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diff --git a/3056-h/3056-h.htm b/3056-h/3056-h.htm new file mode 100644 index 0000000..b44ef21 --- /dev/null +++ b/3056-h/3056-h.htm @@ -0,0 +1,12865 @@ +<!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 Wessex Tales, by Thomas Hardy</title> + +<style type="text/css"> + +body { margin-left: 20%; + margin-right: 20%; + text-align: justify; } + +h1, h2, h3, h4, h5 {text-align: center; font-style: normal; font-weight: +normal; line-height: 1.5; margin-top: .5em; margin-bottom: .5em;} + +h1 {font-size: 300%; + margin-top: 0.6em; + margin-bottom: 0.6em; + letter-spacing: 0.12em; + word-spacing: 0.2em; + text-indent: 0em;} +h2 {font-size: 150%; margin-top: 2em; margin-bottom: 1em;} +h3 {font-size: 130%; margin-top: 1em;} +h4 {font-size: 120%;} +h5 {font-size: 110%;} + +.no-break {page-break-before: avoid;} /* for epubs */ + +div.chapter {page-break-before: always; margin-top: 4em;} + +hr {width: 80%; margin-top: 2em; margin-bottom: 2em;} + +p {text-indent: 1em; + margin-top: 0.25em; + margin-bottom: 0.25em; } + +.p2 {margin-top: 2em;} + +p.poem {text-indent: 0%; + margin-left: 10%; + font-size: 90%; + margin-top: 1em; + margin-bottom: 1em; } + +p.letter {text-indent: 0%; + margin-left: 10%; + margin-right: 10%; + margin-top: 1em; + margin-bottom: 1em; } + +p.noindent {text-indent: 0% } + +p.center {text-align: center; + text-indent: 0em; + margin-top: 1em; + margin-bottom: 1em; } + +p.right {text-align: right; + margin-right: 10%; + margin-top: 1em; + margin-bottom: 1em; } + +a:link {color:blue; text-decoration:none} +a:visited {color:blue; text-decoration:none} +a:hover {color:red} + +</style> + +</head> + +<body> + +<div style='text-align:center; font-size:1.2em; font-weight:bold;'>The Project Gutenberg eBook of Wessex Tales, 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: Wessex Tales</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: February, 2002 [eBook #3056]<br /> +[Most recently updated: February 4, 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 WESSEX TALES ***</div> + +<h1>Wessex Tales</h1> + +<h2 class="no-break">by Thomas Hardy</h2> + +<hr /> + +<h2>Contents</h2> + +<table summary="" style=""> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap01">Preface</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap02">An Imaginative Woman</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap03">The Three Strangers</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap04">The Withered Arm</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap05">Fellow-Townsmen</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap06">Interlopers at the Knap</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap07">The Distracted Preacher</a></td> +</tr> + +</table> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap01"></a>PREFACE</h2> + +<p> +An apology is perhaps needed for the neglect of contrast which is shown by +presenting two consecutive stories of hangmen in such a small collection as the +following. But in the neighbourhood of county-towns tales of executions used to +form a large proportion of the local traditions; and though never personally +acquainted with any chief operator at such scenes, the writer of these pages +had as a boy the privilege of being on speaking terms with a man who applied +for the office, and who sank into an incurable melancholy because he failed to +get it, some slight mitigation of his grief being to dwell upon striking +episodes in the lives of those happier ones who had held it with success and +renown. His tale of disappointment used to cause some wonder why his ambition +should have taken such an unfortunate form, but its nobleness was never +questioned. In those days, too, there was still living an old woman who, for +the cure of some eating disease, had been taken in her youth to have her +‘blood turned’ by a convict’s corpse, in the manner described +in ‘The Withered Arm.’ +</p> + +<p> +Since writing this story some years ago I have been reminded by an aged friend +who knew ‘Rhoda Brook’ that, in relating her dream, my +forgetfulness has weakened the facts out of which the tale grew. In reality it +was while lying down on a hot afternoon that the incubus oppressed her and she +flung it off, with the results upon the body of the original as described. To +my mind the occurrence of such a vision in the daytime is more impressive than +if it had happened in a midnight dream. Readers are therefore asked to correct +the misrelation, which affords an instance of how our imperfect memories +insensibly formalize the fresh originality of living fact—from whose +shape they slowly depart, as machine-made castings depart by degrees from the +sharp hand-work of the mould. +</p> + +<p> +Among the many devices for concealing smuggled goods in caves and pits of the +earth, that of planting an apple-tree in a tray or box which was placed over +the mouth of the pit is, I believe, unique, and it is detailed in one of the +tales precisely as described by an old carrier of ‘tubs’—a +man who was afterwards in my father’s employ for over thirty years. I +never gathered from his reminiscences what means were adopted for lifting the +tree, which, with its roots, earth, and receptacle, must have been of +considerable weight. There is no doubt, however, that the thing was done +through many years. My informant often spoke, too, of the horribly suffocating +sensation produced by the pair of spirit-tubs slung upon the chest and back, +after stumbling with the burden of them for several miles inland over a rough +country and in darkness. He said that though years of his youth and young +manhood were spent in this irregular business, his profits from the same, taken +all together, did not average the wages he might have earned in a steady +employment, whilst the fatigues and risks were excessive. +</p> + +<p> +I may add that the first story in the series turns upon a physical possibility +that may attach to women of imaginative temperament, and that is well supported +by the experiences of medical men and other observers of such manifestations. +</p> + +<p class="right"> +T. H. +</p> + +<p class="letter"> +<i>April</i> 1896. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap02"></a>AN IMAGINATIVE WOMAN</h2> + +<p> +When William Marchmill had finished his inquiries for lodgings at a well-known +watering-place in Upper Wessex, he returned to the hotel to find his wife. She, +with the children, had rambled along the shore, and Marchmill followed in the +direction indicated by the military-looking hall-porter +</p> + +<p> +‘By Jove, how far you’ve gone! I am quite out of breath,’ +Marchmill said, rather impatiently, when he came up with his wife, who was +reading as she walked, the three children being considerably further ahead with +the nurse. +</p> + +<p> +Mrs. Marchmill started out of the reverie into which the book had thrown her. +‘Yes,’ she said, ‘you’ve been such a long time. I was +tired of staying in that dreary hotel. But I am sorry if you have wanted me, +Will?’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Well, I have had trouble to suit myself. When you see the airy and +comfortable rooms heard of, you find they are stuffy and uncomfortable. Will +you come and see if what I’ve fixed on will do? There is not much room, I +am afraid; hut I can light on nothing better. The town is rather full.’ +</p> + +<p> +The pair left the children and nurse to continue their ramble, and went back +together. +</p> + +<p> +In age well-balanced, in personal appearance fairly matched, and in domestic +requirements conformable, in temper this couple differed, though even here they +did not often clash, he being equable, if not lymphatic, and she decidedly +nervous and sanguine. It was to their tastes and fancies, those smallest, +greatest particulars, that no common denominator could be applied. Marchmill +considered his wife’s likes and inclinations somewhat silly; she +considered his sordid and material. The husband’s business was that of a +gunmaker in a thriving city northwards, and his soul was in that business +always; the lady was best characterized by that superannuated phrase of +elegance ‘a votary of the muse.’ An impressionable, palpitating +creature was Ella, shrinking humanely from detailed knowledge of her +husband’s trade whenever she reflected that everything he manufactured +had for its purpose the destruction of life. She could only recover her +equanimity by assuring herself that some, at least, of his weapons were sooner +or later used for the extermination of horrid vermin and animals almost as +cruel to their inferiors in species as human beings were to theirs. +</p> + +<p> +She had never antecedently regarded this occupation of his as any objection to +having him for a husband. Indeed, the necessity of getting life-leased at all +cost, a cardinal virtue which all good mothers teach, kept her from thinking of +it at all till she had closed with William, had passed the honeymoon, and +reached the reflecting stage. Then, like a person who has stumbled upon some +object in the dark, she wondered what she had got; mentally walked round it, +estimated it; whether it were rare or common; contained gold, silver, or lead; +were a clog or a pedestal, everything to her or nothing. +</p> + +<p> +She came to some vague conclusions, and since then had kept her heart alive by +pitying her proprietor’s obtuseness and want of refinement, pitying +herself, and letting off her delicate and ethereal emotions in imaginative +occupations, day-dreams, and night-sighs, which perhaps would not much have +disturbed William if he had known of them. +</p> + +<p> +Her figure was small, elegant, and slight in build, tripping, or rather +bounding, in movement. She was dark-eyed, and had that marvellously bright and +liquid sparkle in each pupil which characterizes persons of Ella’s cast +of soul, and is too often a cause of heartache to the possessor’s male +friends, ultimately sometimes to herself. Her husband was a tall, long-featured +man, with a brown beard; he had a pondering regard; and was, it must be added, +usually kind and tolerant to her. He spoke in squarely shaped sentences, and +was supremely satisfied with a condition of sublunary things which made weapons +a necessity. +</p> + +<p> +Husband and wife walked till they had reached the house they were in search of, +which stood in a terrace facing the sea, and was fronted by a small garden of +wind-proof and salt-proof evergreens, stone steps leading up to the porch. It +had its number in the row, but, being rather larger than the rest, was in +addition sedulously distinguished as Coburg House by its landlady, though +everybody else called it ‘Thirteen, New Parade.’ The spot was +bright and lively now; but in winter it became necessary to place sandbags +against the door, and to stuff up the keyhole against the wind and rain, which +had worn the paint so thin that the priming and knotting showed through. +</p> + +<p> +The householder, who had been watching for the gentleman’s return, met +them in the passage, and showed the rooms. She informed them that she was a +professional man’s widow, left in needy circumstances by the rather +sudden death of her husband, and she spoke anxiously of the conveniences of the +establishment. +</p> + +<p> +Mrs. Marchmill said that she liked the situation and the house; but, it being +small, there would not be accommodation enough, unless she could have all the +rooms. +</p> + +<p> +The landlady mused with an air of disappointment. She wanted the visitors to be +her tenants very badly, she said, with obvious honesty. But unfortunately two +of the rooms were occupied permanently by a bachelor gentleman. He did not pay +season prices, it was true; but as he kept on his apartments all the year +round, and was an extremely nice and interesting young man, who gave no +trouble, she did not like to turn him out for a month’s +‘let,’ even at a high figure. ‘Perhaps, however,’ she +added, ‘he might offer to go for a time.’ +</p> + +<p> +They would not hear of this, and went back to the hotel, intending to proceed +to the agent’s to inquire further. Hardly had they sat down to tea when +the landlady called. Her gentleman, she said, had been so obliging as to offer +to give up his rooms for three or four weeks rather than drive the new-comers +away. +</p> + +<p> +‘It is very kind, but we won’t inconvenience him in that +way,’ said the Marchmills. +</p> + +<p> +‘O, it won’t inconvenience him, I assure you!’ said the +landlady eloquently. ‘You see, he’s a different sort of young man +from most—dreamy, solitary, rather melancholy—and he cares more to +be here when the south-westerly gales are beating against the door, and the sea +washes over the Parade, and there’s not a soul in the place, than he does +now in the season. He’d just as soon be where, in fact, he’s going +temporarily, to a little cottage on the Island opposite, for a change.’ +She hoped therefore that they would come. +</p> + +<p> +The Marchmill family accordingly took possession of the house next day, and it +seemed to suit them very well. After luncheon Mr. Marchmill strolled out +towards the pier, and Mrs. Marchmill, having despatched the children to their +outdoor amusements on the sands, settled herself in more completely, examining +this and that article, and testing the reflecting powers of the mirror in the +wardrobe door. +</p> + +<p> +In the small back sitting-room, which had been the young bachelor’s, she +found furniture of a more personal nature than in the rest. Shabby books, of +correct rather than rare editions, were piled up in a queerly reserved manner +in corners, as if the previous occupant had not conceived the possibility that +any incoming person of the season’s bringing could care to look inside +them. The landlady hovered on the threshold to rectify anything that Mrs. +Marchmill might not find to her satisfaction. +</p> + +<p> +‘I’ll make this my own little room,’ said the latter, +‘because the books are here. By the way, the person who has left seems to +have a good many. He won’t mind my reading some of them, Mrs. Hooper, I +hope?’ +</p> + +<p> +‘O dear no, ma’am. Yes, he has a good many. You see, he is in the +literary line himself somewhat. He is a poet—yes, really a poet—and +he has a little income of his own, which is enough to write verses on, but not +enough for cutting a figure, even if he cared to.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘A poet! O, I did not know that.’ +</p> + +<p> +Mrs. Marchmill opened one of the books, and saw the owner’s name written +on the title-page. ‘Dear me!’ she continued; ‘I know his name +very well—Robert Trewe—of course I do; and his writings! And it is +<i>his</i> rooms we have taken, and <i>him</i> we have turned out of his +home?’ +</p> + +<p> +Ella Marchmill, sitting down alone a few minutes later, thought with interested +surprise of Robert Trewe. Her own latter history will best explain that +interest. Herself the only daughter of a struggling man of letters, she had +during the last year or two taken to writing poems, in an endeavour to find a +congenial channel in which to let flow her painfully embayed emotions, whose +former limpidity and sparkle seemed departing in the stagnation caused by the +routine of a practical household and the gloom of bearing children to a +commonplace father. These poems, subscribed with a masculine pseudonym, had +appeared in various obscure magazines, and in two cases in rather prominent +ones. In the second of the latter the page which bore her effusion at the +bottom, in smallish print, bore at the top, in large print, a few verses on the +same subject by this very man, Robert Trewe. Both of them had, in fact, been +struck by a tragic incident reported in the daily papers, and had used it +simultaneously as an inspiration, the editor remarking in a note upon the +coincidence, and that the excellence of both poems prompted him to give them +together. +</p> + +<p> +After that event Ella, otherwise ‘John Ivy,’ had watched with much +attention the appearance anywhere in print of verse bearing the signature of +Robert Trewe, who, with a man’s unsusceptibility on the question of sex, +had never once thought of passing himself off as a woman. To be sure, Mrs. +Marchmill had satisfied herself with a sort of reason for doing the contrary in +her case; that nobody might believe in her inspiration if they found that the +sentiments came from a pushing tradesman’s wife, from the mother of three +children by a matter-of-fact small-arms manufacturer. +</p> + +<p> +Trewe’s verse contrasted with that of the rank and file of recent minor +poets in being impassioned rather than ingenious, luxuriant rather than +finished. Neither <i>symboliste</i> nor <i>décadent</i>, he was a pessimist in +so far as that character applies to a man who looks at the worst contingencies +as well as the best in the human condition. Being little attracted by +excellences of form and rhythm apart from content, he sometimes, when feeling +outran his artistic speed, perpetrated sonnets in the loosely rhymed +Elizabethan fashion, which every right-minded reviewer said he ought not to +have done. +</p> + +<p> +With sad and hopeless envy, Ella Marchmill had often and often scanned the +rival poet’s work, so much stronger as it always was than her own feeble +lines. She had imitated him, and her inability to touch his level would send +her into fits of despondency. Months passed away thus, till she observed from +the publishers’ list that Trewe had collected his fugitive pieces into a +volume, which was duly issued, and was much or little praised according to +chance, and had a sale quite sufficient to pay for the printing. +</p> + +<p> +This step onward had suggested to John Ivy the idea of collecting her pieces +also, or at any rate of making up a book of her rhymes by adding many in +manuscript to the few that had seen the light, for she had been able to get no +great number into print. A ruinous charge was made for costs of publication; a +few reviews noticed her poor little volume; but nobody talked of it, nobody +bought it, and it fell dead in a fortnight—if it had ever been alive. +</p> + +<p> +The author’s thoughts were diverted to another groove just then by the +discovery that she was going to have a third child, and the collapse of her +poetical venture had perhaps less effect upon her mind than it might have done +if she had been domestically unoccupied. Her husband had paid the +publisher’s bill with the doctor’s, and there it all had ended for +the time. But, though less than a poet of her century, Ella was more than a +mere multiplier of her kind, and latterly she had begun to feel the old +afflatus once more. And now by an odd conjunction she found herself in the +rooms of Robert Trewe. +</p> + +<p> +She thoughtfully rose from her chair and searched the apartment with the +interest of a fellow-tradesman. Yes, the volume of his own verse was among the +rest. Though quite familiar with its contents, she read it here as if it spoke +aloud to her, then called up Mrs. Hooper, the landlady, for some trivial +service, and inquired again about the young man. +</p> + +<p> +‘Well, I’m sure you’d be interested in him, ma’am, if +you could see him, only he’s so shy that I don’t suppose you +will.’ Mrs. Hooper seemed nothing loth to minister to her tenant’s +curiosity about her predecessor. ‘Lived here long? Yes, nearly two years. +He keeps on his rooms even when he’s not here: the soft air of this place +suits his chest, and he likes to be able to come back at any time. He is mostly +writing or reading, and doesn’t see many people, though, for the matter +of that, he is such a good, kind young fellow that folks would only be too glad +to be friendly with him if they knew him. You don’t meet kind-hearted +people every day.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Ah, he’s kind-hearted . . . and good.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Yes; he’ll oblige me in anything if I ask him. “Mr. +Trewe,” I say to him sometimes, “you are rather out of +spirits.” “Well, I am, Mrs. Hooper,” he’ll say, +“though I don’t know how you should find it out.” “Why +not take a little change?” I ask. Then in a day or two he’ll say +that he will take a trip to Paris, or Norway, or somewhere; and I assure you he +comes back all the better for it.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Ah, indeed! His is a sensitive nature, no doubt.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Yes. Still he’s odd in some things. Once when he had finished a +poem of his composition late at night he walked up and down the room rehearsing +it; and the floors being so thin—jerry-built houses, you know, though I +say it myself—he kept me awake up above him till I wished him further . . +. But we get on very well.’ +</p> + +<p> +This was but the beginning of a series of conversations about the rising poet +as the days went on. On one of these occasions Mrs. Hooper drew Ella’s +attention to what she had not noticed before: minute scribblings in pencil on +the wall-paper behind the curtains at the head of the bed. +</p> + +<p> +‘O! let me look,’ said Mrs. Marchmill, unable to conceal a rush of +tender curiosity as she bent her pretty face close to the wall. +</p> + +<p> +‘These,’ said Mrs. Hooper, with the manner of a woman who knew +things, ‘are the very beginnings and first thoughts of his verses. He has +tried to rub most of them out, but you can read them still. My belief is that +he wakes up in the night, you know, with some rhyme in his head, and jots it +down there on the wall lest he should forget it by the morning. Some of these +very lines you see here I have seen afterwards in print in the magazines. Some +are newer; indeed, I have not seen that one before. It must have been done only +a few days ago.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘O yes! . . . ’ +</p> + +<p> +Ella Marchmill flushed without knowing why, and suddenly wished her companion +would go away, now that the information was imparted. An indescribable +consciousness of personal interest rather than literary made her anxious to +read the inscription alone; and she accordingly waited till she could do so, +with a sense that a great store of emotion would be enjoyed in the act. +</p> + +<p> +Perhaps because the sea was choppy outside the Island, Ella’s husband +found it much pleasanter to go sailing and steaming about without his wife, who +was a bad sailor, than with her. He did not disdain to go thus alone on board +the steamboats of the cheap-trippers, where there was dancing by moonlight, and +where the couples would come suddenly down with a lurch into each other’s +arms; for, as he blandly told her, the company was too mixed for him to take +her amid such scenes. Thus, while this thriving manufacturer got a great deal +of change and sea-air out of his sojourn here, the life, external at least, of +Ella was monotonous enough, and mainly consisted in passing a certain number of +hours each day in bathing and walking up and down a stretch of shore. But the +poetic impulse having again waxed strong, she was possessed by an inner flame +which left her hardly conscious of what was proceeding around her. +</p> + +<p> +She had read till she knew by heart Trewe’s last little volume of verses, +and spent a great deal of time in vainly attempting to rival some of them, +till, in her failure, she burst into tears. The personal element in the +magnetic attraction exercised by this circumambient, unapproachable master of +hers was so much stronger than the intellectual and abstract that she could not +understand it. To be sure, she was surrounded noon and night by his customary +environment, which literally whispered of him to her at every moment; but he +was a man she had never seen, and that all that moved her was the instinct to +specialize a waiting emotion on the first fit thing that came to hand did not, +of course, suggest itself to Ella. +</p> + +<p> +In the natural way of passion under the too practical conditions which +civilization has devised for its fruition, her husband’s love for her had +not survived, except in the form of fitful friendship, any more than, or even +so much as, her own for him; and, being a woman of very living ardours, that +required sustenance of some sort, they were beginning to feed on this chancing +material, which was, indeed, of a quality far better than chance usually +offers. +</p> + +<p> +One day the children had been playing hide-and-seek in a closet, whence, in +their excitement, they pulled out some clothing. Mrs. Hooper explained that it +belonged to Mr. Trewe, and hung it up in the closet again. Possessed of her +fantasy, Ella went later in the afternoon, when nobody was in that part of the +house, opened the closet, unhitched one of the articles, a mackintosh, and put +it on, with the waterproof cap belonging to it. +</p> + +<p> +‘The mantle of Elijah!’ she said. ‘Would it might inspire me +to rival him, glorious genius that he is!’ +</p> + +<p> +Her eyes always grew wet when she thought like that, and she turned to look at +herself in the glass. <i>His</i> heart had beat inside that coat, and +<i>his</i> brain had worked under that hat at levels of thought she would never +reach. The consciousness of her weakness beside him made her feel quite sick. +Before she had got the things off her the door opened, and her husband entered +the room. +</p> + +<p> +‘What the devil—’ +</p> + +<p> +She blushed, and removed them +</p> + +<p> +‘I found them in the closet here,’ she said, ‘and put them on +in a freak. What have I else to do? You are always away!’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Always away? Well . . . ’ +</p> + +<p> +That evening she had a further talk with the landlady, who might herself have +nourished a half-tender regard for the poet, so ready was she to discourse +ardently about him. +</p> + +<p> +‘You are interested in Mr. Trewe, I know, ma’am,’ she said; +‘and he has just sent to say that he is going to call to-morrow afternoon +to look up some books of his that he wants, if I’ll be in, and he may +select them from your room?’ +</p> + +<p> +‘O yes!’ +</p> + +<p> +‘You could very well meet Mr Trewe then, if you’d like to be in the +way!’ +</p> + +<p> +She promised with secret delight, and went to bed musing of him. +</p> + +<p> +Next morning her husband observed: ‘I’ve been thinking of what you +said, Ell: that I have gone about a good deal and left you without much to +amuse you. Perhaps it’s true. To-day, as there’s not much sea, +I’ll take you with me on board the yacht.’ +</p> + +<p> +For the first time in her experience of such an offer Ella was not glad. But +she accepted it for the moment. The time for setting out drew near, and she +went to get ready. She stood reflecting. The longing to see the poet she was +now distinctly in love with overpowered all other considerations. +</p> + +<p> +‘I don’t want to go,’ she said to herself. ‘I +can’t bear to be away! And I won’t go.’ +</p> + +<p> +She told her husband that she had changed her mind about wishing to sail. He +was indifferent, and went his way. +</p> + +<p> +For the rest of the day the house was quiet, the children having gone out upon +the sands. The blinds waved in the sunshine to the soft, steady stroke of the +sea beyond the wall; and the notes of the Green Silesian band, a troop of +foreign gentlemen hired for the season, had drawn almost all the residents and +promenaders away from the vicinity of Coburg House. A knock was audible at the +door. +</p> + +<p> +Mrs. Marchmill did not hear any servant go to answer it, and she became +impatient. The books were in the room where she sat; but nobody came up. She +rang the bell. +</p> + +<p> +‘There is some person waiting at the door,’ she said. +</p> + +<p> +‘O no, ma’am! He’s gone long ago. I answered it.’ +</p> + +<p> +Mrs. Hooper came in herself. +</p> + +<p> +‘So disappointing!’ she said. ‘Mr. Trewe not coming after +all!’ +</p> + +<p> +‘But I heard him knock, I fancy!’ +</p> + +<p> +‘No; that was somebody inquiring for lodgings who came to the wrong +house. I forgot to tell you that Mr. Trewe sent a note just before lunch to say +I needn’t get any tea for him, as he should not require the books, and +wouldn’t come to select them.’ +</p> + +<p> +Ella was miserable, and for a long time could not even re-read his mournful +ballad on ‘Severed Lives,’ so aching was her erratic little heart, +and so tearful her eyes. When the children came in with wet stockings, and ran +up to her to tell her of their adventures, she could not feel that she cared +about them half as much as usual. +</p> + +<hr /> + +<p> +‘Mrs. Hooper, have you a photograph of—the gentleman who lived +here?’ She was getting to be curiously shy in mentioning his name. +</p> + +<p> +‘Why, yes. It’s in the ornamental frame on the mantelpiece in your +own bedroom, ma’am.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘No; the Royal Duke and Duchess are in that.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Yes, so they are; but he’s behind them. He belongs rightly to that +frame, which I bought on purpose; but as he went away he said: “Cover me +up from those strangers that are coming, for God’s sake. I don’t +want them staring at me, and I am sure they won’t want me staring at +them.” So I slipped in the Duke and Duchess temporarily in front of him, +as they had no frame, and Royalties are more suitable for letting furnished +than a private young man. If you take ’em out you’ll see him under. +Lord, ma’am, he wouldn’t mind if he knew it! He didn’t think +the next tenant would be such an attractive lady as you, or he wouldn’t +have thought of hiding himself; perhaps.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Is he handsome?’ she asked timidly. +</p> + +<p> +‘<i>I</i> call him so. Some, perhaps, wouldn’t.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Should I?’ she asked, with eagerness. +</p> + +<p> +‘I think you would, though some would say he’s more striking than +handsome; a large-eyed thoughtful fellow, you know, with a very electric flash +in his eye when he looks round quickly, such as you’d expect a poet to be +who doesn’t get his living by it.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘How old is he?’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Several years older than yourself, ma’am; about thirty-one or two, +I think.’ +</p> + +<p> +Ella was, as a matter of fact, a few months over thirty herself; but she did +not look nearly so much. Though so immature in nature, she was entering on that +tract of life in which emotional women begin to suspect that last love may be +stronger than first love; and she would soon, alas, enter on the still more +melancholy tract when at least the vainer ones of her sex shrink from receiving +a male visitor otherwise than with their backs to the window or the blinds half +down. She reflected on Mrs. Hooper’s remark, and said no more about age. +</p> + +<p> +Just then a telegram was brought up. It came from her husband, who had gone +down the Channel as far as Budmouth with his friends in the yacht, and would +not be able to get back till next day. +</p> + +<p> +After her light dinner Ella idled about the shore with the children till dusk, +thinking of the yet uncovered photograph in her room, with a serene sense of +something ecstatic to come. For, with the subtle luxuriousness of fancy in +which this young woman was an adept, on learning that her husband was to be +absent that night she had refrained from incontinently rushing upstairs and +opening the picture-frame, preferring to reserve the inspection till she could +be alone, and a more romantic tinge be imparted to the occasion by silence, +candles, solemn sea and stars outside, than was afforded by the garish +afternoon sunlight. +</p> + +<p> +The children had been sent to bed, and Ella soon followed, though it was not +yet ten o’clock. To gratify her passionate curiosity she now made her +preparations, first getting rid of superfluous garments and putting on her +dressing-gown, then arranging a chair in front of the table and reading several +pages of Trewe’s tenderest utterances. Then she fetched the +portrait-frame to the light, opened the back, took out the likeness, and set it +up before her. +</p> + +<p> +It was a striking countenance to look upon. The poet wore a luxuriant black +moustache and imperial, and a slouched hat which shaded the forehead. The large +dark eyes, described by the landlady, showed an unlimited capacity for misery; +they looked out from beneath well-shaped brows as if they were reading the +universe in the microcosm of the confronter’s face, and were not +altogether overjoyed at what the spectacle portended. +</p> + +<p> +Ella murmured in her lowest, richest, tenderest tone: ‘And it’s +<i>you</i> who’ve so cruelly eclipsed me these many times!’ +</p> + +<p> +As she gazed long at the portrait she fell into thought, till her eyes filled +with tears, and she touched the cardboard with her lips. Then she laughed with +a nervous lightness, and wiped her eyes. +</p> + +<p> +She thought how wicked she was, a woman having a husband and three children, to +let her mind stray to a stranger in this unconscionable manner. No, he was not +a stranger! She knew his thoughts and feelings as well as she knew her own; +they were, in fact, the self-same thoughts and feelings as hers, which her +husband distinctly lacked; perhaps luckily for himself; considering that he had +to provide for family expenses. +</p> + +<p> +‘He’s nearer my real self, he’s more intimate with the real +me than Will is, after all, even though I’ve never seen him,’ she +said. +</p> + +<p> +She laid his book and picture on the table at the bedside, and when she was +reclining on the pillow she re-read those of Robert Trewe’s verses which +she had marked from time to time as most touching and true. Putting these +aside, she set up the photograph on its edge upon the coverlet, and +contemplated it as she lay. Then she scanned again by the light of the candle +the half-obliterated pencillings on the wall-paper beside her head. There they +were—phrases, couplets, <i>bouts-rimés</i>, beginnings and middles of +lines, ideas in the rough, like Shelley’s scraps, and the least of them +so intense, so sweet, so palpitating, that it seemed as if his very breath, +warm and loving, fanned her cheeks from those walls, walls that had surrounded +his head times and times as they surrounded her own now. He must often have put +up his hand so—with the pencil in it. Yes, the writing was sideways, as +it would be if executed by one who extended his arm thus. +</p> + +<p> +These inscribed shapes of the poet’s world, +</p> + +<p class="poem"> +‘Forms more real than living man,<br /> +Nurslings of immortality,’ +</p> + +<p class="noindent"> +were, no doubt, the thoughts and spirit-strivings which had come to him in the +dead of night, when he could let himself go and have no fear of the frost of +criticism. No doubt they had often been written up hastily by the light of the +moon, the rays of the lamp, in the blue-grey dawn, in full daylight perhaps +never. And now her hair was dragging where his arm had lain when he secured the +fugitive fancies; she was sleeping on a poet’s lips, immersed in the very +essence of him, permeated by his spirit as by an ether. +</p> + +<p> +While she was dreaming the minutes away thus, a footstep came upon the stairs, +and in a moment she heard her husband’s heavy step on the landing +immediately without. +</p> + +<p> +‘Ell, where are you?’ +</p> + +<p> +What possessed her she could not have described, but, with an instinctive +objection to let her husband know what she had been doing, she slipped the +photograph under the pillow just as he flung open the door, with the air of a +man who had dined not badly. +</p> + +<p> +‘O, I beg pardon,’ said William Marchmill. ‘Have you a +headache? I am afraid I have disturbed you.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘No, I’ve not got a headache,’ said she. ‘How is it +you’ve come?’