. +</p> + +<p> +Below the foot-bridge of the weir the stream suddenly narrowed to half its +width, to pass under a barrel arch or culvert constructed for waggons to cross +into the middle of the mead in haymaking time. It being at present the season +of high water the arch was full to the crown, against which the ripples clucked +every now and then. At this point he had just caught sight of a pale object +slipping under. In a moment it was gone. +</p> + +<p> +They went to the lower end, but nothing emerged. For a long time they tried at +both ends to effect some communication with the interior, but to no purpose. +</p> + +<p> +‘We ought to have come sooner!’ said the conscience-stricken +Cornelius, when they were quite exhausted, and dripping wet. +</p> + +<p> +‘I suppose we ought,’ replied Joshua heavily. He perceived his +father’s walking-stick on the bank; hastily picking it up he stuck it +into the mud among the sedge. Then they went on. +</p> + +<p> +‘Shall we—say anything about this accident?’ whispered +Cornelius as they approached the door of Joshua’s house. +</p> + +<p> +‘What’s the use? It can do no good. We must wait until he is +found.’ +</p> + +<p> +They went indoors and changed their clothes; after which they started for the +manor-house, reaching it about ten o’clock. Besides their sister there +were only three guests; an adjoining landowner and his wife, and the infirm old +rector. +</p> + +<p> +Rosa, although she had parted from them so recently, grasped their hands in an +ecstatic, brimming, joyful manner, as if she had not seen them for years. +‘You look pale,’ she said. +</p> + +<p> +The brothers answered that they had had a long walk, and were somewhat tired. +Everybody in the room seemed charged full with some sort of interesting +knowledge: the squire’s neighbour and his wife looked wisely around; and +Fellmer himself played the part of host with a preoccupied bearing which +approached fervour. They left at eleven, not accepting the carriage offered, +the distance being so short and the roads dry. The squire came rather farther +into the dark with them than he need have done, and wished Rosa good-night in a +mysterious manner, slightly apart from the rest. +</p> + +<p> +When they were walking along Joshua said, with desperate attempt at joviality, +‘Rosa, what’s going on?’ +</p> + +<p> +‘O, I—’ she began between a gasp and a bound. +‘He—’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Never mind—if it disturbs you.’ +</p> + +<p> +She was so excited that she could not speak connectedly at first, the practised +air which she had brought home with her having disappeared. Calming herself she +added, ‘I am not disturbed, and nothing has happened. Only he said he +wanted to ask me <i>something</i>, some day; and I said never mind that now. He +hasn’t asked yet, and is coming to speak to you about it. He would have +done so to-night, only I asked him not to be in a hurry. But he will come +to-morrow, I am sure!’ +</p> + +<h3>CHAPTER V</h3> + +<p> +It was summer-time, six months later, and mowers and haymakers were at work in +the meads. The manor-house, being opposite them, frequently formed a peg for +conversation during these operations; and the doings of the squire, and the +squire’s young wife, the curate’s sister—who was at present +the admired of most of them, and the interest of all—met with their due +amount of criticism. +</p> + +<p> +Rosa was happy, if ever woman could be said to be so. She had not learnt the +fate of her father, and sometimes wondered—perhaps with a sense of +relief—why he did not write to her from his supposed home in Canada. Her +brother Joshua had been presented to a living in a small town, shortly after +her marriage, and Cornelius had thereupon succeeded to the vacant curacy of +Narrobourne. +</p> + +<p> +These two had awaited in deep suspense the discovery of their father’s +body; and yet the discovery had not been made. Every day they expected a man or +a boy to run up from the meads with the intelligence; but he had never come. +Days had accumulated to weeks and months; the wedding had come and gone: Joshua +had tolled and read himself in at his new parish; and never a shout of +amazement over the millwright’s remains. +</p> + +<p> +But now, in June, when they were mowing the meads, the hatches had to be drawn +and the water let out of its channels for the convenience of the mowers. It was +thus that the discovery was made. A man, stooping low with his scythe, caught a +view of the culvert lengthwise, and saw something entangled in the recently +bared weeds of its bed. A day or two after there was an inquest; but the body +was unrecognizable. Fish and flood had been busy with the millwright; he had no +watch or marked article which could be identified; and a verdict of the +accidental drowning of a person unknown settled the matter. +</p> + +<p> +As the body was found in Narrobourne parish, there it had to be buried. +Cornelius wrote to Joshua, begging him to come and read the service, or to send +some one; he himself could not do it. Rather than let in a stranger Joshua +came, and silently scanned the coroner’s order handed him by the +undertaker:— +</p> + +<p> +‘I, Henry Giles, Coroner for the Mid-Division of Outer Wessex, do hereby +order the Burial of the Body now shown to the Inquest Jury as the Body of an +Adult Male Person Unknown . . . ,’ etc. +</p> + +<p> +Joshua Halborough got through the service in some way, and rejoined his brother +Cornelius at his house. Neither accepted an invitation to lunch at their +sister’s; they wished to discuss parish matters together. In the +afternoon she came down, though they had already called on her, and had not +expected to see her again. Her bright eyes, brown hair, flowery bonnet, +lemon-coloured gloves, and flush beauty, were like an irradiation into the +apartment, which they in their gloom could hardly bear. +</p> + +<p> +‘I forgot to tell you,’ she said, ‘of a curious thing which +happened to me a month or two before my marriage—something which I have +thought may have had a connection with the accident to the poor man you have +buried to-day. It was on that evening I was at the manor-house waiting for you +to fetch me; I was in the winter-garden with Albert, and we were sitting silent +together, when we fancied we heard a cry. We opened the door, and while Albert +ran to fetch his hat, leaving me standing there, the cry was repeated, and my +excited senses made me think I heard my own name. When Albert came back all was +silent, and we decided that it was only a drunken shout, and not a cry for +help. We both forgot the incident, and it never has occurred to me till since +the funeral to-day that it might have been this stranger’s cry. The name +of course was only fancy, or he might have had a wife or child with a name +something like mine, poor man!’ +</p> + +<p> +When she was gone the brothers were silent till Cornelius said, ‘Now mark +this, Joshua. Sooner or later she’ll know.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘How?’ +</p> + +<p> +‘From one of us. Do you think human hearts are iron-cased safes, that you +suppose we can keep this secret for ever?’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Yes, I think they are, sometimes,’ said Joshua. +</p> + +<p> +‘No. It will out. We shall tell.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘What, and ruin her—kill her? Disgrace her children, and pull down +the whole auspicious house of Fellmer about our ears? No! May I—drown +where he was drowned before I do it! Never, never. Surely you can say the same, +Cornelius!’ +</p> + +<p> +Cornelius seemed fortified, and no more was said. For a long time after that +day he did not see Joshua, and before the next year was out a son and heir was +born to the Fellmers. The villagers rang the three bells every evening for a +week and more, and were made merry by Mr. Fellmer’s ale; and when the +christening came on Joshua paid Narrobourne another visit. +</p> + +<p> +Among all the people who assembled on that day the brother clergymen were the +least interested. Their minds were haunted by a spirit in kerseymere in the +evening they walked together in the fields. +</p> + +<p> +‘She’s all right,’ said Joshua. ‘But here are you doing +journey-work, Cornelius, and likely to continue at it till the end of the day, +as far as I can see. I, too, with my petty living—what am I after all? . +. . To tell the truth, the Church is a poor forlorn hope for people without +influence, particularly when their enthusiasm begins to flag. A social +regenerator has a better chance outside, where he is unhampered by dogma and +tradition. As for me, I would rather have gone on mending mills, with my crust +of bread and liberty.’ +</p> + +<p> +Almost automatically they had bent their steps along the margin of the river; +they now paused. They were standing on the brink of the well-known weir. There +were the hatches, there was the culvert; they could see the pebbly bed of the +stream through the pellucid water. The notes of the church-bells were audible, +still jangled by the enthusiastic villagers. +</p> + +<p> +‘Why see—it was there I hid his walking-stick!’ said Joshua, +looking towards the sedge. The next moment, during a passing breeze, something +flashed white on the spot to which the attention of Cornelius was drawn. +</p> + +<p> +From the sedge rose a straight little silver-poplar, and it was the leaves of +this sapling which caused the flicker of whiteness. +</p> + +<p> +‘His walking-stick has grown!’ Joshua added. ‘It was a rough +one—cut from the hedge, I remember.’ +</p> + +<p> +At every puff of wind the tree turned white, till they could not bear to look +at it; and they walked away. +</p> + +<p> +‘I see him every night,’ Cornelius murmured . . . ‘Ah, we +read our <i>Hebrews</i> to little account, Jos! +Υπέμεινε +σταυρον, +αισχυνης +καταφρονησας. +To have endured the cross, despising the shame—there lay greatness! But +now I often feel that I should like to put an end to trouble here in this +self-same spot.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘I have thought of it myself,’ said Joshua. +</p> + +<p> +‘Perhaps we shall, some day,’ murmured his brother. +‘Perhaps,’ said Joshua moodily. +</p> + +<p> +With that contingency to consider in the silence of their nights and days they +bent their steps homewards. +</p> + +<p> +<i>December</i> 1888. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap04"></a>ON THE WESTERN CIRCUIT</h2> + +<h3>CHAPTER I</h3> + +<p> +The man who played the disturbing part in the two quiet lives hereafter +depicted—no great man, in any sense, by the way—first had knowledge +of them on an October evening, in the city of Melchester. He had been standing +in the Close, vainly endeavouring to gain amid the darkness a glimpse of the +most homogeneous pile of mediæval architecture in England, which towered +and tapered from the damp and level sward in front of him. While he stood the +presence of the Cathedral walls was revealed rather by the ear than by the +eyes; he could not see them, but they reflected sharply a roar of sound which +entered the Close by a street leading from the city square, and, falling upon +the building, was flung back upon him. +</p> + +<p> +He postponed till the morrow his attempt to examine the deserted edifice, and +turned his attention to the noise. It was compounded of steam barrel-organs, +the clanging of gongs, the ringing of hand-bells, the clack of rattles, and the +undistinguishable shouts of men. A lurid light hung in the air in the direction +of the tumult. Thitherward he went, passing under the arched gateway, along a +straight street, and into the square. +</p> + +<p> +He might have searched Europe over for a greater contrast between juxtaposed +scenes. The spectacle was that of the eighth chasm of the Inferno as to colour +and flame, and, as to mirth, a development of the Homeric heaven. A smoky +glare, of the complexion of brass-filings, ascended from the fiery tongues of +innumerable naphtha lamps affixed to booths, stalls, and other temporary +erections which crowded the spacious market-square. In front of this +irradiation scores of human figures, more or less in profile, were darting +athwart and across, up, down, and around, like gnats against a sunset. +</p> + +<p> +Their motions were so rhythmical that they seemed to be moved by machinery. And +it presently appeared that they were moved by machinery indeed; the figures +being those of the patrons of swings, see-saws, flying-leaps, above all of the +three steam roundabouts which occupied the centre of the position. It was from +the latter that the din of steam-organs came. +</p> + +<p> +Throbbing humanity in full light was, on second thoughts, better than +architecture in the dark. The young man, lighting a short pipe, and putting his +hat on one side and one hand in his pocket, to throw himself into harmony with +his new environment, drew near to the largest and most patronized of the steam +circuses, as the roundabouts were called by their owners. This was one of +brilliant finish, and it was now in full revolution. The musical instrument +around which and to whose tones the riders revolved, directed its +trumpet-mouths of brass upon the young man, and the long plate-glass mirrors +set at angles, which revolved with the machine, flashed the gyrating personages +and hobby horses kaleidoscopically into his eyes. +</p> + +<p> +It could now be seen that he was unlike the majority of the crowd. A +gentlemanly young fellow, one of the species found in large towns only, and +London particularly, built on delicate lines, well, though not fashionably +dressed, he appeared to belong to the professional class; he had nothing square +or practical about his look, much that was curvilinear and sensuous. Indeed, +some would have called him a man not altogether typical of the middle-class +male of a century wherein sordid ambition is the master-passion that seems to +be taking the time-honoured place of love. +</p> + +<p> +The revolving figures passed before his eyes with an unexpected and quiet grace +in a throng whose natural movements did not suggest gracefulness or quietude as +a rule. By some contrivance there was imparted to each of the hobby-horses a +motion which was really the triumph and perfection of roundabout +inventiveness—a galloping rise and fall, so timed that, of each pair of +steeds, one was on the spring while the other was on the pitch. The riders were +quite fascinated by these equine undulations in this most delightful +holiday-game of our times. There were riders as young as six, and as old as +sixty years, with every age between. At first it was difficult to catch a +personality, but by and by the observer’s eyes centred on the prettiest +girl out of the several pretty ones revolving. +</p> + +<p> +It was not that one with the light frock and light hat whom he had been at +first attracted by; no, it was the one with the black cape, grey skirt, light +gloves and—no, not even she, but the one behind her; she with the crimson +skirt, dark jacket, brown hat and brown gloves. Unmistakably that was the +prettiest girl. +</p> + +<p> +Having finally selected her, this idle spectator studied her as well as he was +able during each of her brief transits across his visual field. She was +absolutely unconscious of everything save the act of riding: her features were +rapt in an ecstatic dreaminess; for the moment she did not know her age or her +history or her lineaments, much less her troubles. He himself was full of vague +latter-day glooms and popular melancholies, and it was a refreshing sensation +to behold this young thing then and there, absolutely as happy as if she were +in a Paradise. +</p> + +<p> +Dreading the moment when the inexorable stoker, grimily lurking behind the +glittering rococo-work, should decide that this set of riders had had their +pennyworth, and bring the whole concern of steam-engine, horses, mirrors, +trumpets, drums, cymbals, and such-like to pause and silence, he waited for her +every reappearance, glancing indifferently over the intervening forms, +including the two plainer girls, the old woman and child, the two youngsters, +the newly-married couple, the old man with a clay pipe, the sparkish youth with +a ring, the young ladies in the chariot, the pair of journeyman-carpenters, and +others, till his select country beauty followed on again in her place. He had +never seen a fairer product of nature, and at each round she made a deeper mark +in his sentiments. The stoppage then came, and the sighs of the riders were +audible. +</p> + +<p> +He moved round to the place at which he reckoned she would alight; but she +retained her seat. The empty saddles began to refill, and she plainly was +deciding to have another turn. The young man drew up to the side of her steed, +and pleasantly asked her if she had enjoyed her ride. +</p> + +<p> +‘O yes!’ she said, with dancing eyes. ‘It has been quite +unlike anything I have ever felt in my life before!’ +</p> + +<p> +It was not difficult to fall into conversation with her. Unreserved—too +unreserved—by nature, she was not experienced enough to be reserved by +art, and after a little coaxing she answered his remarks readily. She had come +to live in Melchester from a village on the Great Plain, and this was the first +time that she had ever seen a steam-circus; she could not understand how such +wonderful machines were made. She had come to the city on the invitation of +Mrs. Harnham, who had taken her into her household to train her as a servant, +if she showed any aptitude. Mrs. Harnham was a young lady who before she +married had been Miss Edith White, living in the country near the +speaker’s cottage; she was now very kind to her through knowing her in +childhood so well. She was even taking the trouble to educate her. Mrs. Harnham +was the only friend she had in the world, and being without children had wished +to have her near her in preference to anybody else, though she had only lately +come; allowed her to do almost as she liked, and to have a holiday whenever she +asked for it. The husband of this kind young lady was a rich wine-merchant of +the town, but Mrs. Harnham did not care much about him. In the daytime you +could see the house from where they were talking. She, the speaker, liked +Melchester better than the lonely country, and she was going to have a new hat +for next Sunday that was to cost fifteen and ninepence. +</p> + +<p> +Then she inquired of her acquaintance where he lived, and he told her in +London, that ancient and smoky city, where everybody lived who lived at all, +and died because they could not live there. He came into Wessex two or three +times a year for professional reasons; he had arrived from Wintoncester +yesterday, and was going on into the next county in a day or two. For one thing +he did like the country better than the town, and it was because it contained +such girls as herself. +</p> + +<p> +Then the pleasure-machine started again, and, to the light-hearted girl, the +figure of the handsome young man, the market-square with its lights and crowd, +the houses beyond, and the world at large, began moving round as before, +countermoving in the revolving mirrors on her right hand, she being as it were +the fixed point in an undulating, dazzling, lurid universe, in which loomed +forward most prominently of all the form of her late interlocutor. Each time +that she approached the half of her orbit that lay nearest him they gazed at +each other with smiles, and with that unmistakable expression which means so +little at the moment, yet so often leads up to passion, heart-ache, union, +disunion, devotion, overpopulation, drudgery, content, resignation, despair. +</p> + +<p> +When the horses slowed anew he stepped to her side and proposed another heat. +‘Hang the expense for once,’ he said. ‘I’ll pay!’ +</p> + +<p> +She laughed till the tears came. +</p> + +<p> +‘Why do you laugh, dear?’ said he. +</p> + +<p> +‘Because—you are so genteel that you must have plenty of money, and +only say that for fun!’ she returned. +</p> + +<p> +‘Ha-ha!’ laughed the young man in unison, and gallantly producing +his money she was enabled to whirl on again. +</p> + +<p> +As he stood smiling there in the motley crowd, with his pipe in his hand, and +clad in the rough pea-jacket and wideawake that he had put on for his stroll, +who would have supposed him to be Charles Bradford Raye, Esquire, +stuff-gownsman, educated at Wintoncester, called to the Bar at +Lincoln’s-Inn, now going the Western Circuit, merely detained in +Melchester by a small arbitration after his brethren had moved on to the next +county-town? +</p> + +<h3>CHAPTER II</h3> + +<p> +The square was overlooked from its remoter corner by the house of which the +young girl had spoken, a dignified residence of considerable size, having +several windows on each floor. Inside one of these, on the first floor, the +apartment being a large drawing-room, sat a lady, in appearance from +twenty-eight to thirty years of age. The blinds were still undrawn, and the +lady was absently surveying the weird scene without, her cheek resting on her +hand. The room was unlit from within, but enough of the glare from the +market-place entered it to reveal the lady’s face. She was what is called +an interesting creature rather than a handsome woman; dark-eyed, thoughtful, +and with sensitive lips. +</p> + +<p> +A man sauntered into the room from behind and came forward. +</p> + +<p> +‘O, Edith, I didn’t see you,’ he said. ‘Why are you +sitting here in the dark?’ +</p> + +<p> +‘I am looking at the fair,’ replied the lady in a languid voice. +</p> + +<p> +‘Oh? Horrid nuisance every year! I wish it could be put a stop to’ +</p> + +<p> +‘I like it.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘H’m. There’s no accounting for taste.’ +</p> + +<p> +For a moment he gazed from the window with her, for politeness sake, and then +went out again. +</p> + +<p> +In a few minutes she rang. +</p> + +<p> +‘Hasn’t Anna come in?’ asked Mrs. Harnham. +</p> + +<p> +‘No m’m.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘She ought to be in by this time. I meant her to go for ten minutes +only.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Shall I go and look for her, m’m?’ said the house-maid +alertly. +</p> + +<p> +‘No. It is not necessary: she is a good girl and will come soon.’ +</p> + +<p> +However, when the servant had gone Mrs. Harnham arose, went up to her room, +cloaked and bonneted herself, and proceeded downstairs, where she found her +husband. +</p> + +<p> +‘I want to see the fair,’ she said; ‘and I am going to look +for Anna. I have made myself responsible for her, and must see she comes to no +harm. She ought to be indoors. Will you come with me?’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Oh, she’s all right. I saw her on one of those whirligig things, +talking to her young man as I came in. But I’ll go if you wish, though +I’d rather go a hundred miles the other way.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Then please do so. I shall come to no harm alone.’ +</p> + +<p> +She left the house and entered the crowd which thronged the market-place, where +she soon discovered Anna, seated on the revolving horse. As soon as it stopped +Mrs. Harnham advanced and said severely, ‘Anna, how can you be such a +wild girl? You were only to be out for ten minutes.’ +</p> + +<p> +Anna looked blank, and the young man, who had dropped into the background, came +to her assistance. +</p> + +<p> +‘Please don’t blame her,’ he said politely. ‘It is my +fault that she has stayed. She looked so graceful on the horse that I induced +her to go round again. I assure you that she has been quite safe.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘In that case I’ll leave her in your hands,’ said Mrs. +Harnham, turning to retrace her steps. +</p> + +<p> +But this for the moment it was not so easy to do. Something had attracted the +crowd to a spot in their rear, and the wine-merchant’s wife, caught by +its sway, found herself pressed against Anna’s acquaintance without power +to move away. Their faces were within a few inches of each other, his breath +fanned her cheek as well as Anna’s. They could do no other than smile at +the accident; but neither spoke, and each waited passively. Mrs. Harnham then +felt a man’s hand clasping her fingers, and from the look of +consciousness on the young fellow’s face she knew the hand to be his: she +also knew that from the position of the girl he had no other thought than that +the imprisoned hand was Anna’s. What prompted her to refrain from +undeceiving him she could hardly tell. Not content with holding the hand, he +playfully slipped two of his fingers inside her glove, against her palm. Thus +matters continued till the pressure lessened; but several minutes passed before +the crowd thinned sufficiently to allow Mrs. Harnham to withdraw. +</p> + +<p> +‘How did they get to know each other, I wonder?’ she mused as she +retreated. ‘Anna is really very forward—and he very wicked and +nice.’ +</p> + +<p> +She was so gently stirred with the stranger’s manner and voice, with the +tenderness of his idle touch, that instead of re-entering the house she turned +back again and observed the pair from a screened nook. Really she argued (being +little less impulsive than Anna herself) it was very excusable in Anna to +encourage him, however she might have contrived to make his acquaintance; he +was so gentlemanly, so fascinating, had such beautiful eyes. The thought that +he was several years her junior produced a reasonless sigh. +</p> + +<p> +At length the couple turned from the roundabout towards the door of Mrs. +Harnham’s house, and the young man could be heard saying that he would +accompany her home. Anna, then, had found a lover, apparently a very devoted +one. Mrs. Harnham was quite interested in him. When they drew near the door of +the wine-merchant’s house, a comparatively deserted spot by this time, +they stood invisible for a little while in the shadow of a wall, where they +separated, Anna going on to the entrance, and her acquaintance returning across +the square. +</p> + +<p> +‘Anna,’ said Mrs. Harnham, coming up. ‘I’ve been +looking at you! That young man kissed you at parting I am almost sure.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Well,’ stammered Anna; ‘he said, if I didn’t +mind—it would do me no harm, and, and, him a great deal of good!’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Ah, I thought so! And he was a stranger till to-night?’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Yes ma’am.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Yet I warrant you told him your name and every thing about +yourself?’ +</p> + +<p> +‘He asked me.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘But he didn’t tell you his?’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Yes ma’am, he did!’ cried Anna victoriously. ‘It is +Charles Bradford, of London.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Well, if he’s respectable, of course I’ve nothing to say +against your knowing him,’ remarked her mistress, prepossessed, in spite +of general principles, in the young man’s favour. ‘But I must +reconsider all that, if he attempts to renew your acquaintance. A country-bred +girl like you, who has never lived in Melchester till this month, who had +hardly ever seen a black-coated man till you came here, to be so sharp as to +capture a young Londoner like him!’ +</p> + +<p> +‘I didn’t capture him. I didn’t do anything,’ said +Anna, in confusion. +</p> + +<p> +When she was indoors and alone Mrs. Harnham thought what a well-bred and +chivalrous young man Anna’s companion had seemed. There had been a magic +in his wooing touch of her hand; and she wondered how he had come to be +attracted by the girl. +</p> + +<p> +The next morning the emotional Edith Harnham went to the usual week-day service +in Melchester cathedral. In crossing the Close through the fog she again +perceived him who had interested her the previous evening, gazing up +thoughtfully at the high-piled architecture of the nave: and as soon as she had +taken her seat he entered and sat down in a stall opposite hers. +</p> + +<p> +He did not particularly heed her; but Mrs. Harnham was continually occupying +her eyes with him, and wondered more than ever what had attracted him in her +unfledged maid-servant. The mistress was almost as unaccustomed as the maiden +herself to the end-of-the-age young man, or she might have wondered less. Raye, +having looked about him awhile, left abruptly, without regard to the service +that was proceeding; and Mrs. Harnham—lonely, impressionable creature +that she was—took no further interest in praising the Lord. She wished +she had married a London man who knew the subtleties of love-making as they +were evidently known to him who had mistakenly caressed her hand. +</p> + +<h3>CHAPTER III</h3> + +<p> +The calendar at Melchester had been light, occupying the court only a few +hours; and the assizes at Casterbridge, the next county-town on the Western +Circuit, having no business for Raye, he had not gone thither. At the next town +after that they did not open till the following Monday, trials to begin on +Tuesday morning. In the natural order of things Raye would have arrived at the +latter place on Monday afternoon; but it was not till the middle of Wednesday +that his gown and grey wig, curled in tiers, in the best fashion of Assyrian +bas-reliefs, were seen blowing and bobbing behind him as he hastily walked up +the High Street from his lodgings. But though he entered the assize building +there was nothing for him to do, and sitting at the blue baize table in the +well of the court, he mended pens with a mind far away from the case in +progress. Thoughts of unpremeditated conduct, of which a week earlier he would +not have believed himself capable, threw him into a mood of dissatisfied +depression. +</p> + +<p> +He had contrived to see again the pretty rural maiden Anna, the day after the +fair, had walked out of the city with her to the earthworks of Old Melchester, +and feeling a violent fancy for her, had remained in Melchester all Sunday, +Monday, and Tuesday; by persuasion obtaining walks and meetings with the girl +six or seven times during the interval; had in brief won her, body and soul. +</p> + +<p> +He supposed it must have been owing to the seclusion in which he had lived of +late in town that he had given way so unrestrainedly to a passion for an +artless creature whose inexperience had, from the first, led her to place +herself unreservedly in his hands. Much he deplored trifling with her feelings +for the sake of a passing desire; and he could only hope that she might not +live to suffer on his account. +</p> + +<p> +She had begged him to come to her again; entreated him; wept. He had promised +that he would do so, and he meant to carry out that promise. He could not +desert her now. Awkward as such unintentional connections were, the interspace +of a hundred miles—which to a girl of her limited capabilities was like a +thousand—would effectually hinder this summer fancy from greatly +encumbering his life; while thought of her simple love might do him the +negative good of keeping him from idle pleasures in town when he wished to work +hard. His circuit journeys would take him to Melchester three or four times a +year; and then he could always see her. +</p> + +<p> +The pseudonym, or rather partial name, that he had given her as his before +knowing how far the acquaintance was going to carry him, had been spoken on the +spur of the moment, without any ulterior intention whatever. He had not +afterwards disturbed Anna’s error, but on leaving her he had felt bound +to give her an address at a stationer’s not far from his chambers, at +which she might write to him under the initials ‘C. B.’ +</p> + +<p> +In due time Raye returned to his London abode, having called at Melchester on +his way and spent a few additional hours with his fascinating child of nature. +In town he lived monotonously every day. Often he and his rooms were enclosed +by a tawny fog from all the world besides, and when he lighted the gas to read +or write by, his situation seemed so unnatural that he would look into the fire +and think of that trusting girl at Melchester again and again. Often, oppressed +by absurd fondness for her, he would enter the dim religious nave of the Law +Courts by the north door, elbow other juniors habited like himself, and like +him unretained; edge himself into this or that crowded court where a +sensational case was going on, just as if he were in it, though the police +officers at the door knew as well as he knew himself that he had no more +concern with the business in hand than the patient idlers at the gallery-door +outside, who had waited to enter since eight in the morning because, like him, +they belonged to the classes that live on expectation. But he would do these +things to no purpose, and think how greatly the characters in such scenes +contrasted with the pink and breezy Anna. +</p> + +<p> +An unexpected feature in that peasant maiden’s conduct was that she had +not as yet written to him, though he had told her she might do so if she +wished. Surely a young creature had never before been so reticent in such +circumstances. At length he sent her a brief line, positively requesting her to +write. There was no answer by the return post, but the day after a letter in a +neat feminine hand, and bearing the Melchester post-mark, was handed to him by +the stationer. +</p> + +<p> +The fact alone of its arrival was sufficient to satisfy his imaginative +sentiment. He was not anxious to open the epistle, and in truth did not begin +to read it for nearly half-an-hour, anticipating readily its terms of +passionate retrospect and tender adjuration. When at last he turned his feet to +the fireplace and unfolded the sheet, he was surprised and pleased to find that +neither extravagance nor vulgarity was there. It was the most charming little +missive he had ever received from woman. To be sure the language was simple and +the ideas were slight; but it was so self-possessed; so purely that of a young +girl who felt her womanhood to be enough for her dignity that he read it +through twice. Four sides were filled, and a few lines written across, after +the fashion of former days; the paper, too, was common, and not of the latest +shade and surface. But what of those things? He had received letters from women +who were fairly called ladies, but never so sensible, so human a letter as +this. He could not single out any one sentence and say it was at all remarkable +or clever; the <i>ensemble</i> of the letter it was which won him; and beyond +the one request that he would write or come to her again soon there was nothing +to show her sense of a claim upon him. +</p> + +<p> +To write again and develop a correspondence was the last thing Raye would have +preconceived as his conduct in such a situation; yet he did send a short, +encouraging line or two, signed with his pseudonym, in which he asked for +another letter, and cheeringly promised that he would try to see her again on +some near day, and would never forget how much they had been to each other +during their short acquaintance. +</p> + +<h3>CHAPTER IV</h3> + +<p> +To return now to the moment at which Anna, at Melchester, had received +Raye’s letter. +</p> + +<p> +It had been put into her own hand by the postman on his morning rounds. She +flushed down to her neck on receipt of it, and turned it over and over. +‘It is mine?’ she said. +</p> + +<p> +‘Why, yes, can’t you see it is?’ said the postman, smiling as +he guessed the nature of the document and the cause of the confusion. +</p> + +<p> +‘O yes, of course!’ replied Anna, looking at the letter, forcedly +tittering, and blushing still more. +</p> + +<p> +Her look of embarrassment did not leave her with the postman’s departure. +She opened the envelope, kissed its contents, put away the letter in her +pocket, and remained musing till her eyes filled with tears. +</p> + +<p> +A few minutes later she carried up a cup of tea to Mrs. Harnham in her +bed-chamber. Anna’s mistress looked at her, and said: ‘How dismal +you seem this morning, Anna. What’s the matter?’ +</p> + +<p> +‘I’m not dismal, I’m glad; only I—’ She stopped +to stifle a sob. +</p> + +<p> +‘Well?’ +</p> + +<p> +‘I’ve got a letter—and what good is it to me, if I +can’t read a word in it!’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Why, I’ll read it, child, if necessary.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘But this is from somebody—I don’t want anybody to read it +but myself!’ Anna murmured. +</p> + +<p> +‘I shall not tell anybody. Is it from that young man?’ +</p> + +<p> +‘I think so.’ Anna slowly produced the letter, saying: ‘Then +will you read it to me, ma’am?’ +</p> + +<p> +This was the secret of Anna’s embarrassment and flutterings. She could +neither read nor write. She had grown up under the care of an aunt by marriage, +at one of the lonely hamlets on the Great Mid-Wessex Plain where, even in days +of national education, there had been no school within a distance of two miles. +Her aunt was an ignorant woman; there had been nobody to investigate +Anna’s circumstances, nobody to care about her learning the rudiments; +though, as often in such cases, she had been well fed and clothed and not +unkindly treated. Since she had come to live at Melchester with Mrs. Harnham, +the latter, who took a kindly interest in the girl, had taught her to speak +correctly, in which accomplishment Anna showed considerable readiness, as is +not unusual with the illiterate; and soon became quite fluent in the use of her +mistress’s phraseology. Mrs. Harnham also insisted upon her getting a +spelling and copy book, and beginning to practise in these. Anna was slower in +this branch of her education, and meanwhile here was the letter. +</p> + +<p> +Edith Harnham’s large dark eyes expressed some interest in the contents, +though, in her character of mere interpreter, she threw into her tone as much +as she could of mechanical passiveness. She read the short epistle on to its +concluding sentence, which idly requested Anna to send him a tender answer. +</p> + +<p> +‘Now—you’ll do it for me, won’t you, dear +mistress?’ said Anna eagerly. ‘And you’ll do it as well as +ever you can, please? Because I couldn’t bear him to think I am not able +to do it myself. I should sink into the earth with shame if he knew +that!’ +</p> + +<p> +From some words in the letter Mrs. Harnham was led to ask questions, and the +answers she received confirmed her suspicions. Deep concern filled +Edith’s heart at perceiving how the girl had committed her happiness to +the issue of this new-sprung attachment. She blamed herself for not interfering +in a flirtation which had resulted so seriously for the poor little creature in +her charge; though at the time of seeing the pair together she had a feeling +that it was hardly within her province to nip young affection in the bud. +However, what was done could not be undone, and it behoved her now, as +Anna’s only protector, to help her as much as she could. To Anna’s +eager request that she, Mrs. Harnham, should compose and write the answer to +this young London man’s letter, she felt bound to accede, to keep alive +his attachment to the girl if possible; though in other circumstances she might +have suggested the cook as an amanuensis. +</p> + +<p> +A tender reply was thereupon concocted, and set down in Edith Harnham’s +hand. This letter it had been which Raye had received and delighted in. Written +in the presence of Anna it certainly was, and on Anna’s humble +note-paper, and in a measure indited by the young girl; but the life, the +spirit, the individuality, were Edith Harnham’s. +</p> + +<p> +‘Won’t you at least put your name yourself?’ she said. +‘You can manage to write that by this time?’ +</p> + +<p> +‘No, no,’ said Anna, shrinking back. ‘I should do it so bad. +He’d be ashamed of me, and never see me again!’ +</p> + +<p> +The note, so prettily requesting another from him, had, as we have seen, power +enough in its pages to bring one. He declared it to be such a pleasure to hear +from her that she must write every week. The same process of manufacture was +accordingly repeated by Anna and her mistress, and continued for several weeks +in succession; each letter being penned and suggested by Edith, the girl +standing by; the answer read and commented on by Edith, Anna standing by and +listening again. +</p> + +<p> +Late on a winter evening, after the dispatch of the sixth letter, Mrs. Harnham +was sitting alone by the remains of her fire. Her husband had retired to bed, +and she had fallen into that fixity of musing which takes no count of hour or +temperature. The state of mind had been brought about in Edith by a strange +thing which she had done that day. For the first time since Raye’s visit +Anna had gone to stay over a night or two with her cottage friends on the +Plain, and in her absence had arrived, out of its time, a letter from Raye. To +this Edith had replied on her own responsibility, from the depths of her own +heart, without waiting for her maid’s collaboration. The luxury of +writing to him what would be known to no consciousness but his was great, and +she had indulged herself therein. +</p> + +<p> +Why was it a luxury? +</p> + +<p> +Edith Harnham led a lonely life. Influenced by the belief of the British parent +that a bad marriage with its aversions is better than free womanhood with its +interests, dignity, and leisure, she had consented to marry the elderly +wine-merchant as a <i>pis aller</i>, at the age of seven-and-twenty—some +three years before this date—to find afterwards that she had made a +mistake. That contract had left her still a woman whose deeper nature had never +been stirred. +</p> + +<p> +She was now clearly realizing that she had become possessed to the bottom of +her soul with the image of a man to whom she was hardly so much as a name. From +the first he had attracted her by his looks and voice; by his tender touch; +and, with these as generators, the writing of letter after letter and the +reading of their soft answers had insensibly developed on her side an emotion +which fanned his; till there had resulted a magnetic reciprocity between the +correspondents, notwithstanding that one of them wrote in a character not her +own. That he had been able to seduce another woman in two days was his crowning +though unrecognized fascination for her as the she-animal. +</p> + +<p> +They were her own impassioned and pent-up ideas—lowered to monosyllabic +phraseology in order to keep up the disguise—that Edith put into letters +signed with another name, much to the shallow Anna’s delight, who, +unassisted, could not for the world have conceived such pretty fancies for +winning him, even had she been able to write them. Edith found that it was +these, her own foisted-in sentiments, to which the young barrister mainly +responded. The few sentences occasionally added from Anna’s own lips made +apparently no impression upon him. +</p> + +<p> +The letter-writing in her absence Anna never discovered; but on her return the +next morning she declared she wished to see her lover about something at once, +and begged Mrs. Harnham to ask him to come. +</p> + +<p> +There was a strange anxiety in her manner which did not escape Mrs. Harnham, +and ultimately resolved itself into a flood of tears. Sinking down at +Edith’s knees, she made confession that the result of her relations with +her lover it would soon become necessary to disclose. +</p> + +<p> +Edith Harnham was generous enough to be very far from inclined to cast Anna +adrift at this conjuncture. No true woman ever is so inclined from her own +personal point of view, however prompt she may be in taking such steps to +safeguard those dear to her. Although she had written to Raye so short a time +previously, she instantly penned another Anna-note hinting clearly though +delicately the state of affairs. +</p> + +<p> +Raye replied by a hasty line to say how much he was affected by her news: he +felt that he must run down to see her almost immediately. +</p> + +<p> +But a week later the girl came to her mistress’s room with another note, +which on being read informed her that after all he could not find time for the +journey. Anna was broken with grief; but by Mrs. Harnham’s counsel +strictly refrained from hurling at him the reproaches and bitterness customary +from young women so situated. One thing was imperative: to keep the young +man’s romantic interest in her alive. Rather therefore did Edith, in the +name of her <i>protégée</i>, request him on no account to be +distressed about the looming event, and not to inconvenience himself to hasten +down. She desired above everything to be no weight upon him in his career, no +clog upon his high activities. She had wished him to know what had befallen: he +was to dismiss it again from his mind. Only he must write tenderly as ever, and +when he should come again on the spring circuit it would be soon enough to +discuss what had better be done. +</p> + +<p> +It may well be supposed that Anna’s own feelings had not been quite in +accord with these generous expressions; but the mistress’s judgment had +ruled, and Anna had acquiesced. ‘All I want is that <i>niceness</i> you +can so well put into your letters, my dear, dear mistress, and that I +can’t for the life o’ me make up out of my own head; though I mean +the same thing and feel it exactly when you’ve written it down!’ +</p> + +<p> +When the letter had been sent off, and Edith Harnham was left alone, she bowed +herself on the back of her chair and wept. +</p> + +<p> +‘I wish it was mine—I wish it was!’ she murmured. ‘Yet +how can I say such a wicked thing!’ +</p> + +<h3>CHAPTER V</h3> + +<p> +The letter moved Raye considerably when it reached him. The intelligence itself +had affected him less than her unexpected manner of treating him in relation to +it. The absence of any word of reproach, the devotion to his interests, the +self-sacrifice apparent in every line, all made up a nobility of character that +he had never dreamt of finding in womankind. +</p> + +<p> +‘God forgive me!’ he said tremulously. ‘I have been a wicked +wretch. I did not know she was such a treasure as this!’ +</p> + +<p> +He reassured her instantly; declaring that he would not of course desert her, +that he would provide a home for her somewhere. Meanwhile she was to stay where +she was as long as her mistress would allow her. +</p> + +<p> +But a misfortune supervened in this direction. Whether an inkling of +Anna’s circumstances reached the knowledge of Mrs. Harnham’s +husband or not cannot be said, but the girl was compelled, in spite of +Edith’s entreaties, to leave the house. By her own choice she decided to +go back for a while to the cottage on the Plain. This arrangement led to a +consultation as to how the correspondence should be carried on; and in the +girl’s inability to continue personally what had been begun in her name, +and in the difficulty of their acting in concert as heretofore, she requested +Mrs. Harnham—the only well-to-do friend she had in the world—to +receive the letters and reply to them off-hand, sending them on afterwards to +herself on the Plain, where she might at least get some neighbour to read them +to her, if a trustworthy one could be met with. Anna and her box then departed +for the Plain. +</p> + +<p> +Thus it befel that Edith Harnham found herself in the strange position of +having to correspond, under no supervision by the real woman, with a man not +her husband, in terms which were virtually those of a wife, concerning a +condition that was not Edith’s at all; the man being one for whom, mainly +through the sympathies involved in playing this part, she secretly cherished a +predilection, subtle and imaginative truly, but strong and absorbing. She +opened each letter, read it as if intended for herself, and replied from the +promptings of her own heart and no other. +</p> + +<p> +Throughout this correspondence, carried on in the girl’s absence, the +high-strung Edith Harnham lived in the ecstasy of fancy; the vicarious intimacy +engendered such a flow of passionateness as was never exceeded. For +conscience’ sake Edith at first sent on each of his letters to Anna, and +even rough copies of her replies; but later on these so-called copies were much +abridged, and many letters on both sides were not sent on at all. +</p> + +<p> +Though selfish, and, superficially at least, infested with the self-indulgent +vices of artificial society, there was a substratum of honesty and fairness in +Raye’s character. He had really a tender regard for the country girl, and +it grew more tender than ever when he found her apparently capable of +expressing the deepest sensibilities in the simplest words. He meditated, he +wavered; and finally resolved to consult his sister, a maiden lady much older +than himself, of lively sympathies and good intent. In making this confidence +he showed her some of the letters. +</p> + +<p> +‘She seems fairly educated,’ Miss Raye observed. ‘And bright +in ideas. She expresses herself with a taste that must be innate.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Yes. She writes very prettily, doesn’t she, thanks to these +elementary schools?’ +</p> + +<p> +‘One is drawn out towards her, in spite of one’s self, poor +thing.’ +</p> + +<p> +The upshot of the discussion was that though he had not been directly advised +to do it, Raye wrote, in his real name, what he would never have decided to +write on his own responsibility; namely that he could not live without her, and +would come down in the spring and shelve her looming difficulty by marrying +her. +</p> + +<p> +This bold acceptance of the situation was made known to Anna by Mrs. Harnham +driving out immediately to the cottage on the Plain. Anna jumped for joy like a +little child. And poor, crude directions for answering appropriately were given +to Edith Harnham, who on her return to the city carried them out with warm +intensification. +</p> + +<p> +‘O!’ she groaned, as she threw down the pen. ‘Anna—poor +good little fool—hasn’t intelligence enough to appreciate him! How +should she? While I—don’t bear his child!’ +</p> + +<p> +It was now February. The correspondence had continued altogether for four +months; and the next letter from Raye contained incidentally a statement of his +position and prospects. He said that in offering to wed her he had, at first, +contemplated the step of retiring from a profession which hitherto had brought +him very slight emolument, and which, to speak plainly, he had thought might be +difficult of practice after his union with her. But the unexpected mines of +brightness and warmth that her letters had disclosed to be lurking in her sweet +nature had led him to abandon that somewhat sad prospect. He felt sure that, +with her powers of development, after a little private training in the social +forms of London under his supervision, and a little help from a governess if +necessary, she would make as good a professional man’s wife as could be +desired, even if he should rise to the woolsack. Many a Lord Chancellor’s +wife had been less intuitively a lady than she had shown herself to be in her +lines to him. +</p> + +<p> +‘O—poor fellow, poor fellow!’ mourned Edith Harnham. +</p> + +<p> +Her distress now raged as high as her infatuation. It was she who had wrought +him to this pitch—to a marriage which meant his ruin; yet she could not, +in mercy to her maid, do anything to hinder his plan. Anna was coming to +Melchester that week, but she could hardly show the girl this last reply from +the young man; it told too much of the second individuality that had usurped +the place of the first. +</p> + +<p> +Anna came, and her mistress took her into her own room for privacy. Anna began +by saying with some anxiety that she was glad the wedding was so near. +</p> + +<p> +‘O Anna!’ replied Mrs. Harnham. ‘I think we must tell him +all—that I have been doing your writing for you?—lest he should not +know it till after you become his wife, and it might lead to dissension and +recriminations—’ +</p> + +<p> +‘O mis’ess, dear mis’ess—please don’t tell him +now!’ cried Anna in distress. ‘If you were to do it, perhaps he +would not marry me; and what should I do then? It would be terrible what would +come to me! And I am getting on with my writing, too. I have brought with me +the copybook you were so good as to give me, and I practise every day, and +though it is so, so hard, I shall do it well at last, I believe, if I keep on +trying.’ +</p> + +<p> +Edith looked at the copybook. The copies had been set by herself, and such +progress as the girl had made was in the way of grotesque facsimile of her +mistress’s hand. But even if Edith’s flowing caligraphy were +reproduced the inspiration would be another thing. +</p> + +<p> +‘You do it so beautifully,’ continued Anna, ‘and say all that +I want to say so much better than I could say it, that I do hope you +won’t leave me in the lurch just now!’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Very well,’ replied the other. ‘But I—but I thought I +ought not to go on!’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Why?’ +</p> + +<p> +Her strong desire to confide her sentiments led Edith to answer truly: +</p> + +<p> +‘Because of its effect upon me.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘But it <i>can’t</i> have any!’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Why, child?’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Because you are married already!’ said Anna with lucid simplicity. +</p> + +<p> +‘Of course it can’t,’ said her mistress hastily; yet glad, +despite her conscience, that two or three outpourings still remained to her. +‘But you must concentrate your attention on writing your name as I write +it here.’ +</p> + +<h3>CHAPTER VI</h3> + +<p> +Soon Raye wrote about the wedding. Having decided to make the best of what he +feared was a piece of romantic folly, he had acquired more zest for the grand +experiment. He wished the ceremony to be in London, for greater privacy. Edith +Harnham would have preferred it at Melchester; Anna was passive. His reasoning +prevailed, and Mrs. Harnham threw herself with mournful zeal into the +preparations for Anna’s departure. In a last desperate feeling that she +must at every hazard be in at the death of her dream, and see once again the +man who by a species of telepathy had exercised such an influence on her, she +offered to go up with Anna and be with her through the ceremony—‘to +see the end of her,’ as her mistress put it with forced gaiety; an offer +which the girl gratefully accepted; for she had no other friend capable of +playing the part of companion and witness, in the presence of a gentlemanly +bridegroom, in such a way as not to hasten an opinion that he had made an +irremediable social blunder. +</p> + +<p> +It was a muddy morning in March when Raye alighted from a four-wheel cab at the +door of a registry-office in the S.W. district of London, and carefully handed +down Anna and her companion Mrs. Harnham. Anna looked attractive in the +somewhat fashionable clothes which Mrs. Harnham had helped her to buy, though +not quite so attractive as, an innocent child, she had appeared in her country +gown on the back of the wooden horse at Melchester Fair. +</p> + +<p> +Mrs. Harnham had come up this morning by an early train, and a young +man—a friend of Raye’s—having met them at the door, all four +entered the registry-office together. Till an hour before this time Raye had +never known the wine-merchant’s wife, except at that first casual +encounter, and in the flutter of the performance before them he had little +opportunity for more than a brief acquaintance. The contract of marriage at a +registry is soon got through; but somehow, during its progress, Raye discovered +a strange and secret gravitation between himself and Anna’s friend. +</p> + +<p> +The formalities of the wedding—or rather ratification of a previous +union—being concluded, the four went in one cab to Raye’s lodgings, +newly taken in a new suburb in preference to a house, the rent of which he +could ill afford just then. Here Anna cut the little cake which Raye had bought +at a pastrycook’s on his way home from Lincoln’s Inn the night +before. But she did not do much besides. Raye’s friend was obliged to +depart almost immediately, and when he had left the only ones virtually present +were Edith and Raye who exchanged ideas with much animation. The conversation +was indeed theirs only, Anna being as a domestic animal who humbly heard but +understood not. Raye seemed startled in awakening to this fact, and began to +feel dissatisfied with her inadequacy. +</p> + +<p> +At last, more disappointed than he cared to own, he said, ‘Mrs. Harnham, +my darling is so flurried that she doesn’t know what she is doing or +saying. I see that after this event a little quietude will be necessary before +she gives tongue to that tender philosophy which she used to treat me to in her +letters.’ +</p> + +<p> +They had planned to start early that afternoon for Knollsea, to spend the few +opening days of their married life there, and as the hour for departure was +drawing near Raye asked his wife if she would go to the writing-desk in the +next room and scribble a little note to his sister, who had been unable to +attend through indisposition, informing her that the ceremony was over, +thanking her for her little present, and hoping to know her well now that she +was the writer’s sister as well as Charles’s. +</p> + +<p> +‘Say it in the pretty poetical way you know so well how to adopt,’ +he added, ‘for I want you particularly to win her, and both of you to be +dear friends.’ +</p> + +<p> +Anna looked uneasy, but departed to her task, Raye remaining to talk to their +guest. Anna was a long while absent, and her husband suddenly rose and went to +her. +</p> + +<p> +He found her still bending over the writing-table, with tears brimming up in +her eyes; and he looked down upon the sheet of note-paper with some interest, +to discover with what tact she had expressed her good-will in the delicate +circumstances. To his surprise she had progressed but a few lines, in the +characters and spelling of a child of eight, and with the ideas of a goose. +</p> + +<p> +‘Anna,’ he said, staring; ‘what’s this?’ +</p> + +<p> +‘It only means—that I can’t do it any better!’ she +answered, through her tears. +</p> + +<p> +‘Eh? Nonsense!’ +</p> + +<p> +‘I can’t!’ she insisted, with miserable, sobbing hardihood. +‘I—I—didn’t write those letters, Charles! I only told +<i>her</i> what to write! And not always that! But I am learning, O so fast, my +dear, dear husband! And you’ll forgive me, won’t you, for not +telling you before?’ She slid to her knees, abjectly clasped his waist +and laid her face against him. +</p> + +<p> +He stood a few moments, raised her, abruptly turned, and shut the door upon +her, rejoining Edith in the drawing-room. She saw that something untoward had +been discovered, and their eyes remained fixed on each other. +</p> + +<p> +‘Do I guess rightly?’ he asked, with wan quietude. +‘<i>You</i> were her scribe through all this?’ +</p> + +<p> +‘It was necessary,’ said Edith. +</p> + +<p> +‘Did she dictate every word you ever wrote to me?’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Not every word.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘In fact, very little?’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Very little.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘You wrote a great part of those pages every week from your own +conceptions, though in her name!’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Yes.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Perhaps you wrote many of the letters when you were alone, without +communication with her?’ +</p> + +<p> +‘I did.’ +</p> + +<p> +He turned to the bookcase, and leant with his hand over his face; and Edith, +seeing his distress, became white as a sheet. +</p> + +<p> +‘You have deceived me—ruined me!’ he murmured. +</p> + +<p> +‘O, don’t say it!’ she cried in her anguish, jumping up and +putting her hand on his shoulder. ‘I can’t bear that!’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Delighting me deceptively! Why did you do it—<i>why</i> did +you!’ +</p> + +<p> +‘I began doing it in kindness to her! How could I do otherwise than try +to save such a simple girl from misery? But I admit that I continued it for +pleasure to myself.’ +</p> + +<p> +Raye looked up. ‘Why did it give you pleasure?’ he asked. +</p> + +<p> +‘I must not tell,’ said she. +</p> + +<p> +He continued to regard her, and saw that her lips suddenly began to quiver +under his scrutiny, and her eyes to fill and droop. She started aside, and said +that she must go to the station to catch the return train: could a cab be +called immediately? +</p> + +<p> +But Raye went up to her, and took her unresisting hand. ‘Well, to think +of such a thing as this!’ he said. ‘Why, you and I are +friends—lovers—devoted lovers—by correspondence!’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Yes; I suppose.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘More.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘More?’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Plainly more. It is no use blinking that. Legally I have married +her—God help us both!—in soul and spirit I have married you, and no +other woman in the world!’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Hush!’ +</p> + +<p> +‘But I will not hush! Why should you try to disguise the full truth, when +you have already owned half of it? Yes, it is between you and me that the bond +is—not between me and her! Now I’ll say no more. But, O my cruel +one, I think I have one claim upon you!’ +</p> + +<p> +She did not say what, and he drew her towards him, and bent over her. ‘If +it was all pure invention in those letters,’ he said emphatically, +‘give me your cheek only. If you meant what you said, let it be lips. It +is for the first and last time, remember!’ +</p> + +<p> +She put up her mouth, and he kissed her long. ‘You forgive me?’ she +said crying. +</p> + +<p> +‘Yes.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘But you are ruined!’ +</p> + +<p> +‘What matter!’ he said shrugging his shoulders. ‘It serves me +right!’ +</p> + +<p> +She withdrew, wiped her eyes, entered and bade good-bye to Anna, who had not +expected her to go so soon, and was still wrestling with the letter. Raye +followed Edith downstairs, and in three minutes she was in a hansom driving to +the Waterloo station. +</p> + +<p> +He went back to his wife. ‘Never mind the letter, Anna, to-day,’ he +said gently. ‘Put on your things. We, too, must be off shortly.’ +</p> + +<p> +The simple girl, upheld by the sense that she was indeed married, showed her +delight at finding that he was as kind as ever after the disclosure. She did +not know that before his eyes he beheld as it were a galley, in which he, the +fastidious urban, was chained to work for the remainder of his life, with her, +the unlettered peasant, chained to his side. +</p> + +<p> +Edith travelled back to Melchester that day with a face that showed the very +stupor of grief; her lips still tingling from the desperate pressure of his +kiss. The end of her impassioned dream had come. When at dusk she reached the +Melchester station her husband was there to meet her, but in his +perfunctoriness and her preoccupation they did not see each other, and she went +out of the station alone. +</p> + +<p> +She walked mechanically homewards without calling a fly. Entering, she could +not bear the silence of the house, and went up in the dark to where Anna had +slept, where she remained thinking awhile. She then returned to the +drawing-room, and not knowing what she did, crouched down upon the floor. +</p> + +<p> +‘I have ruined him!’ she kept repeating. ‘I have ruined him; +because I would not deal treacherously towards her!’ +</p> + +<p> +In the course of half an hour a figure opened the door of the apartment. +</p> + +<p> +‘Ah—who’s that?’ she said, starting up, for it was +dark. +</p> + +<p> +‘Your husband—who should it be?’ said the worthy merchant. +</p> + +<p> +‘Ah—my husband!—I forgot I had a husband!’ she +whispered to herself. +</p> + +<p> +‘I missed you at the station,’ he continued. ‘Did you see +Anna safely tied up? I hope so, for ’twas time.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Yes—Anna is married.’ +</p> + +<p> +Simultaneously with Edith’s journey home Anna and her husband were +sitting at the opposite windows of a second-class carriage which sped along to +Knollsea. In his hand was a pocket-book full of creased sheets closely written +over. Unfolding them one after another he read them in silence, and sighed. +</p> + +<p> +‘What are you doing, dear Charles?’ she said timidly from the other +window, and drew nearer to him as if he were a god. +</p> + +<p> +‘Reading over all those sweet letters to me signed +“Anna,”’ he replied with dreary resignation. +</p> + +<p> +<i>Autumn</i> 1891. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap05"></a>TO PLEASE HIS WIFE</h2> + +<h3>CHAPTER I</h3> + +<p> +The interior of St. James’s Church, in Havenpool Town, was slowly +darkening under the close clouds of a winter afternoon. It was Sunday: service +had just ended, the face of the parson in the pulpit was buried in his hands, +and the congregation, with a cheerful sigh of release, were rising from their +knees to depart. +</p> + +<p> +For the moment the stillness was so complete that the surging of the sea could +be heard outside the harbour-bar. Then it was broken by the footsteps of the +clerk going towards the west door to open it in the usual manner for the exit +of the assembly. Before, however, he had reached the doorway, the latch was +lifted from without, and the dark figure of a man in a sailor’s garb +appeared against the light. +</p> + +<p> +The clerk stepped aside, the sailor closed the door gently behind him, and +advanced up the nave till he stood at the chancel-step. The parson looked up +from the private little prayer which, after so many for the parish, he quite +fairly took for himself; rose to his feet, and stared at the intruder. +</p> + +<p> +‘I beg your pardon, sir,’ said the sailor, addressing the minister +in a voice distinctly audible to all the congregation. ‘I have come here +to offer thanks for my narrow escape from shipwreck. I am given to understand +that it is a proper thing to do, if you have no objection?’ +</p> + +<p> +The parson, after a moment’s pause, said hesitatingly, ‘I have no +objection; certainly. It is usual to mention any such wish before service, so +that the proper words may be used in the General Thanksgiving. But, if you +wish, we can read from the form for use after a storm at sea.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Ay, sure; I ain’t particular,’ said the sailor. +</p> + +<p> +The clerk thereupon directed the sailor to the page in the prayer-book where +the collect of thanksgiving would be found, and the rector began reading it, +the sailor kneeling where he stood, and repeating it after him word by word in +a distinct voice. The people, who had remained agape and motionless at the +proceeding, mechanically knelt down likewise; but they continued to regard the +isolated form of the sailor who, in the precise middle of the chancel-step, +remained fixed on his knees, facing the east, his hat beside him, his hands +joined, and he quite unconscious of his appearance in their regard. +</p> + +<p> +When his thanksgiving had come to an end he rose; the people rose also, and all +went out of church together. As soon as the sailor emerged, so that the +remaining daylight fell upon his face, old inhabitants began to recognize him +as no other than Shadrach Jolliffe, a young man who had not been seen at +Havenpool for several years. A son of the town, his parents had died when he +was quite young, on which account he had early gone to sea, in the Newfoundland +trade. +</p> + +<p> +He talked with this and that townsman as he walked, informing them that, since +leaving his native place years before, he had become captain and owner of a +small coasting-ketch, which had providentially been saved from the gale as well +as himself. Presently he drew near to two girls who were going out of the +churchyard in front of him; they had been sitting in the nave at his entry, and +had watched his doings with deep interest, afterwards discussing him as they +moved out of church together. One was a slight and gentle creature, the other a +tall, large-framed, deliberative girl. Captain Jolliffe regarded the loose +curls of their hair, their backs and shoulders, down to their heels, for some +time. +</p> + +<p> +‘Who may them two maids be?’ he whispered to his neighbour. +</p> + +<p> +‘The little one is Emily Hanning; the tall one Joanna Phippard.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Ah! I recollect ’em now, to be sure.’ +</p> + +<p> +He advanced to their elbow, and genially stole a gaze at them. +</p> + +<p> +‘Emily, you don’t know me?’ said the sailor, turning his +beaming brown eyes on her. +</p> + +<p> +‘I think I do, Mr. Jolliffe,’ said Emily shyly. +</p> + +<p> +The other girl looked straight at him with her dark eyes. +</p> + +<p> +‘The face of Miss Joanna I don’t call to mind so well,’ he +continued. ‘But I know her beginnings and kindred.’ +</p> + +<p> +They walked and talked together, Jolliffe narrating particulars of his late +narrow escape, till they reached the corner of Sloop Lane, in which Emily +Hanning dwelt, when, with a nod and smile, she left them. Soon the sailor +parted also from Joanna, and, having no especial errand or appointment, turned +back towards Emily’s house. She lived with her father, who called himself +an accountant, the daughter, however, keeping a little stationery-shop as a +supplemental provision for the gaps of his somewhat uncertain business. On +entering Jolliffe found father and daughter about to begin tea. +</p> + +<p> +‘O, I didn’t know it was tea-time,’ he said. ‘Ay, +I’ll have a cup with much pleasure.’ +</p> + +<p> +He remained to tea and long afterwards, telling more tales of his seafaring +life. Several neighbours called to listen, and were asked to come in. Somehow +Emily Hanning lost her heart to the sailor that Sunday night, and in the course +of a week or two there was a tender understanding between them. +</p> + +<p> +One moonlight evening in the next month Shadrach was ascending out of the town +by the long straight road eastward, to an elevated suburb where the more +fashionable houses stood—if anything near this ancient port could be +called fashionable—when he saw a figure before him whom, from her manner +of glancing back, he took to be Emily. But, on coming up, he found she was +Joanna Phippard. He gave a gallant greeting, and walked beside her. +</p> + +<p> +‘Go along,’ she said, ‘or Emily will be jealous!’ +</p> + +<p> +He seemed not to like the suggestion, and remained. What was said and what was +done on that walk never could be clearly recollected by Shadrach; but in some +way or other Joanna contrived to wean him away from her gentler and younger +rival. From that week onwards, Jolliffe was seen more and more in the wake of +Joanna Phippard and less in the company of Emily; and it was soon rumoured +about the quay that old Jolliffe’s son, who had come home from sea, was +going to be married to the former young woman, to the great disappointment of +the latter. +</p> + +<p> +Just after this report had gone about, Joanna dressed herself for a walk one +morning, and started for Emily’s house in the little cross-street. +Intelligence of the deep sorrow of her friend on account of the loss of +Shadrach had reached her ears also, and her conscience reproached her for +winning him away. +</p> + +<p> +Joanna was not altogether satisfied with the sailor. She liked his attentions, +and she coveted the dignity of matrimony; but she had never been deeply in love +with Jolliffe. For one thing, she was ambitious, and socially his position was +hardly so good as her own, and there was always the chance of an attractive +woman mating considerably above her. It had long been in her mind that she +would not strongly object to give him back again to Emily if her friend felt so +very badly about him. To this end she had written a letter of renunciation to +Shadrach, which letter she carried in her hand, intending to send it if +personal observation of Emily convinced her that her friend was suffering. +</p> + +<p> +Joanna entered Sloop Lane and stepped down into the stationery-shop, which was +below the pavement level. Emily’s father was never at home at this hour +of the day, and it seemed as though Emily were not at home either, for the +visitor could make nobody hear. Customers came so seldom hither that a five +minutes’ absence of the proprietor counted for little. Joanna waited in +the little shop, where Emily had tastefully set out—as women +can—articles in themselves of slight value, so as to obscure the +meagreness of the stock-in-trade; till she saw a figure pausing without the +window apparently absorbed in the contemplation of the sixpenny books, packets +of paper, and prints hung on a string. It was Captain Shadrach Jolliffe, +peering in to ascertain if Emily were there alone. Moved by an impulse of +reluctance to meet him in a spot which breathed of Emily, Joanna slipped +through the door that communicated with the parlour at the back. She had +frequently done so before, for in her friendship with Emily she had the freedom +of the house without ceremony. +</p> + +<p> +Jolliffe entered the shop. Through the thin blind which screened the glass +partition she could see that he was disappointed at not finding Emily there. He +was about to go out again, when Emily’s form darkened the doorway, +hastening home from some errand. At sight of Jolliffe she started back as if +she would have gone out again. +</p> + +<p> +‘Don’t run away, Emily; don’t!’ said he. ‘What +can make ye afraid?’ +</p> + +<p> +‘I’m not afraid, Captain Jolliffe. Only—only I saw you all of +a sudden, and—it made me jump!’ Her voice showed that her heart had +jumped even more than the rest of her. +</p> + +<p> +‘I just called as I was passing,’ he said. +</p> + +<p> +‘For some paper?’ She hastened behind the counter. +</p> + +<p> +‘No, no, Emily; why do ye get behind there? Why not stay by me? You seem +to hate me.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘I don’t hate you. How can I?’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Then come out, so that we can talk like Christians.’ +</p> + +<p> +Emily obeyed with a fitful laugh, till she stood again beside him in the open +part of the shop. +</p> + +<p> +‘There’s a dear,’ he said. +</p> + +<p> +‘You mustn’t say that, Captain Jolliffe; because the words belong +to somebody else.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Ah! I know what you mean. But, Emily, upon my life I didn’t know +till this morning that you cared one bit about me, or I should not have done as +I have done. I have the best of feelings for Joanna, but I know that from the +beginning she hasn’t cared for me more than in a friendly way; and I see +now the one I ought to have asked to be my wife. You know, Emily, when a man +comes home from sea after a long voyage he’s as blind as a bat—he +can’t see who’s who in women. They are all alike to him, beautiful +creatures, and he takes the first that comes easy, without thinking if she +loves him, or if he might not soon love another better than her. From the first +I inclined to you most, but you were so backward and shy that I thought you +didn’t want me to bother ’ee, and so I went to Joanna.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Don’t say any more, Mr. Jolliffe, don’t!’ said she, +choking. ‘You are going to marry Joanna next month, and it is wrong +to—to—’ +</p> + +<p> +‘O, Emily, my darling!’ he cried, and clasped her little figure in +his arms before she was aware. +</p> + +<p> +Joanna, behind the curtain, turned pale, tried to withdraw her eyes, but could +not. +</p> + +<p> +‘It is only you I love as a man ought to love the woman he is going to +marry; and I know this from what Joanna has said, that she will willingly let +me off! She wants to marry higher I know, and only said “Yes” to me +out of kindness. A fine, tall girl like her isn’t the sort for a plain +sailor’s wife: you be the best suited for that.’ +</p> + +<p> +He kissed her and kissed her again, her flexible form quivering in the +agitation of his embrace. +</p> + +<p> +‘I wonder—are you sure—Joanna is going to break off with you? +O, are you sure? Because—’ +</p> + +<p> +‘I know she would not wish to make us miserable. She will release +me.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘O, I hope—I hope she will! Don’t stay any longer, Captain +Jolliffe!’ +</p> + +<p> +He lingered, however, till a customer came for a penny stick of sealing-wax, +and then he withdrew. +</p> + +<p> +Green envy had overspread Joanna at the scene. She looked about for a way of +escape. To get out without Emily’s knowledge of her visit was +indispensable. She crept from the parlour into the passage, and thence to the +front door of the house, where she let herself noiselessly into the street. +</p> + +<p> +The sight of that caress had reversed all her resolutions. She could not let +Shadrach go. Reaching home she burnt the letter, and told her mother that if +Captain Jolliffe called she was too unwell to see him. +</p> + +<p> +Shadrach, however, did not call. He sent her a note expressing in simple +language the state of his feelings; and asked to be allowed to take advantage +of the hints she had given him that her affection, too, was little more than +friendly, by cancelling the engagement. +</p> + +<p> +Looking out upon the harbour and the island beyond he waited and waited in his +lodgings for an answer that did not come. The suspense grew to be so +intolerable that after dark he went up the High Street. He could not resist +calling at Joanna’s to learn his fate. +</p> + +<p> +Her mother said her daughter was too unwell to see him, and to his questioning +admitted that it was in consequence of a letter received from himself; which +had distressed her deeply. +</p> + +<p> +‘You know what it was about, perhaps, Mrs. Phippard?’ he said. +</p> + +<p> +Mrs. Phippard owned that she did, adding that it put them in a very painful +position. Thereupon Shadrach, fearing that he had been guilty of an enormity, +explained that if his letter had pained Joanna it must be owing to a +misunderstanding, since he had thought it would be a relief to her. If +otherwise, he would hold himself bound by his word, and she was to think of the +letter as never having been written. +</p> + +<p> +Next morning he received an oral message from the young woman, asking him to +fetch her home from a meeting that evening. This he did, and while walking from +the Town Hall to her door, with her hand in his arm, she said: +</p> + +<p> +‘It is all the same as before between us, isn’t it, Shadrach? Your +letter was sent in mistake?’ +</p> + +<p> +‘It is all the same as before,’ he answered, ‘if you say it +must be.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘I wish it to be,’ she murmured, with hard lineaments, as she +thought of Emily. +</p> + +<p> +Shadrach was a religious and scrupulous man, who respected his word as his +life. Shortly afterwards the wedding took place, Jolliffe having conveyed to +Emily as gently as possible the error he had fallen into when estimating +Joanna’s mood as one of indifference. +</p> + +<h3>CHAPTER II</h3> + +<p> +A month after the marriage Joanna’s mother died, and the couple were +obliged to turn their attention to very practical matters. Now that she was +left without a parent, Joanna could not bear the notion of her husband going to +sea again, but the question was, What could he do at home? They finally decided +to take on a grocer’s shop in High Street, the goodwill and stock of +which were waiting to be disposed of at that time. Shadrach knew nothing of +shopkeeping, and Joanna very little, but they hoped to learn. +</p> + +<p> +To the management of this grocery business they now devoted all their energies, +and continued to conduct it for many succeeding years, without great success. +Two sons were born to them, whom their mother loved to idolatry, although she +had never passionately loved her husband; and she lavished upon them all her +forethought and care. But the shop did not thrive, and the large dreams she had +entertained of her sons’ education and career became attenuated in the +face of realities. Their schooling was of the plainest, but, being by the sea, +they grew alert in all such nautical arts and enterprises as were attractive to +their age. +</p> + +<p> +The great interest of the Jolliffes’ married life, outside their own +immediate household, had lain in the marriage of Emily. By one of those odd +chances which lead those that lurk in unexpected corners to be discovered, +while the obvious are passed by, the gentle girl had been seen and loved by a +thriving merchant of the town, a widower, some years older than herself, though +still in the prime of life. At first Emily had declared that she never, never +could marry any one; but Mr. Lester had quietly persevered, and had at last won +her reluctant assent. Two children also were the fruits of this union, and, as +they grew and prospered, Emily declared that she had never supposed that she +could live to be so happy. +</p> + +<p> +The worthy merchant’s home, one of those large, substantial brick +mansions frequently jammed up in old-fashioned towns, faced directly on the +High Street, nearly opposite to the grocery shop of the Jolliffes, and it now +became the pain of Joanna to behold the woman whose place she had usurped out +of pure covetousness, looking down from her position of comparative wealth upon +the humble shop-window with its dusty sugar-loaves, heaps of raisins, and +canisters of tea, over which it was her own lot to preside. The business having +so dwindled, Joanna was obliged to serve in the shop herself; and it galled and +mortified her that Emily Lester, sitting in her large drawing-room over the +way, could witness her own dancings up and down behind the counter at the beck +and call of wretched twopenny customers, whose patronage she was driven to +welcome gladly: persons to whom she was compelled to be civil in the street, +while Emily was bounding along with her children and her governess, and +conversing with the genteelest people of the town and neighbourhood. This was +what she had gained by not letting Shadrach Jolliffe, whom she had so faintly +loved, carry his affection elsewhere. +</p> + +<p> +Shadrach was a good and honest man, and he had been faithful to her in heart +and in deed. Time had clipped the wings of his love for Emily in his devotion +to the mother of his boys: he had quite lived down that impulsive earlier +fancy, and Emily had become in his regard nothing more than a friend. It was +the same with Emily’s feelings for him. Possibly, had she found the least +cause for jealousy, Joanna would almost have been better satisfied. It was in +the absolute acquiescence of Emily and Shadrach in the results she herself had +contrived that her discontent found nourishment. +</p> + +<p> +Shadrach was not endowed with the narrow shrewdness necessary for developing a +retail business in the face of many competitors. Did a customer inquire if the +grocer could really recommend the wondrous substitute for eggs which a +persevering bagman had forced into his stock, he would answer that ‘when +you did not put eggs into a pudding it was difficult to taste them +there’; and when he was asked if his ‘real Mocha coffee’ was +real Mocha, he would say grimly, ‘as understood in small shops.’ +</p> + +<p> +One summer day, when the big brick house opposite was reflecting the oppressive +sun’s heat into the shop, and nobody was present but husband and wife, +Joanna looked across at Emily’s door, where a wealthy visitor’s +carriage had drawn up. Traces of patronage had been visible in Emily’s +manner of late. +</p> + +<p> +‘Shadrach, the truth is, you are not a business-man,’ his wife +sadly murmured. ‘You were not brought up to shopkeeping, and it is +impossible for a man to make a fortune at an occupation he has jumped into, as +you did into this.’ +</p> + +<p> +Jolliffe agreed with her, in this as in everything else. +</p> + +<p> +‘Not that I care a rope’s end about making a fortune,’ he +said cheerfully. ‘I am happy enough, and we can rub on somehow.’ +</p> + +<p> +She looked again at the great house through the screen of bottled pickles. +</p> + +<p> +‘Rub on—yes,’ she said bitterly. ‘But see how well off +Emmy Lester is, who used to be so poor! Her boys will go to College, no doubt; +and think of yours—obliged to go to the Parish School!’ +</p> + +<p> +Shadrach’s thoughts had flown to Emily. +</p> + +<p> +‘Nobody,’ he said good-humouredly, ‘ever did Emily a better +turn than you did, Joanna, when you warned her off me and put an end to that +little simpering nonsense between us, so as to leave it in her power to say +“Aye” to Lester when he came along.’ This almost maddened +her. +</p> + +<p> +‘Don’t speak of bygones!’ she implored, in stern sadness. +‘But think, for the boys’ and my sake, if not for your own, what +are we to do to get richer?’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Well,’ he said, becoming serious, ‘to tell the truth, I have +always felt myself unfit for this business, though I’ve never liked to +say so. I seem to want more room for sprawling; a more open space to strike out +in than here among friends and neighbours. I could get rich as well as any man, +if I tried my own way.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘I wish you would! What is your way?’ +</p> + +<p> +‘To go to sea again.’ +</p> + +<p> +She had been the very one to keep him at home, hating the semi-widowed +existence of sailors’ wives. But her ambition checked her instincts now, +and she said: ‘Do you think success really lies that way?’ +</p> + +<p> +‘I am sure it lies in no other.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Do you want to go, Shadrach?’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Not for the pleasure of it, I can tell ’ee. There’s no such +pleasure at sea, Joanna, as I can find in my back parlour here. To speak +honest, I have no love for the brine. I never had much. But if it comes to a +question of a fortune for you and the lads, it is another thing. That’s +the only way to it for one born and bred a seafarer as I.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Would it take long to earn?’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Well, that depends; perhaps not.’ +</p> + +<p> +The next morning Shadrach pulled from a chest of drawers the nautical jacket he +had worn during the first months of his return, brushed out the moths, donned +it, and walked down to the quay. The port still did a fair business in the +Newfoundland trade, though not so much as formerly. +</p> + +<p> +It was not long after this that he invested all he possessed in purchasing a +part-ownership in a brig, of which he was appointed captain. A few months were +passed in coast-trading, during which interval Shadrach wore off the land-rust +that had accumulated upon him in his grocery phase; and in the spring the brig +sailed for Newfoundland. +</p> + +<p> +Joanna lived on at home with her sons, who were now growing up into strong +lads, and occupying themselves in various ways about the harbour and quay. +</p> + +<p> +‘Never mind, let them work a little,’ their fond mother said to +herself. ‘Our necessities compel it now, but when Shadrach comes home +they will be only seventeen and eighteen, and they shall be removed from the +port, and their education thoroughly taken in hand by a tutor; and with the +money they’ll have they will perhaps be as near to gentlemen as Emmy +Lester’s precious two, with their algebra and their Latin!’ +</p> + +<p> +The date for Shadrach’s return drew near and arrived, and he did not +appear. Joanna was assured that there was no cause for anxiety, sailing-ships +being so uncertain in their coming; which assurance proved to be well grounded, +for late one wet evening, about a month after the calculated time, the ship was +announced as at hand, and presently the slip-slop step of Shadrach as the +sailor sounded in the passage, and he entered. The boys had gone out and had +missed him, and Joanna was sitting alone. +</p> + +<p> +As soon as the first emotion of reunion between the couple had passed, Jolliffe +explained the delay as owing to a small speculative contract, which had +produced good results. +</p> + +<p> +‘I was determined not to disappoint ’ee,’ he said; ‘and +I think you’ll own that I haven’t!’ +</p> + +<p> +With this he pulled out an enormous canvas bag, full and rotund as the +money-bag of the giant whom Jack slew, untied it, and shook the contents out +into her lap as she sat in her low chair by the fire. A mass of sovereigns and +guineas (there were guineas on the earth in those days) fell into her lap with +a sudden thud, weighing down her gown to the floor. +</p> + +<p> +‘There!’ said Shadrach complacently. ‘I told ’ee, dear, +I’d do it; and have I done it or no?’ +</p> + +<p> +Somehow her face, after the first excitement of possession, did not retain its +glory. +</p> + +<p> +‘It is a lot of gold, indeed,’ she said. ‘And—is this +<i>all</i>?’ +</p> + +<p> +‘All? Why, dear Joanna, do you know you can count to three hundred in +that heap? It is a fortune!’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Yes—yes. A fortune—judged by sea; but judged by +land—’ +</p> + +<p> +However, she banished considerations of the money for the nonce. Soon the boys +came in, and next Sunday Shadrach returned thanks to God—this time by the +more ordinary channel of the italics in the General Thanksgiving. But a few +days after, when the question of investing the money arose, he remarked that +she did not seem so satisfied as he had hoped. +</p> + +<p> +‘Well you see, Shadrach,’ she answered, ‘<i>we</i> count by +hundreds; <i>they</i> count by thousands’ (nodding towards the other side +of the Street). ‘They have set up a carriage and pair since you +left.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘O, have they?’ +</p> + +<p> +‘My dear Shadrach, you don’t know how the world moves. However, +we’ll do the best we can with it. But they are rich, and we are poor +still!’ +</p> + +<p> +The greater part of a year was desultorily spent. She moved sadly about the +house and shop, and the boys were still occupying themselves in and around the +harbour. +</p> + +<p> +‘Joanna,’ he said, one day, ‘I see by your movements that it +is not enough.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘It is not enough,’ said she. ‘My boys will have to live by +steering the ships that the Lesters own; and I was once above her!’ +</p> + +<p> +Jolliffe was not an argumentative man, and he only murmured that he thought he +would make another voyage. +</p> + +<p> +He meditated for several days, and coming home from the quay one afternoon said +suddenly: +</p> + +<p> +‘I could do it for ’ee, dear, in one more trip, for certain, +if—if—’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Do what, Shadrach?’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Enable ’ee to count by thousands instead of hundreds.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘If what?’ +</p> + +<p> +‘If I might take the boys.’ +</p> + +<p> +She turned pale. +</p> + +<p> +‘Don’t say that, Shadrach,’ she answered hastily. +</p> + +<p> +‘Why?’ +</p> + +<p> +‘I don’t like to hear it! There’s danger at sea. I want them +to be something genteel, and no danger to them. I couldn’t let them risk +their lives at sea. O, I couldn’t ever, ever!’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Very well, dear, it shan’t be done.’ +</p> + +<p> +Next day, after a silence, she asked a question: +</p> + +<p> +‘If they were to go with you it would make a great deal of difference, I +suppose, to the profit?’ +</p> + +<p> +‘’Twould treble what I should get from the venture single-handed. +Under my eye they would be as good as two more of myself.’ +</p> + +<p> +Later on she said: ‘Tell me more about this.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Well, the boys are almost as clever as master-mariners in handling a +craft, upon my life! There isn’t a more cranky place in the Northern Seas +than about the sandbanks of this harbour, and they’ve practised here from +their infancy. And they are so steady. I couldn’t get their steadiness +and their trustworthiness in half a dozen men twice their age.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘And is it <i>very</i> dangerous at sea; now, too, there are rumours of +war?’ she asked uneasily. +</p> + +<p> +‘O, well, there be risks. Still . . . ’ +</p> + +<p> +The idea grew and magnified, and the mother’s heart was crushed and +stifled by it. Emmy was growing <i>too</i> patronizing; it could not be borne. +Shadrach’s wife could not help nagging him about their comparative +poverty. The young men, amiable as their father, when spoken to on the subject +of a voyage of enterprise, were quite willing to embark; and though they, like +their father, had no great love for the sea, they became quite enthusiastic +when the proposal was detailed. +</p> + +<p> +Everything now hung upon their mother’s assent. She withheld it long, but +at last gave the word: the young men might accompany their father. Shadrach was +unusually cheerful about it: Heaven had preserved him hitherto, and he had +uttered his thanks. God would not forsake those who were faithful to him. +</p> + +<p> +All that the Jolliffes possessed in the world was put into the enterprise. The +grocery stock was pared down to the least that possibly could afford a bare +sustenance to Joanna during the absence, which was to last through the usual +‘New-f’nland spell.’ How she would endure the weary time she +hardly knew, for the boys had been with her formerly; but she nerved herself +for the trial. +</p> + +<p> +The ship was laden with boots and shoes, ready-made clothing, fishing-tackle, +butter, cheese, cordage, sailcloth, and many other commodities; and was to +bring back oil, furs, skins, fish, cranberries, and what else came to hand. But +much trading to other ports was to be undertaken between the voyages out and +homeward, and thereby much money made. +</p> + +<h3>CHAPTER III</h3> + +<p> +The brig sailed on a Monday morning in spring; but Joanna did not witness its +departure. She could not bear the sight that she had been the means of bringing +about. Knowing this, her husband told her overnight that they were to sail some +time before noon next day hence when, awakening at five the next morning, she +heard them bustling about downstairs, she did not hasten to descend, but lay +trying to nerve herself for the parting, imagining they would leave about nine, +as her husband had done on his previous voyage. When she did descend she beheld +words chalked upon the sloping face of the bureau; but no husband or sons. In +the hastily-scrawled lines Shadrach said they had gone off thus not to pain her +by a leave-taking; and the sons had chalked under his words: ‘Good-bye, +mother!’ +</p> + +<p> +She rushed to the quay, and looked down the harbour towards the blue rim of the +sea, but she could only see the masts and bulging sails of the <i>Joanna</i>; +no human figures. ‘’Tis I have sent them!’ she said wildly, +and burst into tears. In the house the chalked ‘Good-bye’ nearly +broke her heart. But when she had re-entered the front room, and looked across +at Emily’s, a gleam of triumph lit her thin face at her anticipated +release from the thraldom of subservience. +</p> + +<p> +To do Emily Lester justice, her assumption of superiority was mainly a figment +of Joanna’s brain. That the circumstances of the merchant’s wife +were more luxurious than Joanna’s, the former could not conceal; though +whenever the two met, which was not very often now, Emily endeavoured to subdue +the difference by every means in her power. +</p> + +<p> +The first summer lapsed away; and Joanna meagrely maintained herself by the +shop, which now consisted of little more than a window and a counter. Emily +was, in truth, her only large customer; and Mrs. Lester’s kindly +readiness to buy anything and everything without questioning the quality had a +sting of bitterness in it, for it was the uncritical attitude of a patron, and +almost of a donor. The long dreary winter moved on; the face of the bureau had +been turned to the wall to protect the chalked words of farewell, for Joanna +could never bring herself to rub them out; and she often glanced at them with +wet eyes. Emily’s handsome boys came home for the Christmas holidays; the +University was talked of for them; and still Joanna subsisted as it were with +held breath, like a person submerged. Only one summer more, and the +‘spell’ would end. Towards the close of the time Emily called on +her quondam friend. She had heard that Joanna began to feel anxious; she had +received no letter from husband or sons for some months. Emily’s silks +rustled arrogantly when, in response to Joanna’s almost dumb invitation, +she squeezed through the opening of the counter and into the parlour behind the +shop. +</p> + +<p> +‘<i>You</i> are all success, and <i>I</i> am all the other way!’ +said Joanna. +</p> + +<p> +‘But why do you think so?’ said Emily. ‘They are to bring +back a fortune, I hear.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Ah! will they come? The doubt is more than a woman can bear. All three +in one ship—think of that! And I have not heard of them for +months!’ +</p> + +<p> +‘But the time is not up. You should not meet misfortune half-way.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Nothing will repay me for the grief of their absence!’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Then why did you let them go? You were doing fairly well.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘I made them go!’ she said, turning vehemently upon Emily. +‘And I’ll tell you why! I could not bear that we should be only +muddling on, and you so rich and thriving! Now I have told you, and you may +hate me if you will!’ +</p> + +<p> +‘I shall never hate you, Joanna.’ +</p> + +<p> +And she proved the truth of her words afterwards. The end of autumn came, and +the brig should have been in port; but nothing like the <i>Joanna</i> appeared +in the channel between the sands. It was now really time to be uneasy. Joanna +Jolliffe sat by the fire, and every gust of wind caused her a cold thrill. She +had always feared and detested the sea; to her it was a treacherous, restless, +slimy creature, glorying in the griefs of women. ‘Still,’ she said, +‘they <i>must</i> come!’ +</p> + +<p> +She recalled to her mind that Shadrach had said before starting that if they +returned safe and sound, with success crowning their enterprise, he would go as +he had gone after his shipwreck, and kneel with his sons in the church, and +offer sincere thanks for their deliverance. She went to church regularly +morning and afternoon, and sat in the most forward pew, nearest the +chancel-step. Her eyes were mostly fixed on that step, where Shadrach had knelt +in the bloom of his young manhood: she knew to an inch the spot which his knees +had pressed twenty winters before; his outline as he had knelt, his hat on the +step beside him. God was good. Surely her husband must kneel there again: a son +on each side as he had said; George just here, Jim just there. By long watching +the spot as she worshipped it became as if she saw the three returned ones +there kneeling; the two slim outlines of her boys, the more bulky form between +them; their hands clasped, their heads shaped against the eastern wall. The +fancy grew almost to an hallucination: she could never turn her worn eyes to +the step without seeing them there. +</p> + +<p> +Nevertheless they did not come. Heaven was merciful, but it was not yet pleased +to relieve her soul. This was her purgation for the sin of making them the +slaves of her ambition. But it became more than purgation soon, and her mood +approached despair. Months had passed since the brig had been due, but it had +not returned. +</p> + +<p> +Joanna was always hearing or seeing evidences of their arrival. When on the +hill behind the port, whence a view of the open Channel could be obtained, she +felt sure that a little speck on the horizon, breaking the eternally level +waste of waters southward, was the truck of the <i>Joana’s</i> mainmast. +Or when indoors, a shout or excitement of any kind at the corner of the Town +Cellar, where the High Street joined the Quay, caused her to spring to her feet +and cry: ‘’Tis they!’ +</p> + +<p> +But it was not. The visionary forms knelt every Sunday afternoon on the +chancel-step, but not the real. Her shop had, as it were, eaten itself hollow. +In the apathy which had resulted from her loneliness and grief she had ceased +to take in the smallest supplies, and thus had sent away her last customer. +</p> + +<p> +In this strait Emily Lester tried by every means in her power to aid the +afflicted woman; but she met with constant repulses. +</p> + +<p> +‘I don’t like you! I can’t bear to see you!’ Joanna +would whisper hoarsely when Emily came to her and made advances. +</p> + +<p> +‘But I want to help and soothe you, Joanna,’ Emily would say. +</p> + +<p> +‘You are a lady, with a rich husband and fine sons! What can you want +with a bereaved crone like me!’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Joanna, I want this: I want you to come and live in my house, and not +stay alone in this dismal place any longer.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘And suppose they come and don’t find me at home? You wish to +separate me and mine! No, I’ll stay here. I don’t like you, and I +can’t thank you, whatever kindness you do me!’ +</p> + +<p> +However, as time went on Joanna could not afford to pay the rent of the shop +and house without an income. She was assured that all hope of the return of +Shadrach and his sons was vain, and she reluctantly consented to accept the +asylum of the Lesters’ house. Here she was allotted a room of her own on +the second floor, and went and came as she chose, without contact with the +family. Her hair greyed and whitened, deep lines channeled her forehead, and +her form grew gaunt and stooping. But she still expected the lost ones, and +when she met Emily on the staircase she would say morosely: ‘I know why +you’ve got me here! They’ll come, and be disappointed at not +finding me at home, and perhaps go away again; and then you’ll be +revenged for my taking Shadrach away from ’ee!’ +</p> + +<p> +Emily Lester bore these reproaches from the grief-stricken soul. She was +sure—all the people of Havenpool were sure—that Shadrach and his +sons could not return. For years the vessel had been given up as lost. +</p> + +<p> +Nevertheless, when awakened at night by any noise, Joanna would rise from bed +and glance at the shop opposite by the light from the flickering lamp, to make +sure it was not they. +</p> + +<p> +It was a damp and dark December night, six years after the departure of the +brig <i>Joanna</i>. The wind was from the sea, and brought up a fishy mist +which mopped the face like moist flannel. Joanna had prayed her usual prayer +for the absent ones with more fervour and confidence than she had felt for +months, and had fallen asleep about eleven. It must have been between one and +two when she suddenly started up. She had certainly heard steps in the street, +and the voices of Shadrach and her sons calling at the door of the grocery +shop. She sprang out of bed, and, hardly knowing what clothing she dragged on +herself; hastened down Emily’s large and carpeted staircase, put the +candle on the hall-table, unfastened the bolts and chain, and stepped into the +street. The mist, blowing up the street from the Quay, hindered her seeing the +shop, although it was so near; but she had crossed to it in a moment. How was +it? Nobody stood there. The wretched woman walked wildly up and down with her +bare feet—there was not a soul. She returned and knocked with all her +might at the door which had once been her own—they might have been +admitted for the night, unwilling to disturb her till the morning. +</p> + +<p> +It was not till several minutes had elapsed that the young man who now kept the +shop looked out of an upper window, and saw the skeleton of something human +standing below half-dressed. +</p> + +<p> +‘Has anybody come?’ asked the form. +</p> + +<p> +‘O, Mrs. Jolliffe, I didn’t know it was you,’ said the young +man kindly, for he was aware how her baseless expectations moved her. +‘No; nobody has come.’ +</p> + +<p> +<i>June</i> 1891. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap06"></a>THE MELANCHOLY HUSSAR OF THE GERMAN LEGION</h2> + +<h3>CHAPTER I</h3> + +<p> +Here stretch the downs, high and breezy and green, absolutely unchanged since +those eventful days. A plough has never disturbed the turf, and the sod that +was uppermost then is uppermost now. Here stood the camp; here are distinct +traces of the banks thrown up for the horses of the cavalry, and spots where +the midden-heaps lay are still to be observed. At night, when I walk across the +lonely place, it is impossible to avoid hearing, amid the scourings of the wind +over the grass-bents and thistles, the old trumpet and bugle calls, the rattle +of the halters; to help seeing rows of spectral tents and the +<i>impedimenta</i> of the soldiery. From within the canvases come guttural +syllables of foreign tongues, and broken songs of the fatherland; for they were +mainly regiments of the King’s German Legion that slept round the +tent-poles hereabout at that time. +</p> + +<p> +It was nearly ninety years ago. The British uniform of the period, with its +immense epaulettes, queer cocked-hat, breeches, gaiters, ponderous +cartridge-box, buckled shoes, and what not, would look strange and barbarous +now. Ideas have changed; invention has followed invention. Soldiers were +monumental objects then. A divinity still hedged kings here and there; and war +was considered a glorious thing. +</p> + +<p> +Secluded old manor-houses and hamlets lie in the ravines and hollows among +these hills, where a stranger had hardly ever been seen till the King chose to +take the baths yearly at the sea-side watering-place a few miles to the south; +as a consequence of which battalions descended in a cloud upon the open country +around. Is it necessary to add that the echoes of many characteristic tales, +dating from that picturesque time, still linger about here in more or less +fragmentary form, to be caught by the attentive ear? Some of them I have +repeated; most of them I have forgotten; one I have never repeated, and +assuredly can never forget. +</p> + +<p> +Phyllis told me the story with her own lips. She was then an old lady of +seventy-five, and her auditor a lad of fifteen. She enjoined silence as to her +share in the incident, till she should be ‘dead, buried, and +forgotten.’ Her life was prolonged twelve years after the day of her +narration, and she has now been dead nearly twenty. The oblivion which in her +modesty and humility she courted for herself has only partially fallen on her, +with the unfortunate result of inflicting an injustice upon her memory; since +such fragments of her story as got abroad at the time, and have been kept alive +ever since, are precisely those which are most unfavourable to her character. +</p> + +<p> +It all began with the arrival of the York Hussars, one of the foreign regiments +above alluded to. Before that day scarcely a soul had been seen near her +father’s house for weeks. When a noise like the brushing skirt of a +visitor was heard on the doorstep, it proved to be a scudding leaf; when a +carriage seemed to be nearing the door, it was her father grinding his sickle +on the stone in the garden for his favourite relaxation of trimming the +box-tree borders to the plots. A sound like luggage thrown down from the coach +was a gun far away at sea; and what looked like a tall man by the gate at dusk +was a yew bush cut into a quaint and attenuated shape. There is no such +solitude in country places now as there was in those old days. +</p> + +<p> +Yet all the while King George and his court were at his favourite sea-side +resort, not more than five miles off. +</p> + +<p> +The daughter’s seclusion was great, but beyond the seclusion of the girl +lay the seclusion of the father. If her social condition was twilight, his was +darkness. Yet he enjoyed his darkness, while her twilight oppressed her. Dr. +Grove had been a professional man whose taste for lonely meditation over +metaphysical questions had diminished his practice till it no longer paid him +to keep it going; after which he had relinquished it and hired at a nominal +rent the small, dilapidated, half farm half manor-house of this obscure inland +nook, to make a sufficiency of an income which in a town would have been +inadequate for their maintenance. He stayed in his garden the greater part of +the day, growing more and more irritable with the lapse of time, and the +increasing perception that he had wasted his life in the pursuit of illusions. +He saw his friends less and less frequently. Phyllis became so shy that if she +met a stranger anywhere in her short rambles she felt ashamed at his gaze, +walked awkwardly, and blushed to her shoulders. +</p> + +<p> +Yet Phyllis was discovered even here by an admirer, and her hand most +unexpectedly asked in marriage. +</p> + +<p> +The King, as aforesaid, was at the neighbouring town, where he had taken up his +abode at Gloucester Lodge and his presence in the town naturally brought many +county people thither. Among these idlers—many of whom professed to have +connections and interests with the Court—was one Humphrey Gould, a +bachelor; a personage neither young nor old; neither good-looking nor +positively plain. Too steady-going to be ‘a buck’ (as fast and +unmarried men were then called), he was an approximately fashionable man of a +mild type. This bachelor of thirty found his way to the village on the down: +beheld Phyllis; made her father’s acquaintance in order to make hers; and +by some means or other she sufficiently inflamed his heart to lead him in that +direction almost daily; till he became engaged to marry her. +</p> + +<p> +As he was of an old local family, some of whose members were held in respect in +the county, Phyllis, in bringing him to her feet, had accomplished what was +considered a brilliant move for one in her constrained position. How she had +done it was not quite known to Phyllis herself. In those days unequal marriages +were regarded rather as a violation of the laws of nature than as a mere +infringement of convention, the more modern view, and hence when Phyllis, of +the watering-place bourgeoisie, was chosen by such a gentlemanly fellow, it was +as if she were going to be taken to heaven, though perhaps the uninformed would +have seen no great difference in the respective positions of the pair, the said +Gould being as poor as a crow. +</p> + +<p> +This pecuniary condition was his excuse—probably a true one—for +postponing their union, and as the winter drew nearer, and the King departed +for the season, Mr. Humphrey Gould set out for Bath, promising to return to +Phyllis in a few weeks. The winter arrived, the date of his promise passed, yet +Gould postponed his coming, on the ground that he could not very easily leave +his father in the city of their sojourn, the elder having no other relative +near him. Phyllis, though lonely in the extreme, was content. The man who had +asked her in marriage was a desirable husband for her in many ways; her father +highly approved of his suit; but this neglect of her was awkward, if not +painful, for Phyllis. Love him in the true sense of the word she assured me she +never did, but she had a genuine regard for him; admired a certain methodical +and dogged way in which he sometimes took his pleasure; valued his knowledge of +what the Court was doing, had done, or was about to do; and she was not without +a feeling of pride that he had chosen her when he might have exercised a more +ambitious choice. +</p> + +<p> +But he did not come; and the spring developed. His letters were regular though +formal; and it is not to be wondered that the uncertainty of her position, +linked with the fact that there was not much passion in her thoughts of +Humphrey, bred an indescribable dreariness in the heart of Phyllis Grove. The +spring was soon summer, and the summer brought the King; but still no Humphrey +Gould. All this while the engagement by letter was maintained intact. +</p> + +<p> +At this point of time a golden radiance flashed in upon the lives of people +here, and charged all youthful thought with emotional interest. This radiance +was the aforesaid York Hussars. +</p> + +<h3>CHAPTER II</h3> + +<p> +The present generation has probably but a very dim notion of the celebrated +York Hussars of ninety years ago. They were one of the regiments of the +King’s German Legion, and (though they somewhat degenerated later on) +their brilliant uniform, their splendid horses, and above all, their foreign +air and mustachios (rare appendages then), drew crowds of admirers of both +sexes wherever they went. These with other regiments had come to encamp on the +downs and pastures, because of the presence of the King in the neighbouring +town. +</p> + +<p> +The spot was high and airy, and the view extensive, commanding the Isle of +Portland in front, and reaching to St. Aldhelm’s Head eastward, and +almost to the Start on the west. +</p> + +<p> +Phyllis, though not precisely a girl of the village, was as interested as any +of them in this military investment. Her father’s home stood somewhat +apart, and on the highest point of ground to which the lane ascended, so that +it was almost level with the top of the church tower in the lower part of the +parish. Immediately from the outside of the garden-wall the grass spread away +to a great distance, and it was crossed by a path which came close to the wall. +Ever since her childhood it had been Phyllis’s pleasure to clamber up +this fence and sit on the top—a feat not so difficult as it may seem, the +walls in this district being built of rubble, without mortar, so that there +were plenty of crevices for small toes. +</p> + +<p> +She was sitting up here one day, listlessly surveying the pasture without, when +her attention was arrested by a solitary figure walking along the path. It was +one of the renowned German Hussars, and he moved onward with his eyes on the +ground, and with the manner of one who wished to escape company. His head would +probably have been bent like his eyes but for his stiff neck-gear. On nearer +view she perceived that his face was marked with deep sadness. Without +observing her, he advanced by the footpath till it brought him almost +immediately under the wall. +</p> + +<p> +Phyllis was much surprised to see a fine, tall soldier in such a mood as this. +Her theory of the military, and of the York Hussars in particular (derived +entirely from hearsay, for she had never talked to a soldier in her life), was +that their hearts were as gay as their accoutrements. +</p> + +<p> +At this moment the Hussar lifted his eyes and noticed her on her perch, the +white muslin neckerchief which covered her shoulders and neck where left bare +by her low gown, and her white raiment in general, showing conspicuously in the +bright sunlight of this summer day. He blushed a little at the suddenness of +the encounter, and without halting a moment from his pace passed on. +</p> + +<p> +All that day the foreigner’s face haunted Phyllis; its aspect was so +striking, so handsome, and his eyes were so blue, and sad, and abstracted. It +was perhaps only natural that on some following day at the same hour she should +look over that wall again, and wait till he had passed a second time. On this +occasion he was reading a letter, and at the sight of her his manner was that +of one who had half expected or hoped to discover her. He almost stopped, +smiled, and made a courteous salute. The end of the meeting was that they +exchanged a few words. She asked him what he was reading, and he readily +informed her that he was re-perusing letters from his mother in Germany; he did +not get them often, he said, and was forced to read the old ones a great many +times. This was all that passed at the present interview, but others of the +same kind followed. +</p> + +<p> +Phyllis used to say that his English, though not good, was quite intelligible +to her, so that their acquaintance was never hindered by difficulties of +speech. Whenever the subject became too delicate, subtle, or tender, for such +words of English as were at his command, the eyes no doubt helped out the +tongue, and—though this was later on—the lips helped out the eyes. +In short this acquaintance, unguardedly made, and rash enough on her part, +developed and ripened. Like Desdemona, she pitied him, and learnt his history. +</p> + +<p> +His name was Matthäus Tina, and Saarbrück his native town, where his +mother was still living. His age was twenty-two, and he had already risen to +the grade of corporal, though he had not long been in the army. Phyllis used to +assert that no such refined or well-educated young man could have been found in +the ranks of the purely English regiments, some of these foreign soldiers +having rather the graceful manner and presence of our native officers than of +our rank and file. +</p> + +<p> +She by degrees learnt from her foreign friend a circumstance about himself and +his comrades which Phyllis would least have expected of the York Hussars. So +far from being as gay as its uniform, the regiment was pervaded by a dreadful +melancholy, a chronic home-sickness, which depressed many of the men to such an +extent that they could hardly attend to their drill. The worst sufferers were +the younger soldiers who had not been over here long. They hated England and +English life; they took no interest whatever in King George and his island +kingdom, and they only wished to be out of it and never to see it any more. +Their bodies were here, but their hearts and minds were always far away in +their dear fatherland, of which—brave men and stoical as they were in +many ways—they would speak with tears in their eyes. One of the worst of +the sufferers from this home-woe, as he called it in his own tongue, was +Matthäus Tina, whose dreamy musing nature felt the gloom of exile still +more intensely from the fact that he had left a lonely mother at home with +nobody to cheer her. +</p> + +<p> +Though Phyllis, touched by all this, and interested in his history, did not +disdain her soldier’s acquaintance, she declined (according to her own +account, at least) to permit the young man to overstep the line of mere +friendship for a long while—as long, indeed, as she considered herself +likely to become the possession of another; though it is probable that she had +lost her heart to Matthäus before she was herself aware. The stone wall of +necessity made anything like intimacy difficult; and he had never ventured to +come, or to ask to come, inside the garden, so that all their conversation had +been overtly conducted across this boundary. +</p> + +<h3>CHAPTER III</h3> + +<p> +But news reached the village from a friend of Phyllis’s father concerning +Mr. Humphrey Gould, her remarkably cool and patient betrothed. This gentleman +had been heard to say in Bath that he considered his overtures to Miss Phyllis +Grove to have reached only the stage of a half-understanding; and in view of +his enforced absence on his father’s account, who was too great an +invalid now to attend to his affairs, he thought it best that there should be +no definite promise as yet on either side. He was not sure, indeed, that he +might not cast his eyes elsewhere. +</p> + +<p> +This account—though only a piece of hearsay, and as such entitled to no +absolute credit—tallied so well with the infrequency of his letters and +their lack of warmth, that Phyllis did not doubt its truth for one moment; and +from that hour she felt herself free to bestow her heart as she should choose. +Not so her father; he declared the whole story to be a fabrication. He had +known Mr. Gould’s family from his boyhood; and if there was one proverb +which expressed the matrimonial aspect of that family well, it was ‘Love +me little, love me long.’ Humphrey was an honourable man, who would not +think of treating his engagement so lightly. ‘Do you wait in +patience,’ he said; ‘all will be right enough in time.’ +</p> + +<p> +From these words Phyllis at first imagined that her father was in +correspondence with Mr. Gould; and her heart sank within her; for in spite of +her original intentions she had been relieved to hear that her engagement had +come to nothing. But she presently learnt that her father had heard no more of +Humphrey Gould than she herself had done; while he would not write and address +her affianced directly on the subject, lest it should be deemed an imputation +on that bachelor’s honour. +</p> + +<p> +‘You want an excuse for encouraging one or other of those foreign fellows +to flatter you with his unmeaning attentions,’ her father exclaimed, his +mood having of late been a very unkind one towards her. ‘I see more than +I say. Don’t you ever set foot outside that garden-fence without my +permission. If you want to see the camp I’ll take you myself some Sunday +afternoon.’ +</p> + +<p> +Phyllis had not the smallest intention of disobeying him in her actions, but +she assumed herself to be independent with respect to her feelings. She no +longer checked her fancy for the Hussar, though she was far from regarding him +as her lover in the serious sense in which an Englishman might have been +regarded as such. The young foreign soldier was almost an ideal being to her, +with none of the appurtenances of an ordinary house-dweller; one who had +descended she knew not whence, and would disappear she knew not whither; the +subject of a fascinating dream—no more. +</p> + +<p> +They met continually now—mostly at dusk—during the brief interval +between the going down of the sun and the minute at which the last trumpet-call +summoned him to his tent. Perhaps her manner had become less restrained +latterly; at any rate that of the Hussar was so; he had grown more tender every +day, and at parting after these hurried interviews she reached down her hand +from the top of the wall that he might press it. One evening he held it so long +that she exclaimed, ‘The wall is white, and somebody in the field may see +your shape against it!’ +</p> + +<p> +He lingered so long that night that it was with the greatest difficulty that he +could run across the intervening stretch of ground and enter the camp in time. +On the next occasion of his awaiting her she did not appear in her usual place +at the usual hour. His disappointment was unspeakably keen; he remained staring +blankly at the spot, like a man in a trance. The trumpets and tattoo sounded, +and still he did not go. +</p> + +<p> +She had been delayed purely by an accident. When she arrived she was anxious +because of the lateness of the hour, having heard as well as he the sounds +denoting the closing of the camp. She implored him to leave immediately. +</p> + +<p> +‘No,’ he said gloomily. ‘I shall not go in yet—the +moment you come—I have thought of your coming all day.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘But you may be disgraced at being after time?’ +</p> + +<p> +‘I don’t mind that. I should have disappeared from the world some +time ago if it had not been for two persons—my beloved, here, and my +mother in Saarbrück. I hate the army. I care more for a minute of your +company than for all the promotion in the world.’ +</p> + +<p> +Thus he stayed and talked to her, and told her interesting details of his +native place, and incidents of his childhood, till she was in a simmer of +distress at his recklessness in remaining. It was only because she insisted on +bidding him good-night and leaving the wall that he returned to his quarters. +</p> + +<p> +The next time that she saw him he was without the stripes that had adorned his +sleeve. He had been broken to the level of private for his lateness that night; +and as Phyllis considered herself to be the cause of his disgrace her sorrow +was great. But the position was now reversed; it was his turn to cheer her. +</p> + +<p> +‘Don’t grieve, meine Liebliche!’ he said. ‘I have got a +remedy for whatever comes. First, even supposing I regain my stripes, would +your father allow you to marry a non-commissioned officer in the York +Hussars?’ +</p> + +<p> +She flushed. This practical step had not been in her mind in relation to such +an unrealistic person as he was; and a moment’s reflection was enough for +it. ‘My father would not—certainly would not,’ she answered +unflinchingly. ‘It cannot be thought of! My dear friend, please do forget +me: I fear I am ruining you and your prospects!’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Not at all!’ said he. ‘You are giving this country of yours +just sufficient interest to me to make me care to keep alive in it. If my dear +land were here also, and my old parent, with you, I could be happy as I am, and +would do my best as a soldier. But it is not so. And now listen. This is my +plan. That you go with me to my own country, and be my wife there, and live +there with my mother and me. I am not a Hanoverian, as you know, though I +entered the army as such; my country is by the Saar, and is at peace with +France, and if I were once in it I should be free.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘But how get there?’ she asked. Phyllis had been rather amazed than +shocked at his proposition. Her position in her father’s house was +growing irksome and painful in the extreme; his parental affection seemed to be +quite dried up. She was not a native of the village, like all the joyous girls +around her; and in some way Matthäus Tina had infected her with his own +passionate longing for his country, and mother, and home. +</p> + +<p> +‘But how?’ she repeated, finding that he did not answer. +‘Will you buy your discharge?’