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Well, we found we could get back in very good time after all, and I +didn’t want to make another day of it, because of going somewhere else +to-morrow.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Shall I come down again?’ +</p> + +<p> +‘O no. I’m as tired as a dog. I’ve had a good feed, and I +shall turn in straight off. I want to get out at six o’clock to-morrow if +I can . . . I shan’t disturb you by my getting up; it will be long before +you are awake.’ And he came forward into the room. +</p> + +<p> +While her eyes followed his movements, Ella softly pushed the photograph +further out of sight. +</p> + +<p> +‘Sure you’re not ill?’ he asked, bending over her. +</p> + +<p> +‘No, only wicked!’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Never mind that.’ And he stooped and kissed her. +</p> + +<p> +Next morning Marchmill was called at six o’clock; and in waking and +yawning she heard him muttering to himself: ‘What the deuce is this +that’s been crackling under me so?’ Imagining her asleep he +searched round him and withdrew something. Through her half-opened eyes she +perceived it to be Mr. Trewe. +</p> + +<p> +‘Well, I’m damned!’ her husband exclaimed. +</p> + +<p> +‘What, dear?’ said she. +</p> + +<p> +‘O, you are awake? Ha! ha!’ +</p> + +<p> +‘What <i>do</i> you mean?’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Some bloke’s photograph—a friend of our landlady’s, I +suppose. I wonder how it came here; whisked off the table by accident perhaps +when they were making the bed.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘I was looking at it yesterday, and it must have dropped in then.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘O, he’s a friend of yours? Bless his picturesque heart!’ +</p> + +<p> +Ella’s loyalty to the object of her admiration could not endure to hear +him ridiculed. ‘He’s a clever man!’ she said, with a tremor +in her gentle voice which she herself felt to be absurdly uncalled for. +</p> + +<p> +‘He is a rising poet—the gentleman who occupied two of these rooms +before we came, though I’ve never seen him.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘How do you know, if you’ve never seen him?’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Mrs. Hooper told me when she showed me the photograph.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘O; well, I must up and be off. I shall be home rather early. Sorry I +can’t take you to-day, dear. Mind the children don’t go getting +drowned.’ +</p> + +<p> +That day Mrs. Marchmill inquired if Mr. Trewe were likely to call at any other +time. +</p> + +<p> +‘Yes,’ said Mrs. Hooper. ‘He’s coming this day week to +stay with a friend near here till you leave. He’ll be sure to +call.’ +</p> + +<p> +Marchmill did return quite early in the afternoon; and, opening some letters +which had arrived in his absence, declared suddenly that he and his family +would have to leave a week earlier than they had expected to do—in short, +in three days. +</p> + +<p> +‘Surely we can stay a week longer?’ she pleaded. ‘I like it +here.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘I don’t. It is getting rather slow.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Then you might leave me and the children!’ +</p> + +<p> +‘How perverse you are, Ell! What’s the use? And have to come to +fetch you! No: we’ll all return together; and we’ll make out our +time in North Wales or Brighton a little later on. Besides, you’ve three +days longer yet.’ +</p> + +<p> +It seemed to be her doom not to meet the man for whose rival talent she had a +despairing admiration, and to whose person she was now absolutely attached. Yet +she determined to make a last effort; and having gathered from her landlady +that Trewe was living in a lonely spot not far from the fashionable town on the +Island opposite, she crossed over in the packet from the neighbouring pier the +following afternoon. +</p> + +<p> +What a useless journey it was! Ella knew but vaguely where the house stood, and +when she fancied she had found it, and ventured to inquire of a pedestrian if +he lived there, the answer returned by the man was that he did not know. And if +he did live there, how could she call upon him? Some women might have the +assurance to do it, but she had not. How crazy he would think her. She might +have asked him to call upon her, perhaps; but she had not the courage for that, +either. She lingered mournfully about the picturesque seaside eminence till it +was time to return to the town and enter the steamer for recrossing, reaching +home for dinner without having been greatly missed. +</p> + +<p> +At the last moment, unexpectedly enough, her husband said that he should have +no objection to letting her and the children stay on till the end of the week, +since she wished to do so, if she felt herself able to get home without him. +She concealed the pleasure this extension of time gave her; and Marchmill went +off the next morning alone. +</p> + +<p> +But the week passed, and Trewe did not call. +</p> + +<p> +On Saturday morning the remaining members of the Marchmill family departed from +the place which had been productive of so much fervour in her. The dreary, +dreary train; the sun shining in moted beams upon the hot cushions; the dusty +permanent way; the mean rows of wire—these things were her accompaniment: +while out of the window the deep blue sea-levels disappeared from her gaze, and +with them her poet’s home. Heavy-hearted, she tried to read, and wept +instead. +</p> + +<p> +Mr. Marchmill was in a thriving way of business, and he and his family lived in +a large new house, which stood in rather extensive grounds a few miles outside +the city wherein he carried on his trade. Ella’s life was lonely here, as +the suburban life is apt to be, particularly at certain seasons; and she had +ample time to indulge her taste for lyric and elegiac composition. She had +hardly got back when she encountered a piece by Robert Trewe in the new number +of her favourite magazine, which must have been written almost immediately +before her visit to Solentsea, for it contained the very couplet she had seen +pencilled on the wallpaper by the bed, and Mrs. Hooper had declared to be +recent. Ella could resist no longer, but seizing a pen impulsively, wrote to +him as a brother-poet, using the name of John Ivy, congratulating him in her +letter on his triumphant executions in metre and rhythm of thoughts that moved +his soul, as compared with her own brow-beaten efforts in the same pathetic +trade. +</p> + +<p> +To this address there came a response in a few days, little as she had dared to +hope for it—a civil and brief note, in which the young poet stated that, +though he was not well acquainted with Mr. Ivy’s verse, he recalled the +name as being one he had seen attached to some very promising pieces; that he +was glad to gain Mr. Ivy’s acquaintance by letter, and should certainly +look with much interest for his productions in the future. +</p> + +<p> +There must have been something juvenile or timid in her own epistle, as one +ostensibly coming from a man, she declared to herself; for Trewe quite adopted +the tone of an elder and superior in this reply. But what did it matter? he had +replied; he had written to her with his own hand from that very room she knew +so well, for he was now back again in his quarters. +</p> + +<p> +The correspondence thus begun was continued for two months or more, Ella +Marchmill sending him from time to time some that she considered to be the best +of her pieces, which he very kindly accepted, though he did not say he +sedulously read them, nor did he send her any of his own in return. Ella would +have been more hurt at this than she was if she had not known that Trewe +laboured under the impression that she was one of his own sex. +</p> + +<p> +Yet the situation was unsatisfactory. A flattering little voice told her that, +were he only to see her, matters would be otherwise. No doubt she would have +helped on this by making a frank confession of womanhood, to begin with, if +something had not happened, to her delight, to render it unnecessary. A friend +of her husband’s, the editor of the most important newspaper in the city +and county, who was dining with them one day, observed during their +conversation about the poet that his (the editor’s) brother the +landscape-painter was a friend of Mr. Trewe’s, and that the two men were +at that very moment in Wales together. +</p> + +<p> +Ella was slightly acquainted with the editor’s brother. The next morning +down she sat and wrote, inviting him to stay at her house for a short time on +his way back, and requesting him to bring with him, if practicable, his +companion Mr. Trewe, whose acquaintance she was anxious to make. The answer +arrived after some few days. Her correspondent and his friend Trewe would have +much satisfaction in accepting her invitation on their way southward, which +would be on such and such a day in the following week. +</p> + +<p> +Ella was blithe and buoyant. Her scheme had succeeded; her beloved though as +yet unseen one was coming. “Behold, he standeth behind our wall; he +looked forth at the windows, showing himself through the lattice,” she +thought ecstatically. “And, lo, the winter is past, the rain is over and +gone, the flowers appear on the earth, the time of the singing of birds is +come, and the voice of the turtle is heard in our land.” +</p> + +<p> +But it was necessary to consider the details of lodging and feeding him. This +she did most solicitously, and awaited the pregnant day and hour. +</p> + +<p> +It was about five in the afternoon when she heard a ring at the door and the +editor’s brother’s voice in the hall. Poetess as she was, or as she +thought herself, she had not been too sublime that day to dress with infinite +trouble in a fashionable robe of rich material, having a faint resemblance to +the <i>chiton</i> of the Greeks, a style just then in vogue among ladies of an +artistic and romantic turn, which had been obtained by Ella of her Bond Street +dressmaker when she was last in London. Her visitor entered the drawing-room. +She looked towards his rear; nobody else came through the door. Where, in the +name of the God of Love, was Robert Trewe? +</p> + +<p> +‘O, I’m sorry,’ said the painter, after their introductory +words had been spoken. ‘Trewe is a curious fellow, you know, Mrs. +Marchmill. He said he’d come; then he said he couldn’t. He’s +rather dusty. We’ve been doing a few miles with knapsacks, you know; and +he wanted to get on home.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘He—he’s not coming?’ +</p> + +<p> +‘He’s not; and he asked me to make his apologies.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘When did you p-p-part from him?’ she asked, her nether lip +starting off quivering so much that it was like a <i>tremolo</i>-stop opened in +her speech. She longed to run away from this dreadful bore and cry her eyes +out. +</p> + +<p> +‘Just now, in the turnpike road yonder there.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘What! he has actually gone past my gates?’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Yes. When we got to them—handsome gates they are, too, the finest +bit of modern wrought-iron work I have seen—when we came to them we +stopped, talking there a little while, and then he wished me good-bye and went +on. The truth is, he’s a little bit depressed just now, and doesn’t +want to see anybody. He’s a very good fellow, and a warm friend, but a +little uncertain and gloomy sometimes; he thinks too much of things. His poetry +is rather too erotic and passionate, you know, for some tastes; and he has just +come in for a terrible slating from the —— <i>Review</i> that was +published yesterday; he saw a copy of it at the station by accident. Perhaps +you’ve read it?’ +</p> + +<p> +‘No.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘So much the better. O, it is not worth thinking of; just one of those +articles written to order, to please the narrow-minded set of subscribers upon +whom the circulation depends. But he’s upset by it. He says it is the +misrepresentation that hurts him so; that, though he can stand a fair attack, +he can’t stand lies that he’s powerless to refute and stop from +spreading. That’s just Trewe’s weak point. He lives so much by +himself that these things affect him much more than they would if he were in +the bustle of fashionable or commercial life. So he wouldn’t come here, +making the excuse that it all looked so new and monied—if you’ll +pardon—’ +</p> + +<p> +‘But—he must have known—there was sympathy here! Has he never +said anything about getting letters from this address?’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Yes, yes, he has, from John Ivy—perhaps a relative of yours, he +thought, visiting here at the time?’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Did he—like Ivy, did he say?’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Well, I don’t know that he took any great interest in Ivy.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Or in his poems?’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Or in his poems—so far as I know, that is.’ +</p> + +<p> +Robert Trewe took no interest in her house, in her poems, or in their writer. +As soon as she could get away she went into the nursery and tried to let off +her emotion by unnecessarily kissing the children, till she had a sudden sense +of disgust at being reminded how plain-looking they were, like their father. +</p> + +<p> +The obtuse and single-minded landscape-painter never once perceived from her +conversation that it was only Trewe she wanted, and not himself. He made the +best of his visit, seeming to enjoy the society of Ella’s husband, who +also took a great fancy to him, and showed him everywhere about the +neighbourhood, neither of them noticing Ella’s mood. +</p> + +<p> +The painter had been gone only a day or two when, while sitting upstairs alone +one morning, she glanced over the London paper just arrived, and read the +following paragraph:- +</p> + +<p class="center"> +‘SUICIDE OF A POET +</p> + +<p class="letter"> +‘Mr. Robert Trewe, who has been favourably known for some years as one of +our rising lyrists, committed suicide at his lodgings at Solentsea on Saturday +evening last by shooting himself in the right temple with a revolver. Readers +hardly need to be reminded that Mr. Trewe has recently attracted the attention +of a much wider public than had hitherto known him, by his new volume of verse, +mostly of an impassioned kind, entitled “Lyrics to a Woman +Unknown,” which has been already favourably noticed in these pages for +the extraordinary gamut of feeling it traverses, and which has been made the +subject of a severe, if not ferocious, criticism in the —— Review. +It is supposed, though not certainly known, that the article may have partially +conduced to the sad act, as a copy of the review in question was found on his +writing-table; and he has been observed to be in a somewhat depressed state of +mind since the critique appeared.’ +</p> + +<p class="noindent"> +Then came the report of the inquest, at which the following letter was read, it +having been addressed to a friend at a distance:- +</p> + +<p class="letter"> +‘DEAR ——,—Before these lines reach your hands I shall +be delivered from the inconveniences of seeing, hearing, and knowing more of +the things around me. I will not trouble you by giving my reasons for the step +I have taken, though I can assure you they were sound and logical. Perhaps had +I been blessed with a mother, or a sister, or a female friend of another sort +tenderly devoted to me, I might have thought it worth while to continue my +present existence. I have long dreamt of such an unattainable creature, as you +know, and she, this undiscoverable, elusive one, inspired my last volume; the +imaginary woman alone, for, in spite of what has been said in some quarters, +there is no real woman behind the title. She has continued to the last +unrevealed, unmet, unwon. I think it desirable to mention this in order that no +blame may attach to any real woman as having been the cause of my decease by +cruel or cavalier treatment of me. Tell my landlady that I am sorry to have +caused her this unpleasantness; but my occupancy of the rooms will soon be +forgotten. There are ample funds in my name at the bank to pay all expenses. R. +TREWE.’ +</p> + +<p> +Ella sat for a while as if stunned, then rushed into the adjoining chamber and +flung herself upon her face on the bed. +</p> + +<p> +Her grief and distraction shook her to pieces; and she lay in this frenzy of +sorrow for more than an hour. Broken words came every now and then from her +quivering lips: ‘O, if he had only known of me—known of +me—me! . . . O, if I had only once met him—only once; and put my +hand upon his hot forehead—kissed him—let him know how I loved +him—that I would have suffered shame and scorn, would have lived and +died, for him! Perhaps it would have saved his dear life! . . . But no—it +was not allowed! God is a jealous God; and that happiness was not for him and +me!’ +</p> + +<p> +All possibilities were over; the meeting was stultified. Yet it was almost +visible to her in her fantasy even now, though it could never be +substantiated— +</p> + +<p class="poem"> +‘The hour which might have been, yet might not be,<br /> +Which man’s and woman’s heart conceived and bore,<br /> +Yet whereof life was barren.’ +</p> + +<hr /> + +<p> +She wrote to the landlady at Solentsea in the third person, in as subdued a +style as she could command, enclosing a postal order for a sovereign, and +informing Mrs. Hooper that Mrs. Marchmill had seen in the papers the sad +account of the poet’s death, and having been, as Mrs. Hooper was aware, +much interested in Mr. Trewe during her stay at Coburg House, she would be +obliged if Mrs. Hooper could obtain a small portion of his hair before his +coffin was closed down, and send it her as a memorial of him, as also the +photograph that was in the frame. +</p> + +<p> +By the return-post a letter arrived containing what had been requested. Ella +wept over the portrait and secured it in her private drawer; the lock of hair +she tied with white ribbon and put in her bosom, whence she drew it and kissed +it every now and then in some unobserved nook. +</p> + +<p> +‘What’s the matter?’ said her husband, looking up from his +newspaper on one of these occasions. ‘Crying over something? A lock of +hair? Whose is it?’ +</p> + +<p> +‘He’s dead!’ she murmured. +</p> + +<p> +‘Who?’ +</p> + +<p> +‘I don’t want to tell you, Will, just now, unless you +insist!’ she said, a sob hanging heavy in her voice. +</p> + +<p> +‘O, all right.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Do you mind my refusing? I will tell you some day.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘It doesn’t matter in the least, of course.’ +</p> + +<p> +He walked away whistling a few bars of no tune in particular; and when he had +got down to his factory in the city the subject came into Marchmill’s +head again. +</p> + +<p> +He, too, was aware that a suicide had taken place recently at the house they +had occupied at Solentsea. Having seen the volume of poems in his wife’s +hand of late, and heard fragments of the landlady’s conversation about +Trewe when they were her tenants, he all at once said to himself; ‘Why of +course it’s he! How the devil did she get to know him? What sly animals +women are!’ +</p> + +<p> +Then he placidly dismissed the matter, and went on with his daily affairs. By +this time Ella at home had come to a determination. Mrs. Hooper, in sending the +hair and photograph, had informed her of the day of the funeral; and as the +morning and noon wore on an overpowering wish to know where they were laying +him took possession of the sympathetic woman. Caring very little now what her +husband or any one else might think of her eccentricities; she wrote Marchmill +a brief note, stating that she was called away for the afternoon and evening, +but would return on the following morning. This she left on his desk, and +having given the same information to the servants, went out of the house on +foot. +</p> + +<p> +When Mr. Marchmill reached home early in the afternoon the servants looked +anxious. The nurse took him privately aside, and hinted that her +mistress’s sadness during the past few days had been such that she feared +she had gone out to drown herself. Marchmill reflected. Upon the whole he +thought that she had not done that. Without saying whither he was bound he also +started off, telling them not to sit up for him. He drove to the +railway-station, and took a ticket for Solentsea. +</p> + +<p> +It was dark when he reached the place, though he had come by a fast train, and +he knew that if his wife had preceded him thither it could only have been by a +slower train, arriving not a great while before his own. The season at +Solentsea was now past: the parade was gloomy, and the flys were few and cheap. +He asked the way to the Cemetery, and soon reached it. The gate was locked, but +the keeper let him in, declaring, however, that there was nobody within the +precincts. Although it was not late, the autumnal darkness had now become +intense; and he found some difficulty in keeping to the serpentine path which +led to the quarter where, as the man had told him, the one or two interments +for the day had taken place. He stepped upon the grass, and, stumbling over +some pegs, stooped now and then to discern if possible a figure against the +sky. +</p> + +<p> +He could see none; but lighting on a spot where the soil was trodden, beheld a +crouching object beside a newly made grave. She heard him, and sprang up. +</p> + +<p> +‘Ell, how silly this is!’ he said indignantly. ‘Running away +from home—I never heard such a thing! Of course I am not jealous of this +unfortunate man; but it is too ridiculous that you, a married woman with three +children and a fourth coming, should go losing your head like this over a dead +lover! . . . Do you know you were locked in? You might not have been able to +get out all night.’ +</p> + +<p> +She did not answer. +</p> + +<p> +‘I hope it didn’t go far between you and him, for your own +sake.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Don’t insult me, Will.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Mind, I won’t have any more of this sort of thing; do you +hear?’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Very well,’ she said. +</p> + +<p> +He drew her arm within his own, and conducted her out of the Cemetery. It was +impossible to get back that night; and not wishing to be recognized in their +present sorry condition, he took her to a miserable little coffee-house close +to the station, whence they departed early in the morning, travelling almost +without speaking, under the sense that it was one of those dreary situations +occurring in married life which words could not mend, and reaching their own +door at noon. +</p> + +<p> +The months passed, and neither of the twain ever ventured to start a +conversation upon this episode. Ella seemed to be only too frequently in a sad +and listless mood, which might almost have been called pining. The time was +approaching when she would have to undergo the stress of childbirth for a +fourth time, and that apparently did not tend to raise her spirits. +</p> + +<p> +‘I don’t think I shall get over it this time!’ she said one +day. +</p> + +<p> +‘Pooh! what childish foreboding! Why shouldn’t it be as well now as +ever?’ +</p> + +<p> +She shook her head. ‘I feel almost sure I am going to die; and I should +be glad, if it were not for Nelly, and Frank, and Tiny.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘And me!’ +</p> + +<p> +‘You’ll soon find somebody to fill my place,’ she murmured, +with a sad smile. ‘And you’ll have a perfect right to; I assure you +of that.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Ell, you are not thinking still about that—poetical friend of +yours?’ +</p> + +<p> +She neither admitted nor denied the charge. ‘I am not going to get over +my illness this time,’ she reiterated. ‘Something tells me I +shan’t.’ +</p> + +<p> +This view of things was rather a bad beginning, as it usually is; and, in fact, +six weeks later, in the month of May, she was lying in her room, pulseless and +bloodless, with hardly strength enough left to follow up one feeble breath with +another, the infant for whose unnecessary life she was slowly parting with her +own being fat and well. Just before her death she spoke to Marchmill softly:- +</p> + +<p> +‘Will, I want to confess to you the entire circumstances of +that—about you know what—that time we visited Solentsea. I +can’t tell what possessed me—how I could forget you so, my husband! +But I had got into a morbid state: I thought you had been unkind; that you had +neglected me; that you weren’t up to my intellectual level, while he was, +and far above it. I wanted a fuller appreciator, perhaps, rather than another +lover—’ +</p> + +<p> +She could get no further then for very exhaustion; and she went off in sudden +collapse a few hours later, without having said anything more to her husband on +the subject of her love for the poet. William Marchmill, in truth, like most +husbands of several years’ standing, was little disturbed by +retrospective jealousies, and had not shown the least anxiety to press her for +confessions concerning a man dead and gone beyond any power of inconveniencing +him more. +</p> + +<p> +But when she had been buried a couple of years it chanced one day that, in +turning over some forgotten papers that he wished to destroy before his second +wife entered the house, he lighted on a lock of hair in an envelope, with the +photograph of the deceased poet, a date being written on the back in his late +wife’s hand. It was that of the time they spent at Solentsea. +</p> + +<p> +Marchmill looked long and musingly at the hair and portrait, for something +struck him. Fetching the little boy who had been the death of his mother, now a +noisy toddler, he took him on his knee, held the lock of hair against the +child’s head, and set up the photograph on the table behind, so that he +could closely compare the features each countenance presented. There were +undoubtedly strong traces of resemblance; the dreamy and peculiar expression of +the poet’s face sat, as the transmitted idea, upon the child’s, and +the hair was of the same hue. +</p> + +<p> +‘I’m damned if I didn’t think so!’ murmured Marchmill. +‘Then she <i>did</i> play me false with that fellow at the lodgings! Let +me see: the dates—the second week in August . . . the third week in May . +. . Yes . . . yes . . . Get away, you poor little brat! You are nothing to +me!’ +</p> + +<p class="p2"> +1893. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap03"></a>THE THREE STRANGERS</h2> + +<p> +Among the few features of agricultural England which retain an appearance but +little modified by the lapse of centuries, may be reckoned the high, grassy and +furzy downs, coombs, or ewe-leases, as they are indifferently called, that fill +a large area of certain counties in the south and south-west. If any mark of +human occupation is met with hereon, it usually takes the form of the solitary +cottage of some shepherd. +</p> + +<p> +Fifty years ago such a lonely cottage stood on such a down, and may possibly be +standing there now. In spite of its loneliness, however, the spot, by actual +measurement, was not more than five miles from a county-town. Yet that affected +it little. Five miles of irregular upland, during the long inimical seasons, +with their sleets, snows, rains, and mists, afford withdrawing space enough to +isolate a Timon or a Nebuchadnezzar; much less, in fair weather, to please that +less repellent tribe, the poets, philosophers, artists, and others who +‘conceive and meditate of pleasant things.’ +</p> + +<p> +Some old earthen camp or barrow, some clump of trees, at least some starved +fragment of ancient hedge is usually taken advantage of in the erection of +these forlorn dwellings. But, in the present case, such a kind of shelter had +been disregarded. Higher Crowstairs, as the house was called, stood quite +detached and undefended. The only reason for its precise situation seemed to be +the crossing of two footpaths at right angles hard by, which may have crossed +there and thus for a good five hundred years. Hence the house was exposed to +the elements on all sides. But, though the wind up here blew unmistakably when +it did blow, and the rain hit hard whenever it fell, the various weathers of +the winter season were not quite so formidable on the coomb as they were +imagined to be by dwellers on low ground. The raw rimes were not so pernicious +as in the hollows, and the frosts were scarcely so severe. When the shepherd +and his family who tenanted the house were pitied for their sufferings from the +exposure, they said that upon the whole they were less inconvenienced by +‘wuzzes and flames’ (hoarses and phlegms) than when they had lived +by the stream of a snug neighbouring valley. +</p> + +<p> +The night of March 28, 182-, was precisely one of the nights that were wont to +call forth these expressions of commiseration. The level rainstorm smote walls, +slopes, and hedges like the clothyard shafts of Senlac and Crecy. Such sheep +and outdoor animals as had no shelter stood with their buttocks to the winds; +while the tails of little birds trying to roost on some scraggy thorn were +blown inside-out like umbrellas. The gable-end of the cottage was stained with +wet, and the eavesdroppings flapped against the wall. Yet never was +commiseration for the shepherd more misplaced. For that cheerful rustic was +entertaining a large party in glorification of the christening of his second +girl. +</p> + +<p> +The guests had arrived before the rain began to fall, and they were all now +assembled in the chief or living room of the dwelling. A glance into the +apartment at eight o’clock on this eventful evening would have resulted +in the opinion that it was as cosy and comfortable a nook as could be wished +for in boisterous weather. The calling of its inhabitant was proclaimed by a +number of highly-polished sheep-crooks without stems that were hung +ornamentally over the fireplace, the curl of each shining crook varying from +the antiquated type engraved in the patriarchal pictures of old family Bibles +to the most approved fashion of the last local sheep-fair. The room was lighted +by half-a-dozen candles, having wicks only a trifle smaller than the grease +which enveloped them, in candlesticks that were never used but at high-days, +holy-days, and family feasts. The lights were scattered about the room, two of +them standing on the chimney-piece. This position of candles was in itself +significant. Candles on the chimney-piece always meant a party. +</p> + +<p> +On the hearth, in front of a back-brand to give substance, blazed a fire of +thorns, that crackled ‘like the laughter of the fool.’ +</p> + +<p> +Nineteen persons were gathered here. Of these, five women, wearing gowns of +various bright hues, sat in chairs along the wall; girls shy and not shy filled +the window-bench; four men, including Charley Jake the hedge-carpenter, Elijah +New the parish-clerk, and John Pitcher, a neighbouring dairyman, the +shepherd’s father-in-law, lolled in the settle; a young man and maid, who +were blushing over tentative <i>pourparlers</i> on a life-companionship, sat +beneath the corner-cupboard; and an elderly engaged man of fifty or upward +moved restlessly about from spots where his betrothed was not to the spot where +she was. Enjoyment was pretty general, and so much the more prevailed in being +unhampered by conventional restrictions. Absolute confidence in each +other’s good opinion begat perfect ease, while the finishing stroke of +manner, amounting to a truly princely serenity, was lent to the majority by the +absence of any expression or trait denoting that they wished to get on in the +world, enlarge their minds, or do any eclipsing thing whatever—which +nowadays so generally nips the bloom and <i>bonhomie</i> of all except the two +extremes of the social scale. +</p> + +<p> +Shepherd Fennel had married well, his wife being a dairyman’s daughter +from a vale at a distance, who brought fifty guineas in her pocket—and +kept them there, till they should be required for ministering to the needs of a +coming family. This frugal woman had been somewhat exercised as to the +character that should be given to the gathering. A sit-still party had its +advantages; but an undisturbed position of ease in chairs and settles was apt +to lead on the men to such an unconscionable deal of toping that they would +sometimes fairly drink the house dry. A dancing-party was the alternative; but +this, while avoiding the foregoing objection on the score of good drink, had a +counterbalancing disadvantage in the matter of good victuals, the ravenous +appetites engendered by the exercise causing immense havoc in the buttery. +Shepherdess Fennel fell back upon the intermediate plan of mingling short +dances with short periods of talk and singing, so as to hinder any ungovernable +rage in either. But this scheme was entirely confined to her own gentle mind: +the shepherd himself was in the mood to exhibit the most reckless phases of +hospitality. +</p> + +<p> +The fiddler was a boy of those parts, about twelve years of age, who had a +wonderful dexterity in jigs and reels, though his fingers were so small and +short as to necessitate a constant shifting for the high notes, from which he +scrambled back to the first position with sounds not of unmixed purity of tone. +At seven the shrill tweedle-dee of this youngster had begun, accompanied by a +booming ground-bass from Elijah New, the parish-clerk, who had thoughtfully +brought with him his favourite musical instrument, the serpent. Dancing was +instantaneous, Mrs. Fennel privately enjoining the players on no account to let +the dance exceed the length of a quarter of an hour. +</p> + +<p> +But Elijah and the boy, in the excitement of their position, quite forgot the +injunction. Moreover, Oliver Giles, a man of seventeen, one of the dancers, who +was enamoured of his partner, a fair girl of thirty-three rolling years, had +recklessly handed a new crown-piece to the musicians, as a bribe to keep going +as long as they had muscle and wind. Mrs. Fennel, seeing the steam begin to +generate on the countenances of her guests, crossed over and touched the +fiddler’s elbow and put her hand on the serpent’s mouth. But they +took no notice, and fearing she might lose her character of genial hostess if +she were to interfere too markedly, she retired and sat down helpless. And so +the dance whizzed on with cumulative fury, the performers moving in their +planet-like courses, direct and retrograde, from apogee to perigee, till the +hand of the well-kicked clock at the bottom of the room had travelled over the +circumference of an hour. +</p> + +<p> +While these cheerful events were in course of enactment within Fennel’s +pastoral dwelling, an incident having considerable bearing on the party had +occurred in the gloomy night without. Mrs. Fennel’s concern about the +growing fierceness of the dance corresponded in point of time with the ascent +of a human figure to the solitary hill of Higher Crowstairs from the direction +of the distant town. This personage strode on through the rain without a pause, +following the little-worn path which, further on in its course, skirted the +shepherd’s cottage. +</p> + +<p> +It was nearly the time of full moon, and on this account, though the sky was +lined with a uniform sheet of dripping cloud, ordinary objects out of doors +were readily visible. The sad wan light revealed the lonely pedestrian to be a +man of supple frame; his gait suggested that he had somewhat passed the period +of perfect and instinctive agility, though not so far as to be otherwise than +rapid of motion when occasion required. At a rough guess, he might have been +about forty years of age. He appeared tall, but a recruiting sergeant, or other +person accustomed to the judging of men’s heights by the eye, would have +discerned that this was chiefly owing to his gauntness, and that he was not +more than five-feet-eight or nine. +</p> + +<p> +Notwithstanding the regularity of his tread, there was caution in it, as in +that of one who mentally feels his way; and despite the fact that it was not a +black coat nor a dark garment of any sort that he wore, there was something +about him which suggested that he naturally belonged to the black-coated tribes +of men. His clothes were of fustian, and his boots hobnailed, yet in his +progress he showed not the mud-accustomed bearing of hobnailed and fustianed +peasantry. +</p> + +<p> +By the time that he had arrived abreast of the shepherd’s premises the +rain came down, or rather came along, with yet more determined violence. The +outskirts of the little settlement partially broke the force of wind and rain, +and this induced him to stand still. The most salient of the shepherd’s +domestic erections was an empty sty at the forward corner of his hedgeless +garden, for in these latitudes the principle of masking the homelier features +of your establishment by a conventional frontage was unknown. The +traveller’s eye was attracted to this small building by the pallid shine +of the wet slates that covered it. He turned aside, and, finding it empty, +stood under the pent-roof for shelter. +</p> + +<p> +While he stood, the boom of the serpent within the adjacent house, and the +lesser strains of the fiddler, reached the spot as an accompaniment to the +surging hiss of the flying rain on the sod, its louder beating on the +cabbage-leaves of the garden, on the eight or ten beehives just discernible by +the path, and its dripping from the eaves into a row of buckets and pans that +had been placed under the walls of the cottage. For at Higher Crowstairs, as at +all such elevated domiciles, the grand difficulty of housekeeping was an +insufficiency of water; and a casual rainfall was utilized by turning out, as +catchers, every utensil that the house contained. Some queer stories might be +told of the contrivances for economy in suds and dish-waters that are +absolutely necessitated in upland habitations during the droughts of summer. +But at this season there were no such exigencies; a mere acceptance of what the +skies bestowed was sufficient for an abundant store. +</p> + +<p> +At last the notes of the serpent ceased and the house was silent. This +cessation of activity aroused the solitary pedestrian from the reverie into +which he had lapsed, and, emerging from the shed, with an apparently new +intention, he walked up the path to the house-door. Arrived here, his first act +was to kneel down on a large stone beside the row of vessels, and to drink a +copious draught from one of them. Having quenched his thirst he rose and lifted +his hand to knock, but paused with his eye upon the panel. Since the dark +surface of the wood revealed absolutely nothing, it was evident that he must be +mentally looking through the door, as if he wished to measure thereby all the +possibilities that a house of this sort might include, and how they might bear +upon the question of his entry. +</p> + +<p> +In his indecision he turned and surveyed the scene around. Not a soul was +anywhere visible. The garden-path stretched downward from his feet, gleaming +like the track of a snail; the roof of the little well (mostly dry), the +well-cover, the top rail of the garden-gate, were varnished with the same dull +liquid glaze; while, far away in the vale, a faint whiteness of more than usual +extent showed that the rivers were high in the meads. Beyond all this winked a +few bleared lamplights through the beating drops—lights that denoted the +situation of the county-town from which he had appeared to come. The absence of +all notes of life in that direction seemed to clinch his intentions, and he +knocked at the door. +</p> + +<p> +Within, a desultory chat had taken the place of movement and musical sound. The +hedge-carpenter was suggesting a song to the company, which nobody just then +was inclined to undertake, so that the knock afforded a not unwelcome +diversion. +</p> + +<p> +‘Walk in!’ said the shepherd promptly. +</p> + +<p> +The latch clicked upward, and out of the night our pedestrian appeared upon the +door-mat. The shepherd arose, snuffed two of the nearest candles, and turned to +look at him. +</p> + +<p> +Their light disclosed that the stranger was dark in complexion and not +unprepossessing as to feature. His hat, which for a moment he did not remove, +hung low over his eyes, without concealing that they were large, open, and +determined, moving with a flash rather than a glance round the room. He seemed +pleased with his survey, and, baring his shaggy head, said, in a rich deep +voice, ‘The rain is so heavy, friends, that I ask leave to come in and +rest awhile.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘To be sure, stranger,’ said the shepherd. ‘And faith, +you’ve been lucky in choosing your time, for we are having a bit of a +fling for a glad cause—though, to be sure, a man could hardly wish that +glad cause to happen more than once a year.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Nor less,’ spoke up a woman. ‘For ’tis best to get +your family over and done with, as soon as you can, so as to be all the earlier +out of the fag o’t.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘And what may be this glad cause?’ asked the stranger. +</p> + +<p> +‘A birth and christening,’ said the shepherd. +</p> + +<p> +The stranger hoped his host might not be made unhappy either by too many or too +few of such episodes, and being invited by a gesture to a pull at the mug, he +readily acquiesced. His manner, which, before entering, had been so dubious, +was now altogether that of a careless and candid man. +</p> + +<p> +‘Late to be traipsing athwart this coomb—hey?’ said the +engaged man of fifty. +</p> + +<p> +‘Late it is, master, as you say.—I’ll take a seat in the +chimney-corner, if you have nothing to urge against it, ma’am; for I am a +little moist on the side that was next the rain.’ +</p> + +<p> +Mrs. Shepherd Fennel assented, and made room for the self-invited comer, who, +having got completely inside the chimney-corner, stretched out his legs and his +arms with the expansiveness of a person quite at home. +</p> + +<p> +‘Yes, I am rather cracked in the vamp,’ he said freely, seeing that +the eyes of the shepherd’s wife fell upon his boots, ‘and I am not +well fitted either. I have had some rough times lately, and have been forced to +pick up what I can get in the way of wearing, but I must find a suit better fit +for working-days when I reach home.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘One of hereabouts?’ she inquired. +</p> + +<p> +‘Not quite that—further up the country.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘I thought so. And so be I; and by your tongue you come from my +neighbourhood.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘But you would hardly have heard of me,’ he said quickly. ‘My +time would be long before yours, ma’am, you see.’ +</p> + +<p> +This testimony to the youthfulness of his hostess had the effect of stopping +her cross-examination. +</p> + +<p> +‘There is only one thing more wanted to make me happy,’ continued +the new-comer. ‘And that is a little baccy, which I am sorry to say I am +out of.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘I’ll fill your pipe,’ said the shepherd. +</p> + +<p> +‘I must ask you to lend me a pipe likewise.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘A smoker, and no pipe about ‘ee?’ +</p> + +<p> +‘I have dropped it somewhere on the road.’ +</p> + +<p> +The shepherd filled and handed him a new clay pipe, saying, as he did so, +‘Hand me your baccy-box—I’ll fill that too, now I am about +it.’ +</p> + +<p> +The man went through the movement of searching his pockets. +</p> + +<p> +‘Lost that too?’ said his entertainer, with some surprise. +</p> + +<p> +‘I am afraid so,’ said the man with some confusion. ‘Give it +to me in a screw of paper.’ Lighting his pipe at the candle with a +suction that drew the whole flame into the bowl, he resettled himself in the +corner and bent his looks upon the faint steam from his damp legs, as if he +wished to say no more. +</p> + +<p> +Meanwhile the general body of guests had been taking little notice of this +visitor by reason of an absorbing discussion in which they were engaged with +the band about a tune for the next dance. The matter being settled, they were +about to stand up when an interruption came in the shape of another knock at +the door. +</p> + +<p> +At sound of the same the man in the chimney-corner took up the poker and began +stirring the brands as if doing it thoroughly were the one aim of his +existence; and a second time the shepherd said, ‘Walk in!’ In a +moment another man stood upon the straw-woven door-mat. He too was a stranger. +</p> + +<p> +This individual was one of a type radically different from the first. There was +more of the commonplace in his manner, and a certain jovial cosmopolitanism sat +upon his features. He was several years older than the first arrival, his hair +being slightly frosted, his eyebrows bristly, and his whiskers cut back from +his cheeks. His face was rather full and flabby, and yet it was not altogether +a face without power. A few grog-blossoms marked the neighbourhood of his nose. +He flung back his long drab greatcoat, revealing that beneath it he wore a suit +of cinder-gray shade throughout, large heavy seals, of some metal or other that +would take a polish, dangling from his fob as his only personal ornament. +Shaking the water-drops from his low-crowned glazed hat, he said, ‘I must +ask for a few minutes’ shelter, comrades, or I shall be wetted to my skin +before I get to Casterbridge.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Make yourself at home, master,’ said the shepherd, perhaps a +trifle less heartily than on the first occasion. Not that Fennel had the least +tinge of niggardliness in his composition; but the room was far from large, +spare chairs were not numerous, and damp companions were not altogether +desirable at close quarters for the women and girls in their bright-coloured +gowns. +</p> + +<p> +However, the second comer, after taking off his greatcoat, and hanging his hat +on a nail in one of the ceiling-beams as if he had been specially invited to +put it there, advanced and sat down at the table. This had been pushed so +closely into the chimney-corner, to give all available room to the dancers, +that its inner edge grazed the elbow of the man who had ensconced himself by +the fire; and thus the two strangers were brought into close companionship. +They nodded to each other by way of breaking the ice of unacquaintance, and the +first stranger handed his neighbour the family mug—a huge vessel of brown +ware, having its upper edge worn away like a threshold by the rub of whole +generations of thirsty lips that had gone the way of all flesh, and bearing the +following inscription burnt upon its rotund side in yellow letters +</p> + +<p class="center"> +THERE IS NO FUN<br /> +UNTiLL i CUM. +</p> + +<p class="noindent"> +The other man, nothing loth, raised the mug to his lips, and drank on, and on, +and on—till a curious blueness overspread the countenance of the +shepherd’s wife, who had regarded with no little surprise the first +stranger’s free offer to the second of what did not belong to him to +dispense. +</p> + +<p> +‘I knew it!’ said the toper to the shepherd with much satisfaction. +‘When I walked up your garden before coming in, and saw the hives all of +a row, I said to myself; “Where there’s bees there’s honey, +and where there’s honey there’s mead.” But mead of such a +truly comfortable sort as this I really didn’t expect to meet in my older +days.’ He took yet another pull at the mug, till it assumed an ominous +elevation. +</p> + +<p> +‘Glad you enjoy it!’ said the shepherd warmly. +</p> + +<p> +‘It is goodish mead,’ assented Mrs. Fennel, with an absence of +enthusiasm which seemed to say that it was possible to buy praise for +one’s cellar at too heavy a price. ‘It is trouble enough to +make—and really I hardly think we shall make any more. For honey sells +well, and we ourselves can make shift with a drop o’ small mead and +metheglin for common use from the comb-washings.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘O, but you’ll never have the heart!’ reproachfully cried the +stranger in cinder-gray, after taking up the mug a third time and setting it +down empty. ‘I love mead, when ’tis old like this, as I love to go +to church o’ Sundays, or to relieve the needy any day of the week.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Ha, ha, ha!’ said the man in the chimney-corner, who, in spite of +the taciturnity induced by the pipe of tobacco, could not or would not refrain +from this slight testimony to his comrade’s humour. +</p> + +<p> +Now the old mead of those days, brewed of the purest first-year or maiden +honey, four pounds to the gallon—with its due complement of white of +eggs, cinnamon, ginger, cloves, mace, rosemary, yeast, and processes of +working, bottling, and cellaring—tasted remarkably strong; but it did not +taste so strong as it actually was. Hence, presently, the stranger in +cinder-gray at the table, moved by its creeping influence, unbuttoned his +waistcoat, threw himself back in his chair, spread his legs, and made his +presence felt in various ways. +</p> + +<p> +‘Well, well, as I say,’ he resumed, ‘I am going to +Casterbridge, and to Casterbridge I must go. I should have been almost there by +this time; but the rain drove me into your dwelling, and I’m not sorry +for it.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘You don’t live in Casterbridge?’ said the shepherd. +</p> + +<p> +‘Not as yet; though I shortly mean to move there.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Going to set up in trade, perhaps?’ +</p> + +<p> +‘No, no,’ said the shepherd’s wife. ‘It is easy to see +that the gentleman is rich, and don’t want to work at anything.’ +</p> + +<p> +The cinder-gray stranger paused, as if to consider whether he would accept that +definition of himself. He presently rejected it by answering, ‘Rich is +not quite the word for me, dame. I do work, and I must work. And even if I only +get to Casterbridge by midnight I must begin work there at eight to-morrow +morning. Yes, het or wet, blow or snow, famine or sword, my day’s work +to-morrow must be done.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Poor man! Then, in spite o’ seeming, you be worse off than +we?’ replied the shepherd’s wife. +</p> + +<p> +‘’Tis the nature of my trade, men and maidens. ’Tis the +nature of my trade more than my poverty . . . But really and truly I must up +and off, or I shan’t get a lodging in the town.’ However, the +speaker did not move, and directly added, ‘There’s time for one +more draught of friendship before I go; and I’d perform it at once if the +mug were not dry.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Here’s a mug o’ small,’ said Mrs. Fennel. +‘Small, we call it, though to be sure ’tis only the first wash +o’ the combs.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘No,’ said the stranger disdainfully. ‘I won’t spoil +your first kindness by partaking o’ your second.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Certainly not,’ broke in Fennel. ‘We don’t increase +and multiply every day, and I’ll fill the mug again.’ He went away +to the dark place under the stairs where the barrel stood. The shepherdess +followed him. +</p> + +<p> +‘Why should you do this?’ she said reproachfully, as soon as they +were alone. ‘He’s emptied it once, though it held enough for ten +people; and now he’s not contented wi’ the small, but must needs +call for more o’ the strong! And a stranger unbeknown to any of us. For +my part, I don’t like the look o’ the man at all.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘But he’s in the house, my honey; and ’tis a wet night, and a +christening. Daze it, what’s a cup of mead more or less? There’ll +be plenty more next bee-burning.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Very well—this time, then,’ she answered, looking wistfully +at the barrel. ‘But what is the man’s calling, and where is he one +of; that he should come in and join us like this?’ +</p> + +<p> +‘I don’t know. I’ll ask him again.’ +</p> + +<p> +The catastrophe of having the mug drained dry at one pull by the stranger in +cinder-gray was effectually guarded against this time by Mrs. Fennel. She +poured out his allowance in a small cup, keeping the large one at a discreet +distance from him. When he had tossed off his portion the shepherd renewed his +inquiry about the stranger’s occupation. +</p> + +<p> +The latter did not immediately reply, and the man in the chimney-corner, with +sudden demonstrativeness, said, ‘Anybody may know my +trade—I’m a wheelwright.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘A very good trade for these parts,’ said the shepherd. +</p> + +<p> +‘And anybody may know mine—if they’ve the sense to find it +out,’ said the stranger in cinder-gray. +</p> + +<p> +‘You may generally tell what a man is by his claws,’ observed the +hedge-carpenter, looking at his own hands. ‘My fingers be as full of +thorns as an old pin-cushion is of pins.’ +</p> + +<p> +The hands of the man in the chimney-corner instinctively sought the shade, and +he gazed into the fire as he resumed his pipe. The man at the table took up the +hedge-carpenter’s remark, and added smartly, ‘True; but the oddity +of my trade is that, instead of setting a mark upon me, it sets a mark upon my +customers.’ +</p> + +<p> +No observation being offered by anybody in elucidation of this enigma, the +shepherd’s wife once more called for a song. The same obstacles presented +themselves as at the former time—one had no voice, another had forgotten +the first verse. The stranger at the table, whose soul had now risen to a good +working temperature, relieved the difficulty by exclaiming that, to start the +company, he would sing himself. Thrusting one thumb into the arm-hole of his +waistcoat, he waved the other hand in the air, and, with an extemporizing gaze +at the shining sheep-crooks above the mantelpiece, began:— +</p> + +<p class="poem"> +‘O my trade it is the rarest one,<br /> +Simple shepherds all—<br /> +My trade is a sight to see;<br /> +For my customers I tie, and take them up on high,<br /> +And waft ’em to a far countree!’ +</p> + +<p class="noindent"> +The room was silent when he had finished the verse—with one exception, +that of the man in the chimney-corner, who, at the singer’s word, +‘Chorus! ‘joined him in a deep bass voice of musical relish— +</p> + +<p class="poem"> +‘And waft ’em to a far countree!’ +</p> + +<p class="noindent"> +Oliver Giles, John Pitcher the dairyman, the parish-clerk, the engaged man of +fifty, the row of young women against the wall, seemed lost in thought not of +the gayest kind. The shepherd looked meditatively on the ground, the +shepherdess gazed keenly at the singer, and with some suspicion; she was +doubting whether this stranger were merely singing an old song from +recollection, or was composing one there and then for the occasion. All were as +perplexed at the obscure revelation as the guests at Belshazzar’s Feast, +except the man in the chimney-corner, who quietly said, ‘Second verse, +stranger,’ and smoked on. +</p> + +<p> +The singer thoroughly moistened himself from his lips inwards, and went on with +the next stanza as requested:- +</p> + +<p class="poem"> +My tools are but common ones,<br /> +Simple shepherds all—<br /> +My tools are no sight to see:<br /> +A little hempen string, and a post whereon to swing,<br /> +Are implements enough for me!’ +</p> + +<p class="noindent"> +Shepherd Fennel glanced round. There was no longer any doubt that the stranger +was answering his question rhythmically. The guests one and all started back +with suppressed exclamations. The young woman engaged to the man of fifty +fainted half-way, and would have proceeded, but finding him wanting in alacrity +for catching her she sat down trembling. +</p> + +<p> +‘O, he’s the—!’ whispered the people in the background, +mentioning the name of an ominous public officer. ‘He’s come to do +it! ’Tis to be at Casterbridge jail to-morrow—the man for +sheep-stealing—the poor clock-maker we heard of; who used to live away at +Shottsford and had no work to do—Timothy Summers, whose family were +a-starving, and so he went out of Shottsford by the high-road, and took a sheep +in open daylight, defying the farmer and the farmer’s wife and the +farmer’s lad, and every man jack among ’em. He’ (and they +nodded towards the stranger of the deadly trade) ‘is come from up the +country to do it because there’s not enough to do in his own county-town, +and he’s got the place here now our own county man’s dead; +he’s going to live in the same cottage under the prison wall.’ +</p> + +<p> +The stranger in cinder-gray took no notice of this whispered string of +observations, but again wetted his lips. Seeing that his friend in the +chimney-corner was the only one who reciprocated his joviality in any way, he +held out his cup towards that appreciative comrade, who also held out his own. +They clinked together, the eyes of the rest of the room hanging upon the +singer’s actions. He parted his lips for the third verse; but at that +moment another knock was audible upon the door. This time the knock was faint +and hesitating. +</p> + +<p> +The company seemed scared; the shepherd looked with consternation towards the +entrance, and it was with some effort that he resisted his alarmed wife’s +deprecatory glance, and uttered for the third time the welcoming words, +‘Walk in!’ +</p> + +<p> +The door was gently opened, and another man stood upon the mat. He, like those +who had preceded him, was a stranger. This time it was a short, small +personage, of fair complexion, and dressed in a decent suit of dark clothes. +</p> + +<p> +‘Can you tell me the way to—?’ he began: when, gazing round +the room to observe the nature of the company amongst whom he had fallen, his +eyes lighted on the stranger in cinder-gray. It was just at the instant when +the latter, who had thrown his mind into his song with such a will that he +scarcely heeded the interruption, silenced all whispers and inquiries by +bursting into his third verse:- +</p> + +<p class="poem"> +To-morrow is my working day,<br /> +Simple shepherds all—<br /> +To-morrow is a working day for me:<br /> +For the farmer’s sheep is slain, and the lad who did it +ta’en,<br /> +And on his soul may God ha’ merc-y!’ +</p> + +<p class="noindent"> +The stranger in the chimney-corner, waving cups with the singer so heartily +that his mead splashed over on the hearth, repeated in his bass voice as +before:- +</p> + +<p class="poem"> +‘And on his soul may God ha’ merc-y!’ +</p> + +<p> +All this time the third stranger had been standing in the doorway. Finding now +that he did not come forward or go on speaking, the guests particularly +regarded him. They noticed to their surprise that he stood before them the +picture of abject terror—his knees trembling, his hand shaking so +violently that the door-latch by which he supported himself rattled audibly: +his white lips were parted, and his eyes fixed on the merry officer of justice +in the middle of the room. A moment more and he had turned, closed the door, +and fled. +</p> + +<p> +‘What a man can it be?’ said the shepherd. +</p> + +<p> +The rest, between the awfulness of their late discovery and the odd conduct of +this third visitor, looked as if they knew not what to think, and said nothing. +Instinctively they withdrew further and further from the grim gentleman in +their midst, whom some of them seemed to take for the Prince of Darkness +himself; till they formed a remote circle, an empty space of floor being left +between them and him— +</p> + +<p class="poem"> +‘ . . . circulus, cujus centrum diabolus.’ +</p> + +<p class="noindent"> +The room was so silent—though there were more than twenty people in +it—that nothing could be heard but the patter of the rain against the +window-shutters, accompanied by the occasional hiss of a stray drop that fell +down the chimney into the fire, and the steady puffing of the man in the +corner, who had now resumed his pipe of long clay. +</p> + +<p> +The stillness was unexpectedly broken. The distant sound of a gun reverberated +through the air—apparently from the direction of the county-town. +</p> + +<p> +‘Be jiggered!’ cried the stranger who had sung the song, jumping +up. +</p> + +<p> +‘What does that mean?’ asked several. +</p> + +<p> +‘A prisoner escaped from the jail—that’s what it +means.’ +</p> + +<p> +All listened. The sound was repeated, and none of them spoke but the man in the +chimney-corner, who said quietly, ‘I’ve often been told that in +this county they fire a gun at such times; but I never heard it till +now.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘I wonder if it is <i>my</i> man?’ murmured the personage in +cinder-gray. +</p> + +<p> +‘Surely it is!’ said the shepherd involuntarily. ‘And surely +we’ve zeed him! That little man who looked in at the door by now, and +quivered like a leaf when he zeed ye and heard your song!’ +</p> + +<p> +‘His teeth chattered, and the breath went out of his body,’ said +the dairyman. +</p> + +<p> +‘And his heart seemed to sink within him like a stone,’ said Oliver +Giles. +</p> + +<p> +‘And he bolted as if he’d been shot at,’ said the +hedge-carpenter. +</p> + +<p> +‘True—his teeth chattered, and his heart seemed to sink; and he +bolted as if he’d been shot at,’ slowly summed up the man in the +chimney-corner. +</p> + +<p> +‘I didn’t notice it,’ remarked the hangman. +</p> + +<p> +‘We were all a-wondering what made him run off in such a fright,’ +faltered one of the women against the wall, ‘and now ’tis +explained!’ +</p> + +<p> +The firing of the alarm-gun went on at intervals, low and sullenly, and their +suspicions became a certainty. The sinister gentleman in cinder-gray roused +himself. ‘Is there a constable here?’ he asked, in thick tones. +‘If so, let him step forward.’ +</p> + +<p> +The engaged man of fifty stepped quavering out from the wall, his betrothed +beginning to sob on the back of the chair. +</p> + +<p> +‘You are a sworn constable?’ +</p> + +<p> +‘I be, sir.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Then pursue the criminal at once, with assistance, and bring him back +here. He can’t have gone far.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘I will, sir, I will—when I’ve got my staff. I’ll go +home and get it, and come sharp here, and start in a body.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Staff!—never mind your staff; the man’ll be gone!’ +</p> + +<p> +‘But I can’t do nothing without my staff—can I, William, and +John, and Charles Jake? No; for there’s the king’s royal crown a +painted on en in yaller and gold, and the lion and the unicorn, so as when I +raise en up and hit my prisoner, ’tis made a lawful blow thereby. I +wouldn’t ‘tempt to take up a man without my staff—no, not I. +If I hadn’t the law to gie me courage, why, instead o’ my taking up +him he might take up me!’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Now, I’m a king’s man myself; and can give you authority +enough for this,’ said the formidable officer in gray. ‘Now then, +all of ye, be ready. Have ye any lanterns?’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Yes—have ye any lanterns?—I demand it!’ said the +constable. +</p> + +<p> +‘And the rest of you able-bodied—’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Able-bodied men—yes—the rest of ye!’ said the +constable. +</p> + +<p> +‘Have you some good stout staves and pitch-forks—’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Staves and pitchforks—in the name o’ the law! And take +’em in yer hands and go in quest, and do as we in authority tell +ye!’ +</p> + +<p> +Thus aroused, the men prepared to give chase. The evidence was, indeed, though +circumstantial, so convincing, that but little argument was needed to show the +shepherd’s guests that after what they had seen it would look very much +like connivance if they did not instantly pursue the unhappy third stranger, +who could not as yet have gone more than a few hundred yards over such uneven +country. +</p> + +<p> +A shepherd is always well provided with lanterns; and, lighting these hastily, +and with hurdle-staves in their hands, they poured out of the door, taking a +direction along the crest of the hill, away from the town, the rain having +fortunately a little abated. +</p> + +<p> +Disturbed by the noise, or possibly by unpleasant dreams of her baptism, the +child who had been christened began to cry heart-brokenly in the room overhead. +These notes of grief came down through the chinks of the floor to the ears of +the women below, who jumped up one by one, and seemed glad of the excuse to +ascend and comfort the baby, for the incidents of the last half-hour greatly +oppressed them. Thus in the space of two or three minutes the room on the +ground-floor was deserted quite. +</p> + +<p> +But it was not for long. Hardly had the sound of footsteps died away when a man +returned round the corner of the house from the direction the pursuers had +taken. Peeping in at the door, and seeing nobody there, he entered leisurely. +It was the stranger of the chimney-corner, who had gone out with the rest. The +motive of his return was shown by his helping himself to a cut piece of +skimmer-cake that lay on a ledge beside where he had sat, and which he had +apparently forgotten to take with him. He also poured out half a cup more mead +from the quantity that remained, ravenously eating and drinking these as he +stood. He had not finished when another figure came in just as +quietly—his friend in cinder-gray. +</p> + +<p> +‘O—you here?’ said the latter, smiling. ‘I thought you +had gone to help in the capture.’ And this speaker also revealed the +object of his return by looking solicitously round for the fascinating mug of +old mead. +</p> + +<p> +‘And I thought you had gone,’ said the other, continuing his +skimmer-cake with some effort. +</p> + +<p> +‘Well, on second thoughts, I felt there were enough without me,’ +said the first confidentially, ‘and such a night as it is, too. Besides, +’tis the business o’ the Government to take care of its +criminals—not mine.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘True; so it is. And I felt as you did, that there were enough without +me.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘I don’t want to break my limbs running over the humps and hollows +of this wild country.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Nor I neither, between you and me.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘These shepherd-people are used to it—simple-minded souls, you +know, stirred up to anything in a moment. They’ll have him ready for me +before the morning, and no trouble to me at all.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘They’ll have him, and we shall have saved ourselves all labour in +the matter.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘True, true. Well, my way is to Casterbridge; and ’tis as much as +my legs will do to take me that far. Going the same way?’ +</p> + +<p> +‘No, I am sorry to say! I have to get home over there’ (he nodded +indefinitely to the right), ‘and I feel as you do, that it is quite +enough for my legs to do before bedtime.’ +</p> + +<p> +The other had by this time finished the mead in the mug, after which, shaking +hands heartily at the door, and wishing each other well, they went their +several ways. +</p> + +<p> +In the meantime the company of pursuers had reached the end of the +hog’s-back elevation which dominated this part of the down. They had +decided on no particular plan of action; and, finding that the man of the +baleful trade was no longer in their company, they seemed quite unable to form +any such plan now. They descended in all directions down the hill, and +straightway several of the party fell into the snare set by Nature for all +misguided midnight ramblers over this part of the cretaceous formation. The +‘lanchets,’ or flint slopes, which belted the escarpment at +intervals of a dozen yards, took the less cautious ones unawares, and losing +their footing on the rubbly steep they slid sharply downwards, the lanterns +rolling from their hands to the bottom, and there lying on their sides till the +horn was scorched through. +</p> + +<p> +When they had again gathered themselves together, the shepherd, as the man who +knew the country best, took the lead, and guided them round these treacherous +inclines. The lanterns, which seemed rather to dazzle their eyes and warn the +fugitive than to assist them in the exploration, were extinguished, due silence +was observed; and in this more rational order they plunged into the vale. It +was a grassy, briery, moist defile, affording some shelter to any person who +had sought it; but the party perambulated it in vain, and ascended on the other +side. Here they wandered apart, and after an interval closed together again to +report progress. +</p> + +<p> +At the second time of closing in they found themselves near a lonely ash, the +single tree on this part of the coomb, probably sown there by a passing bird +some fifty years before. And here, standing a little to one side of the trunk, +as motionless as the trunk itself; appeared the man they were in quest of; his +outline being well defined against the sky beyond. The band noiselessly drew up +and faced him. +</p> + +<p> +‘Your money or your life!’ said the constable sternly to the still +figure. +</p> + +<p> +‘No, no,’ whispered John Pitcher. ‘’Tisn’t our +side ought to say that. That’s the doctrine of vagabonds like him, and we +be on the side of the law.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Well, well,’ replied the constable impatiently; ‘I must say +something, mustn’t I? and if you had all the weight o’ this +undertaking upon your mind, perhaps you’d say the wrong thing +too!—Prisoner at the bar, surrender, in the name of the Father—the +Crown, I mane!’ +</p> + +<p> +The man under the tree seemed now to notice them for the first time, and, +giving them no opportunity whatever for exhibiting their courage, he strolled +slowly towards them. He was, indeed, the little man, the third stranger; but +his trepidation had in a great measure gone. +</p> + +<p> +‘Well, travellers,’ he said, ‘did I hear ye speak to +me?’ +</p> + +<p> +‘You did: you’ve got to come and be our prisoner at once!’ +said the constable. ‘We arrest ‘ee on the charge of not biding in +Casterbridge jail in a decent proper manner to be hung to-morrow morning. +Neighbours, do your duty, and seize the culpet!’ +</p> + +<p> +On hearing the charge, the man seemed enlightened, and, saying not another +word, resigned himself with preternatural civility to the search-party, who, +with their staves in their hands, surrounded him on all sides, and marched him +back towards the shepherd’s cottage. +</p> + +<p> +It was eleven o’clock by the time they arrived. The light shining from +the open door, a sound of men’s voices within, proclaimed to them as they +approached the house that some new events had arisen in their absence. On +entering they discovered the shepherd’s living room to be invaded by two +officers from Casterbridge jail, and a well-known magistrate who lived at the +nearest country-seat, intelligence of the escape having become generally +circulated. +</p> + +<p> +‘Gentlemen,’ said the constable, ‘I have brought back your +man—not without risk and danger; but every one must do his duty! He is +inside this circle of able-bodied persons, who have lent me useful aid, +considering their ignorance of Crown work. Men, bring forward your +prisoner!’ And the third stranger was led to the light. +</p> + +<p> +‘Who is this?’ said one of the officials. +</p> + +<p> +‘The man,’ said the constable. +</p> + +<p> +‘Certainly not,’ said the turnkey; and the first corroborated his +statement. +</p> + +<p> +‘But how can it be otherwise?’ asked the constable. ‘Or why +was he so terrified at sight o’ the singing instrument of the law who sat +there?’ Here he related the strange behaviour of the third stranger on +entering the house during the hangman’s song. +</p> + +<p> +‘Can’t understand it,’ said the officer coolly. ‘All I +know is that it is not the condemned man. He’s quite a different +character from this one; a gauntish fellow, with dark hair and eyes, rather +good-looking, and with a musical bass voice that if you heard it once +you’d never mistake as long as you lived.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Why, souls—’twas the man in the chimney-corner!’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Hey—what?’ said the magistrate, coming forward after +inquiring particulars from the shepherd in the background. ‘Haven’t +you got the man after all?’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Well, sir,’ said the constable, ‘he’s the man we were +in search of, that’s true; and yet he’s not the man we were in +search of. For the man we were in search of was not the man we wanted, sir, if +you understand my everyday way; for ’twas the man in the +chimney-corner!’ +</p> + +<p> +‘A pretty kettle of fish altogether!’ said the magistrate. +‘You had better start for the other man at once.’ +</p> + +<p> +The prisoner now spoke for the first time. The mention of the man in the +chimney-corner seemed to have moved him as nothing else could do. +‘Sir,’ he said, stepping forward to the magistrate, ‘take no +more trouble about me. The time is come when I may as well speak. I have done +nothing; my crime is that the condemned man is my brother. Early this afternoon +I left home at Shottsford to tramp it all the way to Casterbridge jail to bid +him farewell. I was benighted, and called here to rest and ask the way. When I +opened the door I saw before me the very man, my brother, that I thought to see +in the condemned cell at Casterbridge. He was in this chimney-corner; and +jammed close to him, so that he could not have got out if he had tried, was the +executioner who’d come to take his life, singing a song about it and not +knowing that it was his victim who was close by, joining in to save +appearances. My brother looked a glance of agony at me, and I knew he meant, +“Don’t reveal what you see; my life depends on it.” I was so +terror-struck that I could hardly stand, and, not knowing what I did, I turned +and hurried away.’ +</p> + +<p> +The narrator’s manner and tone had the stamp of truth, and his story made +a great impression on all around. ‘And do you know where your brother is +at the present time?’ asked the magistrate. +</p> + +<p> +‘I do not. I have never seen him since I closed this door.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘I can testify to that, for we’ve been between ye ever +since,’ said the constable. +</p> + +<p> +‘Where does he think to fly to?—what is his occupation?’ +</p> + +<p> +‘He’s a watch-and-clock-maker, sir.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘’A said ’a was a wheelwright—a wicked rogue,’ +said the constable. +</p> + +<p> +‘The wheels of clocks and watches he meant, no doubt,’ said +Shepherd Fennel. ‘I thought his hands were palish for’s +trade.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Well, it appears to me that nothing can be gained by retaining this poor +man in custody,’ said the magistrate; ‘your business lies with the +other, unquestionably.’ +</p> + +<p> +And so the little man was released off-hand; but he looked nothing the less sad +on that account, it being beyond the power of magistrate or constable to raze +out the written troubles in his brain, for they concerned another whom he +regarded with more solicitude than himself. When this was done, and the man had +gone his way, the night was found to be so far advanced that it was deemed +useless to renew the search before the next morning. +</p> + +<p> +Next day, accordingly, the quest for the clever sheep-stealer became general +and keen, to all appearance at least. But the intended punishment was cruelly +disproportioned to the transgression, and the sympathy of a great many +country-folk in that district was strongly on the side of the fugitive. +Moreover, his marvellous coolness and daring in hob-and-nobbing with the +hangman, under the unprecedented circumstances of the shepherd’s party, +won their admiration. So that it may be questioned if all those who ostensibly +made themselves so busy in exploring woods and fields and lanes were quite so +thorough when it came to the private examination of their own lofts and +outhouses. Stories were afloat of a mysterious figure being occasionally seen +in some old overgrown trackway or other, remote from turnpike roads; but when a +search was instituted in any of these suspected quarters nobody was found. Thus +the days and weeks passed without tidings. +</p> + +<p> +In brief; the bass-voiced man of the chimney-corner was never recaptured. Some +said that he went across the sea, others that he did not, but buried himself in +the depths of a populous city. At any rate, the gentleman in cinder-gray never +did his morning’s work at Casterbridge, nor met anywhere at all, for +business purposes, the genial comrade with whom he had passed an hour of +relaxation in the lonely house on the coomb. +</p> + +<p> +The grass has long been green on the graves of Shepherd Fennel and his frugal +wife; the guests who made up the christening party have mainly followed their +entertainers to the tomb; the baby in whose honour they all had met is a matron +in the sere and yellow leaf. But the arrival of the three strangers at the +shepherd’s that night, and the details connected therewith, is a story as +well known as ever in the country about Higher Crowstairs. +</p> + +<p class="p2"> +March 1883. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap04"></a>THE WITHERED ARM</h2> + +<h3>CHAPTER I—A LORN MILKMAID</h3> + +<p> +It was an eighty-cow dairy, and the troop of milkers, regular and +supernumerary, were all at work; for, though the time of year was as yet but +early April, the feed lay entirely in water-meadows, and the cows were +‘in full pail.’ The hour was about six in the evening, and +three-fourths of the large, red, rectangular animals having been finished off, +there was opportunity for a little conversation. +</p> + +<p> +‘He do bring home his bride to-morrow, I hear. They’ve come as far +as Anglebury to-day.’ +</p> + +<p> +The voice seemed to proceed from the belly of the cow called Cherry, but the +speaker was a milking-woman, whose face was buried in the flank of that +motionless beast. +</p> + +<p> +‘Hav’ anybody seen her?’ said another. +</p> + +<p> +There was a negative response from the first. ‘Though they say +she’s a rosy-cheeked, tisty-tosty little body enough,’ she added; +and as the milkmaid spoke she turned her face so that she could glance past her +cow’s tail to the other side of the barton, where a thin, fading woman of +thirty milked somewhat apart from the rest. +</p> + +<p> +‘Years younger than he, they say,’ continued the second, with also +a glance of reflectiveness in the same direction. +</p> + +<p> +‘How old do you call him, then?’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Thirty or so.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘More like forty,’ broke in an old milkman near, in a long white +pinafore or ‘wropper,’ and with the brim of his hat tied down, so +that he looked like a woman. ‘’A was born before our Great Weir was +builded, and I hadn’t man’s wages when I laved water there.’ +</p> + +<p> +The discussion waxed so warm that the purr of the milk-streams became jerky, +till a voice from another cow’s belly cried with authority, ‘Now +then, what the Turk do it matter to us about Farmer Lodge’s age, or +Farmer Lodge’s new mis’ess? I shall have to pay him nine pound a +year for the rent of every one of these milchers, whatever his age or hers. Get +on with your work, or ’twill be dark afore we have done. The evening is +pinking in a’ready.’ This speaker was the dairyman himself; by whom +the milkmaids and men were employed. +</p> + +<p> +Nothing more was said publicly about Farmer Lodge’s wedding, but the +first woman murmured under her cow to her next neighbour, ‘’Tis +hard for <i>she</i>,’ signifying the thin worn milkmaid aforesaid. +</p> + +<p> +‘O no,’ said the second. ‘He ha’n’t spoke to +Rhoda Brook for years.’ +</p> + +<p> +When the milking was done they washed their pails and hung them on a +many-forked stand made of the peeled limb of an oak-tree, set upright in the +earth, and resembling a colossal antlered horn. The majority then dispersed in +various directions homeward. The thin woman who had not spoken was joined by a +boy of twelve or thereabout, and the twain went away up the field also. +</p> + +<p> +Their course lay apart from that of the others, to a lonely spot high above the +water-meads, and not far from the border of Egdon Heath, whose dark countenance +was visible in the distance as they drew nigh to their home. +</p> + +<p> +‘They’ve just been saying down in barton that your father brings +his young wife home from Anglebury to-morrow,’ the woman observed. +‘I shall want to send you for a few things to market, and you’ll be +pretty sure to meet ’em.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Yes, mother,’ said the boy. ‘Is father married then?’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Yes . . . You can give her a look, and tell me what’s she’s +like, if you do see her.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Yes, mother.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘If she’s dark or fair, and if she’s tall—as tall as I. +And if she seems like a woman who has ever worked for a living, or one that has +been always well off, and has never done anything, and shows marks of the lady +on her, as I expect she do.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Yes.’ +</p> + +<p> +They crept up the hill in the twilight, and entered the cottage. It was built +of mud-walls, the surface of which had been washed by many rains into channels +and depressions that left none of the original flat face visible; while here +and there in the thatch above a rafter showed like a bone protruding through +the skin. +</p> + +<p> +She was kneeling down in the chimney-corner, before two pieces of turf laid +together with the heather inwards, blowing at the red-hot ashes with her breath +till the turves flamed. The radiance lit her pale cheek, and made her dark +eyes, that had once been handsome, seem handsome anew. ‘Yes,’ she +resumed, ‘see if she is dark or fair, and if you can, notice if her hands +be white; if not, see if they look as though she had ever done housework, or +are milker’s hands like mine.’ +</p> + +<p> +The boy again promised, inattentively this time, his mother not observing that +he was cutting a notch with his pocket-knife in the beech-backed chair. +</p> + +<h3>CHAPTER II—THE YOUNG WIFE</h3> + +<p> +The road from Anglebury to Holmstoke is in general level; but there is one +place where a sharp ascent breaks its monotony. Farmers homeward-bound from the +former market-town, who trot all the rest of the way, walk their horses up this +short incline. +</p> + +<p> +The next evening, while the sun was yet bright, a handsome new gig, with a +lemon-coloured body and red wheels, was spinning westward along the level +highway at the heels of a powerful mare. The driver was a yeoman in the prime +of life, cleanly shaven like an actor, his face being toned to that +bluish-vermilion hue which so often graces a thriving farmer’s features +when returning home after successful dealings in the town. Beside him sat a +woman, many years his junior—almost, indeed, a girl. Her face too was +fresh in colour, but it was of a totally different quality—soft and +evanescent, like the light under a heap of rose-petals. +</p> + +<p> +Few people travelled this way, for it was not a main road; and the long white +riband of gravel that stretched before them was empty, save of one small +scarce-moving speck, which presently resolved itself into the figure of boy, +who was creeping on at a snail’s pace, and continually looking behind +him—the heavy bundle he carried being some excuse for, if not the reason +of, his dilatoriness. When the bouncing gig-party slowed at the bottom of the +incline above mentioned, the pedestrian was only a few yards in front. +Supporting the large bundle by putting one hand on his hip, he turned and +looked straight at the farmer’s wife as though he would read her through +and through, pacing along abreast of the horse. +</p> + +<p> +The low sun was full in her face, rendering every feature, shade, and contour +distinct, from the curve of her little nostril to the colour of her eyes. The +farmer, though he seemed annoyed at the boy’s persistent presence, did +not order him to get out of the way; and thus the lad preceded them, his hard +gaze never leaving her, till they reached the top of the ascent, when the +farmer trotted on with relief in his lineaments—having taken no outward +notice of the boy whatever. +</p> + +<p> +‘How that poor lad stared at me!’ said the young wife. +</p> + +<p> +‘Yes, dear; I saw that he did.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘He is one of the village, I suppose?’ +</p> + +<p> +‘One of the neighbourhood. I think he lives with his mother a mile or two +off.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘He knows who we are, no doubt?’ +</p> + +<p> +‘O yes. You must expect to be stared at just at first, my pretty +Gertrude.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘I do,—though I think the poor boy may have looked at us in the +hope we might relieve him of his heavy load, rather than from curiosity.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘O no,’ said her husband off-handedly. ‘These country lads +will carry a hundredweight once they get it on their backs; besides his pack +had more size than weight in it. Now, then, another mile and I shall be able to +show you our house in the distance—if it is not too dark before we get +there.’ The wheels spun round, and particles flew from their periphery as +before, till a white house of ample dimensions revealed itself, with +farm-buildings and ricks at the back. +</p> + +<p> +Meanwhile the boy had quickened his pace, and turning up a by-lane some mile +and half short of the white farmstead, ascended towards the leaner pastures, +and so on to the cottage of his mother. +</p> + +<p> +She had reached home after her day’s milking at the outlying dairy, and +was washing cabbage at the doorway in the declining light. ‘Hold up the +net a moment,’ she said, without preface, as the boy came up. +</p> + +<p> +He flung down his bundle, held the edge of the cabbage-net, and as she filled +its meshes with the dripping leaves she went on, ‘Well, did you see +her?’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Yes; quite plain.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Is she ladylike?’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Yes; and more. A lady complete.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Is she young?’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Well, she’s growed up, and her ways be quite a +woman’s.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Of course. What colour is her hair and face?’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Her hair is lightish, and her face as comely as a live +doll’s.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Her eyes, then, are not dark like mine?’ +</p> + +<p> +‘No—of a bluish turn, and her mouth is very nice and red; and when +she smiles, her teeth show white.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Is she tall?’ said the woman sharply. +</p> + +<p> +‘I couldn’t see. She was sitting down.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Then do you go to Holmstoke church to-morrow morning: she’s sure +to be there. Go early and notice her walking in, and come home and tell me if +she’s taller than I.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Very well, mother. But why don’t you go and see for +yourself?’ +</p> + +<p> +<i>‘I</i> go to see her! I wouldn’t look up at her if she were to +pass my window this instant. She was with Mr. Lodge, of course. What did he say +or do?’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Just the same as usual.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Took no notice of you?’ +</p> + +<p> +‘None.’ +</p> + +<p> +Next day the mother put a clean shirt on the boy, and started him off for +Holmstoke church. He reached the ancient little pile when the door was just +being opened, and he was the first to enter. Taking his seat by the font, he +watched all the parishioners file in. The well-to-do Farmer Lodge came nearly +last; and his young wife, who accompanied him, walked up the aisle with the +shyness natural to a modest woman who had appeared thus for the first time. As +all other eyes were fixed upon her, the youth’s stare was not noticed +now. +</p> + +<p> +When he reached home his mother said, ‘Well?’ before he had entered +the room. +</p> + +<p> +‘She is not tall. She is rather short,’ he replied. +</p> + +<p> +‘Ah!’ said his mother, with satisfaction. +</p> + +<p> +‘But she’s very pretty—very. In fact, she’s +lovely.’ +</p> + +<p> +The youthful freshness of the yeoman’s wife had evidently made an +impression even on the somewhat hard nature of the boy. +</p> + +<p> +‘That’s all I want to hear,’ said his mother quickly. +‘Now, spread the table-cloth. The hare you caught is very tender; but +mind that nobody catches you.—You’ve never told me what sort of +hands she had.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘I have never seen ’em. She never took off her gloves.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘What did she wear this morning?’ +</p> + +<p> +‘A white bonnet and a silver-coloured gownd. It whewed and whistled so +loud when it rubbed against the pews that the lady coloured up more than ever +for very shame at the noise, and pulled it in to keep it from touching; but +when she pushed into her seat, it whewed more than ever. Mr. Lodge, he seemed +pleased, and his waistcoat stuck out, and his great golden seals hung like a +lord’s; but she seemed to wish her noisy gownd anywhere but on +her.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Not she! However, that will do now.’ +</p> + +<p> +These descriptions of the newly-married couple were continued from time to time +by the boy at his mother’s request, after any chance encounter he had had +with them. But Rhoda Brook, though she might easily have seen young Mrs. Lodge +for herself by walking a couple of miles, would never attempt an excursion +towards the quarter where the farmhouse lay. Neither did she, at the daily +milking in the dairyman’s yard on Lodge’s outlying second farm, +ever speak on the subject of the recent marriage. The dairyman, who rented the +cows of Lodge, and knew perfectly the tall milkmaid’s history, with manly +kindliness always kept the gossip in the cow-barton from annoying Rhoda. But +the atmosphere thereabout was full of the subject during the first days of Mrs. +Lodge’s arrival; and from her boy’s description and the casual +words of the other milkers, Rhoda Brook could raise a mental image of the +unconscious Mrs Lodge that was realistic as a photograph. +</p> + +<h3>CHAPTER III—A VISION</h3> + +<p> +One night, two or three weeks after the bridal return, when the boy was gone to +bed, Rhoda sat a long time over the turf ashes that she had raked out in front +of her to extinguish them. She contemplated so intently the new wife, as +presented to her in her mind’s eye over the embers, that she forgot the +lapse of time. At last, wearied with her day’s work, she too retired. +</p> + +<p> +But the figure which had occupied her so much during this and the previous days +was not to be banished at night. For the first time Gertrude Lodge visited the +supplanted woman in her dreams. Rhoda Brook dreamed—since her assertion +that she really saw, before falling asleep, was not to be believed—that +the young wife, in the pale silk dress and white bonnet, but with features +shockingly distorted, and wrinkled as by age, was sitting upon her chest as she +lay. The pressure of Mrs. Lodge’s person grew heavier; the blue eyes +peered cruelly into her face; and then the figure thrust forward its left hand +mockingly, so as to make the wedding-ring it wore glitter in Rhoda’s +eyes. Maddened mentally, and nearly suffocated by pressure, the sleeper +struggled; the incubus, still regarding her, withdrew to the foot of the bed, +only, however, to come forward by degrees, resume her seat, and flash her left +hand as before. +</p> + +<p> +Gasping for breath, Rhoda, in a last desperate effort, swung out her right +hand, seized the confronting spectre by its obtrusive left arm, and whirled it +backward to the floor, starting up herself as she did so with a low cry. +</p> + +<p> +‘O, merciful heaven!’ she cried, sitting on the edge of the bed in +a cold sweat; ‘that was not a dream—she was here!’ +</p> + +<p> +She could feel her antagonist’s arm within her grasp even now—the +very flesh and bone of it, as it seemed. She looked on the floor whither she +had whirled the spectre, but there was nothing to be seen. +</p> + +<p> +Rhoda Brook slept no more that night, and when she went milking at the next +dawn they noticed how pale and haggard she looked. The milk that she drew +quivered into the pail; her hand had not calmed even yet, and still retained +the feel of the arm. She came home to breakfast as wearily as if it had been +suppertime. +</p> + +<p> +‘What was that noise in your chimmer, mother, last night?’ said her +son. ‘You fell off the bed, surely?’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Did you hear anything fall? At what time?’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Just when the clock struck two.’ +</p> + +<p> +She could not explain, and when the meal was done went silently about her +household work, the boy assisting her, for he hated going afield on the farms, +and she indulged his reluctance. Between eleven and twelve the garden-gate +clicked, and she lifted her eyes to the window. At the bottom of the garden, +within the gate, stood the woman of her vision. Rhoda seemed transfixed. +</p> + +<p> +‘Ah, she said she would come!’ exclaimed the boy, also observing +her. +</p> + +<p> +‘Said so—when? How does she know us?’ +</p> + +<p> +‘I have seen and spoken to her. I talked to her yesterday.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘I told you,’ said the mother, flushing indignantly, ‘never +to speak to anybody in that house, or go near the place.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘I did not speak to her till she spoke to me. And I did not go near the +place. I met her in the road.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘What did you tell her?’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Nothing. She said, “Are you the poor boy who had to bring the +heavy load from market?” And she looked at my boots, and said they would +not keep my feet dry if it came on wet, because they were so cracked. I told +her I lived with my mother, and we had enough to do to keep ourselves, and +that’s how it was; and she said then, “I’ll come and bring +you some better boots, and see your mother.” She gives away things to +other folks in the meads besides us.’ +</p> + +<p> +Mrs. Lodge was by this time close to the door—not in her silk, as Rhoda +had seen her in the bed-chamber, but in a morning hat, and gown of common light +material, which became her better than silk. On her arm she carried a basket. +</p> + +<p> +The impression remaining from the night’s experience was still strong. +Brook had almost expected to see the wrinkles, the scorn, and the cruelty on +her visitor’s face. +</p> + +<p> +She would have escaped an interview, had escape been possible. There was, +however, no backdoor to the cottage, and in an instant the boy had lifted the +latch to Mrs. Lodge’s gentle knock. +</p> + +<p> +‘I see I have come to the right house,’ said she, glancing at the +lad, and smiling. ‘But I was not sure till you opened the door.’ +</p> + +<p> +The figure and action were those of the phantom; but her voice was so +indescribably sweet, her glance so winning, her smile so tender, so unlike that +of Rhoda’s midnight visitant, that the latter could hardly believe the +evidence of her senses. She was truly glad that she had not hidden away in +sheer aversion, as she had been inclined to do. In her basket Mrs. Lodge +brought the pair of boots that she had promised to the boy, and other useful +articles. +</p> + +<p> +At these proofs of a kindly feeling towards her and hers Rhoda’s heart +reproached her bitterly. This innocent young thing should have her blessing and +not her curse. When she left them a light seemed gone from the dwelling. Two +days later she came again to know if the boots fitted; and less than a +fortnight after that paid Rhoda another call. On this occasion the boy was +absent. +</p> + +<p> +‘I walk a good deal,’ said Mrs. Lodge, ‘and your house is the +nearest outside our own parish. I hope you are well. You don’t look quite +well.’ +</p> + +<p> +Rhoda said she was well enough; and, indeed, though the paler of the two, there +was more of the strength that endures in her well-defined features and large +frame, than in the soft-cheeked young woman before her. The conversation became +quite confidential as regarded their powers and weaknesses; and when Mrs. Lodge +was leaving, Rhoda said, ‘I hope you will find this air agree with you, +ma’am, and not suffer from the damp of the water-meads.’ +</p> + +<p> +The younger one replied that there was not much doubt of it, her general health +being usually good. ‘Though, now you remind me,’ she added, +‘I have one little ailment which puzzles me. It is nothing serious, but I +cannot make it out.’ +</p> + +<p> +She uncovered her left hand and arm; and their outline confronted Rhoda’s +gaze as the exact original of the limb she had beheld and seized in her dream. +Upon the pink round surface of the arm were faint marks of an unhealthy colour, +as if produced by a rough grasp. Rhoda’s eyes became riveted on the +discolorations; she fancied that she discerned in them the shape of her own +four fingers. +</p> + +<p> +‘How did it happen?’ she said mechanically. +</p> + +<p> +‘I cannot tell,’ replied Mrs. Lodge, shaking her head. ‘One +night when I was sound asleep, dreaming I was away in some strange place, a +pain suddenly shot into my arm there, and was so keen as to awaken me. I must +have struck it in the daytime, I suppose, though I don’t remember doing +so.’ She added, laughing, ‘I tell my dear husband that it looks +just as if he had flown into a rage and struck me there. O, I daresay it will +soon disappear.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Ha, ha! Yes . . . On what night did it come?’ +</p> + +<p> +Mrs. Lodge considered, and said it would be a fortnight ago on the morrow. +‘When I awoke I could not remember where I was,’ she added, +’till the clock striking two reminded me.’ +</p> + +<p> +She had named the night and the hour of Rhoda’s spectral encounter, and +Brook felt like a guilty thing. The artless disclosure startled her; she did +not reason on the freaks of coincidence; and all the scenery of that ghastly +night returned with double vividness to her mind. +</p> + +<p> +‘O, can it be,’ she said to herself, when her visitor had departed, +‘that I exercise a malignant power over people against my own +will?’ She knew that she had been slily called a witch since her fall; +but never having understood why that particular stigma had been attached to +her, it had passed disregarded. Could this be the explanation, and had such +things as this ever happened before? +</p> + +<h3>CHAPTER IV—A SUGGESTION</h3> + +<p> +The summer drew on, and Rhoda Brook almost dreaded to meet Mrs. Lodge again, +notwithstanding that her feeling for the young wife amounted well-nigh to +affection. Something in her own individuality seemed to convict Rhoda of crime. +Yet a fatality sometimes would direct the steps of the latter to the outskirts +of Holmstoke whenever she left her house for any other purpose than her daily +work; and hence it happened that their next encounter was out of doors. Rhoda +could not avoid the subject which had so mystified her, and after the first few +words she stammered, ‘I hope your—arm is well again, +ma’am?’ She had perceived with consternation that Gertrude Lodge +carried her left arm stiffly. +</p> + +<p> +‘No; it is not quite well. Indeed it is no better at all; it is rather +worse. It pains me dreadfully sometimes.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Perhaps you had better go to a doctor, ma’am.’ +</p> + +<p> +She replied that she had already seen a doctor. Her husband had insisted upon +her going to one. But the surgeon had not seemed to understand the afflicted +limb at all; he had told her to bathe it in hot water, and she had bathed it, +but the treatment had done no good. +</p> + +<p> +‘Will you let me see it?’ said the milkwoman. +</p> + +<p> +Mrs. Lodge pushed up her sleeve and disclosed the place, which was a few inches +above the wrist. As soon as Rhoda Brook saw it, she could hardly preserve her +composure. There was nothing of the nature of a wound, but the arm at that +point had a shrivelled look, and the outline of the four fingers appeared more +distinct than at the former time. Moreover, she fancied that they were +imprinted in precisely the relative position of her clutch upon the arm in the +trance; the first finger towards Gertrude’s wrist, and the fourth towards +her elbow. +</p> + +<p> +What the impress resembled seemed to have struck Gertrude herself since their +last meeting. ‘It looks almost like finger-marks,’ she said; adding +with a faint laugh, ‘my husband says it is as if some witch, or the devil +himself, had taken hold of me there, and blasted the flesh.’ +</p> + +<p> +Rhoda shivered. ‘That’s fancy,’ she said hurriedly. ‘I +wouldn’t mind it, if I were you.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘I shouldn’t so much mind it,’ said the younger, with +hesitation, ‘if—if I hadn’t a notion that it makes my +husband—dislike me—no, love me less. Men think so much of personal +appearance.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Some do—he for one.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Yes; and he was very proud of mine, at first.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Keep your arm covered from his sight.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Ah—he knows the disfigurement is there!’ She tried to hide +the tears that filled her eyes. +</p> + +<p> +‘Well, ma’am, I earnestly hope it will go away soon.’ +</p> + +<p> +And so the milkwoman’s mind was chained anew to the subject by a horrid +sort of spell as she returned home. The sense of having been guilty of an act +of malignity increased, affect as she might to ridicule her superstition. In +her secret heart Rhoda did not altogether object to a slight diminution of her +successor’s beauty, by whatever means it had come about; but she did not +wish to inflict upon her physical pain. For though this pretty young woman had +rendered impossible any reparation which Lodge might have made Rhoda for his +past conduct, everything like resentment at the unconscious usurpation had +quite passed away from the elder’s mind. +</p> + +<p> +If the sweet and kindly Gertrude Lodge only knew of the scene in the +bed-chamber, what would she think? Not to inform her of it seemed treachery in +the presence of her friendliness; but tell she could not of her own +accord—neither could she devise a remedy. +</p> + +<p> +She mused upon the matter the greater part of the night; and the next day, +after the morning milking, set out to obtain another glimpse of Gertrude Lodge +if she could, being held to her by a gruesome fascination. By watching the +house from a distance the milkmaid was presently able to discern the +farmer’s wife in a ride she was taking alone—probably to join her +husband in some distant field. Mrs. Lodge perceived her, and cantered in her +direction. +</p> + +<p> +‘Good morning, Rhoda!’ Gertrude said, when she had come up. +‘I was going to call.’ +</p> + +<p> +Rhoda noticed that Mrs. Lodge held the reins with some difficulty. +</p> + +<p> +‘I hope—the bad arm,’ said Rhoda. +</p> + +<p> +‘They tell me there is possibly one way by which I might be able to find +out the cause, and so perhaps the cure, of it,’ replied the other +anxiously. ‘It is by going to some clever man over in Egdon Heath. They +did not know if he was still alive—and I cannot remember his name at this +moment; but they said that you knew more of his movements than anybody else +hereabout, and could tell me if he were still to be consulted. Dear +me—what was his name? But you know.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Not Conjuror Trendle?’ said her thin companion, turning pale. +</p> + +<p> +‘Trendle—yes. Is he alive?’ +</p> + +<p> +‘I believe so,’ said Rhoda, with reluctance. +</p> + +<p> +‘Why do you call him conjuror?’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Well—they say—they used to say he was a—he had powers +other folks have not.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘O, how could my people be so superstitious as to recommend a man of that +sort! I thought they meant some medical man. I shall think no more of +him.’ +</p> + +<p> +Rhoda looked relieved, and Mrs. Lodge rode on. The milkwoman had inwardly seen, +from the moment she heard of her having been mentioned as a reference for this +man, that there must exist a sarcastic feeling among the work-folk that a +sorceress would know the whereabouts of the exorcist. They suspected her, then. +A short time ago this would have given no concern to a woman of her +common-sense. But she had a haunting reason to be superstitious now; and she +had been seized with sudden dread that this Conjuror Trendle might name her as +the malignant influence which was blasting the fair person of Gertrude, and so +lead her friend to hate her for ever, and to treat her as some fiend in human +shape. +</p> + +<p> +But all was not over. Two days after, a shadow intruded into the window-pattern +thrown on Rhoda Brook’s floor by the afternoon sun. The woman opened the +door at once, almost breathlessly. +</p> + +<p> +‘Are you alone?’ said Gertrude. She seemed to be no less harassed +and anxious than Brook herself. +</p> + +<p> +‘Yes,’ said Rhoda. +</p> + +<p> +‘The place on my arm seems worse, and troubles me!’ the young +farmer’s wife went on. ‘It is so mysterious! I do hope it will not +be an incurable wound. I have again been thinking of what they said about +Conjuror Trendle. I don’t really believe in such men, but I should not +mind just visiting him, from curiosity—though on no account must my +husband know. Is it far to where he lives?’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Yes—five miles,’ said Rhoda backwardly. ‘In the heart +of Egdon.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Well, I should have to walk. Could not you go with me to show me the +way—say to-morrow afternoon?’ +</p> + +<p> +‘O, not I—that is,’ the milkwoman murmured, with a start of +dismay. Again the dread seized her that something to do with her fierce act in +the dream might be revealed, and her character in the eyes of the most useful +friend she had ever had be ruined irretrievably. +</p> + +<p> +Mrs. Lodge urged, and Rhoda finally assented, though with much misgiving. Sad +as the journey would be to her, she could not conscientiously stand in the way +of a possible remedy for her patron’s strange affliction. It was agreed +that, to escape suspicion of their mystic intent, they should meet at the edge +of the heath at the corner of a plantation which was visible from the spot +where they now stood. +</p> + +<h3>CHAPTER V—CONJUROR TRENDLE</h3> + +<p> +By the next afternoon Rhoda would have done anything to escape this inquiry. +But she had promised to go. Moreover, there was a horrid fascination at times +in becoming instrumental in throwing such possible light on her own character +as would reveal her to be something greater in the occult world than she had +ever herself suspected. +</p> + +<p> +She started just before the time of day mentioned between them, and +half-an-hour’s brisk walking brought her to the south-eastern extension +of the Egdon tract of country, where the fir plantation was. A slight figure, +cloaked and veiled, was already there. Rhoda recognized, almost with a shudder, +that Mrs. Lodge bore her left arm in a sling. +</p> + +<p> +They hardly spoke to each other, and immediately set out on their climb into +the interior of this solemn country, which stood high above the rich alluvial +soil they had left half-an-hour before. It was a long walk; thick clouds made +the atmosphere dark, though it was as yet only early afternoon; and the wind +howled dismally over the hills of the heath—not improbably the same heath +which had witnessed the agony of the Wessex King Ina, presented to after-ages +as Lear. Gertrude Lodge talked most, Rhoda replying with monosyllabic +preoccupation. She had a strange dislike to walking on the side of her +companion where hung the afflicted arm, moving round to the other when +inadvertently near it. Much heather had been brushed by their feet when they +descended upon a cart-track, beside which stood the house of the man they +sought. +</p> + +<p> +He did not profess his remedial practices openly, or care anything about their +continuance, his direct interests being those of a dealer in furze, turf, +‘sharp sand,’ and other local products. Indeed, he affected not to +believe largely in his own powers, and when warts that had been shown him for +cure miraculously disappeared—which it must be owned they infallibly +did—he would say lightly, ‘O, I only drink a glass of grog upon +’em—perhaps it’s all chance,’ and immediately turn the +subject. +</p> + +<p> +He was at home when they arrived, having in fact seen them descending into his +valley. He was a gray-bearded man, with a reddish face, and he looked +singularly at Rhoda the first moment he beheld her. Mrs. Lodge told him her +errand; and then with words of self-disparagement he examined her arm. +</p> + +<p> +‘Medicine can’t cure it,’ he said promptly. ‘’Tis +the work of an enemy.’ +</p> + +<p> +Rhoda shrank into herself, and drew back. +</p> + +<p> +‘An enemy? What enemy?’ asked Mrs. Lodge. +</p> + +<p> +He shook his head. ‘That’s best known to yourself,’ he said. +‘If you like, I can show the person to you, though I shall not myself +know who it is. I can do no more; and don’t wish to do that.’ +</p> + +<p> +She pressed him; on which he told Rhoda to wait outside where she stood, and +took Mrs. Lodge into the room. It opened immediately from the door; and, as the +latter remained ajar, Rhoda Brook could see the proceedings without taking part +in them. He brought a tumbler from the dresser, nearly filled it with water, +and fetching an egg, prepared it in some private way; after which he broke it +on the edge of the glass, so that the white went in and the yolk remained. As +it was getting gloomy, he took the glass and its contents to the window, and +told Gertrude to watch them closely. They leant over the table together, and +the milkwoman could see the opaline hue of the egg-fluid changing form as it +sank in the water, but she was not near enough to define the shape that it +assumed. +</p> + +<p> +‘Do you catch the likeness of any face or figure as you look?’ +demanded the conjuror of the young woman. +</p> + +<p> +She murmured a reply, in tones so low as to be inaudible to Rhoda, and +continued to gaze intently into the glass. Rhoda turned, and walked a few steps +away. +</p> + +<p> +When Mrs. Lodge came out, and her face was met by the light, it appeared +exceedingly pale—as pale as Rhoda’s—against the sad dun +shades of the upland’s garniture. Trendle shut the door behind her, and +they at once started homeward together. But Rhoda perceived that her companion +had quite changed. +</p> + +<p> +‘Did he charge much?’ she asked tentatively. +</p> + +<p> +‘O no—nothing. He would not take a farthing,’ said Gertrude. +</p> + +<p> +‘And what did you see?’ inquired Rhoda. +</p> + +<p> +‘Nothing I—care to speak of.’ The constraint in her manner +was remarkable; her face was so rigid as to wear an oldened aspect, faintly +suggestive of the face in Rhoda’s bed-chamber. +</p> + +<p> +‘Was it you who first proposed coming here?’ Mrs. Lodge suddenly +inquired, after a long pause. ‘How very odd, if you did!’ +</p> + +<p> +‘No. But I am not sorry we have come, all things considered,’ she +replied. For the first time a sense of triumph possessed her, and she did not +altogether deplore that the young thing at her side should learn that their +lives had been antagonized by other influences than their own. +</p> + +<p> +The subject was no more alluded to during the long and dreary walk home. But in +some way or other a story was whispered about the many-dairied lowland that +winter that Mrs. Lodge’s gradual loss of the use of her left arm was +owing to her being ‘overlooked’ by Rhoda Brook. The latter kept her +own counsel about the incubus, but her face grew sadder and thinner; and in the +spring she and her boy disappeared from the neighbourhood of Holmstoke. +</p> + +<h3>CHAPTER VI—A SECOND ATTEMPT</h3> + +<p> +Half-a-dozen years passed away, and Mr. and Mrs. Lodge’s married +experience sank into prosiness, and worse. The farmer was usually gloomy and +silent: the woman whom he had wooed for her grace and beauty was contorted and +disfigured in the left limb; moreover, she had brought him no child, which +rendered it likely that he would be the last of a family who had occupied that +valley for some two hundred years. He thought of Rhoda Brook and her son; and +feared this might be a judgment from heaven upon him. +</p> + +<p> +The once blithe-hearted and enlightened Gertrude was changing into an +irritable, superstitious woman, whose whole time was given to experimenting +upon her ailment with every quack remedy she came across. She was honestly +attached to her husband, and was ever secretly hoping against hope to win back +his heart again by regaining some at least of her personal beauty. Hence it +arose that her closet was lined with bottles, packets, and ointment-pots of +every description—nay, bunches of mystic herbs, charms, and books of +necromancy, which in her schoolgirl time she would have ridiculed as folly. +</p> + +<p> +‘Damned if you won’t poison yourself with these apothecary messes +and witch mixtures some time or other,’ said her husband, when his eye +chanced to fall upon the multitudinous array. +</p> + +<p> +She did not reply, but turned her sad, soft glance upon him in such +heart-swollen reproach that he looked sorry for his words, and added, ‘I +only meant it for your good, you know, Gertrude.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘I’ll clear out the whole lot, and destroy them,’ said she +huskily, ‘and try such remedies no more!’ +</p> + +<p> +‘You want somebody to cheer you,’ he observed. ‘I once +thought of adopting a boy; but he is too old now. And he is gone away I +don’t know where.’ +</p> + +<p> +She guessed to whom he alluded; for Rhoda Brook’s story had in the course +of years become known to her; though not a word had ever passed between her +husband and herself on the subject. Neither had she ever spoken to him of her +visit to Conjuror Trendle, and of what was revealed to her, or she thought was +revealed to her, by that solitary heath-man. +</p> + +<p> +She was now five-and-twenty; but she seemed older. +</p> + +<p> +‘Six years of marriage, and only a few months of love,’ she +sometimes whispered to herself. And then she thought of the apparent cause, and +said, with a tragic glance at her withering limb, ‘If I could only again +be as I was when he first saw me!’ +</p> + +<p> +She obediently destroyed her nostrums and charms; but there remained a +hankering wish to try something else—some other sort of cure altogether. +She had never revisited Trendle since she had been conducted to the house of +the solitary by Rhoda against her will; but it now suddenly occurred to +Gertrude that she would, in a last desperate effort at deliverance from this +seeming curse, again seek out the man, if he yet lived. He was entitled to a +certain credence, for the indistinct form he had raised in the glass had +undoubtedly resembled the only woman in the world who—as she now knew, +though not then—could have a reason for bearing her ill-will. The visit +should be paid. +</p> + +<p> +This time she went alone, though she nearly got lost on the heath, and roamed a +considerable distance out of her way. Trendle’s house was reached at +last, however: he was not indoors, and instead of waiting at the cottage, she +went to where his bent figure was pointed out to her at work a long way off. +Trendle remembered her, and laying down the handful of furze-roots which he was +gathering and throwing into a heap, he offered to accompany her in her homeward +direction, as the distance was considerable and the days were short. So they +walked together, his head bowed nearly to the earth, and his form of a colour +with it. +</p> + +<p> +‘You can send away warts and other excrescences I know,’ she said; +‘why can’t you send away this?’ And the arm was uncovered. +</p> + +<p> +‘You think too much of my powers!’ said Trendle; ‘and I am +old and weak now, too. No, no; it is too much for me to attempt in my own +person. What have ye tried?’ +</p> + +<p> +She named to him some of the hundred medicaments and counterspells which she +had adopted from time to time. He shook his head. +</p> + +<p> +‘Some were good enough,’ he said approvingly; ‘but not many +of them for such as this. This is of the nature of a blight, not of the nature +of a wound; and if you ever do throw it off; it will be all at once.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘If I only could!’ +</p> + +<p> +‘There is only one chance of doing it known to me. It has never failed in +kindred afflictions,—that I can declare. But it is hard to carry out, and +especially for a woman.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Tell me!’ said she. +</p> + +<p> +‘You must touch with the limb the neck of a man who’s been +hanged.’ +</p> + +<p> +She started a little at the image he had raised. +</p> + +<p> +‘Before he’s cold—just after he’s cut down,’ +continued the conjuror impassively. +</p> + +<p> +‘How can that do good?’ +</p> + +<p> +‘It will turn the blood and change the constitution. But, as I say, to do +it is hard. You must get into jail, and wait for him when he’s brought +off the gallows. Lots have done it, though perhaps not such pretty women as +you. I used to send dozens for skin complaints. But that was in former times. +The last I sent was in ‘13—near twenty years ago.’ +</p> + +<p> +He had no more to tell her; and, when he had put her into a straight track +homeward, turned and left her, refusing all money as at first. +</p> + +<h3>CHAPTER VII—A RIDE</h3> + +<p> +The communication sank deep into Gertrude’s mind. Her nature was rather a +timid one; and probably of all remedies that the white wizard could have +suggested there was not one which would have filled her with so much aversion +as this, not to speak of the immense obstacles in the way of its adoption. +</p> + +<p> +Casterbridge, the county-town, was a dozen or fifteen miles off; and though in +those days, when men were executed for horse-stealing, arson, and burglary, an +assize seldom passed without a hanging, it was not likely that she could get +access to the body of the criminal unaided. And the fear of her husband’s +anger made her reluctant to breathe a word of Trendle’s suggestion to him +or to anybody about him. +</p> + +<p> +She did nothing for months, and patiently bore her disfigurement as before. But +her woman’s nature, craving for renewed love, through the medium of +renewed beauty (she was but twenty-five), was ever stimulating her to try what, +at any rate, could hardly do her any harm. ‘What came by a spell will go +by a spell surely,’ she would say. Whenever her imagination pictured the +act she shrank in terror from the possibility of it: then the words of the +conjuror, ‘It will turn your blood,’ were seen to be capable of a +scientific no less than a ghastly interpretation; the mastering desire +returned, and urged her on again. +</p> + +<p> +There was at this time but one county paper, and that her husband only +occasionally borrowed. But old-fashioned days had old-fashioned means, and news +was extensively conveyed by word of mouth from market to market, or from fair +to fair, so that, whenever such an event as an execution was about to take +place, few within a radius of twenty miles were ignorant of the coming sight; +and, so far as Holmstoke was concerned, some enthusiasts had been known to walk +all the way to Casterbridge and back in one day, solely to witness the +spectacle. The next assizes were in March; and when Gertrude Lodge heard that +they had been held, she inquired stealthily at the inn as to the result, as +soon as she could find opportunity. +</p> + +<p> +She was, however, too late. The time at which the sentences were to be carried +out had arrived, and to make the journey and obtain admission at such short +notice required at least her husband’s assistance. She dared not tell +him, for she had found by delicate experiment that these smouldering village +beliefs made him furious if mentioned, partly because he half entertained them +himself. It was therefore necessary to wait for another opportunity. +</p> + +<p> +Her determination received a fillip from learning that two epileptic children +had attended from this very village of Holmstoke many years before with +beneficial results, though the experiment had been strongly condemned by the +neighbouring clergy. April, May, June, passed; and it is no overstatement to +say that by the end of the last-named month Gertrude well-nigh longed for the +death of a fellow-creature. Instead of her formal prayers each night, her +unconscious prayer was, ‘O Lord, hang some guilty or innocent person +soon!’ +</p> + +<p> +This time she made earlier inquiries, and was altogether more systematic in her +proceedings. Moreover, the season was summer, between the haymaking and the +harvest, and in the leisure thus afforded him her husband had been +holiday-taking away from home. +</p> + +<p> +The assizes were in July, and she went to the inn as before. There was to be +one execution—only one—for arson. +</p> + +<p> +Her greatest problem was not how to get to Casterbridge, but what means she +should adopt for obtaining admission to the jail. Though access for such +purposes had formerly never been denied, the custom had fallen into desuetude; +and in contemplating her possible difficulties, she was again almost driven to +fall back upon her husband. But, on sounding him about the assizes, he was so +uncommunicative, so more than usually cold, that she did not proceed, and +decided that whatever she did she would do alone. +</p> + +<p> +Fortune, obdurate hitherto, showed her unexpected favour. On the Thursday +before the Saturday fixed for the execution, Lodge remarked to her that he was +going away from home for another day or two on business at a fair, and that he +was sorry he could not take her with him. +</p> + +<p> +She exhibited on this occasion so much readiness to stay at home that he looked +at her in surprise. Time had been when she would have shown deep disappointment +at the loss of such a jaunt. However, he lapsed into his usual taciturnity, and +on the day named left Holmstoke. +</p> + +<p> +It was now her turn. She at first had thought of driving, but on reflection +held that driving would not do, since it would necessitate her keeping to the +turnpike-road, and so increase by tenfold the risk of her ghastly errand being +found out. She decided to ride, and avoid the beaten track, notwithstanding +that in her husband’s stables there was no animal just at present which +by any stretch of imagination could be considered a lady’s mount, in +spite of his promise before marriage to always keep a mare for her. He had, +however, many cart-horses, fine ones of their kind; and among the rest was a +serviceable creature, an equine Amazon, with a back as broad as a sofa, on +which Gertrude had occasionally taken an airing when unwell. This horse she +chose. +</p> + +<p> +On Friday afternoon one of the men brought it round. She was dressed, and +before going down looked at her shrivelled arm. ‘Ah!’ she said to +it, ‘if it had not been for you this terrible ordeal would have been +saved me!’ +</p> + +<p> +When strapping up the bundle in which she carried a few articles of clothing, +she took occasion to say to the servant, ‘I take these in case I should +not get back to-night from the person I am going to visit. Don’t be +alarmed if I am not in by ten, and close up the house as usual. I shall be at +home to-morrow for certain.’ She meant then to privately tell her +husband: the deed accomplished was not like the deed projected. He would almost +certainly forgive her. +</p> + +<p> +And then the pretty palpitating Gertrude Lodge went from her husband’s +homestead; but though her goal was Casterbridge she did not take the direct +route thither through Stickleford. Her cunning course at first was in precisely +the opposite direction. As soon as she was out of sight, however, she turned to +the left, by a road which led into Egdon, and on entering the heath wheeled +round, and set out in the true course, due westerly. A more private way down +the county could not be imagined; and as to direction, she had merely to keep +her horse’s head to a point a little to the right of the sun. She knew +that she would light upon a furze-cutter or cottager of some sort from time to +time, from whom she might correct her bearing. +</p> + +<p> +Though the date was comparatively recent, Egdon was much less fragmentary in +character than now. The attempts—successful and otherwise—at +cultivation on the lower slopes, which intrude and break up the original heath +into small detached heaths, had not been carried far; Enclosure Acts had not +taken effect, and the banks and fences which now exclude the cattle of those +villagers who formerly enjoyed rights of commonage thereon, and the carts of +those who had turbary privileges which kept them in firing all the year round, +were not erected. Gertrude, therefore, rode along with no other obstacles than +the prickly furze bushes, the mats of heather, the white water-courses, and the +natural steeps and declivities of the ground. +</p> + +<p> +Her horse was sure, if heavy-footed and slow, and though a draught animal, was +easy-paced; had it been otherwise, she was not a woman who could have ventured +to ride over such a bit of country with a half-dead arm. It was therefore +nearly eight o’clock when she drew rein to breathe the mare on the last +outlying high point of heath-land towards Casterbridge, previous to leaving +Egdon for the cultivated valleys. +</p> + +<p> +She halted before a pool called Rushy-pond, flanked by the ends of two hedges; +a railing ran through the centre of the pond, dividing it in half. Over the +railing she saw the low green country; over the green trees the roofs of the +town; over the roofs a white flat façade, denoting the entrance to the +county jail. On the roof of this front specks were moving about; they seemed to +be workmen erecting something. Her flesh crept. She descended slowly, and was +soon amid corn-fields and pastures. In another half-hour, when it was almost +dusk, Gertrude reached the White Hart, the first inn of the town on that side. +</p> + +<p> +Little surprise was excited by her arrival; farmers’ wives rode on +horseback then more than they do now; though, for that matter, Mrs. Lodge was +not imagined to be a wife at all; the innkeeper supposed her some harum-skarum +young woman who had come to attend ‘hang-fair’ next day. Neither +her husband nor herself ever dealt in Casterbridge market, so that she was +unknown. While dismounting she beheld a crowd of boys standing at the door of a +harness-maker’s shop just above the inn, looking inside it with deep +interest. +</p> + +<p> +‘What is going on there?’ she asked of the ostler. +</p> + +<p> +‘Making the rope for to-morrow.’ +</p> + +<p> +She throbbed responsively, and contracted her arm. +</p> + +<p> +‘’Tis sold by the inch afterwards,’ the man continued. +‘I could get you a bit, miss, for nothing, if you’d like?’ +</p> + +<p> +She hastily repudiated any such wish, all the more from a curious creeping +feeling that the condemned wretch’s destiny was becoming interwoven with +her own; and having engaged a room for the night, sat down to think. +</p> + +<p> +Up to this time she had formed but the vaguest notions about her means of +obtaining access to the prison. The words of the cunning-man returned to her +mind. He had implied that she should use her beauty, impaired though it was, as +a pass-key. In her inexperience she knew little about jail functionaries; she +had heard of a high-sheriff and an under-sheriff; but dimly only. She knew, +however, that there must be a hangman, and to the hangman she determined to +apply. +</p> + +<h3>CHAPTER VIII—A WATER-SIDE HERMIT</h3> + +<p> +At this date, and for several years after, there was a hangman to almost every +jail. Gertrude found, on inquiry, that the Casterbridge official dwelt in a +lonely cottage by a deep slow river flowing under the cliff on which the prison +buildings were situate—the stream being the self-same one, though she did +not know it, which watered the Stickleford and Holmstoke meads lower down in +its course. +</p> + +<p> +Having changed her dress, and before she had eaten or drunk—for she could +not take her ease till she had ascertained some particulars—Gertrude +pursued her way by a path along the water-side to the cottage indicated. +Passing thus the outskirts of the jail, she discerned on the level roof over +the gateway three rectangular lines against the sky, where the specks had been +moving in her distant view; she recognized what the erection was, and passed +quickly on. Another hundred yards brought her to the executioner’s house, +which a boy pointed out It stood close to the same stream, and was hard by a +weir, the waters of which emitted a steady roar. +</p> + +<p> +While she stood hesitating the door opened, and an old man came forth shading a +candle with one hand. Locking the door on the outside, he turned to a flight of +wooden steps fixed against the end of the cottage, and began to ascend them, +this being evidently the staircase to his bedroom. Gertrude hastened forward, +but by the time she reached the foot of the ladder he was at the top. She +called to him loudly enough to be heard above the roar of the weir; he looked +down and said, ‘What d’ye want here?’ +</p> + +<p> +‘To speak to you a minute.’ +</p> + +<p> +The candle-light, such as it was, fell upon her imploring, pale, upturned face, +and Davies (as the hangman was called) backed down the ladder. ‘I was +just going to bed,’ he said; ‘“Early to bed and early to +rise,” but I don’t mind stopping a minute for such a one as you. +Come into house.’ He reopened the door, and preceded her to the room +within. +</p> + +<p> +The implements of his daily work, which was that of a jobbing gardener, stood +in a corner, and seeing probably that she looked rural, he said, ‘If you +want me to undertake country work I can’t come, for I never leave +Casterbridge for gentle nor simple—not I. My real calling is officer of +justice,’ he added formally. +</p> + +<p> +‘Yes, yes! That’s it. To-morrow!’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Ah! I thought so. Well, what’s the matter about that? ’Tis +no use to come here about the knot—folks do come continually, but I tell +’em one knot is as merciful as another if ye keep it under the ear. Is +the unfortunate man a relation; or, I should say, perhaps’ (looking at +her dress) ‘a person who’s been in your employ?’ +</p> + +<p> +‘No. What time is the execution?’ +</p> + +<p> +‘The same as usual—twelve o’clock, or as soon after as the +London mail-coach gets in. We always wait for that, in case of a +reprieve.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘O—a reprieve—I hope not!’ she said involuntarily, +</p> + +<p> +‘Well,—hee, hee!—as a matter of business, so do I! But still, +if ever a young fellow deserved to be let off, this one does; only just turned +eighteen, and only present by chance when the rick was fired. Howsomever, +there’s not much risk of it, as they are obliged to make an example of +him, there having been so much destruction of property that way lately.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘I mean,’ she explained, ‘that I want to touch him for a +charm, a cure of an affliction, by the advice of a man who has proved the +virtue of the remedy.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘O yes, miss! Now I understand. I’ve had such people come in past +years. But it didn’t strike me that you looked of a sort to require +blood-turning. What’s the complaint? The wrong kind for this, I’ll +be bound.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘My arm.’ She reluctantly showed the withered skin. +</p> + +<p> +‘Ah—’tis all a-scram!’ said the hangman, examining it. +</p> + +<p> +‘Yes,’ said she. +</p> + +<p> +‘Well,’ he continued, with interest, ‘that <i>is</i> the +class o’ subject, I’m bound to admit! I like the look of the place; +it is truly as suitable for the cure as any I ever saw. ’Twas a +knowing-man that sent ‘ee, whoever he was.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘You can contrive for me all that’s necessary?’ she said +breathlessly. +</p> + +<p> +‘You should really have gone to the governor of the jail, and your doctor +with ‘ee, and given your name and address—that’s how it used +to be done, if I recollect. Still, perhaps, I can manage it for a trifling +fee.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘O, thank you! I would rather do it this way, as I should like it kept +private.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Lover not to know, eh?’ +</p> + +<p> +‘No—husband.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Aha! Very well. I’ll get ee’ a touch of the corpse.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Where is it now?’ she said, shuddering. +</p> + +<p> +‘It?<i>—he</i>, you mean; he’s living yet. Just inside that +little small winder up there in the glum.’ He signified the jail on the +cliff above. +</p> + +<p> +She thought of her husband and her friends. ‘Yes, of course,’ she +said; ‘and how am I to proceed?’ +</p> + +<p> +He took her to the door. ‘Now, do you be waiting at the little wicket in +the wall, that you’ll find up there in the lane, not later than one +o’clock. I will open it from the inside, as I shan’t come home to +dinner till he’s cut down. Good-night. Be punctual; and if you +don’t want anybody to know ‘ee, wear a veil. Ah—once I had +such a daughter as you!’ +</p> + +<p> +She went away, and climbed the path above, to assure herself that she would be +able to find the wicket next day. Its outline was soon visible to her—a +narrow opening in the outer wall of the prison precincts. The steep was so +great that, having reached the wicket, she stopped a moment to breathe; and, +looking back upon the water-side cot, saw the hangman again ascending his +outdoor staircase. He entered the loft or chamber to which it led, and in a few +minutes extinguished his light. +</p> + +<p> +The town clock struck ten, and she returned to the White Hart as she had come. +</p> + +<h3>CHAPTER IX—A RENCOUNTER</h3> + +<p> +It was one o’clock on Saturday. Gertrude Lodge, having been admitted to +the jail as above described, was sitting in a waiting-room within the second +gate, which stood under a classic archway of ashlar, then comparatively modern, +and bearing the inscription, ‘COVNTY JAIL: 1793.’ This had been the +façade she saw from the heath the day before. Near at hand was a passage +to the roof on which the gallows stood. +</p> + +<p> +The town was thronged, and the market suspended; but Gertrude had seen scarcely +a soul. Having kept her room till the hour of the appointment, she had +proceeded to the spot by a way which avoided the open space below the cliff +where the spectators had gathered; but she could, even now, hear the +multitudinous babble of their voices, out of which rose at intervals the hoarse +croak of a single voice uttering the words, ‘Last dying speech and +confession!’ There had been no reprieve, and the execution was over; but +the crowd still waited to see the body taken down. +</p> + +<p> +Soon the persistent girl heard a trampling overhead, then a hand beckoned to +her, and, following directions, she went out and crossed the inner paved court +beyond the gatehouse, her knees trembling so that she could scarcely walk. One +of her arms was out of its sleeve, and only covered by her shawl. +</p> + +<p> +On the spot at which she had now arrived were two trestles, and before she +could think of their purpose she heard heavy feet descending stairs somewhere +at her back. Turn her head she would not, or could not, and, rigid in this +position, she was conscious of a rough coffin passing her shoulder, borne by +four men. It was open, and in it lay the body of a young man, wearing the +smockfrock of a rustic, and fustian breeches. The corpse had been thrown into +the coffin so hastily that the skirt of the smockfrock was hanging over. The +burden was temporarily deposited on the trestles. +</p> + +<p> +By this time the young woman’s state was such that a gray mist seemed to +float before her eyes, on account of which, and the veil she wore, she could +scarcely discern anything: it was as though she had nearly died, but was held +up by a sort of galvanism. +</p> + +<p> +‘Now!’ said a voice close at hand, and she was just conscious that +the word had been addressed to her. +</p> + +<p> +By a last strenuous effort she advanced, at the same time hearing persons +approaching behind her. She bared her poor curst arm; and Davies, uncovering +the face of the corpse, took Gertrude’s hand, and held it so that her arm +lay across the dead man’s neck, upon a line the colour of an unripe +blackberry, which surrounded it. +</p> + +<p> +Gertrude shrieked: ‘the turn o’ the blood,’ predicted by the +conjuror, had taken place. But at that moment a second shriek rent the air of +the enclosure: it was not Gertrude’s, and its effect upon her was to make +her start round. +</p> + +<p> +Immediately behind her stood Rhoda Brook, her face drawn, and her eyes red with +weeping. Behind Rhoda stood Gertrude’s own husband; his countenance +lined, his eyes dim, but without a tear. +</p> + +<p> +‘D-n you! what are you doing here?’ he said hoarsely. +</p> + +<p> +‘Hussy—to come between us and our child now!’ cried Rhoda. +‘This is the meaning of what Satan showed me in the vision! You are like +her at last!’ And clutching the bare arm of the younger woman, she pulled +her unresistingly back against the wall. Immediately Brook had loosened her +hold the fragile young Gertrude slid down against the feet of her husband. When +he lifted her up she was unconscious. +</p> + +<p> +The mere sight of the twain had been enough to suggest to her that the dead +young man was Rhoda’s son. At that time the relatives of an executed +convict had the privilege of claiming the body for burial, if they chose to do +so; and it was for this purpose that Lodge was awaiting the inquest with Rhoda. +He had been summoned by her as soon as the young man was taken in the crime, +and at different times since; and he had attended in court during the trial. +This was the ‘holiday’ he had been indulging in of late. The two +wretched parents had wished to avoid exposure; and hence had come themselves +for the body, a waggon and sheet for its conveyance and covering being in +waiting outside. +</p> + +<p> +Gertrude’s case was so serious that it was deemed advisable to call to +her the surgeon who was at hand. She was taken out of the jail into the town; +but she never reached home alive. Her delicate vitality, sapped perhaps by the +paralyzed arm, collapsed under the double shock that followed the severe +strain, physical and mental, to which she had subjected herself during the +previous twenty-four hours. Her blood had been ‘turned’ +indeed—too far. Her death took place in the town three days after. +</p> + +<p> +Her husband was never seen in Casterbridge again; once only in the old +market-place at Anglebury, which he had so much frequented, and very seldom in +public anywhere. Burdened at first with moodiness and remorse, he eventually +changed for the better, and appeared as a chastened and thoughtful man. Soon +after attending the funeral of his poor young wife he took steps towards giving +up the farms in Holmstoke and the adjoining parish, and, having sold every head +of his stock, he went away to Port-Bredy, at the other end of the county, +living there in solitary lodgings till his death two years later of a painless +decline. It was then found that he had bequeathed the whole of his not +inconsiderable property to a reformatory for boys, subject to the payment of a +small annuity to Rhoda Brook, if she could be found to claim it. +</p> + +<p> +For some time she could not be found; but eventually she reappeared in her old +parish,—absolutely refusing, however, to have anything to do with the +provision made for her. Her monotonous milking at the dairy was resumed, and +followed for many long years, till her form became bent, and her once abundant +dark hair white and worn away at the forehead—perhaps by long pressure +against the cows. Here, sometimes, those who knew her experiences would stand +and observe her, and wonder what sombre thoughts were beating inside that +impassive, wrinkled brow, to the rhythm of the alternating milk-streams. +</p> + +<p class="p2"> +(‘<i>Blackwood’s Magazine</i>,’ <i>January</i> 1888.) +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap05"></a>FELLOW-TOWNSMEN</h2> + +<h3>CHAPTER I</h3> + +<p> +The shepherd on the east hill could shout out lambing intelligence to the +shepherd on the west hill, over the intervening town chimneys, without great +inconvenience to his voice, so nearly did the steep pastures encroach upon the +burghers’ backyards. And at night it was possible to stand in the very +midst of the town and hear from their native paddocks on the lower levels of +greensward the mild lowing of the farmer’s heifers, and the profound, +warm blowings of breath in which those creatures indulge. But the community +which had jammed itself in the valley thus flanked formed a veritable town, +with a real mayor and corporation, and a staple manufacture. +</p> + +<p> +During a certain damp evening five-and-thirty years ago, before the twilight +was far advanced, a pedestrian of professional appearance, carrying a small bag +in his hand and an elevated umbrella, was descending one of these hills by the +turnpike road when he was overtaken by a phaeton. +</p> + +<p> +‘Hullo, Downe—is that you?’ said the driver of the vehicle, a +young man of pale and refined appearance. ‘Jump up here with me, and ride +down to your door.’ +</p> + +<p> +The other turned a plump, cheery, rather self-indulgent face over his shoulder +towards the hailer. +</p> + +<p> +‘O, good evening, Mr. Barnet—thanks,’ he said, and mounted +beside his acquaintance. +</p> + +<p> +They were fellow-burgesses of the town which lay beneath them, but though old +and very good friends, they were differently circumstanced. Barnet was a richer +man than the struggling young lawyer Downe, a fact which was to some extent +perceptible in Downe’s manner towards his companion, though nothing of it +ever showed in Barnet’s manner towards the solicitor. Barnet’s +position in the town was none of his own making; his father had been a very +successful flax-merchant in the same place, where the trade was still carried +on as briskly as the small capacities of its quarters would allow. Having +acquired a fair fortune, old Mr. Barnet had retired from business, bringing up +his son as a gentleman-burgher, and, it must be added, as a well-educated, +liberal-minded young man. +</p> + +<p> +‘How is Mrs. Barnet?’ asked Downe. +</p> + +<p> +‘Mrs. Barnet was very well when I left home,’ the other answered +constrainedly, exchanging his meditative regard of the horse for one of +self-consciousness. +</p> + +<p> +Mr. Downe seemed to regret his inquiry, and immediately took up another thread +of conversation. He congratulated his friend on his election as a council-man; +he thought he had not seen him since that event took place; Mrs. Downe had +meant to call and congratulate Mrs. Barnet, but he feared that she had failed +to do so as yet. +</p> + +<p> +Barnet seemed hampered in his replies. <i>‘We</i> should have been glad +to see you. I—my wife would welcome Mrs. Downe at any time, as you know . +. . Yes, I am a member of the corporation—rather an inexperienced member, +some of them say. It is quite true; and I should have declined the honour as +premature—having other things on my hands just now, too—if it had +not been pressed upon me so very heartily.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘There is one thing you have on your hands which I can never quite see +the necessity for,’ said Downe, with good-humoured freedom. ‘What +the deuce do you want to build that new mansion for, when you have already got +such an excellent house as the one you live in?’ +</p> + +<p> +Barnet’s face acquired a warmer shade of colour; but as the question had +been idly asked by the solicitor while regarding the surrounding flocks and +fields, he answered after a moment with no apparent embarrassment— +</p> + +<p> +‘Well, we wanted to get out of the town, you know: the house I am living +in is rather old and inconvenient.’ Mr. Downe declared that he had chosen +a pretty site for the new building. They would be able to see for miles and +miles from the windows. Was he going to give it a name? He supposed so. +</p> + +<p> +Barnet thought not. There was no other house near that was likely to be +mistaken for it. And he did not care for a name. +</p> + +<p> +‘But I think it has a name!’ Downe observed: ‘I went +past—when was it?—this morning; and I saw +something,—“Château Ringdale,” I think it was, stuck up +on a board!’ +</p> + +<p> +‘It was an idea she—we had for a short time,’ said Barnet +hastily. ‘But we have decided finally to do without a name—at any +rate such a name as that. It must have been a week ago that you saw it. It was +taken down last Saturday . . . Upon that matter I am firm!’ he added +grimly. +</p> + +<p> +Downe murmured in an unconvinced tone that he thought he had seen it yesterday. +</p> + +<p> +Talking thus they drove into the town. The street was unusually still for the +hour of seven in the evening; an increasing drizzle had prevailed since the +afternoon, and now formed a gauze across the yellow lamps, and trickled with a +gentle rattle down the heavy roofs of stone tile, that bent the house-ridges +hollow-backed with its weight, and in some instances caused the walls to bulge +outwards in the upper story. Their route took them past the little town-hall, +the Black-Bull Hotel, and onward to the junction of a small street on the +right, consisting of a row of those two-and-two windowed brick residences of no +particular age, which are exactly alike wherever found, except in the people +they contain. +</p> + +<p> +‘Wait—I’ll drive you up to your door,’ said Barnet, +when Downe prepared to alight at the corner. He thereupon turned into the +narrow street, when the faces of three little girls could be discerned close to +the panes of a lighted window a few yards ahead, surmounted by that of a young +matron, the gaze of all four being directed eagerly up the empty street. +‘You are a fortunate fellow, Downe,’ Barnet continued, as mother +and children disappeared from the window to run to the door. ‘You must be +happy if any man is. I would give a hundred such houses as my new one to have a +home like yours.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Well—yes, we get along pretty comfortably,’ replied Downe +complacently. +</p> + +<p> +‘That house, Downe, is none of my ordering,’ Barnet broke out, +revealing a bitterness hitherto suppressed, and checking the horse a moment to +finish his speech before delivering up his passenger. ‘The house I have +already is good enough for me, as you supposed. It is my own freehold; it was +built by my grandfather, and is stout enough for a castle. My father was born +there, lived there, and died there. I was born there, and have always lived +there; yet I must needs build a new one.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Why do you?’ said Downe. +</p> + +<p> +‘Why do I? To preserve peace in the household. I do anything for that; +but I don’t succeed. I was firm in resisting “Château +Ringdale,” however; not that I would not have put up with the absurdity +of the name, but it was too much to have your house christened after Lord +Ringdale, because your wife once had a fancy for him. If you only knew +everything, you would think all attempt at reconciliation hopeless. In your +happy home you have had no such experiences; and God forbid that you ever +should. See, here they are all ready to receive you!’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Of course! And so will your wife be waiting to receive you,’ said +Downe. ‘Take my word for it she will! And with a dinner prepared for you +far better than mine.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘I hope so,’ Barnet replied dubiously. +</p> + +<p> +He moved on to Downe’s door, which the solicitor’s family had +already opened. Downe descended, but being encumbered with his bag and +umbrella, his foot slipped, and he fell upon his knees in the gutter. +</p> + +<p> +‘O, my dear Charles!’ said his wife, running down the steps; and, +quite ignoring the presence of Barnet, she seized hold of her husband, pulled +him to his feet, and kissed him, exclaiming, ‘I hope you are not hurt, +darling!’ The children crowded round, chiming in piteously, ‘Poor +papa!’ +</p> + +<p> +‘He’s all right,’ said Barnet, perceiving that Downe was only +a little muddy, and looking more at the wife than at the husband. Almost at any +other time—certainly during his fastidious bachelor years—he would +have thought her a too demonstrative woman; but those recent circumstances of +his own life to which he had just alluded made Mrs. Downe’s solicitude so +affecting that his eye grew damp as he witnessed it. Bidding the lawyer and his +family good-night he left them, and drove slowly into the main street towards +his own house. +</p> + +<p> +The heart of Barnet was sufficiently impressionable to be influenced by +Downe’s parting prophecy that he might not be so unwelcome home as he +imagined: the dreary night might, at least on this one occasion, make +Downe’s forecast true. Hence it was in a suspense that he could hardly +have believed possible that he halted at his door. On entering his wife was +nowhere to be seen, and he inquired for her. The servant informed him that her +mistress had the dressmaker with her, and would be engaged for some time. +</p> + +<p> +‘Dressmaker at this time of day!’ +</p> + +<p> +‘She dined early, sir, and hopes you will excuse her joining you this +evening.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘But she knew I was coming to-night?’ +</p> + +<p> +‘O yes, sir.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Go up and tell her I am come.’ +</p> + +<p> +The servant did so; but the mistress of the house merely transmitted her former +words. +</p> + +<p> +Barnet said nothing more, and presently sat down to his lonely meal, which was +eaten abstractedly, the domestic scene he had lately witnessed still impressing +him by its contrast with the situation here. His mind fell back into past years +upon a certain pleasing and gentle being whose face would loom out of their +shades at such times as these. Barnet turned in his chair, and looked with +unfocused eyes in a direction southward from where he sat, as if he saw not the +room but a long way beyond. ‘I wonder if she lives there still!’ he +said. +</p> + +<h3>CHAPTER II</h3> + +<p> +He rose with a sudden rebelliousness, put on his hat and coat, and went out of +the house, pursuing his way along the glistening pavement while eight +o’clock was striking from St. Mary’s tower, and the apprentices and +shopmen were slamming up the shutters from end to end of the town. In two +minutes only those shops which could boast of no attendant save the master or +the mistress remained with open eyes. These were ever somewhat less prompt to +exclude customers than the others: for their owners’ ears the closing +hour had scarcely the cheerfulness that it possessed for the hired servants of +the rest. Yet the night being dreary the delay was not for long, and their +windows, too, blinked together one by one. +</p> + +<p> +During this time Barnet had proceeded with decided step in a direction at right +angles to the broad main thoroughfare of the town, by a long street leading due +southward. Here, though his family had no more to do with the flax manufacture, +his own name occasionally greeted him on gates and warehouses, being used +allusively by small rising tradesmen as a recommendation, in such words as +‘Smith, from Barnet & Co.’—‘Robinson, late manager +at Barnet’s.’ The sight led him to reflect upon his father’s +busy life, and he questioned if it had not been far happier than his own. +</p> + +<p> +The houses along the road became fewer, and presently open ground appeared +between them on either side, the track on the right hand rising to a higher +level till it merged in a knoll. On the summit a row of builders’ +scaffold-poles probed the indistinct sky like spears, and at their bases could +be discerned the lower courses of a building lately begun. Barnet slackened his +pace and stood for a few moments without leaving the centre of the road, +apparently not much interested in the sight, till suddenly his eye was caught +by a post in the fore part of the ground bearing a white board at the top. He +went to the rails, vaulted over, and walked in far enough to discern painted +upon the board ‘Château Ringdale.’ +</p> + +<p> +A dismal irony seemed to lie in the words, and its effect was to irritate him. +Downe, then, had spoken truly. He stuck his umbrella into the sod, and seized +the post with both hands, as if intending to loosen and throw it down. Then, +like one bewildered by an opposition which would exist none the less though its +manifestations were removed, he allowed his arms to sink to his side. +</p> + +<p> +‘Let it be,’ he said to himself. ‘I have declared there shall +be peace—if possible.’ +</p> + +<p> +Taking up his umbrella he quietly left the enclosure, and went on his way, +still keeping his back to the town. He had advanced with more decision since +passing the new building, and soon a hoarse murmur rose upon the gloom; it was +the sound of the sea. The road led to the harbour, at a distance of a mile from +the town, from which the trade of the district was fed. After seeing the +obnoxious name-board Barnet had forgotten to open his umbrella, and the rain +tapped smartly on his hat, and occasionally stroked his face as he went on. +</p> + +<p> +Though the lamps were still continued at the roadside, they stood at wider +intervals than before, and the pavement had given place to common road. Every +time he came to a lamp an increasing shine made itself visible upon his +shoulders, till at last they quite glistened with wet. The murmur from the +shore grew stronger, but it was still some distance off when he paused before +one of the smallest of the detached houses by the wayside, standing in its own +garden, the latter being divided from the road by a row of wooden palings. +Scrutinizing the spot to ensure that he was not mistaken, he opened the gate +and gently knocked at the cottage door. +</p> + +<p> +When he had patiently waited minutes enough to lead any man in ordinary cases +to knock again, the door was heard to open, though it was impossible to see by +whose hand, there being no light in the passage. Barnet said at random, +‘Does Miss Savile live here?’ +</p> + +<p> +A youthful voice assured him that she did live there, and by a sudden +afterthought asked him to come in. It would soon get a light, it said: but the +night being wet, mother had not thought it worth while to trim the passage +lamp. +</p> + +<p> +‘Don’t trouble yourself to get a light for me,’ said Barnet +hastily; ‘it is not necessary at all. Which is Miss Savile’s +sitting-room?’ +</p> + +<p> +The young person, whose white pinafore could just be discerned, signified a +door in the side of the passage, and Barnet went forward at the same moment, so +that no light should fall upon his face. On entering the room he closed the +door behind him, pausing till he heard the retreating footsteps of the child. +</p> + +<p> +He found himself in an apartment which was simply and neatly, though not poorly +furnished; everything, from the miniature chiffonnier to the shining little +daguerreotype which formed the central ornament of the mantelpiece, being in +scrupulous order. The picture was enclosed by a frame of embroidered +card-board—evidently the work of feminine hands—and it was the +portrait of a thin faced, elderly lieutenant in the navy. From behind the lamp +on the table a female form now rose into view, that of a young girl, and a +resemblance between her and the portrait was early discoverable. She had been +so absorbed in some occupation on the other side of the lamp as to have barely +found time to realize her visitor’s presence. +</p> + +<p> +They both remained standing for a few seconds without speaking. The face that +confronted Barnet had a beautiful outline; the Raffaelesque oval of its contour +was remarkable for an English countenance, and that countenance housed in a +remote country-road to an unheard-of harbour. But her features did not do +justice to this splendid beginning: Nature had recollected that she was not in +Italy; and the young lady’s lineaments, though not so inconsistent as to +make her plain, would have been accepted rather as pleasing than as correct. +The preoccupied expression which, like images on the retina, remained with her +for a moment after the state that caused it had ceased, now changed into a +reserved, half-proud, and slightly indignant look, in which the blood diffused +itself quickly across her cheek, and additional brightness broke the shade of +her rather heavy eyes. +</p> + +<p> +‘I know I have no business here,’ he said, answering the look. +‘But I had a great wish to see you, and inquire how you were. You can +give your hand to me, seeing how often I have held it in past days?’ +</p> + +<p> +‘I would rather forget than remember all that, Mr. Barnet,’ she +answered, as she coldly complied with the request. ‘When I think of the +circumstances of our last meeting, I can hardly consider it kind of you to +allude to such a thing as our past—or, indeed, to come here at +all.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘There was no harm in it surely? I don’t trouble you often, +Lucy.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘I have not had the honour of a visit from you for a very long time, +certainly, and I did not expect it now,’ she said, with the same +stiffness in her air. ‘I hope Mrs. Barnet is very well?’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Yes, yes!’ he impatiently returned. ‘At least I suppose +so—though I only speak from inference!’ +</p> + +<p> +‘But she is your wife, sir,’ said the young girl tremulously. +</p> + +<p> +The unwonted tones of a man’s voice in that feminine chamber had startled +a canary that was roosting in its cage by the window; the bird awoke hastily, +and fluttered against the bars. She went and stilled it by laying her face +against the cage and murmuring a coaxing sound. It might partly have been done +to still herself. +</p> + +<p> +‘I didn’t come to talk of Mrs. Barnet,’ he pursued; ‘I +came to talk of you, of yourself alone; to inquire how you are getting on since +your great loss.’ And he turned towards the portrait of her father. +</p> + +<p> +‘I am getting on fairly well, thank you.’ +</p> + +<p> +The force of her utterance was scarcely borne out by her look; but Barnet +courteously reproached himself for not having guessed a thing so natural; and +to dissipate all embarrassment, added, as he bent over the table, ‘What +were you doing when I came?—painting flowers, and by candlelight?’ +</p> + +<p> +‘O no,’ she said, ‘not painting them—only sketching the +outlines. I do that at night to save time—I have to get three dozen done +by the end of the month.’ +</p> + +<p> +Barnet looked as if he regretted it deeply. ‘You will wear your poor eyes +out,’ he said, with more sentiment than he had hitherto shown. ‘You +ought not to do it. There was a time when I should have said you must not. +Well—I almost wish I had never seen light with my own eyes when I think +of that!’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Is this a time or place for recalling such matters?’ she asked, +with dignity. ‘You used to have a gentlemanly respect for me, and for +yourself. Don’t speak any more as you have spoken, and don’t come +again. I cannot think that this visit is serious, or was closely considered by +you.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Considered: well, I came to see you as an old and good friend—not +to mince matters, to visit a woman I loved. Don’t be angry! I could not +help doing it, so many things brought you into my mind . . . This evening I +fell in with an acquaintance, and when I saw how happy he was with his wife and +family welcoming him home, though with only one-tenth of my income and chances, +and thought what might have been in my case, it fairly broke down my +discretion, and off I came here. Now I am here I feel that I am wrong to some +extent. But the feeling that I should like to see you, and talk of those we +used to know in common, was very strong.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Before that can be the case a little more time must pass,’ said +Miss Savile quietly; ‘a time long enough for me to regard with some +calmness what at present I remember far too impatiently—though it may be +you almost forget it. Indeed you must have forgotten it long before you acted +as you did.’ Her voice grew stronger and more vivacious as she added: +‘But I am doing my best to forget it too, and I know I shall succeed from +the progress I have made already!’ +</p> + +<p> +She had remained standing till now, when she turned and sat down, facing half +away from him. +</p> + +<p> +Barnet watched her moodily. ‘Yes, it is only what I deserve,’ he +said. ‘Ambition pricked me on—no, it was not ambition, it was +wrongheadedness! Had I but reflected . . . ’ He broke out vehemently: +‘But always remember this, Lucy: if you had written to me only one little +line after that misunderstanding, I declare I should have come back to you. +That ruined me!’ he slowly walked as far as the little room would allow +him to go, and remained with his eyes on the skirting. +</p> + +<p> +‘But, Mr. Barnet, how could I write to you? There was no opening for my +doing so.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Then there ought to have been,’ said Barnet, turning. ‘That +was my fault!’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Well, I don’t know anything about that; but as there had been +nothing said by me which required any explanation by letter, I did not send +one. Everything was so indefinite, and feeling your position to be so much +wealthier than mine, I fancied I might have mistaken your meaning. And when I +heard of the other lady—a woman of whose family even you might be +proud—I thought how foolish I had been, and said nothing.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Then I suppose it was destiny—accident—I don’t know +what, that separated us, dear Lucy. Anyhow you were the woman I ought to have +made my wife—and I let you slip, like the foolish man that I was!’ +</p> + +<p> +‘O, Mr. Barnet,’ she said, almost in tears, ‘don’t +revive the subject to me; I am the wrong one to console you—think, +sir,—you should not be here—it would be so bad for me if it were +known!’ +</p> + +<p> +‘It would—it would, indeed,’ he said hastily. ‘I am not +right in doing this, and I won’t do it again.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘It is a very common folly of human nature, you know, to think the course +you did <i>not</i> adopt must have been the best,’ she continued, with +gentle solicitude, as she followed him to the door of the room. ‘And you +don’t know that I should have accepted you, even if you had asked me to +be your wife.’ At this his eye met hers, and she dropped her gaze. She +knew that her voice belied her. There was a silence till she looked up to add, +in a voice of soothing playfulness, ‘My family was so much poorer than +yours, even before I lost my dear father, that—perhaps your companions +would have made it unpleasant for us on account of my deficiencies.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Your disposition would soon have won them round,’ said Barnet. +</p> + +<p> +She archly expostulated: ‘Now, never mind my disposition; try to make it +up with your wife! Those are my commands to you. And now you are to leave me at +once.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘I will. I must make the best of it all, I suppose,’ he replied, +more cheerfully than he had as yet spoken. ‘But I shall never again meet +with such a dear girl as you!’ And he suddenly opened the door, and left +her alone. When his glance again fell on the lamps that were sparsely ranged +along the dreary level road, his eyes were in a state which showed straw-like +motes of light radiating from each flame into the surrounding air. +</p> + +<p> +On the other side of the way Barnet observed a man under an umbrella, walking +parallel with himself. Presently this man left the footway, and gradually +converged on Barnet’s course. The latter then saw that it was Charlson, a +surgeon of the town, who owed him money. Charlson was a man not without +ability; yet he did not prosper. Sundry circumstances stood in his way as a +medical practitioner: he was needy; he was not a coddle; he gossiped with men +instead of with women; he had married a stranger instead of one of the town +young ladies; and he was given to conversational buffoonery. Moreover, his look +was quite erroneous. Those only proper features in the family doctor, the quiet +eye, and the thin straight passionless lips which never curl in public either +for laughter or for scorn, were not his; he had a full-curved mouth, and a bold +black eye that made timid people nervous. His companions were what in old times +would have been called boon companions—an expression which, though of +irreproachable root, suggests fraternization carried to the point of +unscrupulousness. All this was against him in the little town of his adoption. +</p> + +<p> +Charlson had been in difficulties, and to oblige him Barnet had put his name to +a bill; and, as he had expected, was called upon to meet it when it fell due. +It had been only a matter of fifty pounds, which Barnet could well afford to +lose, and he bore no ill-will to the thriftless surgeon on account of it. But +Charlson had a little too much brazen indifferentism in his composition to be +altogether a desirable acquaintance. +</p> + +<p> +‘I hope to be able to make that little bill-business right with you in +the course of three weeks, Mr. Barnet,’ said Charlson with hail-fellow +friendliness. +</p> + +<p> +Barnet replied good-naturedly that there was no hurry. +</p> + +<p> +This particular three weeks had moved on in advance of Charlson’s present +with the precision of a shadow for some considerable time. +</p> + +<p> +‘I’ve had a dream,’ Charlson continued. Barnet knew from his +tone that the surgeon was going to begin his characteristic nonsense, and did +not encourage him. ‘I’ve had a dream,’ repeated Charlson, who +required no encouragement. ‘I dreamed that a gentleman, who has been very +kind to me, married a haughty lady in haste, before he had quite forgotten a +nice little girl he knew before, and that one wet evening, like the present, as +I was walking up the harbour-road, I saw him come out of that dear little +girl’s present abode.’ +</p> + +<p> +Barnet glanced towards the speaker. The rays from a neighbouring lamp struck +through the drizzle under Charlson’s umbrella, so as just to illumine his +face against the shade behind, and show that his eye was turned up under the +outer corner of its lid, whence it leered with impish jocoseness as he thrust +his tongue into his cheek. +</p> + +<p> +‘Come,’ said Barnet gravely, ‘we’ll have no more of +that.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘No, no—of course not,’ Charlson hastily answered, seeing +that his humour had carried him too far, as it had done many times before. He +was profuse in his apologies, but Barnet did not reply. Of one thing he was +certain—that scandal was a plant of quick root, and that he was bound to +obey Lucy’s injunction for Lucy’s own sake. +</p> + +<h3>CHAPTER III</h3> + +<p> +He did so, to the letter; and though, as the crocus followed the snowdrop and +the daffodil the crocus in Lucy’s garden, the harbour-road was a not +unpleasant place to walk in, Barnet’s feet never trod its stones, much +less approached her door. He avoided a saunter that way as he would have +avoided a dangerous dram, and took his airings a long distance northward, among +severely square and brown ploughed fields, where no other townsman came. +Sometimes he went round by the lower lanes of the borough, where the rope-walks +stretched in which his family formerly had share, and looked at the rope-makers +walking backwards, overhung by apple-trees and bushes, and intruded on by cows +and calves, as if trade had established itself there at considerable +inconvenience to Nature. +</p> + +<p> +One morning, when the sun was so warm as to raise a steam from the +south-eastern slopes of those flanking hills that looked so lovely above the +old roofs, but made every low-chimneyed house in the town as smoky as Tophet, +Barnet glanced from the windows of the town-council room for lack of interest +in what was proceeding within. Several members of the corporation were present, +but there was not much business doing, and in a few minutes Downe came +leisurely across to him, saying that he seldom saw Barnet now. +</p> + +<p> +Barnet owned that he was not often present. +</p> + +<p> +Downe looked at the crimson curtain which hung down beside the panes, +reflecting its hot hues into their faces, and then out of the window. At that +moment there passed along the street a tall commanding lady, in whom the +solicitor recognized Barnet’s wife. Barnet had done the same thing, and +turned away. +</p> + +<p> +‘It will be all right some day,’ said Downe, with cheering +sympathy. +</p> + +<p> +‘You have heard, then, of her last outbreak?’ +</p> + +<p> +Downe depressed his cheerfulness to its very reverse in a moment. ‘No, I +have not heard of anything serious,’ he said, with as long a face as one +naturally round could be turned into at short notice. ‘I only hear vague +reports of such things.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘You may think it will be all right,’ said Barnet drily. ‘But +I have a different opinion . . . No, Downe, we must look the thing in the face. +Not poppy nor mandragora—however, how are your wife and children?’ +</p> + +<p> +Downe said that they were all well, thanks; they were out that morning +somewhere; he was just looking to see if they were walking that way. Ah, there +they were, just coming down the street; and Downe pointed to the figures of two +children with a nursemaid, and a lady walking behind them. +</p> + +<p> +‘You will come out and speak to her?’ he asked. +</p> + +<p> +‘Not this morning. The fact is I don’t care to speak to anybody +just now.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘You are too sensitive, Mr. Barnet. At school I remember you used to get +as red as a rose if anybody uttered a word that hurt your feelings.’ +</p> + +<p> +Barnet mused. ‘Yes,’ he admitted, ‘there is a grain of truth +in that. It is because of that I often try to make peace at home. Life would be +tolerable then at any rate, even if not particularly bright.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘I have thought more than once of proposing a little plan to you,’ +said Downe with some hesitation. ‘I don’t know whether it will meet +your views, but take it or leave it, as you choose. In fact, it was my wife who +suggested it: that she would be very glad to call on Mrs. Barnet and get into +her confidence. She seems to think that Mrs. Barnet is rather alone in the +town, and without advisers. Her impression is that your wife will listen to +reason. Emily has a wonderful way of winning the hearts of people of her own +sex.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘And of the other sex too, I think. She is a charming woman, and you were +a lucky fellow to find her.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Well, perhaps I was,’ simpered Downe, trying to wear an aspect of +being the last man in the world to feel pride. ‘However, she will be +likely to find out what ruffles Mrs. Barnet. Perhaps it is some +misunderstanding, you know—something that she is too proud to ask you to +explain, or some little thing in your conduct that irritates her because she +does not fully comprehend you. The truth is, Emily would have been more ready +to make advances if she had been quite sure of her fitness for Mrs. +Barnet’s society, who has of course been accustomed to London people of +good position, which made Emily fearful of intruding.’ +</p> + +<p> +Barnet expressed his warmest thanks for the well-intentioned proposition. There +was reason in Mrs. Downe’s fear—that he owned. ‘But do let +her call,’ he said. ‘There is no woman in England I would so soon +trust on such an errand. I am afraid there will not be any brilliant result; +still I shall take it as the kindest and nicest thing if she will try it, and +not be frightened at a repulse.’ +</p> + +<p> +When Barnet and Downe had parted, the former went to the Town Savings-Bank, of +which he was a trustee, and endeavoured to forget his troubles in the +contemplation of low sums of money, and figures in a network of red and blue +lines. He sat and watched the working-people making their deposits, to which at +intervals he signed his name. Before he left in the afternoon Downe put his +head inside the door. +</p> + +<p> +‘Emily has seen Mrs. Barnet,’ he said, in a low voice. ‘She +has got Mrs. Barnet’s promise to take her for a drive down to the shore +to-morrow, if it is fine. Good afternoon!’ +</p> + +<p> +Barnet shook Downe by the hand without speaking, and Downe went away. +</p> + +<h3>CHAPTER IV</h3> + +<p> +The next day was as fine as the arrangement could possibly require. As the sun +passed the meridian and declined westward, the tall shadows from the +scaffold-poles of Barnet’s rising residence streaked the ground as far as +to the middle of the highway. Barnet himself was there inspecting the progress +of the works for the first time during several weeks. A building in an +old-fashioned town five-and-thirty years ago did not, as in the modern fashion, +rise from the sod like a booth at a fair. The foundations and lower courses +were put in and allowed to settle for many weeks before the superstructure was +built up, and a whole summer of drying was hardly sufficient to do justice to +the important issues involved. Barnet stood within a window-niche which had as +yet received no frame, and thence looked down a slope into the road. The wheels +of a chaise were heard, and then his handsome Xantippe, in the company of Mrs. +Downe, drove past on their way to the shore. They were driving slowly; there +was a pleasing light in Mrs. Downe’s face, which seemed faintly to +reflect itself upon the countenance of her companion—that <i>politesse du +coeur</i> which was so natural to her having possibly begun already to work +results. But whatever the situation, Barnet resolved not to interfere, or do +anything to hazard the promise of the day. He might well afford to trust the +issue to another when he could never direct it but to ill himself. His +wife’s clenched rein-hand in its lemon-coloured glove, her stiff erect +figure, clad in velvet and lace, and her boldly-outlined face, passed on, +exhibiting their owner as one fixed for ever above the level of her +companion—socially by her early breeding, and materially by her higher +cushion. +</p> + +<p> +Barnet decided to allow them a proper time to themselves, and then stroll down +to the shore and drive them home. After lingering on at the house for another +hour he started with this intention. A few hundred yards below +‘Château Ringdale’ stood the cottage in which the late +lieutenant’s daughter had her lodging. Barnet had not been so far that +way for a long time, and as he approached the forbidden ground a curious warmth +passed into him, which led him to perceive that, unless he were careful, he +might have to fight the battle with himself about Lucy over again. A tenth of +his present excuse would, however, have justified him in travelling by that +road to-day. +</p> + +<p> +He came opposite the dwelling, and turned his eyes for a momentary glance into +the little garden that stretched from the palings to the door. Lucy was in the +enclosure; she was walking and stooping to gather some flowers, possibly for +the purpose of painting them, for she moved about quickly, as if anxious to +save time. She did not see him; he might have passed unnoticed; but a sensation +which was not in strict unison with his previous sentiments that day led him to +pause in his walk and watch her. She went nimbly round and round the beds of +anemones, tulips, jonquils, polyanthuses, and other old-fashioned flowers, +looking a very charming figure in her half-mourning bonnet, and with an +incomplete nosegay in her left hand. Raising herself to pull down a lilac +blossom she observed him. +</p> + +<p> +‘Mr. Barnet!’ she said, innocently smiling. ‘Why, I have been +thinking of you many times since Mrs. Barnet went by in the pony-carriage, and +now here you are!’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Yes, Lucy,’ he said. +</p> + +<p> +Then she seemed to recall particulars of their last meeting, and he believed +that she flushed, though it might have been only the fancy of his own +supersensitivenesss. +</p> + +<p> +‘I am going to the harbour,’ he added. +</p> + +<p> +‘Are you?’ Lucy remarked simply. ‘A great many people begin +to go there now the summer is drawing on.’ +</p> + +<p> +Her face had come more into his view as she spoke, and he noticed how much +thinner and paler it was than when he had seen it last. ‘Lucy, how weary +you look! tell me, can I help you?’ he was going to cry +out.