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Ah, no,’ he said. ‘That’s impossible in these times. +No; I came here against my will; why should I not escape? Now is the time, as +we shall soon be striking camp, and I might see you no more. This is my scheme. +I will ask you to meet me on the highway two miles off; on some calm night next +week that may be appointed. There will be nothing unbecoming in it, or to cause +you shame; you will not fly alone with me, for I will bring with me my devoted +young friend Christoph, an Alsatian, who has lately joined the regiment, and +who has agreed to assist in this enterprise. We shall have come from yonder +harbour, where we shall have examined the boats, and found one suited to our +purpose. Christoph has already a chart of the Channel, and we will then go to +the harbour, and at midnight cut the boat from her moorings, and row away round +the point out of sight; and by the next morning we are on the coast of France, +near Cherbourg. The rest is easy, for I have saved money for the land journey, +and can get a change of clothes. I will write to my mother, who will meet us on +the way.’ +</p> + +<p> +He added details in reply to her inquiries, which left no doubt in +Phyllis’s mind of the feasibility of the undertaking. But its magnitude +almost appalled her; and it is questionable if she would ever have gone further +in the wild adventure if, on entering the house that night, her father had not +accosted her in the most significant terms. +</p> + +<p> +‘How about the York Hussars?’ he said. +</p> + +<p> +‘They are still at the camp; but they are soon going away, I +believe.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘It is useless for you to attempt to cloak your actions in that way. You +have been meeting one of those fellows; you have been seen walking with +him—foreign barbarians, not much better than the French themselves! I +have made up my mind—don’t speak a word till I have done, +please!—I have made up my mind that you shall stay here no longer while +they are on the spot. You shall go to your aunt’s.’ +</p> + +<p> +It was useless for her to protest that she had never taken a walk with any +soldier or man under the sun except himself. Her protestations were feeble, +too, for though he was not literally correct in his assertion, he was virtually +only half in error. +</p> + +<p> +The house of her father’s sister was a prison to Phyllis. She had quite +recently undergone experience of its gloom; and when her father went on to +direct her to pack what would be necessary for her to take, her heart died +within her. In after years she never attempted to excuse her conduct during +this week of agitation; but the result of her self-communing was that she +decided to join in the scheme of her lover and his friend, and fly to the +country which he had coloured with such lovely hues in her imagination. She +always said that the one feature in his proposal which overcame her hesitation +was the obvious purity and straightforwardness of his intentions. He showed +himself to be so virtuous and kind; he treated her with a respect to which she +had never before been accustomed; and she was braced to the obvious risks of +the voyage by her confidence in him. +</p> + +<h3>CHAPTER IV</h3> + +<p> +It was on a soft, dark evening of the following week that they engaged in the +adventure. Tina was to meet her at a point in the highway at which the lane to +the village branched off. Christoph was to go ahead of them to the harbour +where the boat lay, row it round the Nothe—or Look-out as it was called +in those days—and pick them up on the other side of the promontory, which +they were to reach by crossing the harbour-bridge on foot, and climbing over +the Look-out hill. +</p> + +<p> +As soon as her father had ascended to his room she left the house, and, bundle +in hand, proceeded at a trot along the lane. At such an hour not a soul was +afoot anywhere in the village, and she reached the junction of the lane with +the highway unobserved. Here she took up her position in the obscurity formed +by the angle of a fence, whence she could discern every one who approached +along the turnpike-road, without being herself seen. +</p> + +<p> +She had not remained thus waiting for her lover longer than a +minute—though from the tension of her nerves the lapse of even that short +time was trying—when, instead of the expected footsteps, the stage-coach +could be heard descending the hill. She knew that Tina would not show himself +till the road was clear, and waited impatiently for the coach to pass. Nearing +the corner where she was it slackened speed, and, instead of going by as usual, +drew up within a few yards of her. A passenger alighted, and she heard his +voice. It was Humphrey Gould’s. +</p> + +<p> +He had brought a friend with him, and luggage. The luggage was deposited on the +grass, and the coach went on its route to the royal watering-place. +</p> + +<p> +‘I wonder where that young man is with the horse and trap?’ said +her former admirer to his companion. ‘I hope we shan’t have to wait +here long. I told him half-past nine o’clock precisely.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Have you got her present safe?’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Phyllis’s? O, yes. It is in this trunk. I hope it will please +her.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Of course it will. What woman would not be pleased with such a handsome +peace-offering?’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Well—she deserves it. I’ve treated her rather badly. But she +has been in my mind these last two days much more than I should care to confess +to everybody. Ah, well; I’ll say no more about that. It cannot be that +she is so bad as they make out. I am quite sure that a girl of her good wit +would know better than to get entangled with any of those Hanoverian soldiers. +I won’t believe it of her, and there’s an end on’t.’ +</p> + +<p> +More words in the same strain were casually dropped as the two men waited; +words which revealed to her, as by a sudden illumination, the enormity of her +conduct. The conversation was at length cut off by the arrival of the man with +the vehicle. The luggage was placed in it, and they mounted, and were driven on +in the direction from which she had just come. +</p> + +<p> +Phyllis was so conscience-stricken that she was at first inclined to follow +them; but a moment’s reflection led her to feel that it would only be +bare justice to Matthäus to wait till he arrived, and explain candidly +that she had changed her mind—difficult as the struggle would be when she +stood face to face with him. She bitterly reproached herself for having +believed reports which represented Humphrey Gould as false to his engagement, +when, from what she now heard from his own lips, she gathered that he had been +living full of trust in her. But she knew well enough who had won her love. +Without him her life seemed a dreary prospect, yet the more she looked at his +proposal the more she feared to accept it—so wild as it was, so vague, so +venturesome. She had promised Humphrey Gould, and it was only his assumed +faithlessness which had led her to treat that promise as nought. His solicitude +in bringing her these gifts touched her; her promise must be kept, and esteem +must take the place of love. She would preserve her self-respect. She would +stay at home, and marry him, and suffer. +</p> + +<p> +Phyllis had thus braced herself to an exceptional fortitude when, a few minutes +later, the outline of Matthäus Tina appeared behind a field-gate, over +which he lightly leapt as she stepped forward. There was no evading it, he +pressed her to his breast. +</p> + +<p> +‘It is the first and last time!’ she wildly thought as she stood +encircled by his arms. +</p> + +<p> +How Phyllis got through the terrible ordeal of that night she could never +clearly recollect. She always attributed her success in carrying out her +resolve to her lover’s honour, for as soon as she declared to him in +feeble words that she had changed her mind, and felt that she could not, dared +not, fly with him, he forbore to urge her, grieved as he was at her decision. +Unscrupulous pressure on his part, seeing how romantically she had become +attached to him, would no doubt have turned the balance in his favour. But he +did nothing to tempt her unduly or unfairly. +</p> + +<p> +On her side, fearing for his safety, she begged him to remain. This, he +declared, could not be. ‘I cannot break faith with my friend,’ said +he. Had he stood alone he would have abandoned his plan. But Christoph, with +the boat and compass and chart, was waiting on the shore; the tide would soon +turn; his mother had been warned of his coming; go he must. +</p> + +<p> +Many precious minutes were lost while he tarried, unable to tear himself away. +Phyllis held to her resolve, though it cost her many a bitter pang. At last +they parted, and he went down the hill. Before his footsteps had quite died +away she felt a desire to behold at least his outline once more, and running +noiselessly after him regained view of his diminishing figure. For one moment +she was sufficiently excited to be on the point of rushing forward and linking +her fate with his. But she could not. The courage which at the critical instant +failed Cleopatra of Egypt could scarcely be expected of Phyllis Grove. +</p> + +<p> +A dark shape, similar to his own, joined him in the highway. It was Christoph, +his friend. She could see no more; they had hastened on in the direction of the +town and harbour, four miles ahead. With a feeling akin to despair she turned +and slowly pursued her way homeward. +</p> + +<p> +Tattoo sounded in the camp; but there was no camp for her now. It was as dead +as the camp of the Assyrians after the passage of the Destroying Angel. +</p> + +<p> +She noiselessly entered the house, seeing nobody, and went to bed. Grief, which +kept her awake at first, ultimately wrapped her in a heavy sleep. The next +morning her father met her at the foot of the stairs. +</p> + +<p> +‘Mr. Gould is come!’ he said triumphantly. +</p> + +<p> +Humphrey was staying at the inn, and had already called to inquire for her. He +had brought her a present of a very handsome looking-glass in a frame of +<i>repoussé</i> silverwork, which her father held in his hand. He had +promised to call again in the course of an hour, to ask Phyllis to walk with +him. +</p> + +<p> +Pretty mirrors were rarer in country-houses at that day than they are now, and +the one before her won Phyllis’s admiration. She looked into it, saw how +heavy her eyes were, and endeavoured to brighten them. She was in that wretched +state of mind which leads a woman to move mechanically onward in what she +conceives to be her allotted path. Mr. Humphrey had, in his undemonstrative +way, been adhering all along to the old understanding; it was for her to do the +same, and to say not a word of her own lapse. She put on her bonnet and tippet, +and when he arrived at the hour named she was at the door awaiting him. +</p> + +<h3>CHAPTER V</h3> + +<p> +Phyllis thanked him for his beautiful gift; but the talking was soon entirely +on Humphrey’s side as they walked along. He told her of the latest +movements of the world of fashion—a subject which she willingly discussed +to the exclusion of anything more personal—and his measured language +helped to still her disquieted heart and brain. Had not her own sadness been +what it was she must have observed his embarrassment. At last he abruptly +changed the subject. +</p> + +<p> +‘I am glad you are pleased with my little present,’ he said. +‘The truth is that I brought it to propitiate ’ee, and to get you +to help me out of a mighty difficulty.’ +</p> + +<p> +It was inconceivable to Phyllis that this independent bachelor—whom she +admired in some respects—could have a difficulty. +</p> + +<p> +‘Phyllis—I’ll tell you my secret at once; for I have a +monstrous secret to confide before I can ask your counsel. The case is, then, +that I am married: yes, I have privately married a dear young belle; and if you +knew her, and I hope you will, you would say everything in her praise. But she +is not quite the one that my father would have chose for me—you know the +paternal idea as well as I—and I have kept it secret. There will be a +terrible noise, no doubt; but I think that with your help I may get over it. If +you would only do me this good turn—when I have told my father, I +mean—say that you never could have married me, you know, or something of +that sort—’pon my life it will help to smooth the way vastly. I am +so anxious to win him round to my point of view, and not to cause any +estrangement.’ +</p> + +<p> +What Phyllis replied she scarcely knew, or how she counselled him as to his +unexpected situation. Yet the relief that his announcement brought her was +perceptible. To have confided her trouble in return was what her aching heart +longed to do; and had Humphrey been a woman she would instantly have poured out +her tale. But to him she feared to confess; and there was a real reason for +silence, till a sufficient time had elapsed to allow her lover and his comrade +to get out of harm’s way. +</p> + +<p> +As soon as she reached home again she sought a solitary place, and spent the +time in half regretting that she had not gone away, and in dreaming over the +meetings with Matthäus Tina from their beginning to their end. In his own +country, amongst his own countrywomen, he would possibly soon forget her, even +to her very name. +</p> + +<p> +Her listlessness was such that she did not go out of the house for several +days. There came a morning which broke in fog and mist, behind which the dawn +could be discerned in greenish grey; and the outlines of the tents, and the +rows of horses at the ropes. The smoke from the canteen fires drooped heavily. +</p> + +<p> +The spot at the bottom of the garden where she had been accustomed to climb the +wall to meet Matthäus, was the only inch of English ground in which she +took any interest; and in spite of the disagreeable haze prevailing she walked +out there till she reached the well-known corner. Every blade of grass was +weighted with little liquid globes, and slugs and snails had crept out upon the +plots. She could hear the usual faint noises from the camp, and in the other +direction the trot of farmers on the road to the town, for it was market-day. +She observed that her frequent visits to this corner had quite trodden down the +grass in the angle of the wall, and left marks of garden soil on the +stepping-stones by which she had mounted to look over the top. Seldom having +gone there till dusk, she had not considered that her traces might be visible +by day. Perhaps it was these which had revealed her trysts to her father. +</p> + +<p> +While she paused in melancholy regard, she fancied that the customary sounds +from the tents were changing their character. Indifferent as Phyllis was to +camp doings now, she mounted by the steps to the old place. What she beheld at +first awed and perplexed her; then she stood rigid, her fingers hooked to the +wall, her eyes staring out of her head, and her face as if hardened to stone. +</p> + +<p> +On the open green stretching before her all the regiments in the camp were +drawn up in line, in the mid-front of which two empty coffins lay on the +ground. The unwonted sounds which she had noticed came from an advancing +procession. It consisted of the band of the York Hussars playing a dead march; +next two soldiers of that regiment in a mourning coach, guarded on each side, +and accompanied by two priests. Behind came a crowd of rustics who had been +attracted by the event. The melancholy procession marched along the front of +the line, returned to the centre, and halted beside the coffins, where the two +condemned men were blindfolded, and each placed kneeling on his coffin; a few +minutes pause was now given, while they prayed. +</p> + +<p> +A firing-party of twenty-four men stood ready with levelled carbines. The +commanding officer, who had his sword drawn, waved it through some cuts of the +sword-exercise till he reached the downward stroke, whereat the firing-party +discharged their volley. The two victims fell, one upon his face across his +coffin, the other backwards. +</p> + +<p> +As the volley resounded there arose a shriek from the wall of Dr. Grove’s +garden, and some one fell down inside; but nobody among the spectators without +noticed it at the time. The two executed Hussars were Matthäus Tina and +his friend Christoph. The soldiers on guard placed the bodies in the coffins +almost instantly; but the colonel of the regiment, an Englishman, rode up and +exclaimed in a stern voice: ‘Turn them out—as an example to the +men!’ +</p> + +<p> +The coffins were lifted endwise, and the dead Germans flung out upon their +faces on the grass. Then all the regiments wheeled in sections, and marched +past the spot in slow time. When the survey was over the corpses were again +coffined, and borne away. +</p> + +<p> +Meanwhile Dr. Grove, attracted by the noise of the volley, had rushed out into +his garden, where he saw his wretched daughter lying motionless against the +wall. She was taken indoors, but it was long before she recovered +consciousness; and for weeks they despaired of her reason. +</p> + +<p> +It transpired that the luckless deserters from the York Hussars had cut the +boat from her moorings in the adjacent harbour, according to their plan, and, +with two other comrades who were smarting under ill-treatment from their +colonel, had sailed in safety across the Channel. But mistaking their bearings +they steered into Jersey, thinking that island the French coast. Here they were +perceived to be deserters, and delivered up to the authorities. Matthäus +and Christoph interceded for the other two at the court-martial, saying that it +was entirely by the former’s representations that these were induced to +go. Their sentence was accordingly commuted to flogging, the death punishment +being reserved for their leaders. +</p> + +<p> +The visitor to the well-known old Georgian watering-place, who may care to +ramble to the neighbouring village under the hills, and examine the register of +burials, will there find two entries in these words:— +</p> + +<p class="letter"> +‘Matth:—Tina (Corpl.) in His Majesty’s Regmt. of York +Hussars, and Shot for Desertion, was Buried June 30th, 1801, aged 22 years. +Born in the town of Sarrbruk, Germany. +</p> + +<p class="letter"> +‘Christoph Bless, belonging to His Majesty’s Regmt. of York +Hussars, who was Shot for Desertion, was Buried June 30th, 1801, aged 22 years. +Born at Lothaargen, Alsatia.’ +</p> + +<p> +Their graves were dug at the back of the little church, near the wall. There is +no memorial to mark the spot, but Phyllis pointed it out to me. While she lived +she used to keep their mounds neat; but now they are overgrown with nettles, +and sunk nearly flat. The older villagers, however, who know of the episode +from their parents, still recollect the place where the soldiers lie. Phyllis +lies near. +</p> + +<p> +<i>October</i> 1889. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap07"></a>THE FIDDLER OF THE REELS</h2> + +<p> +‘Talking of Exhibitions, World’s Fairs, and what not,’ said +the old gentleman, ‘I would not go round the corner to see a dozen of +them nowadays. The only exhibition that ever made, or ever will make, any +impression upon my imagination was the first of the series, the parent of them +all, and now a thing of old times—the Great Exhibition of 1851, in Hyde +Park, London. None of the younger generation can realize the sense of novelty +it produced in us who were then in our prime. A noun substantive went so far as +to become an adjective in honour of the occasion. It was +“exhibition” hat, “exhibition” razor-strop, +“exhibition” watch; nay, even “exhibition” weather, +“exhibition” spirits, sweethearts, babies, wives—for the +time. +</p> + +<p> +‘For South Wessex, the year formed in many ways an extraordinary +chronological frontier or transit-line, at which there occurred what one might +call a precipice in Time. As in a geological “fault,” we had +presented to us a sudden bringing of ancient and modern into absolute contact, +such as probably in no other single year since the Conquest was ever witnessed +in this part of the country.’ +</p> + +<p> +These observations led us onward to talk of the different personages, gentle +and simple, who lived and moved within our narrow and peaceful horizon at that +time; and of three people in particular, whose queer little history was oddly +touched at points by the Exhibition, more concerned with it than that of +anybody else who dwelt in those outlying shades of the world, Stickleford, +Mellstock, and Egdon. First in prominence among these three came Wat +Ollamoor—if that were his real name—whom the seniors in our party +had known well. +</p> + +<p> +He was a woman’s man, they said,—supremely so—externally +little else. To men he was not attractive; perhaps a little repulsive at times. +Musician, dandy, and company-man in practice; veterinary surgeon in theory, he +lodged awhile in Mellstock village, coming from nobody knew where; though some +said his first appearance in this neighbourhood had been as fiddle-player in a +show at Greenhill Fair. +</p> + +<p> +Many a worthy villager envied him his power over unsophisticated +maidenhood—a power which seemed sometimes to have a touch of the weird +and wizardly in it. Personally he was not ill-favoured, though rather +un-English, his complexion being a rich olive, his rank hair dark and rather +clammy—made still clammier by secret ointments, which, when he came fresh +to a party, caused him to smell like ‘boys’-love’ +(southernwood) steeped in lamp-oil. On occasion he wore curls—a double +row—running almost horizontally around his head. But as these were +sometimes noticeably absent, it was concluded that they were not altogether of +Nature’s making. By girls whose love for him had turned to hatred he had +been nicknamed ‘Mop,’ from this abundance of hair, which was long +enough to rest upon his shoulders; as time passed the name more and more +prevailed. +</p> + +<p> +His fiddling possibly had the most to do with the fascination he exercised, +for, to speak fairly, it could claim for itself a most peculiar and personal +quality, like that in a moving preacher. There were tones in it which bred the +immediate conviction that indolence and averseness to systematic application +were all that lay between ‘Mop’ and the career of a second +Paganini. +</p> + +<p> +While playing he invariably closed his eyes; using no notes, and, as it were, +allowing the violin to wander on at will into the most plaintive passages ever +heard by rustic man. There was a certain lingual character in the supplicatory +expressions he produced, which would well nigh have drawn an ache from the +heart of a gate-post. He could make any child in the parish, who was at all +sensitive to music, burst into tears in a few minutes by simply fiddling one of +the old dance-tunes he almost entirely affected—country jigs, reels, and +‘Favourite Quick Steps’ of the last century—some mutilated +remains of which even now reappear as nameless phantoms in new quadrilles and +gallops, where they are recognized only by the curious, or by such +old-fashioned and far-between people as have been thrown with men like Wat +Ollamoor in their early life. +</p> + +<p> +His date was a little later than that of the old Mellstock quire-band which +comprised the Dewys, Mail, and the rest—in fact, he did not rise above +the horizon thereabout till those well-known musicians were disbanded as +ecclesiastical functionaries. In their honest love of thoroughness they +despised the new man’s style. Theophilus Dewy (Reuben the tranter’s +younger brother) used to say there was no ‘plumness’ in it—no +bowing, no solidity—it was all fantastical. And probably this was true. +Anyhow, Mop had, very obviously, never bowed a note of church-music from his +birth; he never once sat in the gallery of Mellstock church where the others +had tuned their venerable psalmody so many hundreds of times; had never, in all +likelihood, entered a church at all. All were devil’s tunes in his +repertory. ‘He could no more play the Wold Hundredth to his true time +than he could play the brazen serpent,’ the tranter would say. (The +brazen serpent was supposed in Mellstock to be a musical instrument +particularly hard to blow.) +</p> + +<p> +Occasionally Mop could produce the aforesaid moving effect upon the souls of +grown-up persons, especially young women of fragile and responsive +organization. Such an one was Car’line Aspent. Though she was already +engaged to be married before she met him, Car’line, of them all, was the +most influenced by Mop Ollamoor’s heart-stealing melodies, to her +discomfort, nay, positive pain and ultimate injury. She was a pretty, +invocating, weak-mouthed girl, whose chief defect as a companion with her sex +was a tendency to peevishness now and then. At this time she was not a resident +in Mellstock parish where Mop lodged, but lived some miles off at Stickleford, +farther down the river. +</p> + +<p> +How and where she first made acquaintance with him and his fiddling is not +truly known, but the story was that it either began or was developed on one +spring evening, when, in passing through Lower Mellstock, she chanced to pause +on the bridge near his house to rest herself, and languidly leaned over the +parapet. Mop was standing on his door-step, as was his custom, spinning the +insidious thread of semi- and demi-semi-quavers from the E string of his fiddle +for the benefit of passers-by, and laughing as the tears rolled down the cheeks +of the little children hanging around him. Car’line pretended to be +engrossed with the rippling of the stream under the arches, but in reality she +was listening, as he knew. Presently the aching of the heart seized her +simultaneously with a wild desire to glide airily in the mazes of an infinite +dance. To shake off the fascination she resolved to go on, although it would be +necessary to pass him as he played. On stealthily glancing ahead at the +performer, she found to her relief that his eyes were closed in abandonment to +instrumentation, and she strode on boldly. But when closer her step grew timid, +her tread convulsed itself more and more accordantly with the time of the +melody, till she very nearly danced along. Gaining another glance at him when +immediately opposite, she saw that <i>one</i> of his eyes was open, quizzing +her as he smiled at her emotional state. Her gait could not divest itself of +its compelled capers till she had gone a long way past the house; and +Car’line was unable to shake off the strange infatuation for hours. +</p> + +<p> +After that day, whenever there was to be in the neighbourhood a dance to which +she could get an invitation, and where Mop Ollamoor was to be the musician, +Car’line contrived to be present, though it sometimes involved a walk of +several miles; for he did not play so often in Stickleford as elsewhere. +</p> + +<p> +The next evidences of his influence over her were singular enough, and it would +require a neurologist to fully explain them. She would be sitting quietly, any +evening after dark, in the house of her father, the parish clerk, which stood +in the middle of Stickleford village street, this being the highroad between +Lower Mellstock and Moreford, five miles eastward. Here, without a +moment’s warning, and in the midst of a general conversation between her +father, sister, and the young man before alluded to, who devotedly wooed her in +ignorance of her infatuation, she would start from her seat in the +chimney-corner as if she had received a galvanic shock, and spring convulsively +towards the ceiling; then she would burst into tears, and it was not till some +half-hour had passed that she grew calm as usual. Her father, knowing her +hysterical tendencies, was always excessively anxious about this trait in his +youngest girl, and feared the attack to be a species of epileptic fit. Not so +her sister Julia. Julia had found out what was the cause. At the moment before +the jumping, only an exceptionally sensitive ear situated in the chimney-nook +could have caught from down the flue the beat of a man’s footstep along +the highway without. But it was in that footfall, for which she had been +waiting, that the origin of Car’line’s involuntary springing lay. +The pedestrian was Mop Ollamoor, as the girl well knew; but his business that +way was not to visit her; he sought another woman whom he spoke of as his +Intended, and who lived at Moreford, two miles farther on. On one, and only +one, occasion did it happen that Car’line could not control her +utterance; it was when her sister alone chanced to be present. +‘Oh—oh—oh—!’ she cried. ‘He’s going +to <i>her</i>, and not coming to <i>me</i>!’ +</p> + +<p> +To do the fiddler justice he had not at first thought greatly of, or spoken +much to, this girl of impressionable mould. But he had soon found out her +secret, and could not resist a little by-play with her too easily hurt heart, +as an interlude between his more serious performances at Moreford. The two +became well acquainted, though only by stealth, hardly a soul in Stickleford +except her sister, and her lover Ned Hipcroft, being aware of the attachment. +Her father disapproved of her coldness to Ned; her sister, too, hoped she might +get over this nervous passion for a man of whom so little was known. The +ultimate result was that Car’line’s manly and simple wooer Edward +found his suit becoming practically hopeless. He was a respectable mechanic, in +a far sounder position than Mop the nominal horse-doctor; but when, before +leaving her, Ned put his flat and final question, would she marry him, then and +there, now or never, it was with little expectation of obtaining more than the +negative she gave him. Though her father supported him and her sister supported +him, he could not play the fiddle so as to draw your soul out of your body like +a spider’s thread, as Mop did, till you felt as limp as withy-wind and +yearned for something to cling to. Indeed, Hipcroft had not the slightest ear +for music; could not sing two notes in tune, much less play them. +</p> + +<p> +The No he had expected and got from her, in spite of a preliminary +encouragement, gave Ned a new start in life. It had been uttered in such a tone +of sad entreaty that he resolved to persecute her no more; she should not even +be distressed by a sight of his form in the distant perspective of the street +and lane. He left the place, and his natural course was to London. +</p> + +<p> +The railway to South Wessex was in process of construction, but it was not as +yet opened for traffic; and Hipcroft reached the capital by a six days’ +trudge on foot, as many a better man had done before him. He was one of the +last of the artisan class who used that now extinct method of travel to the +great centres of labour, so customary then from time immemorial. +</p> + +<p> +In London he lived and worked regularly at his trade. More fortunate than many, +his disinterested willingness recommended him from the first. During the +ensuing four years he was never out of employment. He neither advanced nor +receded in the modern sense; he improved as a workman, but he did not shift one +jot in social position. About his love for Car’line he maintained a rigid +silence. No doubt he often thought of her; but being always occupied, and +having no relations at Stickleford, he held no communication with that part of +the country, and showed no desire to return. In his quiet lodging in Lambeth he +moved about after working-hours with the facility of a woman, doing his own +cooking, attending to his stocking-heels, and shaping himself by degrees to a +life-long bachelorhood. For this conduct one is bound to advance the canonical +reason that time could not efface from his heart the image of little +Car’line Aspent—and it may be in part true; but there was also the +inference that his was a nature not greatly dependent upon the ministrations of +the other sex for its comforts. +</p> + +<p> +The fourth year of his residence as a mechanic in London was the year of the +Hyde-Park Exhibition already mentioned, and at the construction of this huge +glass-house, then unexampled in the world’s history, he worked daily. It +was an era of great hope and activity among the nations and industries. Though +Hipcroft was, in his small way, a central man in the movement, he plodded on +with his usual outward placidity. Yet for him, too, the year was destined to +have its surprises, for when the bustle of getting the building ready for the +opening day was past, the ceremonies had been witnessed, and people were +flocking thither from all parts of the globe, he received a letter from +Car’line. Till that day the silence of four years between himself and +Stickleford had never been broken. +</p> + +<p> +She informed her old lover, in an uncertain penmanship which suggested a +trembling hand, of the trouble she had been put to in ascertaining his address, +and then broached the subject which had prompted her to write. Four years ago, +she said with the greatest delicacy of which she was capable, she had been so +foolish as to refuse him. Her wilful wrong-headedness had since been a grief to +her many times, and of late particularly. As for Mr. Ollamoor, he had been +absent almost as long as Ned—she did not know where. She would gladly +marry Ned now if he were to ask her again, and be a tender little wife to him +till her life’s end. +</p> + +<p> +A tide of warm feeling must have surged through Ned Hipcroft’s frame on +receipt of this news, if we may judge by the issue. Unquestionably he loved her +still, even if not to the exclusion of every other happiness. This from his +Car’line, she who had been dead to him these many years, alive to him +again as of old, was in itself a pleasant, gratifying thing. Ned had grown so +resigned to, or satisfied with, his lonely lot, that he probably would not have +shown much jubilation at anything. Still, a certain ardour of preoccupation, +after his first surprise, revealed how deeply her confession of faith in him +had stirred him. Measured and methodical in his ways, he did not answer the +letter that day, nor the next, nor the next. He was having ‘a good +think.’ When he did answer it, there was a great deal of sound reasoning +mixed in with the unmistakable tenderness of his reply; but the tenderness +itself was sufficient to reveal that he was pleased with her straightforward +frankness; that the anchorage she had once obtained in his heart was renewable, +if it had not been continuously firm. +</p> + +<p> +He told her—and as he wrote his lips twitched humorously over the few +gentle words of raillery he indited among the rest of his sentences—that +it was all very well for her to come round at this time of day. Why +wouldn’t she have him when he wanted her? She had no doubt learned that +he was not married, but suppose his affections had since been fixed on another? +She ought to beg his pardon. Still, he was not the man to forget her. But +considering how he had been used, and what he had suffered, she could not quite +expect him to go down to Stickleford and fetch her. But if she would come to +him, and say she was sorry, as was only fair; why, yes, he would marry her, +knowing what a good little woman she was at the core. He added that the request +for her to come to him was a less one to make than it would have been when he +first left Stickleford, or even a few months ago; for the new railway into +South Wessex was now open, and there had just begun to be run wonderfully +contrived special trains, called excursion-trains, on account of the Great +Exhibition; so that she could come up easily alone. +</p> + +<p> +She said in her reply how good it was of him to treat her so generously, after +her hot and cold treatment of him; that though she felt frightened at the +magnitude of the journey, and was never as yet in a railway-train, having only +seen one pass at a distance, she embraced his offer with all her heart; and +would, indeed, own to him how sorry she was, and beg his pardon, and try to be +a good wife always, and make up for lost time. +</p> + +<p> +The remaining details of when and where were soon settled, Car’line +informing him, for her ready identification in the crowd, that she would be +wearing ‘my new sprigged-laylock cotton gown,’ and Ned gaily +responding that, having married her the morning after her arrival, he would +make a day of it by taking her to the Exhibition. One early summer afternoon, +accordingly, he came from his place of work, and hastened towards Waterloo +Station to meet her. It was as wet and chilly as an English June day can +occasionally be, but as he waited on the platform in the drizzle he glowed +inwardly, and seemed to have something to live for again. +</p> + +<p> +The ‘excursion-train’—an absolutely new departure in the +history of travel—was still a novelty on the Wessex line, and probably +everywhere. Crowds of people had flocked to all the stations on the way up to +witness the unwonted sight of so long a train’s passage, even where they +did not take advantage of the opportunity it offered. The seats for the humbler +class of travellers in these early experiments in steam-locomotion, were open +trucks, without any protection whatever from the wind and rain; and damp +weather having set in with the afternoon, the unfortunate occupants of these +vehicles were, on the train drawing up at the London terminus, found to be in a +pitiable condition from their long journey; blue-faced, stiff-necked, sneezing, +rain-beaten, chilled to the marrow, many of the men being hatless; in fact, +they resembled people who had been out all night in an open boat on a rough +sea, rather than inland excursionists for pleasure. The women had in some +degree protected themselves by turning up the skirts of their gowns over their +heads, but as by this arrangement they were additionally exposed about the +hips, they were all more or less in a sorry plight. +</p> + +<p> +In the bustle and crush of alighting forms of both sexes which followed the +entry of the huge concatenation into the station, Ned Hipcroft soon discerned +the slim little figure his eye was in search of, in the sprigged lilac, as +described. She came up to him with a frightened smile—still pretty, +though so damp, weather-beaten, and shivering from long exposure to the wind. +</p> + +<p> +‘O Ned!’ she sputtered, ‘I—I—’ He clasped +her in his arms and kissed her, whereupon she burst into a flood of tears. +</p> + +<p> +‘You are wet, my poor dear! I hope you’ll not get cold,’ he +said. And surveying her and her multifarious surrounding packages, he noticed +that by the hand she led a toddling child—a little girl of three or +so—whose hood was as clammy and tender face as blue as those of the other +travellers. +</p> + +<p> +‘Who is this—somebody you know?’ asked Ned curiously. +</p> + +<p> +‘Yes, Ned. She’s mine.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Yours?’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Yes—my own!’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Your own child?’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Yes!’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Well—as God’s in—’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Ned, I didn’t name it in my letter, because, you see, it would +have been so hard to explain! I thought that when we met I could tell you how +she happened to be born, so much better than in writing! I hope you’ll +excuse it this once, dear Ned, and not scold me, now I’ve come so many, +many miles!’ +</p> + +<p> +‘This means Mr. Mop Ollamoor, I reckon!’ said Hipcroft, gazing +palely at them from the distance of the yard or two to which he had withdrawn +with a start. +</p> + +<p> +Car’line gasped. ‘But he’s been gone away for years!’ +she supplicated. ‘And I never had a young man before! And I was so +onlucky to be catched the first time, though some of the girls down there go on +like anything!’ +</p> + +<p> +Ned remained in silence, pondering. +</p> + +<p> +‘You’ll forgive me, dear Ned?’ she added, beginning to sob +outright. ‘I haven’t taken ’ee in after all, +because—because you can pack us back again, if you want to; though +’tis hundreds o’ miles, and so wet, and night a-coming on, and I +with no money!’ +</p> + +<p> +‘What the devil can I do!’ Hipcroft groaned. +</p> + +<p> +A more pitiable picture than the pair of helpless creatures presented was never +seen on a rainy day, as they stood on the great, gaunt, puddled platform, a +whiff of drizzle blowing under the roof upon them now and then; the pretty +attire in which they had started from Stickleford in the early morning +bemuddled and sodden, weariness on their faces, and fear of him in their eyes; +for the child began to look as if she thought she too had done some wrong, +remaining in an appalled silence till the tears rolled down her chubby cheeks. +</p> + +<p> +‘What’s the matter, my little maid?’ said Ned mechanically. +</p> + +<p> +‘I do want to go home!’ she let out, in tones that told of a +bursting heart. ‘And my totties be cold, an’ I shan’t have no +bread an’ butter no more!’ +</p> + +<p> +‘I don’t know what to say to it all!’ declared Ned, his own +eye moist as he turned and walked a few steps with his head down; then regarded +them again point blank. From the child escaped troubled breaths and silently +welling tears. +</p> + +<p> +‘Want some bread and butter, do ’ee?’ he said, with +factitious hardness. +</p> + +<p> +‘Ye-e-s!’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Well, I daresay I can get ’ee a bit! Naturally, you must want +some. And you, too, for that matter, Car’line.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘I do feel a little hungered. But I can keep it off,’ she murmured. +</p> + +<p> +‘Folk shouldn’t do that,’ he said gruffly. . . . ‘There +come along!’ he caught up the child, as he added, ‘You must bide +here to-night, anyhow, I s’pose! What can you do otherwise? I’ll +get ’ee some tea and victuals; and as for this job, I’m sure I +don’t know what to say! This is the way out.’ +</p> + +<p> +They pursued their way, without speaking, to Ned’s lodgings, which were +not far off. There he dried them and made them comfortable, and prepared tea; +they thankfully sat down. The ready-made household of which he suddenly found +himself the head imparted a cosy aspect to his room, and a paternal one to +himself. Presently he turned to the child and kissed her now blooming cheeks; +and, looking wistfully at Car’line, kissed her also. +</p> + +<p> +‘I don’t see how I can send ’ee back all them miles,’ +he growled, ‘now you’ve come all the way o’ purpose to join +me. But you must trust me, Car’line, and show you’ve real faith in +me. Well, do you feel better now, my little woman?’ +</p> + +<p> +The child nodded, her mouth being otherwise occupied. +</p> + +<p> +‘I did trust you, Ned, in coming; and I shall always!’ +</p> + +<p> +Thus, without any definite agreement to forgive her, he tacitly acquiesced in +the fate that Heaven had sent him; and on the day of their marriage (which was +not quite so soon as he had expected it could be, on account of the time +necessary for banns) he took her to the Exhibition when they came back from +church, as he had promised. While standing near a large mirror in one of the +courts devoted to furniture, Car’line started, for in the glass appeared +the reflection of a form exactly resembling Mop Ollamoor’s—so +exactly, that it seemed impossible to believe anybody but that artist in person +to be the original. On passing round the objects which hemmed in Ned, her, and +the child from a direct view, no Mop was to be seen. Whether he were really in +London or not at that time was never known; and Car’line always stoutly +denied that her readiness to go and meet Ned in town arose from any rumour that +Mop had also gone thither; which denial there was no reasonable ground for +doubting. +</p> + +<p> +And then the year glided away, and the Exhibition folded itself up and became a +thing of the past. The park trees that had been enclosed for six months were +again exposed to the winds and storms, and the sod grew green anew. Ned found +that Car’line resolved herself into a very good wife and companion, +though she had made herself what is called cheap to him; but in that she was +like another domestic article, a cheap tea-pot, which often brews better tea +than a dear one. One autumn Hipcroft found himself with but little work to do, +and a prospect of less for the winter. Both being country born and bred, they +fancied they would like to live again in their natural atmosphere. It was +accordingly decided between them that they should leave the pent-up London +lodging, and that Ned should seek out employment near his native place, his +wife and her daughter staying with Car’line’s father during the +search for occupation and an abode of their own. +</p> + +<p> +Tinglings of pleasure pervaded Car’line’s spasmodic little frame as +she journeyed down with Ned to the place she had left two or three years +before, in silence and under a cloud. To return to where she had once been +despised, a smiling London wife with a distinct London accent, was a triumph +which the world did not witness every day. +</p> + +<p> +The train did not stop at the petty roadside station that lay nearest to +Stickleford, and the trio went on to Casterbridge. Ned thought it a good +opportunity to make a few preliminary inquiries for employment at workshops in +the borough where he had been known; and feeling cold from her journey, and it +being dry underfoot and only dusk as yet, with a moon on the point of rising, +Car’line and her little girl walked on toward Stickleford, leaving Ned to +follow at a quicker pace, and pick her up at a certain half-way house, widely +known as an inn. +</p> + +<p> +The woman and child pursued the well-remembered way comfortably enough, though +they were both becoming wearied. In the course of three miles they had passed +Heedless-William’s Pond, the familiar landmark by Bloom’s End, and +were drawing near the Quiet Woman Inn, a lone roadside hostel on the lower +verge of the Egdon Heath, since and for many years abolished. In stepping up +towards it Car’line heard more voices within than had formerly been +customary at such an hour, and she learned that an auction of fat stock had +been held near the spot that afternoon. The child would be the better for a +rest as well as herself, she thought, and she entered. +</p> + +<p> +The guests and customers overflowed into the passage, and Car’line had no +sooner crossed the threshold than a man whom she remembered by sight came +forward with glass and mug in his hands towards a friend leaning against the +wall; but, seeing her, very gallantly offered her a drink of the liquor, which +was gin-and-beer hot, pouring her out a tumblerful and saying, in a moment or +two: ‘Surely, ’tis little Car’line Aspent that was—down +at Stickleford?’ +</p> + +<p> +She assented, and, though she did not exactly want this beverage, she drank it +since it was offered, and her entertainer begged her to come in farther and sit +down. Once within the room she found that all the persons present were seated +close against the walls, and there being a chair vacant she did the same. An +explanation of their position occurred the next moment. In the opposite corner +stood Mop, rosining his bow and looking just the same as ever. The company had +cleared the middle of the room for dancing, and they were about to dance again. +As she wore a veil to keep off the wind she did not think he had recognized +her, or could possibly guess the identity of the child; and to her satisfied +surprise she found that she could confront him quite calmly—mistress of +herself in the dignity her London life had given her. Before she had quite +emptied her glass the dance was called, the dancers formed in two lines, the +music sounded, and the figure began. +</p> + +<p> +Then matters changed for Car’line. A tremor quickened itself to life in +her, and her hand so shook that she could hardly set down her glass. It was not +the dance nor the dancers, but the notes of that old violin which thrilled the +London wife, these having still all the witchery that she had so well known of +yore, and under which she had used to lose her power of independent will. How +it all came back! There was the fiddling figure against the wall; the large, +oily, mop-like head of him, and beneath the mop the face with closed eyes. +</p> + +<p> +After the first moments of paralyzed reverie the familiar tune in the familiar +rendering made her laugh and shed tears simultaneously. Then a man at the +bottom of the dance, whose partner had dropped away, stretched out his hand and +beckoned to her to take the place. She did not want to dance; she entreated by +signs to be left where she was, but she was entreating of the tune and its +player rather than of the dancing man. The saltatory tendency which the fiddler +and his cunning instrument had ever been able to start in her was seizing +Car’line just as it had done in earlier years, possibly assisted by the +gin-and-beer hot. Tired as she was she grasped her little girl by the hand, and +plunging in at the bottom of the figure, whirled about with the rest. She found +that her companions were mostly people of the neighbouring hamlets and +farms—Bloom’s End, Mellstock, Lewgate, and elsewhere; and by +degrees she was recognized as she convulsively danced on, wishing that Mop +would cease and let her heart rest from the aching he caused, and her feet +also. +</p> + +<p> +After long and many minutes the dance ended, when she was urged to fortify +herself with more gin-and-beer; which she did, feeling very weak and +overpowered with hysteric emotion. She refrained from unveiling, to keep Mop in +ignorance of her presence, if possible. Several of the guests having left, +Car’line hastily wiped her lips and also turned to go; but, according to +the account of some who remained, at that very moment a five-handed reel was +proposed, in which two or three begged her to join. +</p> + +<p> +She declined on the plea of being tired and having to walk to Stickleford, when +Mop began aggressively tweedling ‘My Fancy-Lad,’ in D major, as the +air to which the reel was to be footed. He must have recognized her, though she +did not know it, for it was the strain of all seductive strains which she was +least able to resist—the one he had played when she was leaning over the +bridge at the date of their first acquaintance. Car’line stepped +despairingly into the middle of the room with the other four. +</p> + +<p> +Reels were resorted to hereabouts at this time by the more robust spirits, for +the reduction of superfluous energy which the ordinary figure-dances were not +powerful enough to exhaust. As everybody knows, or does not know, the five +reelers stood in the form of a cross, the reel being performed by each line of +three alternately, the persons who successively came to the middle place +dancing in both directions. Car’line soon found herself in this place, +the axis of the whole performance, and could not get out of it, the tune +turning into the first part without giving her opportunity. And now she began +to suspect that Mop did know her, and was doing this on purpose, though +whenever she stole a glance at him his closed eyes betokened obliviousness to +everything outside his own brain. She continued to wend her way through the +figure of 8 that was formed by her course, the fiddler introducing into his +notes the wild and agonizing sweetness of a living voice in one too highly +wrought; its pathos running high and running low in endless variation, +projecting through her nerves excruciating spasms, a sort of blissful torture. +The room swam, the tune was endless; and in about a quarter of an hour the only +other woman in the figure dropped out exhausted, and sank panting on a bench. +</p> + +<p> +The reel instantly resolved itself into a four-handed one. Car’line would +have given anything to leave off; but she had, or fancied she had, no power, +while Mop played such tunes; and thus another ten minutes slipped by, a haze of +dust now clouding the candles, the floor being of stone, sanded. Then another +dancer fell out—one of the men—and went into the passage, in a +frantic search for liquor. To turn the figure into a three-handed reel was the +work of a second, Mop modulating at the same time into ‘The Fairy +Dance,’ as better suited to the contracted movement, and no less one of +those foods of love which, as manufactured by his bow, had always intoxicated +her. +</p> + +<p> +In a reel for three there was no rest whatever, and four or five minutes were +enough to make her remaining two partners, now thoroughly blown, stamp their +last bar and, like their predecessors, limp off into the next room to get +something to drink. Car’line, half-stifled inside her veil, was left +dancing alone, the apartment now being empty of everybody save herself, Mop, +and their little girl. +</p> + +<p> +She flung up the veil, and cast her eyes upon him, as if imploring him to +withdraw himself and his acoustic magnetism from the atmosphere. Mop opened one +of his own orbs, as though for the first time, fixed it peeringly upon her, and +smiling dreamily, threw into his strains the reserve of expression which he +could not afford to waste on a big and noisy dance. Crowds of little chromatic +subtleties, capable of drawing tears from a statue, proceeded straightway from +the ancient fiddle, as if it were dying of the emotion which had been pent up +within it ever since its banishment from some Italian city where it first took +shape and sound. There was that in the look of Mop’s one dark eye which +said: ‘You cannot leave off, dear, whether you would or no!’ and it +bred in her a paroxysm of desperation that defied him to tire her down. +</p> + +<p> +She thus continued to dance alone, defiantly as she thought, but in truth +slavishly and abjectly, subject to every wave of the melody, and probed by the +gimlet-like gaze of her fascinator’s open eye; keeping up at the same +time a feeble smile in his face, as a feint to signify it was still her own +pleasure which led her on. A terrified embarrassment as to what she could say +to him if she were to leave off, had its unrecognized share in keeping her +going. The child, who was beginning to be distressed by the strange situation, +came up and said: ‘Stop, mother, stop, and let’s go home!’ as +she seized Car’line’s hand. +</p> + +<p> +Suddenly Car’line sank staggering to the floor; and rolling over on her +face, prone she remained. Mop’s fiddle thereupon emitted an elfin shriek +of finality; stepping quickly down from the nine-gallon beer-cask which had +formed his rostrum, he went to the little girl, who disconsolately bent over +her mother. +</p> + +<p> +The guests who had gone into the back-room for liquor and change of air, +hearing something unusual, trooped back hitherward, where they endeavoured to +revive poor, weak Car’line by blowing her with the bellows and opening +the window. Ned, her husband, who had been detained in Casterbridge, as +aforesaid, came along the road at this juncture, and hearing excited voices +through the open casement, and to his great surprise, the mention of his +wife’s name, he entered amid the rest upon the scene. Car’line was +now in convulsions, weeping violently, and for a long time nothing could be +done with her. While he was sending for a cart to take her onward to +Stickleford Hipcroft anxiously inquired how it had all happened; and then the +assembly explained that a fiddler formerly known in the locality had lately +revisited his old haunts, and had taken upon himself without invitation to play +that evening at the inn. +</p> + +<p> +Ned demanded the fiddler’s name, and they said Ollamoor. +</p> + +<p> +‘Ah!’ exclaimed Ned, looking round him. ‘Where is he, and +where—where’s my little girl?’ +</p> + +<p> +Ollamoor had disappeared, and so had the child. Hipcroft was in ordinary a +quiet and tractable fellow, but a determination which was to be feared settled +in his face now. ‘Blast him!’ he cried. ‘I’ll beat his +skull in for’n, if I swing for it to-morrow!’ +</p> + +<p> +He had rushed to the poker which lay on the hearth, and hastened down the +passage, the people following. Outside the house, on the other side of the +highway, a mass of dark heath-land rose sullenly upward to its not easily +accessible interior, a ravined plateau, whereon jutted into the sky, at the +distance of a couple of miles, the fir-woods of Mistover backed by the Yalbury +coppices—a place of Dantesque gloom at this hour, which would have +afforded secure hiding for a battery of artillery, much less a man and a child. +</p> + +<p> +Some other men plunged thitherward with him, and more went along the road. They +were gone about twenty minutes altogether, returning without result to the inn. +Ned sat down in the settle, and clasped his forehead with his hands. +</p> + +<p> +‘Well—what a fool the man is, and hev been all these years, if he +thinks the child his, as a’ do seem to!’ they whispered. ‘And +everybody else knowing otherwise!’ +</p> + +<p> +‘No, I don’t think ’tis mine!’ cried Ned hoarsely, as +he looked up from his hands. ‘But she is mine, all the same! +Ha’n’t I nussed her? Ha’n’t I fed her and teached her? +Ha’n’t I played wi’ her? O, little Carry—gone with that +rogue—gone!’ +</p> + +<p> +‘You ha’n’t lost your mis’ess, anyhow,’ they said +to console him. ‘She’s throwed up the sperrits, and she is feeling +better, and she’s more to ’ee than a child that isn’t +yours.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘She isn’t! She’s not so particular much to me, especially +now she’s lost the little maid! But Carry’s everything!’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Well, ver’ like you’ll find her to-morrow.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Ah—but shall I? Yet he <i>can’t</i> hurt her—surely he +can’t! Well—how’s Car’line now? I am ready. Is the cart +here?’ +</p> + +<p> +She was lifted into the vehicle, and they sadly lumbered on toward Stickleford. +Next day she was calmer; but the fits were still upon her; and her will seemed +shattered. For the child she appeared to show singularly little anxiety, though +Ned was nearly distracted. It was nevertheless quite expected that the impish +Mop would restore the lost one after a freak of a day or two; but time went on, +and neither he nor she could be heard of, and Hipcroft murmured that perhaps he +was exercising upon her some unholy musical charm, as he had done upon +Car’line herself. Weeks passed, and still they could obtain no clue +either to the fiddler’s whereabouts or the girl’s; and how he could +have induced her to go with him remained a mystery. +</p> + +<p> +Then Ned, who had obtained only temporary employment in the neighbourhood, took +a sudden hatred toward his native district, and a rumour reaching his ears +through the police that a somewhat similar man and child had been seen at a +fair near London, he playing a violin, she dancing on stilts, a new interest in +the capital took possession of Hipcroft with an intensity which would scarcely +allow him time to pack before returning thither. +</p> + +<p> +He did not, however, find the lost one, though he made it the entire business +of his over-hours to stand about in by-streets in the hope of discovering her, +and would start up in the night, saying, ‘That rascal’s torturing +her to maintain him!’ To which his wife would answer peevishly, +‘Don’t ’ee raft yourself so, Ned! You prevent my getting a +bit o’ rest! He won’t hurt her!’ and fall asleep again. +</p> + +<p> +That Carry and her father had emigrated to America was the general opinion; +Mop, no doubt, finding the girl a highly desirable companion when he had +trained her to keep him by her earnings as a dancer. There, for that matter, +they may be performing in some capacity now, though he must be an old scamp +verging on threescore-and-ten, and she a woman of four-and-forty. +</p> + +<p> +May 1893, +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap08"></a>A TRADITION OF EIGHTEEN HUNDRED AND FOUR</h2> + +<p> +The widely discussed possibility of an invasion of England through a Channel +tunnel has more than once recalled old Solomon Selby’s story to my mind. +</p> + +<p> +The occasion on which I numbered myself among his audience was one evening when +he was sitting in the yawning chimney-corner of the inn-kitchen, with some +others who had gathered there, and I entered for shelter from the rain. +Withdrawing the stem of his pipe from the dental notch in which it habitually +rested, he leaned back in the recess behind him and smiled into the fire. The +smile was neither mirthful nor sad, not precisely humorous nor altogether +thoughtful. We who knew him recognized it in a moment: it was his narrative +smile. Breaking off our few desultory remarks we drew up closer, and he thus +began:— +</p> + +<p> +‘My father, as you mid know, was a shepherd all his life, and lived out +by the Cove four miles yonder, where I was born and lived likewise, till I +moved here shortly afore I was married. The cottage that first knew me stood on +the top of the down, near the sea; there was no house within a mile and a half +of it; it was built o’ purpose for the farm-shepherd, and had no other +use. They tell me that it is now pulled down, but that you can see where it +stood by the mounds of earth and a few broken bricks that are still lying +about. It was a bleak and dreary place in winter-time, but in summer it was +well enough, though the garden never came to much, because we could not get up +a good shelter for the vegetables and currant bushes; and where there is much +wind they don’t thrive. +</p> + +<p> +‘Of all the years of my growing up the ones that bide clearest in my mind +were eighteen hundred and three, four, and five. This was for two reasons: I +had just then grown to an age when a child’s eyes and ears take in and +note down everything about him, and there was more at that date to bear in mind +than there ever has been since with me. It was, as I need hardly tell ye, the +time after the first peace, when Bonaparte was scheming his descent upon +England. He had crossed the great Alp mountains, fought in Egypt, drubbed the +Turks, the Austrians, and the Proossians, and now thought he’d have a +slap at us. On the other side of the Channel, scarce out of sight and hail of a +man standing on our English shore, the French army of a hundred and sixty +thousand men and fifteen thousand horses had been brought together from all +parts, and were drilling every day. Bonaparte had been three years a-making his +preparations; and to ferry these soldiers and cannon and horses across he had +contrived a couple of thousand flat-bottomed boats. These boats were small +things, but wonderfully built. A good few of ’em were so made as to have +a little stable on board each for the two horses that were to haul the cannon +carried at the stern. To get in order all these, and other things required, he +had assembled there five or six thousand fellows that worked at +trades—carpenters, blacksmiths, wheelwrights, saddlers, and what not. O +’twas a curious time! +</p> + +<p> +‘Every morning Neighbour Boney would muster his multitude of soldiers on +the beach, draw ’em up in line, practise ’em in the manoeuvre of +embarking, horses and all, till they could do it without a single hitch. My +father drove a flock of ewes up into Sussex that year, and as he went along the +drover’s track over the high downs thereabout he could see this drilling +actually going on—the accoutrements of the rank and file glittering in +the sun like silver. It was thought and always said by my uncle Job, sergeant +of foot (who used to know all about these matters), that Bonaparte meant to +cross with oars on a calm night. The grand query with us was, Where would my +gentleman land? Many of the common people thought it would be at Dover; others, +who knew how unlikely it was that any skilful general would make a business of +landing just where he was expected, said he’d go either east into the +River Thames, or west’ard to some convenient place, most likely one of +the little bays inside the Isle of Portland, between the Beal and St. +Alban’s Head—and for choice the three-quarter-round Cove, screened +from every mortal eye, that seemed made o’ purpose, out by where we +lived, and which I’ve climmed up with two tubs of brandy across my +shoulders on scores o’ dark nights in my younger days. Some had heard +that a part o’ the French fleet would sail right round Scotland, and come +up the Channel to a suitable haven. However, there was much doubt upon the +matter; and no wonder, for after-years proved that Bonaparte himself could +hardly make up his mind upon that great and very particular point, where to +land. His uncertainty came about in this wise, that he could get no news as to +where and how our troops lay in waiting, and that his knowledge of possible +places where flat-bottomed boats might be quietly run ashore, and the men they +brought marshalled in order, was dim to the last degree. Being flat-bottomed, +they didn’t require a harbour for unshipping their cargo of men, but a +good shelving beach away from sight, and with a fair open road toward London. +How the question posed that great Corsican tyrant (as we used to call him), +what pains he took to settle it, and, above all, what a risk he ran on one +particular night in trying to do so, were known only to one man here and there; +and certainly to no maker of newspapers or printer of books, or my account +o’t would not have had so many heads shaken over it as it has by gentry +who only believe what they see in printed lines. +</p> + +<p> +‘The flocks my father had charge of fed all about the downs near our +house, overlooking the sea and shore each way for miles. In winter and early +spring father was up a deal at nights, watching and tending the lambing. Often +he’d go to bed early, and turn out at twelve or one; and on the other +hand, he’d sometimes stay up till twelve or one, and then turn in to bed. +As soon as I was old enough I used to help him, mostly in the way of keeping an +eye upon the ewes while he was gone home to rest. This is what I was doing in a +particular month in either the year four or five—I can’t certainly +fix which, but it was long before I was took away from the sheepkeeping to be +bound prentice to a trade. Every night at that time I was at the fold, about +half a mile, or it may be a little more, from our cottage, and no living thing +at all with me but the ewes and young lambs. Afeard? No; I was never afeard of +being alone at these times; for I had been reared in such an out-step place +that the lack o’ human beings at night made me less fearful than the +sight of ’em. Directly I saw a man’s shape after dark in a lonely +place I was frightened out of my senses. +</p> + +<p> +‘One day in that month we were surprised by a visit from my uncle Job, +the sergeant in the Sixty-first foot, then in camp on the downs above King +George’s watering-place, several miles to the west yonder. Uncle Job +dropped in about dusk, and went up with my father to the fold for an hour or +two. Then he came home, had a drop to drink from the tub of sperrits that the +smugglers kept us in for housing their liquor when they’d made a run, and +for burning ’em off when there was danger. After that he stretched +himself out on the settle to sleep. I went to bed: at one o’clock father +came home, and waking me to go and take his place, according to custom, went to +bed himself. On my way out of the house I passed Uncle Job on the settle. He +opened his eyes, and upon my telling him where I was going he said it was a +shame that such a youngster as I should go up there all alone; and when he had +fastened up his stock and waist-belt he set off along with me, taking a drop +from the sperrit-tub in a little flat bottle that stood in the corner-cupboard. +</p> + +<p> +‘By and by we drew up to the fold, saw that all was right, and then, to +keep ourselves warm, curled up in a heap of straw that lay inside the thatched +hurdles we had set up to break the stroke of the wind when there was any. +To-night, however, there was none. It was one of those very still nights when, +if you stand on the high hills anywhere within two or three miles of the sea, +you can hear the rise and fall of the tide along the shore, coming and going +every few moments like a sort of great snore of the sleeping world. Over the +lower ground there was a bit of a mist, but on the hill where we lay the air +was clear, and the moon, then in her last quarter, flung a fairly good light on +the grass and scattered straw. +</p> + +<p> +‘While we lay there Uncle Job amused me by telling me strange stories of +the wars he had served in and the wounds he had got. He had already fought the +French in the Low Countries, and hoped to fight ’em again. His stories +lasted so long that at last I was hardly sure that I was not a soldier myself, +and had seen such service as he told of. The wonders of his tales quite +bewildered my mind, till I fell asleep and dreamed of battle, smoke, and flying +soldiers, all of a kind with the doings he had been bringing up to me. +</p> + +<p> +‘How long my nap lasted I am not prepared to say. But some faint sounds +over and above the rustle of the ewes in the straw, the bleat of the lambs, and +the tinkle of the sheep-bell brought me to my waking senses. Uncle Job was +still beside me; but he too had fallen asleep. I looked out from the straw, and +saw what it was that had aroused me. Two men, in boat-cloaks, cocked hats, and +swords, stood by the hurdles about twenty yards off. +</p> + +<p> +‘I turned my ear thitherward to catch what they were saying, but though I +heard every word o’t, not one did I understand. They spoke in a tongue +that was not ours—in French, as I afterward found. But if I could not +gain the meaning of a word, I was shrewd boy enough to find out a deal of the +talkers’ business. By the light o’ the moon I could see that one of +’em carried a roll of paper in his hand, while every moment he spoke +quick to his comrade, and pointed right and left with the other hand to spots +along the shore. There was no doubt that he was explaining to the second +gentleman the shapes and features of the coast. What happened soon after made +this still clearer to me. +</p> + +<p> +‘All this time I had not waked Uncle Job, but now I began to be afeared +that they might light upon us, because uncle breathed so heavily +through’s nose. I put my mouth to his ear and whispered, “Uncle +Job.” +</p> + +<p> +‘“What is it, my boy?” he said, just as if he hadn’t +been asleep at all. +</p> + +<p> +‘“Hush!” says I. “Two French generals—” +</p> + +<p> +‘“French?” says he. +</p> + +<p> +‘“Yes,” says I. “Come to see where to land their +army!” +</p> + +<p> +‘I pointed ’em out; but I could say no more, for the pair were +coming at that moment much nearer to where we lay. As soon as they got as near +as eight or ten yards, the officer with a roll in his hand stooped down to a +slanting hurdle, unfastened his roll upon it, and spread it out. Then suddenly +he sprung a dark lantern open on the paper, and showed it to be a map. +</p> + +<p> +‘“What be they looking at?” I whispered to Uncle Job. +</p> + +<p> +‘“A chart of the Channel,” says the sergeant (knowing about +such things). +</p> + +<p> +‘The other French officer now stooped likewise, and over the map they had +a long consultation, as they pointed here and there on the paper, and then +hither and thither at places along the shore beneath us. I noticed that the +manner of one officer was very respectful toward the other, who seemed much his +superior, the second in rank calling him by a sort of title that I did not know +the sense of. The head one, on the other hand, was quite familiar with his +friend, and more than once clapped him on the shoulder. +</p> + +<p> +‘Uncle Job had watched as well as I, but though the map had been in the +lantern-light, their faces had always been in shade. But when they rose from +stooping over the chart the light flashed upward, and fell smart upon one of +’em’s features. No sooner had this happened than Uncle Job gasped, +and sank down as if he’d been in a fit. +</p> + +<p> +‘“What is it—what is it, Uncle Job?” said I. +</p> + +<p> +‘“O good God!” says he, under the straw. +</p> + +<p> +‘“What?” says I. +</p> + +<p> +‘“Boney!” he groaned out. +</p> + +<p> +‘“Who?” says I. +</p> + +<p> +‘“Bonaparty,” he said. “The Corsican ogre. O that I had +got but my new-flinted firelock, that there man should die! But I haven’t +got my new-flinted firelock, and that there man must live. So lie low, as you +value your life!” +</p> + +<p> +‘I did lie low, as you mid suppose. But I couldn’t help peeping. +And then I too, lad as I was, knew that it was the face of Bonaparte. Not know +Boney? I should think I did know Boney. I should have known him by half the +light o’ that lantern. If I had seen a picture of his features once, I +had seen it a hundred times. There was his bullet head, his short neck, his +round yaller cheeks and chin, his gloomy face, and his great glowing eyes. He +took off his hat to blow himself a bit, and there was the forelock in the +middle of his forehead, as in all the draughts of him. In moving, his cloak +fell a little open, and I could see for a moment his white-fronted jacket and +one of his epaulets. +</p> + +<p> +‘But none of this lasted long. In a minute he and his general had rolled +up the map, shut the lantern, and turned to go down toward the shore. +</p> + +<p> +‘Then Uncle Job came to himself a bit. “Slipped across in the +night-time to see how to put his men ashore,” he said. “The like +o’ that man’s coolness eyes will never again see! Nephew, I must +act in this, and immediate, or England’s lost!” +</p> + +<p> +‘When they were over the brow, we crope out, and went some little way to +look after them. Half-way down they were joined by two others, and six or seven +minutes brought them to the shore. Then, from behind a rock, a boat came out +into the weak moonlight of the Cove, and they jumped in; it put off instantly, +and vanished in a few minutes between the two rocks that stand at the mouth of +the Cove as we all know. We climmed back to where we had been before, and I +could see, a little way out, a larger vessel, though still not very large. The +little boat drew up alongside, was made fast at the stern as I suppose, for the +largest sailed away, and we saw no more. +</p> + +<p> +‘My uncle Job told his officers as soon as he got back to camp; but what +they thought of it I never heard—neither did he. Boney’s army never +came, and a good job for me; for the Cove below my father’s house was +where he meant to land, as this secret visit showed. We coast-folk should have +been cut down one and all, and I should not have sat here to tell this +tale.’ +</p> + +<p> +We who listened to old Selby that night have been familiar with his simple +grave-stone for these ten years past. Thanks to the incredulity of the age his +tale has been seldom repeated. But if anything short of the direct testimony of +his own eyes could persuade an auditor that Bonaparte had examined these shores +for himself with a view to a practicable landing-place, it would have been +Solomon Selby’s manner of narrating the adventure which befell him on the +down. +</p> + +<p> +<i>Christmas</i> 1882. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap09"></a>A FEW CRUSTED CHARACTERS</h2> + +<p> +It is a Saturday afternoon of blue and yellow autumn time, and the scene is the +High Street of a well-known market-town. A large carrier’s van stands in +the quadrangular fore-court of the White Hart Inn, upon the sides of its +spacious tilt being painted, in weather-beaten letters: ‘Burthen, Carrier +to Longpuddle.’ These vans, so numerous hereabout, are a respectable, if +somewhat lumbering, class of conveyance, much resorted to by decent travellers +not overstocked with money, the better among them roughly corresponding to the +old French <i>diligences</i>. +</p> + +<p> +The present one is timed to leave the town at four in the afternoon precisely, +and it is now half-past three by the clock in the turret at the top of the +street. In a few seconds errand-boys from the shops begin to arrive with +packages, which they fling into the vehicle, and turn away whistling, and care +for the packages no more. At twenty minutes to four an elderly woman places her +basket upon the shafts, slowly mounts, takes up a seat inside, and folds her +hands and her lips. She has secured her corner for the journey, though there is +as yet no sign of a horse being put in, nor of a carrier. At the +three-quarters, two other women arrive, in whom the first recognizes the +postmistress of Upper Longpuddle and the registrar’s wife, they +recognizing her as the aged groceress of the same village. At five minutes to +the hour there approach Mr. Profitt, the schoolmaster, in a soft felt hat, and +Christopher Twink, the master-thatcher; and as the hour strikes there rapidly +drop in the parish clerk and his wife, the seedsman and his aged father, the +registrar; also Mr. Day, the world-ignored local landscape-painter, an elderly +man who resides in his native place, and has never sold a picture outside it, +though his pretensions to art have been nobly supported by his +fellow-villagers, whose confidence in his genius has been as remarkable as the +outer neglect of it, leading them to buy his paintings so extensively (at the +price of a few shillings each, it is true) that every dwelling in the parish +exhibits three or four of those admired productions on its walls. +</p> + +<p> +Burthen, the carrier, is by this time seen bustling round the vehicle; the +horses are put in, the proprietor arranges the reins and springs up into his +seat as if he were used to it—which he is. +</p> + +<p> +‘Is everybody here?’ he asks preparatorily over his shoulder to the +passengers within. +</p> + +<p> +As those who were not there did not reply in the negative the muster was +assumed to be complete, and after a few hitches and hindrances the van with its +human freight was got under way. It jogged on at an easy pace till it reached +the bridge which formed the last outpost of the town. The carrier pulled up +suddenly. +</p> + +<p> +‘Bless my soul!’ he said, ‘I’ve forgot the +curate!’ +</p> + +<p> +All who could do so gazed from the little back window of the van, but the +curate was not in sight. +</p> + +<p> +‘Now I wonder where that there man is?’ continued the carrier. +</p> + +<p> +‘Poor man, he ought to have a living at his time of life.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘And he ought to be punctual,’ said the carrier. ‘“Four +o’clock sharp is my time for starting,” I said to ’en. And he +said, “I’ll be there.” Now he’s not here, and as a +serious old church-minister he ought to be as good as his word. Perhaps Mr. +Flaxton knows, being in the same line of life?’ He turned to the parish +clerk. +</p> + +<p> +‘I was talking an immense deal with him, that’s true, half an hour +ago,’ replied that ecclesiastic, as one of whom it was no erroneous +supposition that he should be on intimate terms with another of the cloth. +‘But he didn’t say he would be late.’ +</p> + +<p> +The discussion was cut off by the appearance round the corner of the van of +rays from the curate’s spectacles, followed hastily by his face and a few +white whiskers, and the swinging tails of his long gaunt coat. Nobody +reproached him, seeing how he was reproaching himself; and he entered +breathlessly and took his seat. +</p> + +<p> +‘Now be we all here?’ said the carrier again. They started a second +time, and moved on till they were about three hundred yards out of the town, +and had nearly reached the second bridge, behind which, as every native +remembers, the road takes a turn and travellers by this highway disappear +finally from the view of gazing burghers. +</p> + +<p> +‘Well, as I’m alive!’ cried the postmistress from the +interior of the conveyance, peering through the little square back-window along +the road townward. +</p> + +<p> +‘What?’ said the carrier. +</p> + +<p> +‘A man hailing us!’ +</p> + +<p> +Another sudden stoppage. ‘Somebody else?’ the carrier asked. +</p> + +<p> +‘Ay, sure!’ All waited silently, while those who could gaze out did +so. +</p> + +<p> +‘Now, who can that be?’ Burthen continued. ‘I just put it to +ye, neighbours, can any man keep time with such hindrances? Bain’t we +full a’ready? Who in the world can the man be?’ +</p> + +<p> +‘He’s a sort of gentleman,’ said the schoolmaster, his +position commanding the road more comfortably than that of his comrades. +</p> + +<p> +The stranger, who had been holding up his umbrella to attract their notice, was +walking forward leisurely enough, now that he found, by their stopping, that it +had been secured. His clothes were decidedly not of a local cut, though it was +difficult to point out any particular mark of difference. In his left hand he +carried a small leather travelling bag. As soon as he had overtaken the van he +glanced at the inscription on its side, as if to assure himself that he had +hailed the right conveyance, and asked if they had room. +</p> + +<p> +The carrier replied that though they were pretty well laden he supposed they +could carry one more, whereupon the stranger mounted, and took the seat cleared +for him within. And then the horses made another move, this time for good, and +swung along with their burden of fourteen souls all told. +</p> + +<p> +‘You bain’t one of these parts, sir?’ said the carrier. +‘I could tell that as far as I could see ’ee.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Yes, I am one of these parts,’ said the stranger. +</p> + +<p> +‘Oh? H’m.’ +</p> + +<p> +The silence which followed seemed to imply a doubt of the truth of the +new-comer’s assertion. ‘I was speaking of Upper Longpuddle more +particular,’ continued the carrier hardily, ‘and I think I know +most faces of that valley.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘I was born at Longpuddle, and nursed at Longpuddle, and my father and +grandfather before me,’ said the passenger quietly. +</p> + +<p> +‘Why, to be sure,’ said the aged groceress in the background, +‘it isn’t John Lackland’s son—never—it +can’t be—he who went to foreign parts five-and-thirty years ago +with his wife and family? Yet—what do I hear?—that’s his +father’s voice!’ +</p> + +<p> +‘That’s the man,’ replied the stranger. ‘John Lackland +was my father, and I am John Lackland’s son. Five-and-thirty years ago, +when I was a boy of eleven, my parents emigrated across the seas, taking me and +my sister with them. Kytes’s boy Tony was the one who drove us and our +belongings to Casterbridge on the morning we left; and his was the last +Longpuddle face I saw. We sailed the same week across the ocean, and there +we’ve been ever since, and there I’ve left those I went +with—all three.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Alive or dead?’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Dead,’ he replied in a low voice. ‘And I have come back to +the old place, having nourished a thought—not a definite intention, but +just a thought—that I should like to return here in a year or two, to +spend the remainder of my days.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Married man, Mr. Lackland?’ +</p> + +<p> +‘No.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘And have the world used ’ee well, sir—or rather John, +knowing ’ee as a child? In these rich new countries that we hear of so +much, you’ve got rich with the rest?’ +</p> + +<p> +‘I am not very rich,’ Mr. Lackland said. ‘Even in new +countries, you know, there are failures. The race is not always to the swift, +nor the battle to the strong; and even if it sometimes is, you may be neither +swift nor strong. However, that’s enough about me. Now, having answered +your inquiries, you must answer mine; for being in London, I have come down +here entirely to discover what Longpuddle is looking like, and who are living +there. That was why I preferred a seat in your van to hiring a carriage for +driving across.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Well, as for Longpuddle, we rub on there much as usual. Old figures have +dropped out o’ their frames, so to speak it, and new ones have been put +in their places. You mentioned Tony Kytes as having been the one to drive your +family and your goods to Casterbridge in his father’s waggon when you +left. Tony is, I believe, living still, but not at Longpuddle. He went away and +settled at Lewgate, near Mellstock, after his marriage. Ah, Tony was a sort +o’ man!’ +</p> + +<p> +‘His character had hardly come out when I knew him.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘No. But ’twas well enough, as far as that goes—except as to +women. I shall never forget his courting—never!’ +</p> + +<p> +The returned villager waited silently, and the carrier went on:— +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2>TONY KYTES, THE ARCH-DECEIVER</h2> + +<p> +‘I shall never forget Tony’s face. ’Twas a little, round, +firm, tight face, with a seam here and there left by the smallpox, but not +enough to hurt his looks in a woman’s eye, though he’d had it +badish when he was a boy. So very serious looking and unsmiling ’a was, +that young man, that it really seemed as if he couldn’t laugh at all +without great pain to his conscience. He looked very hard at a small speck in +your eye when talking to ’ee. And there was no more sign of a whisker or +beard on Tony Kytes’s face than on the palm of my hand. He used to sing +“The Tailor’s Breeches” with a religious manner, as if it +were a hymn:— +</p> + +<p class="poem"> +‘“O the petticoats went off, and the breeches they went on!” +</p> + +<p class="noindent"> +and all the rest of the scandalous stuff. He was quite the women’s +favourite, and in return for their likings he loved ’em in shoals. +</p> + +<p> +‘But in course of time Tony got fixed down to one in particular, Milly +Richards, a nice, light, small, tender little thing; and it was soon said that +they were engaged to be married. One Saturday he had been to market to do +business for his father, and was driving home the waggon in the afternoon. When +he reached the foot of the very hill we shall be going over in ten minutes who +should he see waiting for him at the top but Unity Sallet, a handsome girl, one +of the young women he’d been very tender toward before he’d got +engaged to Milly. +</p> + +<p> +‘As soon as Tony came up to her she said, “My dear Tony, will you +give me a lift home?” +</p> + +<p> +‘“That I will, darling,” said Tony. “You don’t +suppose I could refuse ’ee?” +</p> + +<p> +‘She smiled a smile, and up she hopped, and on drove Tony. +</p> + +<p> +‘“Tony,” she says, in a sort of tender chide, “why did +ye desert me for that other one? In what is she better than I? I should have +made ’ee a finer wife, and a more loving one too. ’Tisn’t +girls that are so easily won at first that are the best. Think how long +we’ve known each other—ever since we were children almost—now +haven’t we, Tony?” +</p> + +<p> +‘“Yes, that we have,” says Tony, a-struck with the truth +o’t. +</p> + +<p> +‘“And you’ve never seen anything in me to complain of, have +ye, Tony? Now tell the truth to me?” +</p> + +<p> +‘“I never have, upon my life,” says Tony. +</p> + +<p> +‘“And—can you say I’m not pretty, Tony? Now look at +me!” +</p> + +<p> +‘He let his eyes light upon her for a long while. “I really +can’t,” says he. “In fact, I never knowed you was so pretty +before!” +</p> + +<p> +‘“Prettier than she?” +</p> + +<p> +‘What Tony would have said to that nobody knows, for before he could +speak, what should he see ahead, over the hedge past the turning, but a feather +he knew well—the feather in Milly’s hat—she to whom he had +been thinking of putting the question as to giving out the banns that very +week. +</p> + +<p> +‘“Unity,” says he, as mild as he could, “here’s +Milly coming. Now I shall catch it mightily if she sees ’ee riding here +with me; and if you get down she’ll be turning the corner in a moment, +and, seeing ’ee in the road, she’ll know we’ve been coming on +together. Now, dearest Unity, will ye, to avoid all unpleasantness, which I +know ye can’t bear any more than I, will ye lie down in the back part of +the waggon, and let me cover you over with the tarpaulin till Milly has passed? +It will all be done in a minute. Do!—and I’ll think over what +we’ve said; and perhaps I shall put a loving question to you after all, +instead of to Milly. ’Tisn’t true that it is all settled between +her and me.” +</p> + +<p> +‘Well, Unity Sallet agreed, and lay down at the back end of the waggon, +and Tony covered her over, so that the waggon seemed to be empty but for the +loose tarpaulin; and then he drove on to meet Milly. +</p> + +<p> +‘“My dear Tony!” cries Milly, looking up with a little pout +at him as he came near. “How long you’ve been coming home! Just as +if I didn’t live at Upper Longpuddle at all! And I’ve come to meet +you as you asked me to do, and to ride back with you, and talk over our future +home—since you asked me, and I promised. But I shouldn’t have come +else, Mr. Tony!” +</p> + +<p> +‘“Ay, my dear, I did ask ye—to be sure I did, now I think of +it—but I had quite forgot it. To ride back with me, did you say, dear +Milly?” +</p> + +<p> +‘“Well, of course! What can I do else? Surely you don’t want +me to walk, now I’ve come all this way?” +</p> + +<p> +‘“O no, no! I was thinking you might be going on to town to meet +your mother. I saw her there—and she looked as if she might be expecting +’ee.” +</p> + +<p> +‘“O no; she’s just home. She came across the fields, and so +got back before you.” +</p> + +<p> +‘“Ah! I didn’t know that,” says Tony. And there was no +help for it but to take her up beside him. +</p> + +<p> +‘They talked on very pleasantly, and looked at the trees, and beasts, and +birds, and insects, and at the ploughmen at work in the fields, till presently +who should they see looking out of the upper window of a house that stood +beside the road they were following, but Hannah Jolliver, another young beauty +of the place at that time, and the very first woman that Tony had fallen in +love with—before Milly and before Unity, in fact—the one that he +had almost arranged to marry instead of Milly. She was a much more dashing girl +than Milly Richards, though he’d not thought much of her of late. The +house Hannah was looking from was her aunt’s. +</p> + +<p> +‘“My dear Milly—my coming wife, as I may call +’ee,” says Tony in his modest way, and not so loud that Unity could +overhear, “I see a young woman alooking out of window, who I think may +accost me. The fact is, Milly, she had a notion that I was wishing to marry +her, and since she’s discovered I’ve promised another, and a +prettier than she, I’m rather afeard of her temper if she sees us +together. Now, Milly, would you do me a favour—my coming wife, as I may +say?” +</p> + +<p> +‘“Certainly, dearest Tony,” says she. +</p> + +<p> +‘“Then would ye creep under the empty sacks just here in the front +of the waggon, and hide there out of sight till we’ve passed the house? +She hasn’t seen us yet. You see, we ought to live in peace and good-will +since ’tis almost Christmas, and ’twill prevent angry passions +rising, which we always should do.” +</p> + +<p> +‘“I don’t mind, to oblige you, Tony,” Milly said; and +though she didn’t care much about doing it, she crept under, and crouched +down just behind the seat, Unity being snug at the other end. So they drove on +till they got near the road-side cottage. Hannah had soon seen him coming, and +waited at the window, looking down upon him. She tossed her head a little +disdainful and smiled off-hand. +</p> + +<p> +‘“Well, aren’t you going to be civil enough to ask me to ride +home with you!” she says, seeing that he was for driving past with a nod +and a smile. +</p> + +<p> +‘“Ah, to be sure! What was I thinking of?” said Tony, in a +flutter. “But you seem as if you was staying at your aunt’s?” +</p> + +<p> +‘“No, I am not,” she said. “Don’t you see I have +my bonnet and jacket on? I have only called to see her on my way home. How can +you be so stupid, Tony?” +</p> + +<p> +‘“In that case—ah—of course you must come along +wi’ me,” says Tony, feeling a dim sort of sweat rising up inside +his clothes. And he reined in the horse, and waited till she’d come +downstairs, and then helped her up beside him. He drove on again, his face as +long as a face that was a round one by nature well could be. +</p> + +<p> +‘Hannah looked round sideways into his eyes. “This is nice, +isn’t it, Tony?” she says. “I like riding with you.” +</p> + +<p> +‘Tony looked back into her eyes. “And I with you,” he said +after a while. In short, having considered her, he warmed up, and the more he +looked at her the more he liked her, till he couldn’t for the life of him +think why he had ever said a word about marriage to Milly or Unity while Hannah +Jolliver was in question. So they sat a little closer and closer, their feet +upon the foot-board and their shoulders touching, and Tony thought over and +over again how handsome Hannah was. He spoke tenderer and tenderer, and called +her “dear Hannah” in a whisper at last. +</p> + +<p> +‘“You’ve settled it with Milly by this time, I +suppose,” said she. +</p> + +<p> +‘“N-no, not exactly.” +</p> + +<p> +‘“What? How low you talk, Tony.” +</p> + +<p> +‘“Yes—I’ve a kind of hoarseness. I said, not +exactly.” +</p> + +<p> +‘“I suppose you mean to?” +</p> + +<p> +‘“Well, as to that—” His eyes rested on her face, and +hers on his. He wondered how he could have been such a fool as not to follow up +Hannah. “My sweet Hannah!” he bursts out, taking her hand, not +being really able to help it, and forgetting Milly and Unity, and all the world +besides. “Settled it? I don’t think I have!” +</p> + +<p> +‘“Hark!” says Hannah. +</p> + +<p> +‘“What?” says Tony, letting go her hand. +</p> + +<p> +‘“Surely I heard a sort of little screaming squeak under those +sacks? Why, you’ve been carrying corn, and there’s mice in this +waggon, I declare!” She began to haul up the tails of her gown. +</p> + +<p> +‘“Oh no; ’tis the axle,” said Tony in an assuring way. +“It do go like that sometimes in dry weather.” +</p> + +<p> +‘“Perhaps it was . . . Well, now, to be quite honest, dear Tony, do +you like her better than me? Because—because, although I’ve held +off so independent, I’ll own at last that I do like ’ee, Tony, to +tell the truth; and I wouldn’t say no if you asked me—you know +what.” +</p> + +<p> +‘Tony was so won over by this pretty offering mood of a girl who had been +quite the reverse (Hannah had a backward way with her at times, if you can +mind) that he just glanced behind, and then whispered very soft, “I +haven’t quite promised her, and I think I can get out of it, and ask you +that question you speak of.” +</p> + +<p> +‘“Throw over Milly?—all to marry me! How delightful!” +broke out Hannah, quite loud, clapping her hands. +</p> + +<p> +‘At this there was a real squeak—an angry, spiteful squeak, and +afterward a long moan, as if something had broke its heart, and a movement of +the empty sacks. +</p> + +<p> +‘“Something’s there!” said Hannah, starting up. +</p> + +<p> +‘“It’s nothing, really,” says Tony in a soothing voice, +and praying inwardly for a way out of this. “I wouldn’t tell +’ee at first, because I wouldn’t frighten ’ee. But, Hannah, +I’ve really a couple of ferrets in a bag under there, for rabbiting, and +they quarrel sometimes. I don’t wish it knowed, as ’twould be +called poaching. Oh, they can’t get out, bless ye—you are quite +safe! And—and—what a fine day it is, isn’t it, Hannah, for +this time of year? Be you going to market next Saturday? How is your aunt +now?” And so on, says Tony, to keep her from talking any more about love +in Milly’s hearing. +</p> + +<p> +‘But he found his work cut out for him, and wondering again how he should +get out of this ticklish business, he looked about for a chance. Nearing home +he saw his father in a field not far off, holding up his hand as if he wished +to speak to Tony. +</p> + +<p> +‘“Would you mind taking the reins a moment, Hannah,” he said, +much relieved, “while I go and find out what father wants?” +</p> + +<p> +‘She consented, and away he hastened into the field, only too glad to get +breathing time. He found that his father was looking at him with rather a stern +eye. +</p> + +<p> +‘“Come, come, Tony,” says old Mr. Kytes, as soon as his son +was alongside him, “this won’t do, you know.” +</p> + +<p> +‘“What?” says Tony. +</p> + +<p> +‘“Why, if you mean to marry Milly Richards, do it, and +there’s an end o’t. But don’t go driving about the country +with Jolliver’s daughter and making a scandal. I won’t have such +things done.” +</p> + +<p> +‘“I only asked her—that is, she asked me, to ride +home.” +</p> + +<p> +‘“She? Why, now, if it had been Milly, ’twould have been +quite proper; but you and Hannah Jolliver going about by +yourselves—” +</p> + +<p> +‘“Milly’s there too, father.” +</p> + +<p> +‘“Milly? Where?” +</p> + +<p> +‘“Under the corn-sacks! Yes, the truth is, father, I’ve got +rather into a nunny-watch, I’m afeard! Unity Sallet is there +too—yes, at the other end, under the tarpaulin. All three are in that +waggon, and what to do with ’em I know no more than the dead! The best +plan is, as I’m thinking, to speak out loud and plain to one of ’em +before the rest, and that will settle it; not but what ’twill cause +’em to kick up a bit of a miff, for certain. Now which would you marry, +father, if you was in my place?” +</p> + +<p> +‘“Whichever of ’em did <i>not</i> ask to ride with +thee.” +</p> + +<p> +‘“That was Milly, I’m bound to say, as she only mounted by my +invitation. But Milly—” +</p> + +<p> +“Then stick to Milly, she’s the best . . . But look at that!” +</p> + +<p> +‘His father pointed toward the waggon. “She can’t hold that +horse in. You shouldn’t have left the reins in her hands. Run on and take +the horse’s head, or there’ll be some accident to them +maids!” +</p> + +<p> +‘Tony’s horse, in fact, in spite of Hannah’s tugging at the +reins, had started on his way at a brisk walking pace, being very anxious to +get back to the stable, for he had had a long day out. Without another word +Tony rushed away from his father to overtake the horse. +</p> + +<p> +‘Now of all things that could have happened to wean him from Milly there +was nothing so powerful as his father’s recommending her. No; it could +not be Milly, after all. Hannah must be the one, since he could not marry all +three. This he thought while running after the waggon. But queer things were +happening inside it. +</p> + +<p> +‘It was, of course, Milly who had screamed under the sack-bags, being +obliged to let off her bitter rage and shame in that way at what Tony was +saying, and never daring to show, for very pride and dread o’ being +laughed at, that she was in hiding. She became more and more restless, and in +twisting herself about, what did she see but another woman’s foot and +white stocking close to her head. It quite frightened her, not knowing that +Unity Sallet was in the waggon likewise. But after the fright was over she +determined to get to the bottom of all this, and she crept and crept along the +bed of the waggon, under the tarpaulin, like a snake, when lo and behold she +came face to face with Unity. +</p> + +<p> +‘“Well, if this isn’t disgraceful!” says Milly in a +raging whisper to Unity. +</p> + +<p> +‘“’Tis,” says Unity, “to see you hiding in a +young man’s waggon like this, and no great character belonging to either +of ye!” +</p> + +<p> +‘“Mind what you are saying!” replied Milly, getting louder. +“I am engaged to be married to him, and haven’t I a right to be +here? What right have you, I should like to know? What has he been promising +you? A pretty lot of nonsense, I expect! But what Tony says to other women is +all mere wind, and no concern to me!” +</p> + +<p> +‘“Don’t you be too sure!” says Unity. “He’s +going to have Hannah, and not you, nor me either; I could hear that.” +</p> + +<p> +‘Now at these strange voices sounding from under the cloth Hannah was +thunderstruck a’most into a swound; and it was just at this time that the +horse moved on. Hannah tugged away wildly, not knowing what she was doing; and +as the quarrel rose louder and louder Hannah got so horrified that she let go +the reins altogether. The horse went on at his own pace, and coming to the +corner where we turn round to drop down the hill to Lower Longpuddle he turned +too quick, the off wheels went up the bank, the waggon rose sideways till it +was quite on edge upon the near axles, and out rolled the three maidens into +the road in a heap. +</p> + +<p> +‘When Tony came up, frightened and breathless, he was relieved enough to +see that neither of his darlings was hurt, beyond a few scratches from the +brambles of the hedge. But he was rather alarmed when he heard how they were +going on at one another. +</p> + +<p> +‘“Don’t ye quarrel, my dears—don’t ye!” +says he, taking off his hat out of respect to ’em. And then he would have +kissed them all round, as fair and square as a man could, but they were in too +much of a taking to let him, and screeched and sobbed till they was quite +spent. +</p> + +<p> +‘“Now I’ll speak out honest, because I ought to,” says +Tony, as soon as he could get heard. “And this is the truth,” says +he. “I’ve asked Hannah to be mine, and she is willing, and we are +going to put up the banns next—” +</p> + +<p> +‘Tony had not noticed that Hannah’s father was coming up behind, +nor had he noticed that Hannah’s face was beginning to bleed from the +scratch of a bramble. Hannah had seen her father, and had run to him, crying +worse than ever. +</p> + +<p> +‘“My daughter is <i>not</i> willing, sir!” says Mr. Jolliver +hot and strong. “Be you willing, Hannah? I ask ye to have spirit enough +to refuse him, if yer virtue is left to ’ee and you run no risk?” +</p> + +<p> +‘“She’s as sound as a bell for me, that I’ll +swear!” says Tony, flaring up. “And so’s the others, come to +that, though you may think it an onusual thing in me!” +</p> + +<p> +‘“I have spirit, and I do refuse him!” says Hannah, partly +because her father was there, and partly, too, in a tantrum because of the +discovery, and the scratch on her face. “Little did I think when I was so +soft with him just now that I was talking to such a false deceiver!” +</p> + +<p> +‘“What, you won’t have me, Hannah?” says Tony, his jaw +hanging down like a dead man’s. +</p> + +<p> +‘“Never—I would sooner marry no—nobody at all!” +she gasped out, though with her heart in her throat, for she would not have +refused Tony if he had asked her quietly, and her father had not been there, +and her face had not been scratched by the bramble. And having said that, away +she walked upon her father’s arm, thinking and hoping he would ask her +again. +</p> + +<p> +‘Tony didn’t know what to say next. Milly was sobbing her heart +out; but as his father had strongly recommended her he couldn’t feel +inclined that way. So he turned to Unity. +</p> + +<p> +‘“Well, will you, Unity dear, be mine?” he says. +</p> + +<p> +‘“Take her leavings? Not I!” says Unity. “I’d +scorn it!” And away walks Unity Sallet likewise, though she looked back +when she’d gone some way, to see if he was following her. +</p> + +<p> +‘So there at last were left Milly and Tony by themselves, she crying in +watery streams, and Tony looking like a tree struck by lightning. +</p> + +<p> +‘“Well, Milly,” he says at last, going up to her, “it +do seem as if fate had ordained that it should be you and I, or nobody. And +what must be must be, I suppose. Hey, Milly?” +</p> + +<p> +‘“If you like, Tony. You didn’t really mean what you said to +them?” +</p> + +<p> +‘“Not a word of it!” declares Tony, bringing down his fist +upon his palm. +</p> + +<p> +‘And then he kissed her, and put the waggon to rights, and they mounted +together; and their banns were put up the very next Sunday. I was not able to +go to their wedding, but it was a rare party they had, by all account. +Everybody in Longpuddle was there almost; you among the rest, I think, Mr. +Flaxton?’ The speaker turned to the parish clerk. +</p> + +<p> +‘I was,’ said Mr. Flaxton. ‘And that party was the cause of a +very curious change in some other people’s affairs; I mean in Steve +Hardcome’s and his cousin James’s.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Ah! the Hardcomes,’ said the stranger. ‘How familiar that +name is to me! What of them?’ +</p> + +<p> +The clerk cleared his throat and began:— +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2>THE HISTORY OF THE HARDCOMES</h2> + +<p> +‘Yes, Tony’s was the very best wedding-randy that ever I was at; +and I’ve been at a good many, as you may suppose’—turning to +the newly-arrived one—‘having as a church-officer, the privilege to +attend all christening, wedding, and funeral parties—such being our +Wessex custom. +</p> + +<p> +‘’Twas on a frosty night in Christmas week, and among the folk +invited were the said Hardcomes o’ Climmerston—Steve and +James—first cousins, both of them small farmers, just entering into +business on their own account. With them came, as a matter of course, their +intended wives, two young women of the neighbourhood, both very pretty and +sprightly maidens, and numbers of friends from Abbot’s-Cernel, and +Weatherbury, and Mellstock, and I don’t know where—a regular +houseful. +</p> + +<p> +‘The kitchen was cleared of furniture for dancing, and the old folk +played at “Put” and “All-fours” in the parlour, though +at last they gave that up to join in the dance. The top of the figure was by +the large front window of the room, and there were so many couples that the +lower part of the figure reached through the door at the back, and into the +darkness of the out-house; in fact, you couldn’t see the end of the row +at all, and ’twas never known exactly how long that dance was, the lowest +couples being lost among the faggots and brushwood in the out-house. +</p> + +<p> +‘When we had danced a few hours, and the crowns of we taller men were +swelling into lumps with bumping the beams of the ceiling, the first fiddler +laid down his fiddle-bow, and said he should play no more, for he wished to +dance. And in another hour the second fiddler laid down his, and said he wanted +to dance too; so there was only the third fiddler left, and he was a’ +old, veteran man, very weak in the wrist. However, he managed to keep up a +faltering tweedle-dee; but there being no chair in the room, and his knees +being as weak as his wrists, he was obliged to sit upon as much of the little +corner-table as projected beyond the corner-cupboard fixed over it, which was +not a very wide seat for a man advanced in years. +</p> + +<p> +‘Among those who danced most continually were the two engaged couples, as +was natural to their situation. Each pair was very well matched, and very +unlike the other. James Hardcome’s intended was called Emily Darth, and +both she and James were gentle, nice-minded, in-door people, fond of a quiet +life. Steve and his chosen, named Olive Pawle, were different; they were of a +more bustling nature, fond of racketing about and seeing what was going on in +the world. The two couples had arranged to get married on the same day, and +that not long thence; Tony’s wedding being a sort of stimulant, as is +often the case; I’ve noticed it professionally many times. +</p> + +<p> +‘They danced with such a will as only young people in that stage of +courtship can dance; and it happened that as the evening wore on James had for +his partner Stephen’s plighted one, Olive, at the same time that Stephen +was dancing with James’s Emily. It was noticed that in spite o’ the +exchange the young men seemed to enjoy the dance no less than before. By and by +they were treading another tune in the same changed order as we had noticed +earlier, and though at first each one had held the other’s mistress +strictly at half-arm’s length, lest there should be shown any objection +to too close quarters by the lady’s proper man, as time passed there was +a little more closeness between ’em; and presently a little more +closeness still. +</p> + +<p> +‘The later it got the more did each of the two cousins dance with the +wrong young girl, and the tighter did he hold her to his side as he whirled her +round; and, what was very remarkable, neither seemed to mind what the other was +doing. The party began to draw towards its end, and I saw no more that night, +being one of the first to leave, on account of my morning’s business. But +I learnt the rest of it from those that knew. +</p> + +<p> +‘After finishing a particularly warming dance with the changed partners, +as I’ve mentioned, the two young men looked at one another, and in a +moment or two went out into the porch together. +</p> + +<p> +‘“James,” says Steve, “what were you thinking of when +you were dancing with my Olive?” +</p> + +<p> +‘“Well,” said James, “perhaps what you were thinking of +when you were dancing with my Emily.” +</p> + +<p> +‘“I was thinking,” said Steve, with some hesitation, +“that I wouldn’t mind changing for good and all!” +</p> + +<p> +‘“It was what I was feeling likewise,” said James. +</p> + +<p> +‘“I willingly agree to it, if you think we could manage it.” +</p> + +<p> +‘“So do I. But what would the girls say?” +</p> + +<p> +‘“’Tis my belief,” said Steve, “that they +wouldn’t particularly object. Your Emily clung as close to me as if she +already belonged to me, dear girl.” +</p> + +<p> +‘“And your Olive to me,” says James. “I could feel her +heart beating like a clock.” +</p> + +<p> +‘Well, they agreed to put it to the girls when they were all four walking +home together. And they did so. When they parted that night the exchange was +decided on—all having been done under the hot excitement of that +evening’s dancing. Thus it happened that on the following Sunday morning, +when the people were sitting in church with mouths wide open to hear the names +published as they had expected, there was no small amazement to hear them +coupled the wrong way, as it seemed. The congregation whispered, and thought +the parson had made a mistake; till they discovered that his reading of the +names was verily the true way. As they had decided, so they were married, each +one to the other’s original property. +</p> + +<p> +‘Well, the two couples lived on for a year or two ordinarily enough, till +the time came when these young people began to grow a little less warm to their +respective spouses, as is the rule of married life; and the two cousins +wondered more and more in their hearts what had made ’em so mad at the +last moment to marry crosswise as they did, when they might have married +straight, as was planned by nature, and as they had fallen in love. ’Twas +Tony’s party that had done <i>it</i>, plain enough, and they half wished +they had never gone there. James, being a quiet, fireside, perusing man, felt +at times a wide gap between himself and Olive, his wife, who loved riding and +driving and out-door jaunts to a degree; while Steve, who was always knocking +about hither and thither, had a very domestic wife, who worked samplers, and +made hearthrugs, scarcely ever wished to cross the threshold, and only drove +out with him to please him. +</p> + +<p> +‘However, they said very little about this mismating to any of their +acquaintances, though sometimes Steve would look at James’s wife and +sigh, and James would look at Steve’s wife and do the same. Indeed, at +last the two men were frank enough towards each other not to mind mentioning it +quietly to themselves, in a long-faced, sorry-smiling, whimsical sort of way, +and would shake their heads together over their foolishness in upsetting a +well-considered choice on the strength of an hour’s fancy in the whirl +and wildness of a dance. Still, they were sensible and honest young fellows +enough, and did their best to make shift with their lot as they had arranged +it, and not to repine at what could not now be altered or mended. +</p> + +<p> +‘So things remained till one fine summer day they went for their yearly +little outing together, as they had made it their custom to do for a long while +past. This year they chose Budmouth-Regis as the place to spend their holiday +in; and off they went in their best clothes at nine o’clock in the +morning. +</p> + +<p> +‘When they had reached Budmouth-Regis they walked two and two along the +shore—their new boots going squeakity-squash upon the clammy velvet +sands. I can seem to see ’em now! Then they looked at the ships in the +harbour; and then went up to the Look-out; and then had dinner at an inn; and +then again walked two and two, squeakity-squash, upon the velvet sands. As +evening drew on they sat on one of the public seats upon the Esplanade, and +listened to the band; and then they said “What shall we do next?” +</p> + +<p> +‘“Of all things,” said Olive (Mrs. James Hardcome, that is), +“I should like to row in the bay! We could listen to the music from the +water as well as from here, and have the fun of rowing besides.” +</p> + +<p> +‘“The very thing; so should I,” says Stephen, his tastes +being always like hers. +</p> + +<p> +Here the clerk turned to the curate. +</p> + +<p> +‘But you, sir, know the rest of the strange particulars of that strange +evening of their lives better than anybody else, having had much of it from +their own lips, which I had not; and perhaps you’ll oblige the +gentleman?’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Certainly, if it is wished,’ said the curate. And he took up the +clerk’s tale:— +</p> + +<hr /> + +<p> +‘Stephen’s wife hated the sea, except from land, and couldn’t +bear the thought of going into a boat. James, too, disliked the water, and said +that for his part he would much sooner stay on and listen to the band in the +seat they occupied, though he did not wish to stand in his wife’s way if +she desired a row. The end of the discussion was that James and his +cousin’s wife Emily agreed to remain where they were sitting and enjoy +the music, while they watched the other two hire a boat just beneath, and take +their water-excursion of half an hour or so, till they should choose to come +back and join the sitters on the Esplanade; when they would all start homeward +together. +</p> + +<p> +‘Nothing could have pleased the other two restless ones better than this +arrangement; and Emily and James watched them go down to the boatman below and +choose one of the little yellow skiffs, and walk carefully out upon the little +plank that was laid on trestles to enable them to get alongside the craft. They +saw Stephen hand Olive in, and take his seat facing her; when they were settled +they waved their hands to the couple watching them, and then Stephen took the +pair of sculls and pulled off to the tune beat by the band, she steering +through the other boats skimming about, for the sea was as smooth as glass that +evening, and pleasure-seekers were rowing everywhere. +</p> + +<p> +‘“How pretty they look moving on, don’t they?” said +Emily to James (as I’ve been assured). “They both enjoy it equally. +In everything their likings are the same.” +</p> + +<p> +‘“That’s true,” said James. +</p> + +<p> +‘“They would have made a handsome pair if they had married,” +said she. +</p> + +<p> +‘“Yes,” said he. “’Tis a pity we should have +parted ’em” +</p> + +<p> +‘“Don’t talk of that, James,” said she. “For +better or for worse we decided to do as we did, and there’s an end of +it.” +</p> + +<p> +‘They sat on after that without speaking, side by side, and the band +played as before; the people strolled up and down; and Stephen and Olive shrank +smaller and smaller as they shot straight out to sea. The two on shore used to +relate how they saw Stephen stop rowing a moment, and take off his coat to get +at his work better; but James’s wife sat quite still in the stern, +holding the tiller-ropes by which she steered the boat. When they had got very +small indeed she turned her head to shore. +</p> + +<p> +‘“She is waving her handkerchief to us,” said Stephen’s +wife, who thereupon pulled out her own, and waved it as a return signal. +</p> + +<p> +‘The boat’s course had been a little awry while Mrs. James +neglected her steering to wave her handkerchief to her husband and Mrs. +Stephen; but now the light skiff went straight onward again, and they could +soon see nothing more of the two figures it contained than Olive’s light +mantle and Stephen’s white shirt sleeves behind. +</p> + +<p> +‘The two on the shore talked on. “’Twas very +curious—our changing partners at Tony Kytes’s wedding,” Emily +declared. “Tony was of a fickle nature by all account, and it really +seemed as if his character had infected us that night. Which of you two was it +that first proposed not to marry as we were engaged?” +</p> + +<p> +‘“H’m—I can’t remember at this moment,” +says James. “We talked it over, you know; and no sooner said than +done.” +</p> + +<p> +‘“’Twas the dancing,” said she. “People get quite +crazy sometimes in a dance.” +</p> + +<p> +‘“They do,” he owned. +</p> + +<p> +‘“James—do you think they care for one another still?” +asks Mrs. Stephen. +</p> + +<p> +‘James Hardcome mused and admitted that perhaps a little tender feeling +might flicker up in their hearts for a moment now and then. “Still, +nothing of any account,” he said. +</p> + +<p> +‘“I sometimes think that Olive is in Steve’s mind a good +deal,” murmurs Mrs. Stephen; “particularly when she pleases his +fancy by riding past our window at a gallop on one of the draught-horses . . . +I never could do anything of that sort; I could never get over my fear of a +horse.” +</p> + +<p> +‘“And I am no horseman, though I pretend to be on her +account,” murmured James Hardcome. “But isn’t it almost time +for them to turn and sweep round to the shore, as the other boating folk have +done? I wonder what Olive means by steering away straight to the horizon like +that? She has hardly swerved from a direct line seaward since they +started.” +</p> + +<p> +‘“No doubt they are talking, and don’t think of where they +are going,” suggests Stephen’s wife. +</p> + +<p> +‘“Perhaps so,” said James. “I didn’t know Steve +could row like that.” +</p> + +<p> +‘“O yes,” says she. “He often comes here on business, +and generally has a pull round the bay.” +</p> + +<p> +‘“I can hardly see the boat or them,” says James again; +“and it is getting dark.” +</p> + +<p> +‘The heedless pair afloat now formed a mere speck in the films of the +coming night, which thickened apace, till it completely swallowed up their +distant shapes. They had disappeared while still following the same straight +course away from the world of land-livers, as if they were intending to drop +over the sea-edge into space, and never return to earth again. +</p> + +<p> +‘The two on the shore continued to sit on, punctually abiding by their +agreement to remain on the same spot till the others returned. The Esplanade +lamps were lit one by one, the bandsmen folded up their stands and departed, +the yachts in the bay hung out their riding lights, and the little boats came +back to shore one after another, their hirers walking on to the sands by the +plank they had climbed to go afloat; but among these Stephen and Olive did not +appear. +</p> + +<p> +‘“What a time they are!” said Emily. “I am getting +quite chilly. I did not expect to have to sit so long in the evening +air.” +</p> + +<p> +‘Thereupon James Hardcome said that he did not require his overcoat, and +insisted on lending it to her. +</p> + +<p> +‘He wrapped it round Emily’s shoulders. +</p> + +<p> +‘“Thank you, James,” she said. “How cold Olive must be +in that thin jacket!” +</p> + +<p> +‘He said he was thinking so too. “Well, they are sure to be quite +close at hand by this time, though we can’t see ’em. The boats are +not all in yet. Some of the rowers are fond of paddling along the shore to +finish out their hour of hiring.” +</p> + +<p> +‘“Shall we walk by the edge of the water,” said she, +“to see if we can discover them?” +</p> + +<p> +‘He assented, reminding her that they must not lose sight of the seat, +lest the belated pair should return and miss them, and be vexed that they had +not kept the appointment. +</p> + +<p> +‘They walked a sentry beat up and down the sands immediately opposite the +seat; and still the others did not come. James Hardcome at last went to the +boatman, thinking that after all his wife and cousin might have come in under +shadow of the dusk without being perceived, and might have forgotten the +appointment at the bench. +</p> + +<p> +‘“All in?” asked James. +</p> + +<p> +‘“All but one boat,” said the lessor. “I can’t +think where that couple is keeping to. They might run foul of something or +other in the dark.” +</p> + +<p> +‘Again Stephen’s wife and Olive’s husband waited, with more +and more anxiety. But no little yellow boat returned. Was it possible they +could have landed further down the Esplanade? +</p> + +<p> +‘“It may have been done to escape paying,” said the +boat-owner. “But they didn’t look like people who would do +that.” +</p> + +<p> +‘James Hardcome knew that he could found no hope on such a reason as +that. But now, remembering what had been casually discussed between Steve and +himself about their wives from time to time, he admitted for the first time the +possibility that their old tenderness had been revived by their face-to-face +position more strongly than either had anticipated at starting—the +excursion having been so obviously undertaken for the pleasure of the +performance only,—and that they had landed at some steps he knew of +further down toward the pier, to be longer alone together. +</p> + +<p> +‘Still he disliked to harbour the thought, and would not mention its +existence to his companion. He merely said to her, “Let us walk further +on.” +</p> + +<p> +‘They did so, and lingered between the boat-stage and the pier till +Stephen Hardcome’s wife was uneasy, and was obliged to accept +James’s offered arm. Thus the night advanced. Emily was presently so worn +out by fatigue that James felt it necessary to conduct her home; there was, +too, a remote chance that the truants had landed in the harbour on the other +side of the town, or elsewhere, and hastened home in some unexpected way, in +the belief that their consorts would not have waited so long. +</p> + +<p> +‘However, he left a direction in the town that a lookout should be kept, +though this was arranged privately, the bare possibility of an elopement being +enough to make him reticent; and, full of misgivings, the two remaining ones +hastened to catch the last train out of Budmouth-Regis; and when they got to +Casterbridge drove back to Upper Longpuddle.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Along this very road as we do now,’ remarked the parish clerk. +</p> + +<p> +‘To be sure—along this very road,’ said the curate. +‘However, Stephen and Olive were not at their homes; neither had entered +the village since leaving it in the morning. Emily and James Hardcome went to +their respective dwellings to snatch a hasty night’s rest, and at +daylight the next morning they drove again to Casterbridge and entered the +Budmouth train, the line being just opened. +</p> + +<p> +‘Nothing had been heard of the couple there during this brief absence. In +the course of a few hours some young men testified to having seen such a man +and woman rowing in a frail hired craft, the head of the boat kept straight to +sea; they had sat looking in each other’s faces as if they were in a +dream, with no consciousness of what they were doing, or whither they were +steering. It was not till late that day that more tidings reached James’s +ears. The boat had been found drifting bottom upward a long way from land. In +the evening the sea rose somewhat, and a cry spread through the town that two +bodies were cast ashore in Lullstead Bay, several miles to the eastward. They +were brought to Budmouth, and inspection revealed them to be the missing pair. +It was said that they had been found tightly locked in each other’s arms, +his lips upon hers, their features still wrapt in the same calm and dream-like +repose which had been observed in their demeanour as they had glided along. +</p> + +<p> +‘Neither James nor Emily questioned the original motives of the +unfortunate man and woman in putting to sea. They were both above suspicion as +to intention. Whatever their mutual feelings might have led them on to, +underhand behaviour was foreign to the nature of either. Conjecture pictured +that they might have fallen into tender reverie while gazing each into a pair +of eyes that had formerly flashed for him and her alone, and, unwilling to avow +what their mutual sentiments were, they had continued thus, oblivious of time +and space, till darkness suddenly overtook them far from land. But nothing was +truly known. It had been their destiny to die thus. The two halves, intended by +Nature to make the perfect whole, had failed in that result during their lives, +though “in their death they were not divided.” Their bodies were +brought home, and buried on one day. I remember that, on looking round the +churchyard while reading the service, I observed nearly all the parish at their +funeral.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘It was so, sir,’ said the clerk. +</p> + +<p> +‘The remaining two,’ continued the curate (whose voice had grown +husky while relating the lovers’ sad fate), ‘were a more thoughtful +and far-seeing, though less romantic, couple than the first. They were now +mutually bereft of a companion, and found themselves by this accident in a +position to fulfil their destiny according to Nature’s plan and their own +original and calmly-formed intention. James Hardcome took Emily to wife in the +course of a year and a half; and the marriage proved in every respect a happy +one. I solemnized the service, Hardcome having told me, when he came to give +notice of the proposed wedding, the story of his first wife’s loss almost +word for word as I have told it to you.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘And are they living in Longpuddle still?’ asked the new-comer. +</p> + +<p> +‘O no, sir,’ interposed the clerk. ‘James has been dead these +dozen years, and his mis’ess about six or seven. They had no children. +William Privett used to be their odd man till he died.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Ah—William Privett! He dead too?—dear me!’ said the +other. ‘All passed away!’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Yes, sir. William was much older than I. He’d ha’ been over +eighty if he had lived till now.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘There was something very strange about William’s death—very +strange indeed!’ sighed a melancholy man in the back of the van. It was +the seedsman’s father, who had hitherto kept silence. +</p> + +<p> +‘And what might that have been?’ asked Mr. Lackland. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2>THE SUPERSTITIOUS MAN’S STORY</h2> + +<p> +‘William, as you may know, was a curious, silent man; you could feel when +he came near ’ee; and if he was in the house or anywhere behind your back +without your seeing him, there seemed to be something clammy in the air, as if +a cellar door was opened close by your elbow. Well, one Sunday, at a time that +William was in very good health to all appearance, the bell that was ringing +for church went very heavy all of a sudden; the sexton, who told me o’t, +said he’d not known the bell go so heavy in his hand for years—it +was just as if the gudgeons wanted oiling. That was on the Sunday, as I say. +During the week after, it chanced that William’s wife was staying up late +one night to finish her ironing, she doing the washing for Mr. and Mrs. +Hardcome. Her husband had finished his supper and gone to bed as usual some +hour or two before. While she ironed she heard him coming down stairs; he +stopped to put on his boots at the stair-foot, where he always left them, and +then came on into the living-room where she was ironing, passing through it +towards the door, this being the only way from the staircase to the outside of +the house. No word was said on either side, William not being a man given to +much speaking, and his wife being occupied with her work. He went out and +closed the door behind him. As her husband had now and then gone out in this +way at night before when unwell, or unable to sleep for want of a pipe, she +took no particular notice, and continued at her ironing. This she finished +shortly after, and as he had not come in she waited awhile for him, putting +away the irons and things, and preparing the table for his breakfast in the +morning. Still he did not return, but supposing him not far off, and wanting to +get to bed herself, tired as she was, she left the door unbarred and went to +the stairs, after writing on the back of the door with chalk: <i>Mind and do +the door</i> (because he was a forgetful man). +</p> + +<p> +‘To her great surprise, and I might say alarm, on reaching the foot of +the stairs his boots were standing there as they always stood when he had gone +to rest; going up to their chamber she found him in bed sleeping as sound as a +rock. How he could have got back again without her seeing or hearing him was +beyond her comprehension. It could only have been by passing behind her very +quietly while she was bumping with the iron. But this notion did not satisfy +her: it was surely impossible that she should not have seen him come in through +a room so small. She could not unravel the mystery, and felt very queer and +uncomfortable about it. However, she would not disturb him to question him +then, and went to bed herself. +</p> + +<p> +‘He rose and left for his work very early the next morning, before she +was awake, and she waited his return to breakfast with much anxiety for an +explanation, for thinking over the matter by daylight made it seem only the +more startling. When he came in to the meal he said, before she could put her +question, “What’s the meaning of them words chalked on the +door?” +</p> + +<p> +‘She told him, and asked him about his going out the night before. +William declared that he had never left the bedroom after entering it, having +in fact undressed, lain down, and fallen asleep directly, never once waking +till the clock struck five, and he rose up to go to his labour. +</p> + +<p> +‘Betty Privett was as certain in her own mind that he did go out as she +was of her own existence, and was little less certain that he did not return. +She felt too disturbed to argue with him, and let the subject drop as though +she must have been mistaken. When she was walking down Longpuddle street later +in the day she met Jim Weedle’s daughter Nancy, and said, “Well, +Nancy, you do look sleepy to-day!” +</p> + +<p> +‘“Yes, Mrs. Privett,” says Nancy. “Now don’t tell +anybody, but I don’t mind letting you know what the reason o’t is. +Last night, being Old Midsummer Eve, some of us went to church porch, and +didn’t get home till near one.” +</p> + +<p> +‘“Did ye?” says Mrs. Privett. “Old Midsummer yesterday +was it? Faith I didn’t think whe’r ’twas Midsummer or +Michaelmas; I’d too much work to do.” +</p> + +<p> +‘“Yes. And we were frightened enough, I can tell ’ee, by what +we saw.” +</p> + +<p> +‘“What did ye see?” +</p> + +<p> +‘(You may not remember, sir, having gone off to foreign parts so young, +that on Midsummer Night it is believed hereabout that the faint shapes of all +the folk in the parish who are going to be at death’s door within the +year can be seen entering the church. Those who get over their illness come out +again after a while; those that are doomed to die do not return.) +</p> + +<p> +‘“What did you see?” asked William’s wife. +</p> + +<p> +‘“Well,” says Nancy, backwardly—“we needn’t +tell what we saw, or who we saw.” +</p> + +<p> +‘“You saw my husband,” says Betty Privett, in a quiet way. +</p> + +<p> +‘“Well, since you put it so,” says Nancy, hanging fire, +“we—thought we did see him; but it was darkish, and we was +frightened, and of course it might not have been he.” +</p> + +<p> +‘“Nancy, you needn’t mind letting it out, though ’tis +kept back in kindness. And he didn’t come out of church again: I know it +as well as you.” +</p> + +<p> +‘Nancy did not answer yes or no to that, and no more was said. But three +days after, William Privett was mowing with John Chiles in Mr. Hardcome’s +meadow, and in the heat of the day they sat down to eat their bit o’ +nunch under a tree, and empty their flagon. Afterwards both of ’em fell +asleep as they sat. John Chiles was the first to wake, and as he looked towards +his fellow-mower he saw one of those great white miller’s-souls as we +call ’em—that is to say, a miller-moth—come from +William’s open mouth while he slept, and fly straight away. John thought +it odd enough, as William had worked in a mill for several years when he was a +boy. He then looked at the sun, and found by the place o’t that they had +slept a long while, and as William did not wake, John called to him and said it +was high time to begin work again. He took no notice, and then John went up and +shook him, and found he was dead. +</p> + +<p> +‘Now on that very day old Philip Hookhorn was down at Longpuddle Spring +dipping up a pitcher of water; and as he turned away, who should he see coming +down to the spring on the other side but William, looking very pale and odd. +This surprised Philip Hookhorn very much, for years before that time +William’s little son—his only child—had been drowned in that +spring while at play there, and this had so preyed upon William’s mind +that he’d never been seen near the spring afterwards, and had been known +to go half a mile out of his way to avoid the place. On inquiry, it was found +that William in body could not have stood by the spring, being in the mead two +miles off; and it also came out that the time at which he was seen at the +spring was the very time when he died.’ +</p> + +<hr /> + +<p> +‘A rather melancholy story,’ observed the emigrant, after a +minute’s silence. +</p> + +<p> +‘Yes, yes. Well, we must take ups and downs together,’ said the +seedsman’s father. +</p> + +<p> +‘You don’t know, Mr. Lackland, I suppose, what a rum start that was +between Andrey Satchel and Jane Vallens and the pa’son and clerk o’ +Scrimpton?’ said the master-thatcher, a man with a spark of subdued +liveliness in his eye, who had hitherto kept his attention mainly upon small +objects a long way ahead, as he sat in front of the van with his feet outside. +‘Theirs was a queerer experience of a pa’son and clerk than some +folks get, and may cheer ’ee up a little after this dampness that’s +been flung over yer soul.’ +</p> + +<p> +The returned one replied that he knew nothing of the history, and should be +happy to hear it, quite recollecting the personality of the man Satchel. +</p> + +<p> +‘Ah no; this Andrey Satchel is the son of the Satchel that you knew; this +one has not been married more than two or three years, and ’twas at the +time o’ the wedding that the accident happened that I could tell +’ee of, or anybody else here, for that matter.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘No, no; you must tell it, neighbour, if anybody,’ said several; a +request in which Mr. Lackland joined, adding that the Satchel family was one he +had known well before leaving home. +</p> + +<p> +‘I’ll just mention, as you be a stranger,’ whispered the +carrier to Lackland, ‘that Christopher’s stories will bear +pruning.’ +</p> + +<p> +The emigrant nodded. +</p> + +<p> +‘Well, I can soon tell it,’ said the master-thatcher, schooling +himself to a tone of actuality. ‘Though as it has more to do with the +pa’son and clerk than with Andrey himself, it ought to be told by a +better churchman than I.’ +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2>ANDREY SATCHEL AND THE PARSON AND CLERK</h2> + +<p> +‘It all arose, you must know, from Andrey being fond of a drop of drink +at that time—though he’s a sober enough man now by all account, so +much the better for him. Jane, his bride, you see, was somewhat older than +Andrey; how much older I don’t pretend to say; she was not one of our +parish, and the register alone may be able to tell that. But, at any rate, her +being a little ahead of her young man in mortal years, coupled with other +bodily circumstances—’ +</p> + +<p> +(‘Ah, poor thing!’ sighed the women.) +</p> + +<p> +‘—made her very anxious to get the thing done before he changed his +mind; and ’twas with a joyful countenance (they say) that she, with +Andrey and his brother and sister-in-law, marched off to church one November +morning as soon as ’twas day a’most, to be made one with Andrey for +the rest of her life. He had left our place long before it was light, and the +folks that were up all waved their lanterns at him, and flung up their hats as +he went. +</p> + +<p> +‘The church of her parish was a mile and more from the houses, and, as it +was a wonderful fine day for the time of year, the plan was that as soon as +they were married they would make out a holiday by driving straight off to Port +Bredy, to see the ships and the sea and the sojers, instead of coming back to a +meal at the house of the distant relation she lived wi’, and moping about +there all the afternoon. +</p> + +<p> +‘Well, some folks noticed that Andrey walked with rather wambling steps +to church that morning; the truth o’t was that his nearest +neighbour’s child had been christened the day before, and Andrey, having +stood godfather, had stayed all night keeping up the christening, for he had +said to himself, “Not if I live to be thousand shall I again be made a +godfather one day, and a husband the next, and perhaps a father the next, and +therefore I’ll make the most of the blessing.” So that when he +started from home in the morning he had not been in bed at all. The result was, +as I say, that when he and his bride-to-be walked up the church to get married, +the pa’son (who was a very strict man inside the church, whatever he was +outside) looked hard at Andrey, and said, very sharp: +</p> + +<p> +‘“How’s this, my man? You are in liquor. And so early, too. +I’m ashamed of you!” +</p> + +<p> +‘“Well, that’s true, sir,” says Andrey. “But I +can walk straight enough for practical purposes. I can walk a chalk +line,” he says (meaning no offence), “as well as some other folk: +and—” (getting hotter)—“I reckon that if you, +Pa’son Billy Toogood, had kept up a christening all night so thoroughly +as I have done, you wouldn’t be able to stand at all; d--- me if you +would!” +</p> + +<p> +‘This answer made Pa’son Billy—as they used to call +him—rather spitish, not to say hot, for he was a warm-tempered man if +provoked, and he said, very decidedly: “Well, I cannot marry you in this +state; and I will not! Go home and get sober!” And he slapped the book +together like a rat-trap. +</p> + +<p> +‘Then the bride burst out crying as if her heart would break, for very +fear that she would lose Andrey after all her hard work to get him, and begged +and implored the pa’son to go on with the ceremony. But no. +</p> + +<p> +‘“I won’t be a party to your solemnizing matrimony with a +tipsy man,” says Mr. Toogood. “It is not right and decent. I am +sorry for you, my young woman, but you’d better go home again. I wonder +how you could think of bringing him here drunk like this!” +</p> + +<p> +‘“But if—if he don’t come drunk he won’t come at +all, sir!” she says, through her sobs. +</p> + +<p> +‘“I can’t help that,” says the pa’son; and plead +as she might, it did not move him. Then she tried him another way. +</p> + +<p> +‘“Well, then, if you’ll go home, sir, and leave us here, and +come back to the church in an hour or two, I’ll undertake to say that he +shall be as sober as a judge,” she cries. “We’ll bide here, +with your permission; for if he once goes out of this here church unmarried, +all Van Amburgh’s horses won’t drag him back again!” +</p> + +<p> +‘“Very well,” says the parson. “I’ll give you two +hours, and then I’ll return.” +</p> + +<p> +‘“And please, sir, lock the door, so that we can’t +escape!” says she. +</p> + +<p> +‘“Yes,” says the parson. +</p> + +<p> +‘“And let nobody know that we are here.” +</p> + +<p> +‘The pa’son then took off his clane white surplice, and went away; +and the others consulted upon the best means for keeping the matter a secret, +which it was not a very hard thing to do, the place being so lonely, and the +hour so early. The witnesses, Andrey’s brother and brother’s wife, +neither one o’ which cared about Andrey’s marrying Jane, and had +come rather against their will, said they couldn’t wait two hours in that +hole of a place, wishing to get home to Longpuddle before dinner-time. They +were altogether so crusty that the clerk said there was no difficulty in their +doing as they wished. They could go home as if their brother’s wedding +had actually taken place and the married couple had gone onward for their +day’s pleasure jaunt to Port Bredy as intended, he, the clerk, and any +casual passer-by would act as witnesses when the pa’son came back. +</p> + +<p> +‘This was agreed to, and away Andrey’s relations went, nothing +loath, and the clerk shut the church door and prepared to lock in the couple. +The bride went up and whispered to him, with her eyes a-streaming still. +</p> + +<p> +‘“My dear good clerk,” she says, “if we bide here in +the church, folk may see us through the winders, and find out what has +happened; and ’twould cause such a talk and scandal that I never should +get over it: and perhaps, too, dear Andrey might try to get out and leave me! +Will ye lock us up in the tower, my dear good clerk?” she says. +“I’ll tole him in there if you will.” +</p> + +<p> +‘The clerk had no objection to do this to oblige the poor young woman, +and they toled Andrey into the tower, and the clerk locked ’em both up +straightway, and then went home, to return at the end of the two hours. +</p> + +<p> +‘Pa’son Toogood had not been long in his house after leaving the +church when he saw a gentleman in pink and top-boots ride past his windows, and +with a sudden flash of heat he called to mind that the hounds met that day just +on the edge of his parish. The pa’son was one who dearly loved sport, and +much he longed to be there. +</p> + +<p> +‘In short, except o’ Sundays and at tide-times in the week, +Pa’son Billy was the life o’ the Hunt. ’Tis true that he was +poor, and that he rode all of a heap, and that his black mare was rat-tailed +and old, and his tops older, and all over of one colour, whitey-brown, and full +o’ cracks. But he’d been in at the death of three thousand foxes. +And—being a bachelor man—every time he went to bed in summer he +used to open the bed at bottom and crawl up head foremost, to mind 'em of the +coming winter and the good sport he’d have, and the foxes going to earth. +And whenever there was a christening at the Squire’s, and he had dinner +there afterwards, as he always did, he never failed to christen the chiel over +again in a bottle of port wine. +</p> + +<p> +‘Now the clerk was the parson’s groom and gardener and jineral +manager, and had just got back to his work in the garden when he, too, saw the +hunting man pass, and presently saw lots more of ’em, noblemen and +gentry, and then he saw the hounds, the huntsman, Jim Treadhedge, the +whipper-in, and I don’t know who besides. The clerk loved going to cover +as frantical as the pa’son, so much so that whenever he saw or heard the +pack he could no more rule his feelings than if they were the winds of heaven. +He might be bedding, or he might be sowing—all was forgot. So he throws +down his spade and rushes in to the pa’son, who was by this time as +frantical to go as he. +</p> + +<p> +‘“That there mare of yours, sir, do want exercise bad, very bad, +this morning!” the clerk says, all of a tremble. “Don’t ye +think I’d better trot her round the downs for an hour, sir?” +</p> + +<p> +‘“To be sure, she does want exercise badly. I’ll trot her +round myself,” says the parson. +</p> + +<p> +‘“Oh—you’ll trot her yerself? Well, there’s the +cob, sir. Really that cob is getting oncontrollable through biding in a stable +so long! If you wouldn’t mind my putting on the saddle—” +</p> + +<p> +‘“Very well. Take him out, certainly,” says the pa’son, +never caring what the clerk did so long as he himself could get off +immediately. So, scrambling into his riding-boots and breeches as quick as he +could, he rode off towards the meet, intending to be back in an hour. No sooner +was he gone than the clerk mounted the cob, and was off after him. When the +pa’son got to the meet, he found a lot of friends, and was as jolly as he +could be: the hounds found a’most as soon as they threw off, and there +was great excitement. So, forgetting that he had meant to go back at once, away +rides the pa’son with the rest o’ the hunt, all across the fallow +ground that lies between Lippet Wood and Green’s Copse; and as he +galloped he looked behind for a moment, and there was the clerk close to his +heels. +</p> + +<p> +‘“Ha, ha, clerk—you here?” he says. +</p> + +<p> +‘“Yes, sir, here be I,” says t’other. +</p> + +<p> +‘“Fine exercise for the horses!” +</p> + +<p> +‘“Ay, sir—hee, hee!” says the clerk. +</p> + +<p> +‘So they went on and on, into Green’s Copse, then across to Higher +Jirton; then on across this very turnpike-road to Climmerston Ridge, then away +towards Yalbury Wood: up hill and down dale, like the very wind, the clerk +close to the pa’son, and the pa’son not far from the hounds. Never +was there a finer run knowed with that pack than they had that day; and neither +pa’son nor clerk thought one word about the unmarried couple locked up in +the church tower waiting to get j’ined. +</p> + +<p> +‘“These hosses of yours, sir, will be much improved by this!” +says the clerk as he rode along, just a neck behind the pa’son. +“’Twas a happy thought of your reverent mind to bring ’em out +to-day. Why, it may be frosty in a day or two, and then the poor things mid not +be able to leave the stable for weeks.” +</p> + +<p> +‘“They may not, they may not, it is true. A merciful man is +merciful to his beast,” says the pa’son. +</p> + +<p> +‘“Hee, hee!” says the clerk, glancing sly into the +pa’son’s eye. +</p> + +<p> +‘“Ha, ha!” says the pa’son, a-glancing back into the +clerk’s. “Halloo!” he shouts, as he sees the fox break cover +at that moment. +</p> + +<p> +‘“Halloo!” cries the clerk. “There he goes! Why, dammy, +there’s two foxes—” +</p> + +<p> +‘“Hush, clerk, hush! Don’t let me hear that word again! +Remember our calling.” +</p> + +<p> +‘“True, sir, true. But really, good sport do carry away a man so, +that he’s apt to forget his high persuasion!” And the next minute +the corner of the clerk’s eye shot again into the corner of the +pa’son’s, and the pa’son’s back again to the +clerk’s. “Hee, hee!” said the clerk. +</p> + +<p> +‘“Ha, ha!” said Pa’son Toogood. +</p> + +<p> +‘“Ah, sir,” says the clerk again, “this is better than +crying Amen to your Ever-and-ever on a winter’s morning!” +</p> + +<p> +‘“Yes, indeed, clerk! To everything there’s a season,” +says Pa’son Toogood, quite pat, for he was a learned Christian man when +he liked, and had chapter and ve’se at his tongue’s end, as a +pa’son should. +</p> + +<p> +‘At last, late in the day, the hunting came to an end by the fox running +into a’ old woman’s cottage, under her table, and up the +clock-case. The pa’son and clerk were among the first in at the death, +their faces a-staring in at the old woman’s winder, and the clock +striking as he’d never been heard to strik’ before. Then came the +question of finding their way home. +</p> + +<p> +‘Neither the pa’son nor the clerk knowed how they were going to do +this, for their beasts were wellnigh tired down to the ground. But they started +back-along as well as they could, though they were so done up that they could +only drag along at a’ amble, and not much of that at a time. +</p> + +<p> +‘“We shall never, never get there!” groaned Mr. Toogood, +quite bowed down. +</p> + +<p> +‘“Never!” groans the clerk. “’Tis a judgment upon +us for our iniquities!” +</p> + +<p> +‘“I fear it is,” murmurs the pa’son. +</p> + +<p> +‘Well, ’twas quite dark afore they entered the pa’sonage +gate, having crept into the parish as quiet as if they’d stole a hammer, +little wishing their congregation to know what they’d been up to all day +long. And as they were so dog-tired, and so anxious about the horses, never +once did they think of the unmarried couple. As soon as ever the horses had +been stabled and fed, and the pa’son and clerk had had a bit and a sup +theirselves, they went to bed. +</p> + +<p> +‘Next morning when Pa’son Toogood was at breakfast, thinking of the +glorious sport he’d had the day before, the clerk came in a hurry to the +door and asked to see him. +</p> + +<p> +‘“It has just come into my mind, sir, that we’ve forgot all +about the couple that we was to have married yesterday!” +</p> + +<p> +‘The half-chawed victuals dropped from the pa’son’s mouth as +if he’d been shot. “Bless my soul,” says he, “so we +have! How very awkward!” +</p> + +<p> +‘“It is, sir; very. Perhaps we’ve ruined the +’ooman!” +</p> + +<p> +‘“Ah—to be sure—I remember! She ought to have been +married before.” +</p> + +<p> +‘“If anything has happened to her up in that there tower, and no +doctor or nuss—” +</p> + +<p> +(‘Ah—poor thing!’ sighed the women.) +</p> + +<p> +‘“—’twill be a quarter-sessions matter for us, not to +speak of the disgrace to the Church!” +</p> + +<p> +‘“Good God, clerk, don’t drive me wild!” says the +pa’son. “Why the hell didn’t I marry ’em, drunk or +sober!” (Pa’sons used to cuss in them days like plain honest men.) +“Have you been to the church to see what happened to them, or inquired in +the village?” +</p> + +<p> +‘“Not I, sir! It only came into my head a moment ago, and I always +like to be second to you in church matters. You could have knocked me down with +a sparrer’s feather when I thought o’t, sir; I assure ’ee you +could!” +</p> + +<p> +‘Well, the parson jumped up from his breakfast, and together they went +off to the church. +</p> + +<p> +‘“It is not at all likely that they are there now,” says Mr. +Toogood, as they went; “and indeed I hope they are not. They be pretty +sure to have ’scaped and gone home.” +</p> + +<p> +‘However, they opened the church-hatch, entered the churchyard, and +looking up at the tower, there they seed a little small white face at the +belfry-winder, and a little small hand waving. ’Twas the bride. +</p> + +<p> +‘“God my life, clerk,” says Mr. Toogood, “I don’t +know how to face ’em!” And he sank down upon a tombstone. +“How I wish I hadn’t been so cussed particular!” +</p> + +<p> +‘“Yes—’twas a pity we didn’t finish it when +we’d begun,” the clerk said. “Still, since the feelings of +your holy priestcraft wouldn’t let ye, the couple must put up with +it.” +</p> + +<p> +‘“True, clerk, true! Does she look as if anything premature had +took place?” +</p> + +<p> +‘“I can’t see her no lower down than her arm-pits, +sir.” +</p> + +<p> +‘“Well—how do her face look?” +</p> + +<p> +‘“It do look mighty white!” +</p> + +<p> +‘“Well, we must know the worst! Dear me, how the small of my back +do ache from that ride yesterday! . . . But to more godly business!” +</p> + +<p> +‘They went on into the church, and unlocked the tower stairs, and +immediately poor Jane and Andrey busted out like starved mice from a cupboard, +Andrey limp and sober enough now, and his bride pale and cold, but otherwise as +usual. +</p> + +<p> +‘“What,” says the pa’son, with a great breath of +relief, “you haven’t been here ever since?” +</p> + +<p> +‘“Yes, we have, sir!” says the bride, sinking down upon a +seat in her weakness. “Not a morsel, wet or dry, have we had since! It +was impossible to get out without help, and here we’ve stayed!” +</p> + +<p> +‘“But why didn’t you shout, good souls?” said the +pa’son. +</p> + +<p> +‘“She wouldn’t let me,” says Andrey. +</p> + +<p> +‘“Because we were so ashamed at what had led to it,” sobs +Jane. “We felt that if it were noised abroad it would cling to us all our +lives! Once or twice Andrey had a good mind to toll the bell, but then he said: +“No; I’ll starve first. I won’t bring disgrace on my name and +yours, my dear.” And so we waited and waited, and walked round and round; +but never did you come till now!” +</p> + +<p> +‘“To my regret!” says the parson. “Now, then, we will +soon get it over.” +</p> + +<p> +‘“I—I should like some victuals,” said Andrey, +“’twould gie me courage if it is only a crust o’ bread and +a’ onion; for I am that leery that I can feel my stomach rubbing against +my backbone.” +</p> + +<p> +‘“I think we had better get it done,” said the bride, a bit +anxious in manner; “since we are all here convenient, too!” +</p> + +<p> +‘Andrey gave way about the victuals, and the clerk called in a second +witness who wouldn’t be likely to gossip about it, and soon the knot was +tied, and the bride looked smiling and calm forthwith, and Andrey limper than +ever. +</p> + +<p> +‘“Now,” said Pa’son Toogood, “you two must come +to my house, and have a good lining put to your insides before you go a step +further.” +</p> + +<p> +‘They were very glad of the offer, and went out of the churchyard by one +path while the pa’son and clerk went out by the other, and so did not +attract notice, it being still early. They entered the rectory as if +they’d just come back from their trip to Port Bredy; and then they +knocked in the victuals and drink till they could hold no more. +</p> + +<p> +‘It was a long while before the story of what they had gone through was +known, but it was talked of in time, and they themselves laugh over it now; +though what Jane got for her pains was no great bargain after all. ’Tis +true she saved her name.’ +</p> + +<hr /> + +<p> +‘Was that the same Andrey who went to the squire’s house as one of +the Christmas fiddlers?’ asked the seedsman. +</p> + +<p> +‘No, no,’ replied Mr. Profitt, the schoolmaster. ‘It was his +father did that. Ay, it was all owing to his being such a man for eating and +drinking.’ Finding that he had the ear of the audience, the schoolmaster +continued without delay:— +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2>OLD ANDREY’S EXPERIENCE AS A MUSICIAN</h2> + +<p> +‘I was one of the choir-boys at that time, and we and the players were to +appear at the manor-house as usual that Christmas week, to play and sing in the +hall to the squire’s people and visitors (among ’em being the +archdeacon, Lord and Lady Baxby, and I don’t know who); afterwards going, +as we always did, to have a good supper in the servants’ hall. Andrew +knew this was the custom, and meeting us when we were starting to go, he said +to us: “Lord, how I should like to join in that meal of beef, and turkey, +and plum-pudding, and ale, that you happy ones be going to just now! One more +or less will make no difference to the squire. I am too old to pass as a +singing boy, and too bearded to pass as a singing girl; can ye lend me a +fiddle, neighbours, that I may come with ye as a bandsman?” +</p> + +<p> +‘Well, we didn’t like to be hard upon him, and lent him an old one, +though Andrew knew no more of music than the Cerne Giant; and armed with the +instrument he walked up to the squire’s house with the others of us at +the time appointed, and went in boldly, his fiddle under his arm. He made +himself as natural as he could in opening the music-books and moving the +candles to the best points for throwing light upon the notes; and all went well +till we had played and sung “While shepherds watch,” and +“Star, arise,” and “Hark the glad sound.” Then the +squire’s mother, a tall gruff old lady, who was much interested in +church-music, said quite unexpectedly to Andrew: “My man, I see you +don’t play your instrument with the rest. How is that?” +</p> + +<p> +‘Every one of the choir was ready to sink into the earth with concern at +the fix Andrew was in. We could see that he had fallen into a cold sweat, and +how he would get out of it we did not know. +</p> + +<p> +‘“I’ve had a misfortune, mem,” he says, bowing as meek +as a child. “Coming along the road I fell down and broke my bow.” +</p> + +<p> +‘“Oh, I am sorry to hear that,” says she. “Can’t +it be mended?” +</p> + +<p> +‘“Oh no, mem,” says Andrew. “’Twas broke all to +splinters.” +</p> + +<p> +‘“I’ll see what I can do for you,” says she. +</p> + +<p> +‘And then it seemed all over, and we played “Rejoice, ye drowsy +mortals all,” in D and two sharps. But no sooner had we got through it +than she says to Andrew, +</p> + +<p> +‘“I’ve sent up into the attic, where we have some old musical +instruments, and found a bow for you.” And she hands the bow to poor +wretched Andrew, who didn’t even know which end to take hold of. +“Now we shall have the full accompaniment,” says she. +</p> + +<p> +‘Andrew’s face looked as if it were made of rotten apple as he +stood in the circle of players in front of his book; for if there was one +person in the parish that everybody was afraid of, ’twas this hook-nosed +old lady. However, by keeping a little behind the next man he managed to make +pretence of beginning, sawing away with his bow without letting it touch the +strings, so that it looked as if he were driving into the tune with heart and +soul. ’Tis a question if he wouldn’t have got through all right if +one of the squire’s visitors (no other than the archdeacon) hadn’t +noticed that he held the fiddle upside down, the nut under his chin, and the +tail-piece in his hand; and they began to crowd round him, thinking ’twas +some new way of performing. +</p> + +<p> +‘This revealed everything; the squire’s mother had Andrew turned +out of the house as a vile impostor, and there was great interruption to the +harmony of the proceedings, the squire declaring he should have notice to leave +his cottage that day fortnight. However, when we got to the servants’ +hall there sat Andrew, who had been let in at the back door by the orders of +the squire’s wife, after being turned out at the front by the orders of +the squire, and nothing more was heard about his leaving his cottage. But +Andrew never performed in public as a musician after that night; and now +he’s dead and gone, poor man, as we all shall be!’ +</p> + +<hr /> + +<p> +‘I had quite forgotten the old choir, with their fiddles and +bass-viols,’ said the home-comer, musingly. ‘Are they still going +on the same as of old?’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Bless the man!’ said Christopher Twink, the master-thatcher; +‘why, they’ve been done away with these twenty year. A young +teetotaler plays the organ in church now, and plays it very well; though +’tis not quite such good music as in old times, because the organ is one +of them that go with a winch, and the young teetotaler says he can’t +always throw the proper feeling into the tune without wellnigh working his arms +off.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Why did they make the change, then?’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Well, partly because of fashion, partly because the old musicians got +into a sort of scrape. A terrible scrape ’twas too—wasn’t it, +John? I shall never forget it—never! They lost their character as +officers of the church as complete as if they’d never had any character +at all.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘That was very bad for them.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Yes.’ The master-thatcher attentively regarded past times as if +they lay about a mile off, and went on:— +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2>ABSENT-MINDEDNESS IN A PARISH CHOIR</h2> + +<p> +‘It happened on Sunday after Christmas—the last Sunday ever they +played in Longpuddle church gallery, as it turned out, though they didn’t +know it then. As you may know, sir, the players formed a very good +band—almost as good as the Mellstock parish players that were led by the +Dewys; and that’s saying a great deal. There was Nicholas Puddingcome, +the leader, with the first fiddle; there was Timothy Thomas, the bass-viol man; +John Biles, the tenor fiddler; Dan’l Hornhead, with the serpent; Robert +Dowdle, with the clarionet; and Mr. Nicks, with the oboe—all sound and +powerful musicians, and strong-winded men—they that blowed. For that +reason they were very much in demand Christmas week for little reels and +dancing parties; for they could turn a jig or a hornpipe out of hand as well as +ever they could turn out a psalm, and perhaps better, not to speak irreverent. +In short, one half-hour they could be playing a Christmas carol in the +squire’s hall to the ladies and gentlemen, and drinking tea and coffee +with ’em as modest as saints; and the next, at The Tinker’s Arms, +blazing away like wild horses with the “Dashing White Sergeant” to +nine couple of dancers and more, and swallowing rum-and-cider hot as flame. +</p> + +<p> +‘Well, this Christmas they’d been out to one rattling randy after +another every night, and had got next to no sleep at all. Then came the Sunday +after Christmas, their fatal day. ’Twas so mortal cold that year that +they could hardly sit in the gallery; for though the congregation down in the +body of the church had a stove to keep off the frost, the players in the +gallery had nothing at all. So Nicholas said at morning service, when +’twas freezing an inch an hour, “Please the Lord I won’t +stand this numbing weather no longer: this afternoon we’ll have something +in our insides to make us warm, if it cost a king’s ransom.” +</p> + +<p> +‘So he brought a gallon of hot brandy and beer, ready mixed, to church +with him in the afternoon, and by keeping the jar well wrapped up in Timothy +Thomas’s bass-viol bag it kept drinkably warm till they wanted it, which +was just a thimbleful in the Absolution, and another after the Creed, and the +remainder at the beginning o’ the sermon. When they’d had the last +pull they felt quite comfortable and warm, and as the sermon went on—most +unfortunately for ’em it was a long one that afternoon—they fell +asleep, every man jack of ’em; and there they slept on as sound as rocks. +</p> + +<p> +‘’Twas a very dark afternoon, and by the end of the sermon all you +could see of the inside of the church were the pa’son’s two candles +alongside of him in the pulpit, and his spaking face behind ’em. The +sermon being ended at last, the pa’son gie’d out the Evening Hymn. +But no choir set about sounding up the tune, and the people began to turn their +heads to learn the reason why, and then Levi Limpet, a boy who sat in the +gallery, nudged Timothy and Nicholas, and said, “Begin! begin!” +</p> + +<p> +‘“Hey? what?” says Nicholas, starting up; and the church +being so dark and his head so muddled he thought he was at the party they had +played at all the night before, and away he went, bow and fiddle, at “The +Devil among the Tailors,” the favourite jig of our neighbourhood at that +time. The rest of the band, being in the same state of mind and nothing +doubting, followed their leader with all their strength, according to custom. +They poured out that there tune till the lower bass notes of “The Devil +among the Tailors” made the cobwebs in the roof shiver like ghosts; then +Nicholas, seeing nobody moved, shouted out as he scraped (in his usual +commanding way at dances when the folk didn’t know the figures), +“Top couples cross hands! And when I make the fiddle squeak at the end, +every man kiss his pardner under the mistletoe!” +</p> + +<p> +‘The boy Levi was so frightened that he bolted down the gallery stairs +and out homeward like lightning. The pa’son’s hair fairly stood on +end when he heard the evil tune raging through the church, and thinking the +choir had gone crazy he held up his hand and said: “Stop, stop, stop! +Stop, stop! What’s this?” But they didn’t hear’n for +the noise of their own playing, and the more he called the louder they played. +</p> + +<p> +‘Then the folks came out of their pews, wondering down to the ground, and +saying: “What do they mean by such wickedness! We shall be consumed like +Sodom and Gomorrah!” +</p> + +<p> +‘Then the squire came out of his pew lined wi’ green baize, where +lots of lords and ladies visiting at the house were worshipping along with him, +and went and stood in front of the gallery, and shook his fist in the +musicians’ faces, saying, “What! In this reverent edifice! +What!” +</p> + +<p> +‘And at last they heard’n through their playing, and stopped. +</p> + +<p> +‘“Never such an insulting, disgraceful thing—never!” +says the squire, who couldn’t rule his passion. +</p> + +<p> +‘“Never!” says the pa’son, who had come down and stood +beside him. +</p> + +<p> +‘“Not if the Angels of Heaven,” says the squire (he was a +wickedish man, the squire was, though now for once he happened to be on the +Lord’s side)—“not if the Angels of Heaven come down,” +he says, “shall one of you villanous players ever sound a note in this +church again; for the insult to me, and my family, and my visitors, and God +Almighty, that you’ve a-perpetrated this afternoon!” +</p> + +<p> +‘Then the unfortunate church band came to their senses, and remembered +where they were; and ’twas a sight to see Nicholas Pudding come and +Timothy Thomas and John Biles creep down the gallery stairs with their fiddles +under their arms, and poor Dan’l Hornhead with his serpent, and Robert +Dowdle with his clarionet, all looking as little as ninepins; and out they +went. The pa’son might have forgi’ed ’em when he learned the +truth o’t, but the squire would not. That very week he sent for a +barrel-organ that would play two-and-twenty new psalm-tunes, so exact and +particular that, however sinful inclined you was, you could play nothing but +psalm-tunes whatsomever. He had a really respectable man to turn the winch, as +I said, and the old players played no more.’ +</p> + +<hr /> + +<p> +‘And, of course, my old acquaintance, the annuitant, Mrs. Winter, who +always seemed to have something on her mind, is dead and gone?’ said the +home-comer, after a long silence. +</p> + +<p> +Nobody in the van seemed to recollect the name. +</p> + +<p> +‘O yes, she must be dead long since: she was seventy when I as a child +knew her,’ he added. +</p> + +<p> +‘I can recollect Mrs. Winter very well, if nobody else can,’ said +the aged groceress. ‘Yes, she’s been dead these five-and-twenty +year at least. You knew what it was upon her mind, sir, that gave her that +hollow-eyed look, I suppose?’ +</p> + +<p> +‘It had something to do with a son of hers, I think I once was told. But +I was too young to know particulars.’ +</p> + +<p> +The groceress sighed as she conjured up a vision of days long past. +‘Yes,’ she murmured, ‘it had all to do with a son.’ +Finding that the van was still in a listening mood, she spoke on:— +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2>THE WINTERS AND THE PALMLEYS</h2> + +<p> +‘To go back to the beginning—if one must—there were two women +in the parish when I was a child, who were to a certain extent rivals in good +looks. Never mind particulars, but in consequence of this they were at +daggers-drawn, and they did not love each other any better when one of them +tempted the other’s lover away from her and married him. He was a young +man of the name of Winter, and in due time they had a son. +</p> + +<p> +‘The other woman did not marry for many years: but when she was about +thirty a quiet man named Palmley asked her to be his wife, and she accepted +him. You don’t mind when the Palmleys were Longpuddle folk, but I do +well. She had a son also, who was, of course, nine or ten years younger than +the son of the first. The child proved to be of rather weak intellect, though +his mother loved him as the apple of her eye. +</p> + +<p> +‘This woman’s husband died when the child was eight years old, and +left his widow and boy in poverty. Her former rival, also a widow now, but +fairly well provided for, offered for pity’s sake to take the child as +errand-boy, small as he was, her own son, Jack, being hard upon seventeen. Her +poor neighbour could do no better than let the child go there. And to the +richer woman’s house little Palmley straightway went. +</p> + +<p> +‘Well, in some way or other—how, it was never exactly +known—the thriving woman, Mrs. Winter, sent the little boy with a message +to the next village one December day, much against his will. It was getting +dark, and the child prayed to be allowed not to go, because he would be afraid +coming home. But the mistress insisted, more out of thoughtlessness than +cruelty, and the child went. On his way back he had to pass through Yalbury +Wood, and something came out from behind a tree and frightened him into fits. +The child was quite ruined by it; he became quite a drivelling idiot, and soon +afterward died. +</p> + +<p> +‘Then the other woman had nothing left to live for, and vowed vengeance +against that rival who had first won away her lover, and now had been the cause +of her bereavement. This last affliction was certainly not intended by her +thriving acquaintance, though it must be owned that when it was done she seemed +but little concerned. Whatever vengeance poor Mrs. Palmley felt, she had no +opportunity of carrying it out, and time might have softened her feelings into +forgetfulness of her supposed wrongs as she dragged on her lonely life. So +matters stood when, a year after the death of the child, Mrs. Palmley’s +niece, who had been born and bred in the city of Exonbury, came to live with +her. +</p> + +<p> +‘This young woman—Miss Harriet Palmley—was a proud and +handsome girl, very well brought up, and more stylish and genteel than the +people of our village, as was natural, considering where she came from. She +regarded herself as much above Mrs. Winter and her son in position as Mrs. +Winter and her son considered themselves above poor Mrs. Palmley. But love is +an unceremonious thing, and what in the world should happen but that young Jack +Winter must fall wofully and wildly in love with Harriet Palmley almost as soon +as he saw her. +</p> + +<p> +‘She, being better educated than he, and caring nothing for the village +notion of his mother’s superiority to her aunt, did not give him much +encouragement. But Longpuddle being no very large world, the two could not help +seeing a good deal of each other while she was staying there, and, disdainful +young woman as she was, she did seem to take a little pleasure in his +attentions and advances. +</p> + +<p> +‘One day when they were picking apples together, he asked her to marry +him. She had not expected anything so practical as that at so early a time, and +was led by her surprise into a half-promise; at any rate she did not absolutely +refuse him, and accepted some little presents that he made her. +</p> + +<p> +‘But he saw that her view of him was rather as a simple village lad than +as a young man to look up to, and he felt that he must do something bold to +secure her. So he said one day, “I am going away, to try to get into a +better position than I can get here.” In two or three weeks he wished her +good-bye, and went away to Monksbury, to superintend a farm, with a view to +start as a farmer himself; and from there he wrote regularly to her, as if +their marriage were an understood thing. +</p> + +<p> +‘Now Harriet liked the young man’s presents and the admiration of +his eyes; but on paper he was less attractive to her. Her mother had been a +school-mistress, and Harriet had besides a natural aptitude for pen-and-ink +work, in days when to be a ready writer was not such a common thing as it is +now, and when actual handwriting was valued as an accomplishment in itself. +Jack Winter’s performances in the shape of love-letters quite jarred her +city nerves and her finer taste, and when she answered one of them, in the +lovely running hand that she took such pride in, she very strictly and loftily +bade him to practise with a pen and spelling-book if he wished to please her. +Whether he listened to her request or not nobody knows, but his letters did not +improve. He ventured to tell her in his clumsy way that if her heart were more +warm towards him she would not be so nice about his handwriting and spelling; +which indeed was true enough. +</p> + +<p> +‘Well, in Jack’s absence the weak flame that had been set alight in +Harriet’s heart soon sank low, and at last went out altogether. He wrote +and wrote, and begged and prayed her to give a reason for her coldness; and +then she told him plainly that she was town born, and he was not sufficiently +well educated to please her. +</p> + +<p> +‘Jack Winter’s want of pen-and-ink training did not make him less +thin-skinned than others; in fact, he was terribly tender and touchy about +anything. This reason that she gave for finally throwing him over grieved him, +shamed him, and mortified him more than can be told in these times, the pride +of that day in being able to write with beautiful flourishes, and the sorrow at +not being able to do so, raging so high. Jack replied to her with an angry +note, and then she hit back with smart little stings, telling him how many +words he had misspelt in his last letter, and declaring again that this alone +was sufficient justification for any woman to put an end to an understanding +with him. Her husband must be a better scholar. +</p> + +<p> +‘He bore her rejection of him in silence, but his suffering was +sharp—all the sharper in being untold. She communicated with Jack no +more; and as his reason for going out into the world had been only to provide a +home worthy of her, he had no further object in planning such a home now that +she was lost to him. He therefore gave up the farming occupation by which he +had hoped to make himself a master-farmer, and left the spot to return to his +mother. +</p> + +<p> +‘As soon as he got back to Longpuddle he found that Harriet had already +looked wi’ favour upon another lover. He was a young road-contractor, and +Jack could not but admit that his rival was both in manners and scholarship +much ahead of him. Indeed, a more sensible match for the beauty who had been +dropped into the village by fate could hardly have been found than this man, +who could offer her so much better a chance than Jack could have done, with his +uncertain future and narrow abilities for grappling with the world. The fact +was so clear to him that he could hardly blame her. +</p> + +<p> +‘One day by accident Jack saw on a scrap of paper the handwriting of +Harriet’s new beloved. It was flowing like a stream, well spelt, the work +of a man accustomed to the ink-bottle and the dictionary, of a man already +called in the parish a good scholar. And then it struck all of a sudden into +Jack’s mind what a contrast the letters of this young man must make to +his own miserable old letters, and how ridiculous they must make his lines +appear. He groaned and wished he had never written to her, and wondered if she +had ever kept his poor performances. Possibly she had kept them, for women are +in the habit of doing that, he thought, and whilst they were in her hands there +was always a chance of his honest, stupid love-assurances to her being joked +over by Harriet with her present lover, or by anybody who should accidentally +uncover them. +</p> + +<p> +‘The nervous, moody young man could not bear the thought of it, and at +length decided to ask her to return them, as was proper when engagements were +broken off. He was some hours in framing, copying, and recopying the short note +in which he made his request, and having finished it he sent it to her house. +His messenger came back with the answer, by word of mouth, that Miss Palmley +bade him say she should not part with what was hers, and wondered at his +boldness in troubling her. +</p> + +<p> +‘Jack was much affronted at this, and determined to go for his letters +himself. He chose a time when he knew she was at home, and knocked and went in +without much ceremony; for though Harriet was so high and mighty, Jack had +small respect for her aunt, Mrs. Palmley, whose little child had been his +boot-cleaner in earlier days. Harriet was in the room, this being the first +time they had met since she had jilted him. He asked for his letters with a +stern and bitter look at her. +</p> + +<p> +‘At first she said he might have them for all that she cared, and took +them out of the bureau where she kept them. Then she glanced over the outside +one of the packet, and suddenly altering her mind, she told him shortly that +his request was a silly one, and slipped the letters into her aunt’s +work-box, which stood open on the table, locking it, and saying with a +bantering laugh that of course she thought it best to keep ’em, since +they might be useful to produce as evidence that she had good cause for +declining to marry him. +</p> + +<p> +‘He blazed up hot. “Give me those letters!” he said. +“They are mine!” +</p> + +<p> +‘“No, they are not,” she replied; “they are +mine.” +</p> + +<p> +‘“Whos’ever they are I want them back,” says he. +“I don’t want to be made sport of for my penmanship: you’ve +another young man now! he has your confidence, and you pour all your tales into +his ear. You’ll be showing them to him!” +</p> + +<p> +‘“Perhaps,” said my lady Harriet, with calm coolness, like +the heartless woman that she was. +</p> + +<p> +‘Her manner so maddened him that he made a step towards the work-box, but +she snatched it up, locked it in the bureau, and turned upon him triumphant. +For a moment he seemed to be going to wrench the key of the bureau out of her +hand; but he stopped himself, and swung round upon his heel and went away. +</p> + +<p> +‘When he was out-of-doors alone, and it got night, he walked about +restless, and stinging with the sense of being beaten at all points by her. He +could not help fancying her telling her new lover or her acquaintances of this +scene with himself, and laughing with them over those poor blotted, crooked +lines of his that he had been so anxious to obtain. As the evening passed on he +worked himself into a dogged resolution to have them back at any price, come +what might. +</p> + +<p> +‘At the dead of night he came out of his mother’s house by the back +door, and creeping through the garden hedge went along the field adjoining till +he reached the back of her aunt’s dwelling. The moon struck bright and +flat upon the walls, ’twas said, and every shiny leaf of the creepers was +like a little looking-glass in the rays. From long acquaintance Jack knew the +arrangement and position of everything in Mrs. Palmley’s house as well as +in his own mother’s. The back window close to him was a casement with +little leaded squares, as it is to this day, and was, as now, one of two +lighting the sitting-room. The other, being in front, was closed up with +shutters, but this back one had not even a blind, and the moonlight as it +streamed in showed every article of the furniture to him outside. To the right +of the room is the fireplace, as you may remember; to the left was the bureau +at that time; inside the bureau was Harriet’s work-box, as he supposed +(though it was really her aunt’s), and inside the work-box were his +letters. Well, he took out his pocket-knife, and without noise lifted the +leading of one of the panes, so that he could take out the glass, and putting +his hand through the hole he unfastened the casement, and climbed in through +the opening. All the household—that is to say, Mrs. Palmley, Harriet, and +the little maid-servant—were asleep. Jack went straight to the bureau, so +he said, hoping it might have been unfastened again—it not being kept +locked in ordinary—but Harriet had never unfastened it since she secured +her letters there the day before. Jack told afterward how he thought of her +asleep upstairs, caring nothing for him, and of the way she had made sport of +him and of his letters; and having advanced so far, he was not to be hindered +now. By forcing the large blade of his knife under the flap of the bureau, he +burst the weak lock; within was the rosewood work-box just as she had placed it +in her hurry to keep it from him. There being no time to spare for getting the +letters out of it then, he took it under his arm, shut the bureau, and made the +best of his way out of the house, latching the casement behind him, and +refixing the pane of glass in its place. +</p> + +<p> +‘Winter found his way back to his mother’s as he had come, and +being dog-tired, crept upstairs to bed, hiding the box till he could destroy +its contents. The next morning early he set about doing this, and carried it to +the linhay at the back of his mother’s dwelling. Here by the hearth he +opened the box, and began burning one by one the letters that had cost him so +much labour to write and shame to think of, meaning to return the box to +Harriet, after repairing the slight damage he had caused it by opening it +without a key, with a note—the last she would ever receive from +him—telling her triumphantly that in refusing to return what he had asked +for she had calculated too surely upon his submission to her whims. +</p> + +<p> +‘But on removing the last letter from the box he received a shock; for +underneath it, at the very bottom, lay money—several golden +guineas—“Doubtless Harriet’s pocket-money,” he said to +himself; though it was not, but Mrs. Palmley’s. Before he had got over +his qualms at this discovery he heard footsteps coming through the +house-passage to where he was. In haste he pushed the box and what was in it +under some brushwood which lay in the linhay; but Jack had been already seen. +Two constables entered the out-house, and seized him as he knelt before the +fireplace, securing the work-box and all it contained at the same moment. They +had come to apprehend him on a charge of breaking into the dwelling-house of +Mrs. Palmley on the night preceding; and almost before the lad knew what had +happened to him they were leading him along the lane that connects that end of +the village with this turnpike-road, and along they marched him between +’em all the way to Casterbridge jail. +</p> + +<p> +‘Jack’s act amounted to night burglary—though he had never +thought of it—and burglary was felony, and a capital offence in those +days. His figure had been seen by some one against the bright wall as he came +away from Mrs. Palmley’s back window, and the box and money were found in +his possession, while the evidence of the broken bureau-lock and tinkered +window-pane was more than enough for circumstantial detail. Whether his +protestation that he went only for his letters, which he believed to be +wrongfully kept from him, would have availed him anything if supported by other +evidence I do not know; but the one person who could have borne it out was +Harriet, and she acted entirely under the sway of her aunt. That aunt was +deadly towards Jack Winter. Mrs. Palmley’s time had come. Here was her +revenge upon the woman who had first won away her lover, and next ruined and +deprived her of her heart’s treasure—her little son. When the +assize week drew on, and Jack had to stand his trial, Harriet did not appear in +the case at all, which was allowed to take its course, Mrs. Palmley testifying +to the general facts of the burglary. Whether Harriet would have come forward +if Jack had appealed to her is not known; possibly she would have done it for +pity’s sake; but Jack was too proud to ask a single favour of a girl who +had jilted him; and he let her alone. The trial was a short one, and the death +sentence was passed. +</p> + +<p> +‘The day o’ young Jack’s execution was a cold dusty Saturday +in March. He was so boyish and slim that they were obliged in mercy to hang him +in the heaviest fetters kept in the jail, lest his heft should not break his +neck, and they weighed so upon him that he could hardly drag himself up to the +drop. At that time the gover’ment was not strict about burying the body +of an executed person within the precincts of the prison, and at the earnest +prayer of his poor mother his body was allowed to be brought home. All the +parish waited at their cottage doors in the evening for its arrival: I remember +how, as a very little girl, I stood by my mother’s side. About eight +o’clock, as we hearkened on our door-stones in the cold bright starlight, +we could hear the faint crackle of a waggon from the direction of the +turnpike-road. The noise was lost as the waggon dropped into a hollow, then it +was plain again as it lumbered down the next long incline, and presently it +entered Longpuddle. The coffin was laid in the belfry for the night, and the +next day, Sunday, between the services, we buried him. A funeral sermon was +preached the same afternoon, the text chosen being, “He was the only son +of his mother, and she was a widow.” . . . Yes, they were cruel times! +</p> + +<p> +‘As for Harriet, she and her lover were married in due time; but by all +account her life was no jocund one. She and her good-man found that they could +not live comfortably at Longpuddle, by reason of her connection with +Jack’s misfortunes, and they settled in a distant town, and were no more +heard of by us; Mrs. Palmley, too, found it advisable to join ’em shortly +after. The dark-eyed, gaunt old Mrs. Winter, remembered by the emigrant +gentleman here, was, as you will have foreseen, the Mrs. Winter of this story; +and I can well call to mind how lonely she was, how afraid the children were of +her, and how she kept herself as a stranger among us, though she lived so +long.’ +</p> + +<hr /> + +<p> +‘Longpuddle has had her sad experiences as well as her sunny ones,’ +said Mr. Lackland. +</p> + +<p> +‘Yes, yes. But I am thankful to say not many like that, though good and +bad have lived among us.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘There was Georgy Crookhill—he was one of the shady sort, as I have +reason to know,’ observed the registrar, with the manner of a man who +would like to have his say also. +</p> + +<p> +‘I used to hear what he was as a boy at school.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Well, as he began so he went on. It never got so far as a hanging matter +with him, to be sure; but he had some narrow escapes of penal servitude; and +once it was a case of the biter bit.’ +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2>INCIDENT IN THE LIFE OF MR. GEORGE CROOKHILL</h2> + +<p> +‘One day,’ the registrar continued, ‘Georgy was ambling out +of Melchester on a miserable screw, the fair being just over, when he saw in +front of him a fine-looking young farmer riding out of the town in the same +direction. He was mounted on a good strong handsome animal, worth fifty guineas +if worth a crown. When they were going up Bissett Hill, Georgy made it his +business to overtake the young farmer. They passed the time o’ day to one +another; Georgy spoke of the state of the roads, and jogged alongside the +well-mounted stranger in very friendly conversation. The farmer had not been +inclined to say much to Georgy at first, but by degrees he grew quite affable +too—as friendly as Georgy was toward him. He told Crookhill that he had +been doing business at Melchester fair, and was going on as far as +Shottsford-Forum that night, so as to reach Casterbridge market the next day. +When they came to Woodyates Inn they stopped to bait their horses, and agreed +to drink together; with this they got more friendly than ever, and on they went +again. Before they had nearly reached Shottsford it came on to rain, and as +they were now passing through the village of Trantridge, and it was quite dark, +Georgy persuaded the young farmer to go no further that night; the rain would +most likely give them a chill. For his part he had heard that the little inn +here was comfortable, and he meant to stay. At last the young farmer agreed to +put up there also; and they dismounted, and entered, and had a good supper +together, and talked over their affairs like men who had known and proved each +other a long time. When it was the hour for retiring they went upstairs to a +double-bedded room which Georgy Crookhill had asked the landlord to let them +share, so sociable were they. +</p> + +<p> +‘Before they fell asleep they talked across the room about one thing and +another, running from this to that till the conversation turned upon disguises, +and changing clothes for particular ends. The farmer told Georgy that he had +often heard tales of people doing it; but Crookhill professed to be very +ignorant of all such tricks; and soon the young farmer sank into slumber. +</p> + +<p> +‘Early in the morning, while the tall young farmer was still asleep (I +tell the story as ’twas told me), honest Georgy crept out of his bed by +stealth, and dressed himself in the farmer’s clothes, in the pockets of +the said clothes being the farmer’s money. Now though Georgy particularly +wanted the farmer’s nice clothes and nice horse, owing to a little +transaction at the fair which made it desirable that he should not be too +easily recognized, his desires had their bounds: he did not wish to take his +young friend’s money, at any rate more of it than was necessary for +paying his bill. This he abstracted, and leaving the farmer’s purse +containing the rest on the bedroom table, went downstairs. The inn folks had +not particularly noticed the faces of their customers, and the one or two who +were up at this hour had no thought but that Georgy was the farmer; so when he +had paid the bill very liberally, and said he must be off, no objection was +made to his getting the farmer’s horse saddled for himself; and he rode +away upon it as if it were his own. +</p> + +<p> +‘About half an hour after the young farmer awoke, and looking across the +room saw that his friend Georgy had gone away in clothes which didn’t +belong to him, and had kindly left for himself the seedy ones worn by Georgy. +At this he sat up in a deep thought for some time, instead of hastening to give +an alarm. “The money, the money is gone,” he said to himself, +“and that’s bad. But so are the clothes.” +</p> + +<p> +‘He then looked upon the table and saw that the money, or most of it, had +been left behind. +</p> + +<p> +‘“Ha, ha, ha!” he cried, and began to dance about the room. +“Ha, ha, ha!” he said again, and made beautiful smiles to himself +in the shaving glass and in the brass candlestick; and then swung about his +arms for all the world as if he were going through the sword exercise. +</p> + +<p> +‘When he had dressed himself in Georgy’s clothes and gone +downstairs, he did not seem to mind at all that they took him for the other; +and even when he saw that he had been left a bad horse for a good one, he was +not inclined to cry out. They told him his friend had paid the bill, at which +he seemed much pleased, and without waiting for breakfast he mounted +Georgy’s horse and rode away likewise, choosing the nearest by-lane in +preference to the high-road, without knowing that Georgy had chosen that +by-lane also. +</p> + +<p> +‘He had not trotted more than two miles in the personal character of +Georgy Crookhill when, suddenly rounding a bend that the lane made thereabout, +he came upon a man struggling in the hands of two village constables. It was +his friend Georgy, the borrower of his clothes and horse. But so far was the +young farmer from showing any alacrity in rushing forward to claim his property +that he would have turned the poor beast he rode into the wood adjoining, if he +had not been already perceived. +</p> + +<p> +‘“Help, help, help!” cried the constables. “Assistance +in the name of the Crown!” +</p> + +<p> +‘The young farmer could do nothing but ride forward. “What’s +the matter?” he inquired, as coolly as he could. +</p> + +<p> +‘“A deserter—a deserter!” said they. “One +who’s to be tried by court-martial and shot without parley. He deserted +from the Dragoons at Cheltenham some days ago, and was tracked; but the +search-party can’t find him anywhere, and we told ’em if we met him +we’d hand him on to ’em forthwith. The day after he left the +barracks the rascal met a respectable farmer and made him drunk at an inn, and +told him what a fine soldier he would make, and coaxed him to change clothes, +to see how well a military uniform would become him. This the simple farmer +did; when our deserter said that for a joke he would leave the room and go to +the landlady, to see if she would know him in that dress. He never came back, +and Farmer Jollice found himself in soldier’s clothes, the money in his +pockets gone, and, when he got to the stable, his horse gone too.” +</p> + +<p> +‘“A scoundrel!” says the young man in Georgy’s clothes. +“And is this the wretched caitiff?” (pointing to Georgy). +</p> + +<p> +‘“No, no!” cries Georgy, as innocent as a babe of this matter +of the soldier’s desertion. “He’s the man! He was wearing +Farmer Jollice’s suit o’ clothes, and he slept in the same room +wi’ me, and brought up the subject of changing clothes, which put it into +my head to dress myself in his suit before he was awake. He’s got on +mine!” +</p> + +<p> +‘“D’ye hear the villain?” groans the tall young man to +the constables. “Trying to get out of his crime by charging the first +innocent man with it that he sees! No, master soldier—that won’t +do!” +</p> + +<p> +‘“No, no! That won’t do!” the constables chimed in. +“To have the impudence to say such as that, when we caught him in the act +almost! But, thank God, we’ve got the handcuffs on him at last.” +</p> + +<p> +‘“We have, thank God,” said the tall young man. “Well, +I must move on. Good luck to ye with your prisoner!” And off he went, as +fast as his poor jade would carry him. +</p> + +<p> +‘The constables then, with Georgy handcuffed between ’em, and +leading the horse, marched off in the other direction, toward the village where +they had been accosted by the escort of soldiers sent to bring the deserter +back, Georgy groaning: “I shall be shot, I shall be shot!” They had +not gone more than a mile before they met them. +</p> + +<p> +‘“Hoi, there!” says the head constable. +</p> + +<p> +‘“Hoi, yerself!” says the corporal in charge. +</p> + +<p> +‘“We’ve got your man,” says the constable. +</p> + +<p> +‘“Where?” says the corporal. +</p> + +<p> +‘“Here, between us,” said the constable. “Only you +don’t recognize him out o’ uniform.” +</p> + +<p> +‘The corporal looked at Georgy hard enough; then shook his head and said +he was not the absconder. +</p> + +<p> +‘“But the absconder changed clothes with Farmer Jollice, and took +his horse; and this man has ’em, d’ye see!” +</p> + +<p> +‘“’Tis not our man,” said the soldiers. +“He’s a tall young fellow with a mole on his right cheek, and a +military bearing, which this man decidedly has not.” +</p> + +<p> +‘“I told the two officers of justice that ’twas the +other!” pleaded Georgy. “But they wouldn’t believe me.” +</p> + +<p> +‘And so it became clear that the missing dragoon was the tall young +farmer, and not Georgy Crookhill—a fact which Farmer Jollice himself +corroborated when he arrived on the scene. As Georgy had only robbed the +robber, his sentence was comparatively light. The deserter from the Dragoons +was never traced: his double shift of clothing having been of the greatest +advantage to him in getting off; though he left Georgy’s horse behind him +a few miles ahead, having found the poor creature more hindrance than +aid.’ +</p> + +<hr /> + +<p> +The man from abroad seemed to be less interested in the questionable characters +of Longpuddle and their strange adventures than in the ordinary inhabitants and +the ordinary events, though his local fellow-travellers preferred the former as +subjects of discussion. He now for the first time asked concerning young +persons of the opposite sex—or rather those who had been young when he +left his native land. His informants, adhering to their own opinion that the +remarkable was better worth telling than the ordinary, would not allow him to +dwell upon the simple chronicles of those who had merely come and gone. They +asked him if he remembered Netty Sargent. +</p> + +<p> +‘Netty Sargent—I do, just remember her. She was a young woman +living with her uncle when I left, if my childish recollection may be +trusted.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘That was the maid. She was a oneyer, if you like, sir. Not any harm in +her, you know, but up to everything. You ought to hear how she got the copyhold +of her house extended. Oughtn’t he, Mr. Day?’ +</p> + +<p> +‘He ought,’ replied the world-ignored old painter. +</p> + +<p> +‘Tell him, Mr. Day. Nobody can do it better than you, and you know the +legal part better than some of us.’ +</p> + +<p> +Day apologized, and began:— +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2>NETTY SARGENT’S COPYHOLD</h2> + +<p> +‘She continued to live with her uncle, in the lonely house by the copse, +just as at the time you knew her; a tall spry young woman. Ah, how well one can +remember her black hair and dancing eyes at that time, and her sly way of +screwing up her mouth when she meant to tease ye! Well, she was hardly out of +short frocks before the chaps were after her, and by long and by late she was +courted by a young man whom perhaps you did not know—Jasper Cliff was his +name—and, though she might have had many a better fellow, he so greatly +took her fancy that ’twas Jasper or nobody for her. He was a selfish +customer, always thinking less of what he was going to do than of what he was +going to gain by his doings. Jasper’s eyes might have been fixed upon +Netty, but his mind was upon her uncle’s house; though he was fond of her +in his way—I admit that. +</p> + +<p> +‘This house, built by her great-great-grandfather, with its garden and +little field, was copyhold—granted upon lives in the old way, and had +been so granted for generations. Her uncle’s was the last life upon the +property; so that at his death, if there was no admittance of new lives, it +would all fall into the hands of the lord of the manor. But ’twas easy to +admit—a slight “fine,” as ’twas called, of a few +pounds, was enough to entitle him to a new deed o’ grant by the custom of +the manor; and the lord could not hinder it. +</p> + +<p> +‘Now there could be no better provision for his niece and only relative +than a sure house over her head, and Netty’s uncle should have seen to +the renewal in time, owing to the peculiar custom of forfeiture by the dropping +of the last life before the new fine was paid; for the Squire was very anxious +to get hold of the house and land; and every Sunday when the old man came into +the church and passed the Squire’s pew, the Squire would say, “A +little weaker in his knees, a little crookeder in his back—and the +readmittance not applied for: ha! ha! I shall be able to make a complete +clearing of that corner of the manor some day!” +</p> + +<p> +‘’Twas extraordinary, now we look back upon it, that old Sargent +should have been so dilatory; yet some people are like it; and he put off +calling at the Squire’s agent’s office with the fine week after +week, saying to himself, “I shall have more time next market-day than I +have now.” One unfortunate hindrance was that he didn’t very well +like Jasper Cliff; and as Jasper kept urging Netty, and Netty on that account +kept urging her uncle, the old man was inclined to postpone the re-liveing as +long as he could, to spite the selfish young lover. At last old Mr. Sargent +fell ill, and then Jasper could bear it no longer: he produced the fine-money +himself, and handed it to Netty, and spoke to her plainly. +</p> + +<p> +‘“You and your uncle ought to know better. You should press him +more. There’s the money. If you let the house and ground slip between ye, +I won’t marry; hang me if I will! For folks won’t deserve a husband +that can do such things.” +</p> + +<p> +‘The worried girl took the money and went home, and told her uncle that +it was no house no husband for her. Old Mr. Sargent pooh-poohed the money, for +the amount was not worth consideration, but he did now bestir himself; for he +saw she was bent upon marrying Jasper, and he did not wish to make her unhappy, +since she was so determined. It was much to the Squire’s annoyance that +he found Sargent had moved in the matter at last; but he could not gainsay it, +and the documents were prepared (for on this manor the copy-holders had +writings with their holdings, though on some manors they had none). Old Sargent +being now too feeble to go to the agent’s house, the deed was to be +brought to his house signed, and handed over as a receipt for the money; the +counterpart to be signed by Sargent, and sent back to the Squire. +</p> + +<p> +‘The agent had promised to call on old Sargent for this purpose at five +o’clock, and Netty put the money into her desk to have it close at hand. +While doing this she heard a slight cry from her uncle, and turning round, saw +that he had fallen forward in his chair. She went and lifted him, but he was +unconscious; and unconscious he remained. Neither medicine nor stimulants would +bring him to himself. She had been told that he might possibly go off in that +way, and it seemed as if the end had come. Before she had started for a doctor +his face and extremities grew quite cold and white, and she saw that help would +be useless. He was stone-dead. +</p> + +<p> +‘Netty’s situation rose upon her distracted mind in all its +seriousness. The house, garden, and field were lost—by a few +hours—and with them a home for herself and her lover. She would not think +so meanly of Jasper as to suppose that he would adhere to the resolution +declared in a moment of impatience; but she trembled, nevertheless. Why could +not her uncle have lived a couple of hours longer, since he had lived so long? +It was now past three o’clock; at five the agent was to call, and, if all +had gone well, by ten minutes past five the house and holding would have been +securely hers for her own and Jasper’s lives, these being two of the +three proposed to be added by paying the fine. How that wretched old Squire +would rejoice at getting the little tenancy into his hands! He did not really +require it, but constitutionally hated these tiny copyholds and leaseholds and +freeholds, which made islands of independence in the fair, smooth ocean of his +estates. +</p> + +<p> +‘Then an idea struck into the head of Netty how to accomplish her object +in spite of her uncle’s negligence. It was a dull December afternoon: and +the first step in her scheme—so the story goes, and I see no reason to +doubt it—’ +</p> + +<p> +‘’Tis true as the light,’ affirmed Christopher Twink. +‘I was just passing by.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘The first step in her scheme was to fasten the outer door, to make sure +of not being interrupted. Then she set to work by placing her uncle’s +small, heavy oak table before the fire; then she went to her uncle’s +corpse, sitting in the chair as he had died—a stuffed arm-chair, on +casters, and rather high in the seat, so it was told me—and wheeled the +chair, uncle and all, to the table, placing him with his back toward the +window, in the attitude of bending over the said oak table, which I knew as a +boy as well as I know any piece of furniture in my own house. On the table she +laid the large family Bible open before him, and placed his forefinger on the +page; and then she opened his eyelids a bit, and put on him his spectacles, so +that from behind he appeared for all the world as if he were reading the +Scriptures. Then she unfastened the door and sat down, and when it grew dark +she lit a candle, and put it on the table beside her uncle’s book. +</p> + +<p> +‘Folk may well guess how the time passed with her till the agent came, +and how, when his knock sounded upon the door, she nearly started out of her +skin—at least that’s as it was told me. Netty promptly went to the +door. +</p> + +<p> +‘“I am sorry, sir,” she says, under her breath; “my +uncle is not so well to-night, and I’m afraid he can’t see +you.” +</p> + +<p> +‘“H’m!—that’s a pretty tale,” says the +steward. “So I’ve come all this way about this trumpery little job +for nothing!” +</p> + +<p> +‘“O no, sir—I hope not,” says Netty. “I suppose +the business of granting the new deed can be done just the same?” +</p> + +<p> +‘“Done? Certainly not. He must pay the renewal money, and sign the +parchment in my presence.” +</p> + +<p> +‘She looked dubious. “Uncle is so dreadful nervous about law +business,” says she, “that, as you know, he’s put it off and +put it off for years; and now to-day really I’ve feared it would verily +drive him out of his mind. His poor three teeth quite chattered when I said to +him that you would be here soon with the parchment writing. He always was +afraid of agents, and folks that come for rent, and such-like.” +</p> + +<p> +‘“Poor old fellow—I’m sorry for him. Well, the thing +can’t be done unless I see him and witness his signature.” +</p> + +<p> +‘“Suppose, sir, that you see him sign, and he don’t see you +looking at him? I’d soothe his nerves by saying you weren’t strict +about the form of witnessing, and didn’t wish to come in. So that it was +done in your bare presence it would be sufficient, would it not? As he’s +such an old, shrinking, shivering man, it would be a great considerateness on +your part if that would do?” +</p> + +<p> +‘“In my bare presence would do, of course—that’s all I +come for. But how can I be a witness without his seeing me?” +</p> + +<p> +‘“Why, in this way, sir; if you’ll oblige me by just stepping +here.” She conducted him a few yards to the left, till they were opposite +the parlour window. The blind had been left up purposely, and the candle-light +shone out upon the garden bushes. Within the agent could see, at the other end +of the room, the back and side of the old man’s head, and his shoulders +and arm, sitting with the book and candle before him, and his spectacles on his +nose, as she had placed him. +</p> + +<p> +‘“He’s reading his Bible, as you see, sir,” she says, +quite in her meekest way. +</p> + +<p> +‘“Yes. I thought he was a careless sort of man in matters of +religion?” +</p> + +<p> +‘“He always was fond of his Bible,” Netty assured him. +“Though I think he’s nodding over it just at this moment However, +that’s natural in an old man, and unwell. Now you could stand here and +see him sign, couldn’t you, sir, as he’s such an invalid?” +</p> + +<p> +‘“Very well,” said the agent, lighting a cigar. “You +have ready by you the merely nominal sum you’ll have to pay for the +admittance, of course?” +</p> + +<p> +‘“Yes,” said Netty. “I’ll bring it out.” +She fetched the cash, wrapped in paper, and handed it to him, and when he had +counted it the steward took from his breast pocket the precious parchments and +gave one to her to be signed. +</p> + +<p> +‘“Uncle’s hand is a little paralyzed,” she said. +“And what with his being half asleep, too, really I don’t know what +sort of a signature he’ll be able to make.” +</p> + +<p> +‘“Doesn’t matter, so that he signs.” +</p> + +<p> +‘“Might I hold his hand?” +</p> + +<p> +‘“Ay, hold his hand, my young woman—that will be near +enough.” +</p> + +<p> +‘Netty re-entered the house, and the agent continued smoking outside the +window. Now came the ticklish part of Netty’s performance. The steward +saw her put the inkhorn—“horn,” says I in my old-fashioned +way—the inkstand, before her uncle, and touch his elbow as to arouse him, +and speak to him, and spread out the deed; when she had pointed to show him +where to sign she dipped the pen and put it into his hand. To hold his hand she +artfully stepped behind him, so that the agent could only see a little bit of +his head, and the hand she held; but he saw the old man’s hand trace his +name on the document. As soon as ’twas done she came out to the steward +with the parchment in her hand, and the steward signed as witness by the light +from the parlour window. Then he gave her the deed signed by the Squire, and +left; and next morning Netty told the neighbours that her uncle was dead in his +bed.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘She must have undressed him and put him there.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘She must. Oh, that girl had a nerve, I can tell ye! Well, to cut a long +story short, that’s how she got back the house and field that were, +strictly speaking, gone from her; and by getting them, got her a husband. +</p> + +<p> +‘Every virtue has its reward, they say. Netty had hers for her ingenious +contrivance to gain Jasper. Two years after they were married he took to +beating her—not hard, you know; just a smack or two, enough to set her in +a temper, and let out to the neighbours what she had done to win him, and how +she repented of her pains. When the old Squire was dead, and his son came into +the property, this confession of hers began to be whispered about. But Netty +was a pretty young woman, and the Squire’s son was a pretty young man at +that time, and wider-minded than his father, having no objection to little +holdings; and he never took any proceedings against her.’ +</p> + +<p> +There was now a lull in the discourse, and soon the van descended the hill +leading into the long straggling village. When the houses were reached the +passengers dropped off one by one, each at his or her own door. Arrived at the +inn, the returned emigrant secured a bed, and having eaten a light meal, +sallied forth upon the scene he had known so well in his early days. Though +flooded with the light of the rising moon, none of the objects wore the +attractiveness in this their real presentation that had ever accompanied their +images in the field of his imagination when he was more than two thousand miles +removed from them. The peculiar charm attaching to an old village in an old +country, as seen by the eyes of an absolute foreigner, was lowered in his case +by magnified expectations from infantine memories. He walked on, looking at +this chimney and that old wall, till he came to the churchyard, which he +entered. +</p> + +<p> +The head-stones, whitened by the moon, were easily decipherable; and now for +the first time Lackland began to feel himself amid the village community that +he had left behind him five-and-thirty years before. Here, besides the Sallets, +the Darths, the Pawles, the Privetts, the Sargents, and others of whom he had +just heard, were names he remembered even better than those: the Jickses, and +the Crosses, and the Knights, and the Olds. Doubtless representatives of these +families, or some of them, were yet among the living; but to him they would all +be as strangers. Far from finding his heart ready-supplied with roots and +tendrils here, he perceived that in returning to this spot it would be +incumbent upon him to re-establish himself from the beginning, precisely as +though he had never known the place, nor it him. Time had not condescended to +wait his pleasure, nor local life his greeting. +</p> + +<p> +The figure of Mr. Lackland was seen at the inn, and in the village street, and +in the fields and lanes about Upper Longpuddle, for a few days after his +arrival, and then, ghost-like, it silently disappeared. He had told some of the +villagers that his immediate purpose in coming had been fulfilled by a sight of +the place, and by conversation with its inhabitants: but that his ulterior +purpose—of coming to spend his latter days among them—would +probably never be carried out. It is now a dozen or fifteen years since his +visit was paid, and his face has not again been seen. +</p> + +<p> +<i>March</i> 1891. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div style='display:block; margin-top:4em'>*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK LIFE’S LITTLE IRONIES ***</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. Special rules, set forth in the General Terms of Use part +of this license, apply to copying and distributing Project +Gutenberg™ electronic works to protect the PROJECT GUTENBERG™ +concept and trademark. 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