—‘If I do,’ he thought, ‘it will be the ruin of us +both!’ He merely said that the afternoon was fine, and went on his way. +</p> + +<p> +As he went a sudden blast of air came over the hill as if in contradiction to +his words, and spoilt the previous quiet of the scene. The wind had already +shifted violently, and now smelt of the sea. +</p> + +<p> +The harbour-road soon began to justify its name. A gap appeared in the rampart +of hills which shut out the sea, and on the left of the opening rose a vertical +cliff, coloured a burning orange by the sunlight, the companion cliff on the +right being livid in shade. Between these cliffs, like the Libyan bay which +sheltered the shipwrecked Trojans, was a little haven, seemingly a beginning +made by Nature herself of a perfect harbour, which appealed to the passer-by as +only requiring a little human industry to finish it and make it famous, the +ground on each side as far back as the daisied slopes that bounded the interior +valley being a mere layer of blown sand. But the Port-Bredy burgesses a mile +inland had, in the course of ten centuries, responded many times to that mute +appeal, with the result that the tides had invariably choked up their works +with sand and shingle as soon as completed. There were but few houses here: a +rough pier, a few boats, some stores, an inn, a residence or two, a ketch +unloading in the harbour, were the chief features of the settlement. On the +open ground by the shore stood his wife’s pony-carriage, empty, the boy +in attendance holding the horse. +</p> + +<p> +When Barnet drew nearer, he saw an indigo-coloured spot moving swiftly along +beneath the radiant base of the eastern cliff, which proved to be a man in a +jersey, running with all his might. He held up his hand to Barnet, as it +seemed, and they approached each other. The man was local, but a stranger to +him. +</p> + +<p> +‘What is it, my man?’ said Barnet. +</p> + +<p> +‘A terrible calamity!’ the boatman hastily explained. Two ladies +had been capsized in a boat—they were Mrs. Downe and Mrs. Barnet of the +old town; they had driven down there that afternoon—they had alighted, +and it was so fine, that, after walking about a little while, they had been +tempted to go out for a short sail round the cliff. Just as they were putting +in to the shore, the wind shifted with a sudden gust, the boat listed over, and +it was thought they were both drowned. How it could have happened was beyond +his mind to fathom, for John Green knew how to sail a boat as well as any man +there. +</p> + +<p> +‘Which is the way to the place?’ said Barnet. +</p> + +<p> +It was just round the cliff. +</p> + +<p> +‘Run to the carriage and tell the boy to bring it to the place as soon as +you can. Then go to the Harbour Inn and tell them to ride to town for a doctor. +Have they been got out of the water?’ +</p> + +<p> +‘One lady has.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Which?’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Mrs. Barnet. Mrs. Downe, it is feared, has fleeted out to sea.’ +</p> + +<p> +Barnet ran on to that part of the shore which the cliff had hitherto obscured +from his view, and there discerned, a long way ahead, a group of fishermen +standing. As soon as he came up one or two recognized him, and, not liking to +meet his eye, turned aside with misgiving. He went amidst them and saw a small +sailing-boat lying draggled at the water’s edge; and, on the sloping +shingle beside it, a soaked and sandy woman’s form in the velvet dress +and yellow gloves of his wife. +</p> + +<h3>CHAPTER V</h3> + +<p> +All had been done that could be done. Mrs. Barnet was in her own house under +medical hands, but the result was still uncertain. Barnet had acted as if +devotion to his wife were the dominant passion of his existence. There had been +much to decide—whether to attempt restoration of the apparently lifeless +body as it lay on the shore—whether to carry her to the Harbour +Inn—whether to drive with her at once to his own house. The first course, +with no skilled help or appliances near at hand, had seemed hopeless. The +second course would have occupied nearly as much time as a drive to the town, +owing to the intervening ridges of shingle, and the necessity of crossing the +harbour by boat to get to the house, added to which much time must have elapsed +before a doctor could have arrived down there. By bringing her home in the +carriage some precious moments had slipped by; but she had been laid in her own +bed in seven minutes, a doctor called to her side, and every possible +restorative brought to bear upon her. +</p> + +<p> +At what a tearing pace he had driven up that road, through the yellow evening +sunlight, the shadows flapping irksomely into his eyes as each wayside object +rushed past between him and the west! Tired workmen with their baskets at their +backs had turned on their homeward journey to wonder at his speed. Halfway +between the shore and Port-Bredy town he had met Charlson, who had been the +first surgeon to hear of the accident. He was accompanied by his assistant in a +gig. Barnet had sent on the latter to the coast in case that Downe’s poor +wife should by that time have been reclaimed from the waves, and had brought +Charlson back with him to the house. +</p> + +<p> +Barnet’s presence was not needed here, and he felt it to be his next duty +to set off at once and find Downe, that no other than himself might break the +news to him. +</p> + +<p> +He was quite sure that no chance had been lost for Mrs. Downe by his leaving +the shore. By the time that Mrs. Barnet had been laid in the carriage, a much +larger group had assembled to lend assistance in finding her friend, rendering +his own help superfluous. But the duty of breaking the news was made doubly +painful by the circumstance that the catastrophe which had befallen Mrs. Downe +was solely the result of her own and her husband’s loving-kindness +towards himself. +</p> + +<p> +He found Downe in his office. When the solicitor comprehended the intelligence +he turned pale, stood up, and remained for a moment perfectly still, as if +bereft of his faculties; then his shoulders heaved, he pulled out his +handkerchief and began to cry like a child. His sobs might have been heard in +the next room. He seemed to have no idea of going to the shore, or of doing +anything; but when Barnet took him gently by the hand and proposed to start at +once, he quietly acquiesced, neither uttering any further word nor making any +effort to repress his tears. +</p> + +<p> +Barnet accompanied him to the shore, where, finding that no trace had as yet +been seen of Mrs. Downe, and that his stay would be of no avail, he left Downe +with his friends and the young doctor, and once more hastened back to his own +house. +</p> + +<p> +At the door he met Charlson. ‘Well!’ Barnet said. +</p> + +<p> +‘I have just come down,’ said the doctor; ‘we have done +everything, but without result. I sympathize with you in your +bereavement.’ +</p> + +<p> +Barnet did not much appreciate Charlson’s sympathy, which sounded to his +ears as something of a mockery from the lips of a man who knew what Charlson +knew about their domestic relations. Indeed there seemed an odd spark in +Charlson’s full black eye as he said the words; but that might have been +imaginary. +</p> + +<p> +‘And, Mr. Barnet,’ Charlson resumed, ‘that little matter +between us—I hope to settle it finally in three weeks at least.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Never mind that now,’ said Barnet abruptly. He directed the +surgeon to go to the harbour in case his services might even now be necessary +there: and himself entered the house. +</p> + +<p> +The servants were coming from his wife’s chamber, looking helplessly at +each other and at him. He passed them by and entered the room, where he stood +mutely regarding the bed for a few minutes, after which he walked into his own +dressing-room adjoining, and there paced up and down. In a minute or two he +noticed what a strange and total silence had come over the upper part of the +house; his own movements, muffled as they were by the carpet, seemed noisy, and +his thoughts to disturb the air like articulate utterances. His eye glanced +through the window. Far down the road to the harbour a roof detained his gaze: +out of it rose a red chimney, and out of the red chimney a curl of smoke, as +from a fire newly kindled. He had often seen such a sight before. In that house +lived Lucy Savile; and the smoke was from the fire which was regularly lighted +at this time to make her tea. +</p> + +<p> +After that he went back to the bedroom, and stood there some time regarding his +wife’s silent form. She was a woman some years older than himself, but +had not by any means overpassed the maturity of good looks and vigour. Her +passionate features, well-defined, firm, and statuesque in life, were doubly so +now: her mouth and brow, beneath her purplish black hair, showed only too +clearly that the turbulency of character which had made a bear-garden of his +house had been no temporary phase of her existence. While he reflected, he +suddenly said to himself, I wonder if all has been done? +</p> + +<p> +The thought was led up to by his having fancied that his wife’s features +lacked in its complete form the expression which he had been accustomed to +associate with the faces of those whose spirits have fled for ever. The +effacement of life was not so marked but that, entering uninformed, he might +have supposed her sleeping. Her complexion was that seen in the numerous faded +portraits by Sir Joshua Reynolds; it was pallid in comparison with life, but +there was visible on a close inspection the remnant of what had once been a +flush; the keeping between the cheeks and the hollows of the face being thus +preserved, although positive colour was gone. Long orange rays of evening sun +stole in through chinks in the blind, striking on the large mirror, and being +thence reflected upon the crimson hangings and woodwork of the heavy bedstead, +so that the general tone of light was remarkably warm; and it was probable that +something might be due to this circumstance. Still the fact impressed him as +strange. Charlson had been gone more than a quarter of an hour: could it be +possible that he had left too soon, and that his attempts to restore her had +operated so sluggishly as only now to have made themselves felt? Barnet laid +his hand upon her chest, and fancied that ever and anon a faint flutter of +palpitation, gentle as that of a butterfly’s wing, disturbed the +stillness there—ceasing for a time, then struggling to go on, then +breaking down in weakness and ceasing again. +</p> + +<p> +Barnet’s mother had been an active practitioner of the healing art among +her poorer neighbours, and her inspirations had all been derived from an octavo +volume of Domestic Medicine, which at this moment was lying, as it had lain for +many years, on a shelf in Barnet’s dressing-room. He hastily fetched it, +and there read under the head ‘Drowning:’- +</p> + +<p class="letter"> +‘Exertions for the recovery of any person who has not been immersed for a +longer period than half-an-hour should be continued for at least four hours, as +there have been many cases in which returning life has made itself visible even +after a longer interval.<br /> + +‘Should, however, a weak action of any of the organs show itself when the +case seems almost hopeless, our efforts must be redoubled; the feeble spark in +this case requires to be solicited; it will certainly disappear under a +relaxation of labour.’ +</p> + +<p> +Barnet looked at his watch; it was now barely two hours and a half from the +time when he had first heard of the accident. He threw aside the book and +turned quickly to reach a stimulant which had previously been used. Pulling up +the blind for more light, his eye glanced out of the window. There he saw that +red chimney still smoking cheerily, and that roof, and through the roof that +somebody. His mechanical movements stopped, his hand remained on the +blind-cord, and he seemed to become breathless, as if he had suddenly found +himself treading a high rope. +</p> + +<p> +While he stood a sparrow lighted on the windowsill, saw him, and flew away. +Next a man and a dog walked over one of the green hills which bulged above the +roofs of the town. But Barnet took no notice. +</p> + +<p> +We may wonder what were the exact images that passed through his mind during +those minutes of gazing upon Lucy Savile’s house, the sparrow, the man +and the dog, and Lucy Savile’s house again. There are honest men who will +not admit to their thoughts, even as idle hypotheses, views of the future that +assume as done a deed which they would recoil from doing; and there are other +honest men for whom morality ends at the surface of their own heads, who will +deliberate what the first will not so much as suppose. Barnet had a wife whose +pretence distracted his home; she now lay as in death; by merely doing +nothing—by letting the intelligence which had gone forth to the world lie +undisturbed—he would effect such a deliverance for himself as he had +never hoped for, and open up an opportunity of which till now he had never +dreamed. Whether the conjuncture had arisen through any unscrupulous, +ill-considered impulse of Charlson to help out of a strait the friend who was +so kind as never to press him for what was due could not be told; there was +nothing to prove it; and it was a question which could never be asked. The +triangular situation—himself—his wife—Lucy Savile—was +the one clear thing. +</p> + +<p> +From Barnet’s actions we may infer that he <i>supposed</i> such and such +a result, for a moment, but did not deliberate. He withdrew his hazel eyes from +the scene without, calmly turned, rang the bell for assistance, and vigorously +exerted himself to learn if life still lingered in that motionless frame. In a +short time another surgeon was in attendance; and then Barnet’s surmise +proved to be true. The slow life timidly heaved again; but much care and +patience were needed to catch and retain it, and a considerable period elapsed +before it could be said with certainty that Mrs. Barnet lived. When this was +the case, and there was no further room for doubt, Barnet left the chamber. The +blue evening smoke from Lucy’s chimney had died down to an imperceptible +stream, and as he walked about downstairs he murmured to himself, ‘My +wife was dead, and she is alive again.’ +</p> + +<p> +It was not so with Downe. After three hours’ immersion his wife’s +body had been recovered, life, of course, being quite extinct. Barnet on +descending, went straight to his friend’s house, and there learned the +result. Downe was helpless in his wild grief, occasionally even hysterical. +Barnet said little, but finding that some guiding hand was necessary in the +sorrow-stricken household, took upon him to supervise and manage till Downe +should be in a state of mind to do so for himself. +</p> + +<h3>CHAPTER VI</h3> + +<p> +One September evening, four months later, when Mrs. Barnet was in perfect +health, and Mrs. Downe but a weakening memory, an errand-boy paused to rest +himself in front of Mr. Barnet’s old house, depositing his basket on one +of the window-sills. The street was not yet lighted, but there were lights in +the house, and at intervals a flitting shadow fell upon the blind at his elbow. +Words also were audible from the same apartment, and they seemed to be those of +persons in violent altercation. But the boy could not gather their purport, and +he went on his way. +</p> + +<p> +Ten minutes afterwards the door of Barnet’s house opened, and a tall +closely-veiled lady in a travelling-dress came out and descended the freestone +steps. The servant stood in the doorway watching her as she went with a +measured tread down the street. When she had been out of sight for some minutes +Barnet appeared at the door from within. +</p> + +<p> +‘Did your mistress leave word where she was going?’ he asked. +</p> + +<p> +‘No, sir.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Is the carriage ordered to meet her anywhere?’ +</p> + +<p> +‘No, sir.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Did she take a latch-key?’ +</p> + +<p> +‘No, sir.’ +</p> + +<p> +Barnet went in again, sat down in his chair, and leaned back. Then in solitude +and silence he brooded over the bitter emotions that filled his heart. It was +for this that he had gratuitously restored her to life, and made his union with +another impossible! The evening drew on, and nobody came to disturb him. At +bedtime he told the servants to retire, that he would sit up for Mrs. Barnet +himself; and when they were gone he leaned his head upon his hand and mused for +hours. +</p> + +<p> +The clock struck one, two; still his wife came not, and, with impatience added +to depression, he went from room to room till another weary hour had passed. +This was not altogether a new experience for Barnet; but she had never before +so prolonged her absence. At last he sat down again and fell asleep. +</p> + +<p> +He awoke at six o’clock to find that she had not returned. In searching +about the rooms he discovered that she had taken a case of jewels which had +been hers before her marriage. At eight a note was brought him; it was from his +wife, in which she stated that she had gone by the coach to the house of a +distant relative near London, and expressed a wish that certain boxes, articles +of clothing, and so on, might be sent to her forthwith. The note was brought to +him by a waiter at the Black-Bull Hotel, and had been written by Mrs. Barnet +immediately before she took her place in the stage. +</p> + +<p> +By the evening this order was carried out, and Barnet, with a sense of relief, +walked out into the town. A fair had been held during the day, and the large +clear moon which rose over the most prominent hill flung its light upon the +booths and standings that still remained in the street, mixing its rays +curiously with those from the flaring naphtha lamps. The town was full of +country-people who had come in to enjoy themselves, and on this account Barnet +strolled through the streets unobserved. With a certain recklessness he made +for the harbour-road, and presently found himself by the shore, where he walked +on till he came to the spot near which his friend the kindly Mrs. Downe had +lost her life, and his own wife’s life had been preserved. A tremulous +pathway of bright moonshine now stretched over the water which had engulfed +them, and not a living soul was near. +</p> + +<p> +Here he ruminated on their characters, and next on the young girl in whom he +now took a more sensitive interest than at the time when he had been free to +marry her. Nothing, so far as he was aware, had ever appeared in his own +conduct to show that such an interest existed. He had made it a point of the +utmost strictness to hinder that feeling from influencing in the faintest +degree his attitude towards his wife; and this was made all the more easy for +him by the small demand Mrs. Barnet made upon his attentions, for which she +ever evinced the greatest contempt; thus unwittingly giving him the +satisfaction of knowing that their severance owed nothing to jealousy, or, +indeed, to any personal behaviour of his at all. Her concern was not with him +or his feelings, as she frequently told him; but that she had, in a moment of +weakness, thrown herself away upon a common burgher when she might have aimed +at, and possibly brought down, a peer of the realm. Her frequent depreciation +of Barnet in these terms had at times been so intense that he was sorely +tempted to retaliate on her egotism by owning that he loved at the same low +level on which he lived; but prudence had prevailed, for which he was now +thankful. +</p> + +<p> +Something seemed to sound upon the shingle behind him over and above the raking +of the wave. He looked round, and a slight girlish shape appeared quite close +to him, He could not see her face because it was in the direction of the moon. +</p> + +<p> +‘Mr. Barnet?’ the rambler said, in timid surprise. The voice was +the voice of Lucy Savile. +</p> + +<p> +‘Yes,’ said Barnet. ‘How can I repay you for this +pleasure?’ +</p> + +<p> +‘I only came because the night was so clear. I am now on my way +home.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘I am glad we have met. I want to know if you will let me do something +for you, to give me an occupation, as an idle man? I am sure I ought to help +you, for I know you are almost without friends.’ +</p> + +<p> +She hesitated. ‘Why should you tell me that?’ she said. +</p> + +<p> +‘In the hope that you will be frank with me.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘I am not altogether without friends here. But I am going to make a +little change in my life—to go out as a teacher of freehand drawing and +practical perspective, of course I mean on a comparatively humble scale, +because I have not been specially educated for that profession. But I am sure I +shall like it much.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘You have an opening?’ +</p> + +<p> +‘I have not exactly got it, but I have advertised for one.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Lucy, you must let me help you!’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Not at all.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘You need not think it would compromise you, or that I am indifferent to +delicacy. I bear in mind how we stand. It is very unlikely that you will +succeed as teacher of the class you mention, so let me do something of a +different kind for you. Say what you would like, and it shall be done.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘No; if I can’t be a drawing-mistress or governess, or something of +that sort, I shall go to India and join my brother.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘I wish I could go abroad, anywhere, everywhere with you, Lucy, and leave +this place and its associations for ever!’ +</p> + +<p> +She played with the end of her bonnet-string, and hastily turned aside. +‘Don’t ever touch upon that kind of topic again,’ she said, +with a quick severity not free from anger. ‘It simply makes it impossible +for me to see you, much less receive any guidance from you. No, thank you, Mr. +Barnet; you can do nothing for me at present; and as I suppose my uncertainty +will end in my leaving for India, I fear you never will. If ever I think you +<i>can</i> do anything, I will take the trouble to ask you. Till then, +good-bye.’ +</p> + +<p> +The tone of her latter words was equivocal, and while he remained in doubt +whether a gentle irony was or was not inwrought with their sound, she swept +lightly round and left him alone. He saw her form get smaller and smaller along +the damp belt of sea-sand between ebb and flood; and when she had vanished +round the cliff into the harbour-road, he himself followed in the same +direction. +</p> + +<p> +That her hopes from an advertisement should be the single thread which held +Lucy Savile in England was too much for Barnet. On reaching the town he went +straight to the residence of Downe, now a widower with four children. The young +motherless brood had been sent to bed about a quarter of an hour earlier, and +when Barnet entered he found Downe sitting alone. It was the same room as that +from which the family had been looking out for Downe at the beginning of the +year, when Downe had slipped into the gutter and his wife had been so enviably +tender towards him. The old neatness had gone from the house; articles lay in +places which could show no reason for their presence, as if momentarily +deposited there some months ago, and forgotten ever since; there were no +flowers; things were jumbled together on the furniture which should have been +in cupboards; and the place in general had that stagnant, unrenovated air which +usually pervades the maimed home of the widower. +</p> + +<p> +Downe soon renewed his customary full-worded lament over his wife, and even +when he had worked himself up to tears, went on volubly, as if a listener were +a luxury to be enjoyed whenever he could be caught. +</p> + +<p> +‘She was a treasure beyond compare, Mr. Barnet! I shall never see such +another. Nobody now to nurse me—nobody to console me in those daily +troubles, you know, Barnet, which make consolation so necessary to a nature +like mine. It would be unbecoming to repine, for her spirit’s home was +elsewhere—the tender light in her eyes always showed it; but it is a long +dreary time that I have before me, and nobody else can ever fill the void left +in my heart by her loss—nobody—nobody!’ And Downe wiped his +eyes again. +</p> + +<p> +‘She was a good woman in the highest sense,’ gravely answered +Barnet, who, though Downe’s words drew genuine compassion from his heart, +could not help feeling that a tender reticence would have been a finer tribute +to Mrs. Downe’s really sterling virtues than such a second-class lament +as this. +</p> + +<p> +‘I have something to show you,’ Downe resumed, producing from a +drawer a sheet of paper on which was an elaborate design for a canopied tomb. +‘This has been sent me by the architect, but it is not exactly what I +want.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘You have got Jones to do it, I see, the man who is carrying out my +house,’ said Barnet, as he glanced at the signature to the drawing. +</p> + +<p> +‘Yes, but it is not quite what I want. I want something more +striking—more like a tomb I have seen in St. Paul’s Cathedral. +Nothing less will do justice to my feelings, and how far short of them that +will fall!’ +</p> + +<p> +Barnet privately thought the design a sufficiently imposing one as it stood, +even extravagantly ornate; but, feeling that he had no right to criticize, he +said gently, ‘Downe, should you not live more in your children’s +lives at the present time, and soften the sharpness of regret for your own past +by thinking of their future?’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Yes, yes; but what can I do more?’ asked Downe, wrinkling his +forehead hopelessly. +</p> + +<p> +It was with anxious slowness that Barnet produced his reply—the secret +object of his visit to-night. ‘Did you not say one day that you ought by +rights to get a governess for the children?’ +</p> + +<p> +Downe admitted that he had said so, but that he could not see his way to it. +‘The kind of woman I should like to have,’ he said, ‘would be +rather beyond my means. No; I think I shall send them to school in the town +when they are old enough to go out alone.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Now, I know of something better than that. The late Lieutenant +Savile’s daughter, Lucy, wants to do something for herself in the way of +teaching. She would be inexpensive, and would answer your purpose as well as +anybody for six or twelve months. She would probably come daily if you were to +ask her, and so your housekeeping arrangements would not be much +affected.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘I thought she had gone away,’ said the solicitor, musing. +‘Where does she live?’ +</p> + +<p> +Barnet told him, and added that, if Downe should think of her as suitable, he +would do well to call as soon as possible, or she might be on the wing. +‘If you do see her,’ he said, ‘it would be advisable not to +mention my name. She is rather stiff in her ideas of me, and it might prejudice +her against a course if she knew that I recommended it.’ +</p> + +<p> +Downe promised to give the subject his consideration, and nothing more was said +about it just then. But when Barnet rose to go, which was not till nearly +bedtime, he reminded Downe of the suggestion and went up the street to his own +solitary home with a sense of satisfaction at his promising diplomacy in a +charitable cause. +</p> + +<h3>CHAPTER VII</h3> + +<p> +The walls of his new house were carried up nearly to their full height. By a +curious though not infrequent reaction, Barnet’s feelings about that +unnecessary structure had undergone a change; he took considerable interest in +its progress as a long-neglected thing, his wife before her departure having +grown quite weary of it as a hobby. Moreover, it was an excellent distraction +for a man in the unhappy position of having to live in a provincial town with +nothing to do. He was probably the first of his line who had ever passed a day +without toil, and perhaps something like an inherited instinct disqualifies +such men for a life of pleasant inaction, such as lies in the power of those +whose leisure is not a personal accident, but a vast historical accretion which +has become part of their natures. +</p> + +<p> +Thus Barnet got into a way of spending many of his leisure hours on the site of +the new building, and he might have been seen on most days at this time trying +the temper of the mortar by punching the joints with his stick, looking at the +grain of a floor-board, and meditating where it grew, or picturing under what +circumstances the last fire would be kindled in the at present sootless +chimneys. One day when thus occupied he saw three children pass by in the +company of a fair young woman, whose sudden appearance caused him to flush +perceptibly. +</p> + +<p> +‘Ah, she is there,’ he thought. ‘That’s a blessed +thing.’ +</p> + +<p> +Casting an interested glance over the rising building and the busy workmen, +Lucy Savile and the little Downes passed by; and after that time it became a +regular though almost unconscious custom of Barnet to stand in the +half-completed house and look from the ungarnished windows at the governess as +she tripped towards the sea-shore with her young charges, which she was in the +habit of doing on most fine afternoons. It was on one of these occasions, when +he had been loitering on the first-floor landing, near the hole left for the +staircase, not yet erected, that there appeared above the edge of the floor a +little hat, followed by a little head. +</p> + +<p> +Barnet withdrew through a doorway, and the child came to the top of the ladder, +stepping on to the floor and crying to her sisters and Miss Savile to follow. +Another head rose above the floor, and another, and then Lucy herself came into +view. The troop ran hither and thither through the empty, shaving-strewn rooms, +and Barnet came forward. +</p> + +<p> +Lucy uttered a small exclamation: she was very sorry that she had intruded; she +had not the least idea that Mr. Barnet was there: the children had come up, and +she had followed. +</p> + +<p> +Barnet replied that he was only too glad to see them there. ‘And now, let +me show you the rooms,’ he said. +</p> + +<p> +She passively assented, and he took her round. There was not much to show in +such a bare skeleton of a house, but he made the most of it, and explained the +different ornamental fittings that were soon to be fixed here and there. Lucy +made but few remarks in reply, though she seemed pleased with her visit, and +stole away down the ladder, followed by her companions. +</p> + +<p> +After this the new residence became yet more of a hobby for Barnet. +Downe’s children did not forget their first visit, and when the windows +were glazed, and the handsome staircase spread its broad low steps into the +hall, they came again, prancing in unwearied succession through every room from +ground-floor to attics, while Lucy stood waiting for them at the door. Barnet, +who rarely missed a day in coming to inspect progress, stepped out from the +drawing-room. +</p> + +<p> +‘I could not keep them out,’ she said, with an apologetic blush. +‘I tried to do so very much: but they are rather wilful, and we are +directed to walk this way for the sea air.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Do let them make the house their regular playground, and you +yours,’ said Barnet. ‘There is no better place for children to romp +and take their exercise in than an empty house, particularly in muddy or damp +weather such as we shall get a good deal of now; and this place will not be +furnished for a long long time—perhaps never. I am not at all decided +about it.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘O, but it must!’ replied Lucy, looking round at the hall. +‘The rooms are excellent, twice as high as ours; and the views from the +windows are so lovely.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘I daresay, I daresay,’ he said absently. +</p> + +<p> +‘Will all the furniture be new?’ she asked. +</p> + +<p> +‘All the furniture be new—that’s a thing I have not thought +of. In fact I only come here and look on. My father’s house would have +been large enough for me, but another person had a voice in the matter, and it +was settled that we should build. However, the place grows upon me; its recent +associations are cheerful, and I am getting to like it fast.’ +</p> + +<p> +A certain uneasiness in Lucy’s manner showed that the conversation was +taking too personal a turn for her. ‘Still, as modern tastes develop, +people require more room to gratify them in,’ she said, withdrawing to +call the children; and serenely bidding him good afternoon she went on her way. +</p> + +<p> +Barnet’s life at this period was singularly lonely, and yet he was +happier than he could have expected. His wife’s estrangement and absence, +which promised to be permanent, left him free as a boy in his movements, and +the solitary walks that he took gave him ample opportunity for chastened +reflection on what might have been his lot if he had only shown wisdom enough +to claim Lucy Savile when there was no bar between their lives, and she was to +be had for the asking. He would occasionally call at the house of his friend +Downe; but there was scarcely enough in common between their two natures to +make them more than friends of that excellent sort whose personal knowledge of +each other’s history and character is always in excess of intimacy, +whereby they are not so likely to be severed by a clash of sentiment as in +cases where intimacy springs up in excess of knowledge. Lucy was never visible +at these times, being either engaged in the school-room, or in taking an airing +out of doors; but, knowing that she was now comfortable, and had given up the, +to him, depressing idea of going off to the other side of the globe, he was +quite content. +</p> + +<p> +The new house had so far progressed that the gardeners were beginning to grass +down the front. During an afternoon which he was passing in marking the curve +for the carriage-drive, he beheld her coming in boldly towards him from the +road. Hitherto Barnet had only caught her on the premises by stealth; and this +advance seemed to show that at last her reserve had broken down. +</p> + +<p> +A smile gained strength upon her face as she approached, and it was quite +radiant when she came up, and said, without a trace of embarrassment, ‘I +find I owe you a hundred thanks—and it comes to me quite as a surprise! +It was through your kindness that I was engaged by Mr. Downe. Believe me, Mr. +Barnet, I did not know it until yesterday, or I should have thanked you long +and long ago!’ +</p> + +<p> +‘I had offended you—just a trifle—at the time, I +think?’ said Barnet, smiling, ‘and it was best that you should not +know.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Yes, yes,’ she returned hastily. ‘Don’t allude to +that; it is past and over, and we will let it be. The house is finished almost, +is it not? How beautiful it will look when the evergreens are grown! Do you +call the style Palladian, Mr. Barnet?’ +</p> + +<p> +‘I—really don’t quite know what it is. Yes, it must be +Palladian, certainly. But I’ll ask Jones, the architect; for, to tell the +truth, I had not thought much about the style: I had nothing to do with +choosing it, I am sorry to say.’ +</p> + +<p> +She would not let him harp on this gloomy refrain, and talked on bright matters +till she said, producing a small roll of paper which he had noticed in her hand +all the while, ‘Mr. Downe wished me to bring you this revised drawing of +the late Mrs. Downe’s tomb, which the architect has just sent him. He +would like you to look it over.’ +</p> + +<p> +The children came up with their hoops, and she went off with them down the +harbour-road as usual. Barnet had been glad to get those words of thanks; he +had been thinking for many months that he would like her to know of his share +in finding her a home such as it was; and what he could not do for himself, +Downe had now kindly done for him. He returned to his desolate house with a +lighter tread; though in reason he hardly knew why his tread should be light. +</p> + +<p> +On examining the drawing, Barnet found that, instead of the vast altar-tomb and +canopy Downe had determined on at their last meeting, it was to be a more +modest memorial even than had been suggested by the architect; a coped tomb of +good solid construction, with no useless elaboration at all. Barnet was truly +glad to see that Downe had come to reason of his own accord; and he returned +the drawing with a note of approval. +</p> + +<p> +He followed up the house-work as before, and as he walked up and down the +rooms, occasionally gazing from the windows over the bulging green hills and +the quiet harbour that lay between them, he murmured words and fragments of +words, which, if listened to, would have revealed all the secrets of his +existence. Whatever his reason in going there, Lucy did not call again: the +walk to the shore seemed to be abandoned: he must have thought it as well for +both that it should be so, for he did not go anywhere out of his accustomed +ways to endeavour to discover her. +</p> + +<h3>CHAPTER VIII</h3> + +<p> +The winter and the spring had passed, and the house was complete. It was a fine +morning in the early part of June, and Barnet, though not in the habit of +rising early, had taken a long walk before breakfast; returning by way of the +new building. A sufficiently exciting cause of his restlessness to-day might +have been the intelligence which had reached him the night before, that Lucy +Savile was going to India after all, and notwithstanding the representations of +her friends that such a journey was unadvisable in many ways for an unpractised +girl, unless some more definite advantage lay at the end of it than she could +show to be the case. Barnet’s walk up the slope to the building betrayed +that he was in a dissatisfied mood. He hardly saw that the dewy time of day +lent an unusual freshness to the bushes and trees which had so recently put on +their summer habit of heavy leafage, and made his newly-laid lawn look as well +established as an old manorial meadow. The house had been so adroitly placed +between six tall elms which were growing on the site beforehand, that they +seemed like real ancestral trees; and the rooks, young and old, cawed +melodiously to their visitor. +</p> + +<p> +The door was not locked, and he entered. No workmen appeared to be present, and +he walked from sunny window to sunny window of the empty rooms, with a sense of +seclusion which might have been very pleasant but for the antecedent knowledge +that his almost paternal care of Lucy Savile was to be thrown away by her +wilfulness. Footsteps echoed through an adjoining room; and bending his eyes in +that direction, he perceived Mr. Jones, the architect. He had come to look over +the building before giving the contractor his final certificate. They walked +over the house together. Everything was finished except the papering: there +were the latest improvements of the period in bell-hanging, ventilating, +smoke-jacks, fire-grates, and French windows. The business was soon ended, and +Jones, having directed Barnet’s attention to a roll of wall-paper +patterns which lay on a bench for his choice, was leaving to keep another +engagement, when Barnet said, ‘Is the tomb finished yet for Mrs. +Downe?’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Well—yes: it is at last,’ said the architect, coming back +and speaking as if he were in a mood to make a confidence. ‘I have had no +end of trouble in the matter, and, to tell the truth, I am heartily glad it is +over.’ +</p> + +<p> +Barnet expressed his surprise. ‘I thought poor Downe had given up those +extravagant notions of his? then he has gone back to the altar and canopy after +all? Well, he is to be excused, poor fellow!’ +</p> + +<p> +‘O no—he has not at all gone back to them—quite the +reverse,’ Jones hastened to say. ‘He has so reduced design after +design, that the whole thing has been nothing but waste labour for me; till in +the end it has become a common headstone, which a mason put up in half a +day.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘A common headstone?’ said Barnet. +</p> + +<p> +‘Yes. I held out for some time for the addition of a footstone at least. +But he said, “O no—he couldn’t afford it.”’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Ah, well—his family is growing up, poor fellow, and his expenses +are getting serious.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Yes, exactly,’ said Jones, as if the subject were none of his. And +again directing Barnet’s attention to the wall-papers, the bustling +architect left him to keep some other engagement. +</p> + +<p> +‘A common headstone,’ murmured Barnet, left again to himself. He +mused a minute or two, and next began looking over and selecting from the +patterns; but had not long been engaged in the work when he heard another +footstep on the gravel without, and somebody enter the open porch. +</p> + +<p> +Barnet went to the door—it was his manservant in search of him. +</p> + +<p> +‘I have been trying for some time to find you, sir,’ he said. +‘This letter has come by the post, and it is marked immediate. And +there’s this one from Mr. Downe, who called just now wanting to see +you.’ He searched his pocket for the second. +</p> + +<p> +Barnet took the first letter—it had a black border, and bore the London +postmark. It was not in his wife’s handwriting, or in that of any person +he knew; but conjecture soon ceased as he read the page, wherein he was briefly +informed that Mrs. Barnet had died suddenly on the previous day, at the +furnished villa she had occupied near London. +</p> + +<p> +Barnet looked vaguely round the empty hall, at the blank walls, out of the +doorway. Drawing a long palpitating breath, and with eyes downcast, he turned +and climbed the stairs slowly, like a man who doubted their stability. The fact +of his wife having, as it were, died once already, and lived on again, had +entirely dislodged the possibility of her actual death from his conjecture. He +went to the landing, leant over the balusters, and after a reverie, of whose +duration he had but the faintest notion, turned to the window and stretched his +gaze to the cottage further down the road, which was visible from his landing, +and from which Lucy still walked to the solicitor’s house by a cross +path. The faint words that came from his moving lips were simply, ‘At +last!’ +</p> + +<p> +Then, almost involuntarily, Barnet fell down on his knees and murmured some +incoherent words of thanksgiving. Surely his virtue in restoring his wife to +life had been rewarded! But, as if the impulse struck uneasily on his +conscience, he quickly rose, brushed the dust from his trousers and set himself +to think of his next movements. He could not start for London for some hours; +and as he had no preparations to make that could not be made in half-an-hour, +he mechanically descended and resumed his occupation of turning over the +wall-papers. They had all got brighter for him, those papers. It was all +changed—who would sit in the rooms that they were to line? He went on to +muse upon Lucy’s conduct in so frequently coming to the house with the +children; her occasional blush in speaking to him; her evident interest in him. +What woman can in the long run avoid being interested in a man whom she knows +to be devoted to her? If human solicitation could ever effect anything, there +should be no going to India for Lucy now. All the papers previously chosen +seemed wrong in their shades, and he began from the beginning to choose again. +</p> + +<p> +While entering on the task he heard a forced ‘Ahem!’ from without +the porch, evidently uttered to attract his attention, and footsteps again +advancing to the door. His man, whom he had quite forgotten in his mental +turmoil, was still waiting there. +</p> + +<p> +‘I beg your pardon, sir,’ the man said from round the doorway; +‘but here’s the note from Mr. Downe that you didn’t take. He +called just after you went out, and as he couldn’t wait, he wrote this on +your study-table.’ +</p> + +<p> +He handed in the letter—no black-bordered one now, but a +practical-looking note in the well-known writing of the solicitor. +</p> + +<p class="letter"> +‘DEAR BARNET’—it ran—‘Perhaps you will be +prepared for the information I am about to give—that Lucy Savile and +myself are going to be married this morning. I have hitherto said nothing as to +my intention to any of my friends, for reasons which I am sure you will fully +appreciate. The crisis has been brought about by her expressing her intention +to join her brother in India. I then discovered that I could not do without +her.<br /> + +‘It is to be quite a private wedding; but it is my particular wish that +you come down here quietly at ten, and go to church with us; it will add +greatly to the pleasure I shall experience in the ceremony, and, I believe, to +Lucy’s also. I have called on you very early to make the request, in the +belief that I should find you at home; but you are beforehand with me in your +early rising.—Yours sincerely, C. Downe.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Need I wait, sir?’ said the servant after a dead silence. +</p> + +<p> +‘That will do, William. No answer,’ said Barnet calmly. +</p> + +<p> +When the man had gone Barnet re-read the letter. Turning eventually to the +wall-papers, which he had been at such pains to select, he deliberately tore +them into halves and quarters, and threw them into the empty fireplace. Then he +went out of the house; locked the door, and stood in the front awhile. Instead +of returning into the town, he went down the harbour-road and thoughtfully +lingered about by the sea, near the spot where the body of Downe’s late +wife had been found and brought ashore. +</p> + +<p> +Barnet was a man with a rich capacity for misery, and there is no doubt that he +exercised it to its fullest extent now. The events that had, as it were, dashed +themselves together into one half-hour of this day showed that curious +refinement of cruelty in their arrangement which often proceeds from the bosom +of the whimsical god at other times known as blind Circumstance. That his few +minutes of hope, between the reading of the first and second letters, had +carried him to extraordinary heights of rapture was proved by the immensity of +his suffering now. The sun blazing into his face would have shown a close +watcher that a horizontal line, which he had never noticed before, but which +was never to be gone thereafter, was somehow gradually forming itself in the +smooth of his forehead. His eyes, of a light hazel, had a curious look which +can only be described by the word bruised; the sorrow that looked from them +being largely mixed with the surprise of a man taken unawares. +</p> + +<p> +The secondary particulars of his present position, too, were odd enough, though +for some time they appeared to engage little of his attention. Not a soul in +the town knew, as yet, of his wife’s death; and he almost owed Downe the +kindness of not publishing it till the day was over: the conjuncture, taken +with that which had accompanied the death of Mrs. Downe, being so singular as +to be quite sufficient to darken the pleasure of the impressionable solicitor +to a cruel extent, if made known to him. But as Barnet could not set out on his +journey to London, where his wife lay, for some hours (there being at this date +no railway within a distance of many miles), no great reason existed why he +should leave the town. +</p> + +<p> +Impulse in all its forms characterized Barnet, and when he heard the distant +clock strike the hour of ten his feet began to carry him up the harbour-road +with the manner of a man who must do something to bring himself to life. He +passed Lucy Savile’s old house, his own new one, and came in view of the +church. Now he gave a perceptible start, and his mechanical condition went +away. Before the church-gate were a couple of carriages, and Barnet then could +perceive that the marriage between Downe and Lucy was at that moment being +solemnized within. A feeling of sudden, proud self-confidence, an indocile wish +to walk unmoved in spite of grim environments, plainly possessed him, and when +he reached the wicket-gate he turned in without apparent effort. Pacing up the +paved footway he entered the church and stood for a while in the nave passage. +A group of people was standing round the vestry door; Barnet advanced through +these and stepped into the vestry. +</p> + +<p> +There they were, busily signing their names. Seeing Downe about to look round, +Barnet averted his somewhat disturbed face for a second or two; when he turned +again front to front he was calm and quite smiling; it was a creditable triumph +over himself, and deserved to be remembered in his native town. He greeted +Downe heartily, offering his congratulations. +</p> + +<p> +It seemed as if Barnet expected a half-guilty look upon Lucy’s face; but +no, save the natural flush and flurry engendered by the service just performed, +there was nothing whatever in her bearing which showed a disturbed mind: her +gray-brown eyes carried in them now as at other times the well-known expression +of common-sensed rectitude which never went so far as to touch on hardness. She +shook hands with him, and Downe said warmly, ‘I wish you could have come +sooner: I called on purpose to ask you. You’ll drive back with us +now?’ +</p> + +<p> +‘No, no,’ said Barnet; ‘I am not at all prepared; but I +thought I would look in upon you for a moment, even though I had not time to go +home and dress. I’ll stand back and see you pass out, and observe the +effect of the spectacle upon myself as one of the public.’ +</p> + +<p> +Then Lucy and her husband laughed, and Barnet laughed and retired; and the +quiet little party went gliding down the nave and towards the porch, +Lucy’s new silk dress sweeping with a smart rustle round the +base-mouldings of the ancient font, and Downe’s little daughters +following in a state of round-eyed interest in their position, and that of +Lucy, their teacher and friend. +</p> + +<p> +So Downe was comforted after his Emily’s death, which had taken place +twelve months, two weeks, and three days before that time. +</p> + +<p> +When the two flys had driven off and the spectators had vanished, Barnet +followed to the door, and went out into the sun. He took no more trouble to +preserve a spruce exterior; his step was unequal, hesitating, almost +convulsive; and the slight changes of colour which went on in his face seemed +refracted from some inward flame. In the churchyard he became pale as a summer +cloud, and finding it not easy to proceed he sat down on one of the tombstones +and supported his head with his hand. +</p> + +<p> +Hard by was a sexton filling up a grave which he had not found time to finish +on the previous evening. Observing Barnet, he went up to him, and recognizing +him, said, ‘Shall I help you home, sir?’ +</p> + +<p> +‘O no, thank you,’ said Barnet, rousing himself and standing up. +The sexton returned to his grave, followed by Barnet, who, after watching him +awhile, stepped into the grave, now nearly filled, and helped to tread in the +earth. +</p> + +<p> +The sexton apparently thought his conduct a little singular, but he made no +observation, and when the grave was full, Barnet suddenly stopped, looked far +away, and with a decided step proceeded to the gate and vanished. The sexton +rested on his shovel and looked after him for a few moments, and then began +banking up the mound. +</p> + +<p> +In those short minutes of treading in the dead man Barnet had formed a design, +but what it was the inhabitants of that town did not for some long time +imagine. He went home, wrote several letters of business, called on his lawyer, +an old man of the same place who had been the legal adviser of Barnet’s +father before him, and during the evening overhauled a large quantity of +letters and other documents in his possession. By eleven o’clock the heap +of papers in and before Barnet’s grate had reached formidable dimensions, +and he began to burn them. This, owing to their quantity, it was not so easy to +do as he had expected, and he sat long into the night to complete the task. +</p> + +<p> +The next morning Barnet departed for London, leaving a note for Downe to inform +him of Mrs. Barnet’s sudden death, and that he was gone to bury her; but +when a thrice-sufficient time for that purpose had elapsed, he was not seen +again in his accustomed walks, or in his new house, or in his old one. He was +gone for good, nobody knew whither. It was soon discovered that he had +empowered his lawyer to dispose of all his property, real and personal, in the +borough, and pay in the proceeds to the account of an unknown person at one of +the large London banks. The person was by some supposed to be himself under an +assumed name; but few, if any, had certain knowledge of that fact. +</p> + +<p> +The elegant new residence was sold with the rest of his possessions; and its +purchaser was no other than Downe, now a thriving man in the borough, and one +whose growing family and new wife required more roomy accommodation than was +afforded by the little house up the narrow side street. Barnet’s old +habitation was bought by the trustees of the Congregational Baptist body in +that town, who pulled down the time-honoured dwelling and built a new chapel on +its site. By the time the last hour of that, to Barnet, eventful year had +chimed, every vestige of him had disappeared from the precincts of his native +place, and the name became extinct in the borough of Port-Bredy, after having +been a living force therein for more than two hundred years. +</p> + +<h3>CHAPTER IX</h3> + +<p> +Twenty-one years and six months do not pass without setting a mark even upon +durable stone and triple brass; upon humanity such a period works nothing less +than transformation. In Barnet’s old birthplace vivacious young children +with bones like india-rubber had grown up to be stable men and women, men and +women had dried in the skin, stiffened, withered, and sunk into decrepitude; +while selections from every class had been consigned to the outlying cemetery. +Of inorganic differences the greatest was that a railway had invaded the town, +tying it on to a main line at a junction a dozen miles off. Barnet’s +house on the harbour-road, once so insistently new, had acquired a respectable +mellowness, with ivy, Virginia creepers, lichens, damp patches, and even +constitutional infirmities of its own like its elder fellows. Its architecture, +once so very improved and modern, had already become stale in style, without +having reached the dignity of being old-fashioned. Trees about the harbour-road +had increased in circumference or disappeared under the saw; while the church +had had such a tremendous practical joke played upon it by some facetious +restorer or other as to be scarce recognizable by its dearest old friends. +</p> + +<p> +During this long interval George Barnet had never once been seen or heard of in +the town of his fathers. +</p> + +<p> +It was the evening of a market-day, and some half-dozen middle-aged farmers and +dairymen were lounging round the bar of the Black-Bull Hotel, occasionally +dropping a remark to each other, and less frequently to the two barmaids who +stood within the pewter-topped counter in a perfunctory attitude of attention, +these latter sighing and making a private observation to one another at odd +intervals, on more interesting experiences than the present. +</p> + +<p> +‘Days get shorter,’ said one of the dairymen, as he looked towards +the street, and noticed that the lamp-lighter was passing by. +</p> + +<p> +The farmers merely acknowledged by their countenances the propriety of this +remark, and finding that nobody else spoke, one of the barmaids said +‘yes,’ in a tone of painful duty. +</p> + +<p> +‘Come fair-day we shall have to light up before we start for +home-along.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘That’s true,’ his neighbour conceded, with a gaze of +blankness. +</p> + +<p> +‘And after that we shan’t see much further difference all’s +winter.’ +</p> + +<p> +The rest were not unwilling to go even so far as this. +</p> + +<p> +The barmaid sighed again, and raised one of her hands from the counter on which +they rested to scratch the smallest surface of her face with the smallest of +her fingers. She looked towards the door, and presently remarked, ‘I +think I hear the ‘bus coming in from station.’ +</p> + +<p> +The eyes of the dairymen and farmers turned to the glass door dividing the hall +from the porch, and in a minute or two the omnibus drew up outside. Then there +was a lumbering down of luggage, and then a man came into the hall, followed by +a porter with a portmanteau on his poll, which he deposited on a bench. +</p> + +<p> +The stranger was an elderly person, with curly ashen white hair, a +deeply-creviced outer corner to each eyelid, and a countenance baked by +innumerable suns to the colour of terra-cotta, its hue and that of his hair +contrasting like heat and cold respectively. He walked meditatively and gently, +like one who was fearful of disturbing his own mental equilibrium. But whatever +lay at the bottom of his breast had evidently made him so accustomed to its +situation there that it caused him little practical inconvenience. +</p> + +<p> +He paused in silence while, with his dubious eyes fixed on the barmaids, he +seemed to consider himself. In a moment or two he addressed them, and asked to +be accommodated for the night. As he waited he looked curiously round the hall, +but said nothing. As soon as invited he disappeared up the staircase, preceded +by a chambermaid and candle, and followed by a lad with his trunk. Not a soul +had recognized him. +</p> + +<p> +A quarter of an hour later, when the farmers and dairymen had driven off to +their homesteads in the country, he came downstairs, took a biscuit and one +glass of wine, and walked out into the town, where the radiance from the +shop-windows had grown so in volume of late years as to flood with cheerfulness +every standing cart, barrow, stall, and idler that occupied the wayside, +whether shabby or genteel. His chief interest at present seemed to lie in the +names painted over the shop-fronts and on door-ways, as far as they were +visible; these now differed to an ominous extent from what they had been +one-and-twenty years before. +</p> + +<p> +The traveller passed on till he came to the bookseller’s, where he looked +in through the glass door. A fresh-faced young man was standing behind the +counter, otherwise the shop was empty. The gray-haired observer entered, asked +for some periodical by way of paying for admission, and with his elbow on the +counter began to turn over the pages he had bought, though that he read nothing +was obvious. +</p> + +<p> +At length he said, ‘Is old Mr. Watkins still alive?’ in a voice +which had a curious youthful cadence in it even now. +</p> + +<p> +‘My father is dead, sir,’ said the young man. +</p> + +<p> +‘Ah, I am sorry to hear it,’ said the stranger. ‘But it is so +many years since I last visited this town that I could hardly expect it should +be otherwise.’ After a short silence he continued—‘And is the +firm of Barnet, Browse, and Company still in existence?<i>—</i>they used +to be large flax-merchants and twine-spinners here?’ +</p> + +<p> +‘The firm is still going on, sir, but they have dropped the name of +Barnet. I believe that was a sort of fancy name—at least, I never knew of +any living Barnet. ’Tis now Browse and Co.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘And does Andrew Jones still keep on as architect?’ +</p> + +<p> +‘He’s dead, sir.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘And the Vicar of St. Mary’s—Mr. Melrose?’ +</p> + +<p> +‘He’s been dead a great many years.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Dear me!’ He paused yet longer, and cleared his voice. ‘Is +Mr. Downe, the solicitor, still in practice?’ +</p> + +<p> +‘No, sir, he’s dead. He died about seven years ago.’ +</p> + +<p> +Here it was a longer silence still; and an attentive observer would have +noticed that the paper in the stranger’s hand increased its imperceptible +tremor to a visible shake. That gray-haired gentleman noticed it himself, and +rested the paper on the counter. ‘Is <i>Mrs</i>. Downe still +alive?’ he asked, closing his lips firmly as soon as the words were out +of his mouth, and dropping his eyes. +</p> + +<p> +‘Yes, sir, she’s alive and well. She’s living at the old +place.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘In East Street?’ +</p> + +<p> +‘O no; at Château Ringdale. I believe it has been in the family for +some generations.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘She lives with her children, perhaps?’ +</p> + +<p> +‘No; she has no children of her own. There were some Miss Downes; I think +they were Mr. Downe’s daughters by a former wife; but they are married +and living in other parts of the town. Mrs. Downe lives alone.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Quite alone?’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Yes, sir; quite alone.’ +</p> + +<p> +The newly-arrived gentleman went back to the hotel and dined; after which he +made some change in his dress, shaved back his beard to the fashion that had +prevailed twenty years earlier, when he was young and interesting, and once +more emerging, bent his steps in the direction of the harbour-road. Just before +getting to the point where the pavement ceased and the houses isolated +themselves, he overtook a shambling, stooping, unshaven man, who at first sight +appeared like a professional tramp, his shoulders having a perceptible +greasiness as they passed under the gaslight. Each pedestrian momentarily +turned and regarded the other, and the tramp-like gentleman started back. +</p> + +<p> +‘Good—why—is that Mr. Barnet? ’Tis Mr. Barnet, +surely!’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Yes; and you are Charlson?’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Yes—ah—you notice my appearance. The Fates have rather +ill-used me. By-the-bye, that fifty pounds. I never paid it, did I? . . . But I +was not ungrateful!’ Here the stooping man laid one hand emphatically on +the palm of the other. ‘I gave you a chance, Mr. George Barnet, which +many men would have thought full value received—the chance to marry your +Lucy. As far as the world was concerned, your wife was a <i>drowned woman</i>, +hey?’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Heaven forbid all that, Charlson!’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Well, well, ’twas a wrong way of showing gratitude, I suppose. And +now a drop of something to drink for old acquaintance’ sake! And Mr. +Barnet, she’s again free—there’s a chance now if you care for +it—ha, ha!’ And the speaker pushed his tongue into his hollow cheek +and slanted his eye in the old fashion. +</p> + +<p> +‘I know all,’ said Barnet quickly; and slipping a small present +into the hands of the needy, saddening man, he stepped ahead and was soon in +the outskirts of the town. +</p> + +<p> +He reached the harbour-road, and paused before the entrance to a well-known +house. It was so highly bosomed in trees and shrubs planted since the erection +of the building that one would scarcely have recognized the spot as that which +had been a mere neglected slope till chosen as a site for a dwelling. He opened +the swing-gate, closed it noiselessly, and gently moved into the semicircular +drive, which remained exactly as it had been marked out by Barnet on the +morning when Lucy Savile ran in to thank him for procuring her the post of +governess to Downe’s children. But the growth of trees and bushes which +revealed itself at every step was beyond all expectation; sun-proof and +moon-proof bowers vaulted the walks, and the walls of the house were uniformly +bearded with creeping plants as high as the first-floor windows. +</p> + +<p> +After lingering for a few minutes in the dusk of the bending boughs, the +visitor rang the door-bell, and on the servant appearing, he announced himself +as ‘an old friend of Mrs. Downe’s.’ +</p> + +<p> +The hall was lighted, but not brightly, the gas being turned low, as if +visitors were rare. There was a stagnation in the dwelling; it seemed to be +waiting. Could it really be waiting for him? The partitions which had been +probed by Barnet’s walking-stick when the mortar was green, were now +quite brown with the antiquity of their varnish, and the ornamental woodwork of +the staircase, which had glistened with a pale yellow newness when first +erected, was now of a rich wine-colour. During the servant’s absence the +following colloquy could be dimly heard through the nearly closed door of the +drawing-room. +</p> + +<p> +‘He didn’t give his name?’ +</p> + +<p> +‘He only said “an old friend,” ma’am.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘What kind of gentleman is he?’ +</p> + +<p> +‘A staidish gentleman, with gray hair.’ +</p> + +<p> +The voice of the second speaker seemed to affect the listener greatly. After a +pause, the lady said, ‘Very well, I will see him.’ +</p> + +<p> +And the stranger was shown in face to face with the Lucy who had once been Lucy +Savile. The round cheek of that formerly young lady had, of course, alarmingly +flattened its curve in her modern representative; a pervasive grayness +overspread her once dark brown hair, like morning rime on heather. The parting +down the middle was wide and jagged; once it had been a thin white line, a +narrow crevice between two high banks of shade. But there was still enough left +to form a handsome knob behind, and some curls beneath inwrought with a few +hairs like silver wires were very becoming. In her eyes the only modification +was that their originally mild rectitude of expression had become a little more +stringent than heretofore. Yet she was still girlish—a girl who had been +gratuitously weighted by destiny with a burden of five-and-forty years instead +of her proper twenty. +</p> + +<p> +‘Lucy, don’t you know me?’ he said, when the servant had +closed the door. +</p> + +<p> +‘I knew you the instant I saw you!’ she returned cheerfully. +‘I don’t know why, but I always thought you would come back to your +old town again.’ +</p> + +<p> +She gave him her hand, and then they sat down. ‘They said you were +dead,’ continued Lucy, ‘but I never thought so. We should have +heard of it for certain if you had been.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘It is a very long time since we met.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Yes; what you must have seen, Mr. Barnet, in all these roving years, in +comparison with what I have seen in this quiet place!’ Her face grew more +serious. ‘You know my husband has been dead a long time? I am a lonely +old woman now, considering what I have been; though Mr. Downe’s +daughters—all married—manage to keep me pretty cheerful.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘And I am a lonely old man, and have been any time these twenty +years.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘But where have you kept yourself? And why did you go off so +mysteriously?’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Well, Lucy, I have kept myself a little in America, and a little in +Australia, a little in India, a little at the Cape, and so on; I have not +stayed in any place for a long time, as it seems to me, and yet more than +twenty years have flown. But when people get to my age two years go like +one!—Your second question, why did I go away so mysteriously, is surely +not necessary. You guessed why, didn’t you?’ +</p> + +<p> +‘No, I never once guessed,’ she said simply; ‘nor did +Charles, nor did anybody as far as I know.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Well, indeed! Now think it over again, and then look at me, and say if +you can’t guess?’ +</p> + +<p> +She looked him in the face with an inquiring smile. ‘Surely not because +of me?’ she said, pausing at the commencement of surprise. +</p> + +<p> +Barnet nodded, and smiled again; but his smile was sadder than hers. +</p> + +<p> +‘Because I married Charles?’ she asked. +</p> + +<p> +‘Yes; solely because you married him on the day I was free to ask you to +marry me. My wife died four-and-twenty hours before you went to church with +Downe. The fixing of my journey at that particular moment was because of her +funeral; but once away I knew I should have no inducement to come back, and +took my steps accordingly.’ +</p> + +<p> +Her face assumed an aspect of gentle reflection, and she looked up and down his +form with great interest in her eyes. ‘I never thought of it!’ she +said. ‘I knew, of course, that you had once implied some warmth of +feeling towards me, but I concluded that it passed off. And I have always been +under the impression that your wife was alive at the time of my marriage. Was +it not stupid of me!—But you will have some tea or something? I have +never dined late, you know, since my husband’s death. I have got into the +way of making a regular meal of tea. You will have some tea with me, will you +not?’ +</p> + +<p> +The travelled man assented quite readily, and tea was brought in. They sat and +chatted over the meal, regardless of the flying hour. ‘Well, well!’ +said Barnet presently, as for the first time he leisurely surveyed the room; +‘how like it all is, and yet how different! Just where your piano stands +was a board on a couple of trestles, bearing the patterns of wall-papers, when +I was last here. I was choosing them—standing in this way, as it might +be. Then my servant came in at the door, and handed me a note, so. It was from +Downe, and announced that you were just going to be married to him. I chose no +more wall-papers—tore up all those I had selected, and left the house. I +never entered it again till now.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Ah, at last I understand it all,’ she murmured. +</p> + +<p> +They had both risen and gone to the fireplace. The mantel came almost on a +level with her shoulder, which gently rested against it, and Barnet laid his +hand upon the shelf close beside her shoulder. ‘Lucy,’ he said, +‘better late than never. Will you marry me now?’ +</p> + +<p> +She started back, and the surprise which was so obvious in her wrought even +greater surprise in him that it should be so. It was difficult to believe that +she had been quite blind to the situation, and yet all reason and common sense +went to prove that she was not acting. +</p> + +<p> +‘You take me quite unawares by such a question!’ she said, with a +forced laugh of uneasiness. It was the first time she had shown any +embarrassment at all. ‘Why,’ she added, ‘I couldn’t +marry you for the world.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Not after all this! Why not?’ +</p> + +<p> +‘It is—I would—I really think I may say it—I would upon +the whole rather marry you, Mr. Barnet, than any other man I have ever met, if +I ever dreamed of marriage again. But I don’t dream of it—it is +quite out of my thoughts; I have not the least intention of marrying +again.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘But—on my account—couldn’t you alter your plans a +little? Come!’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Dear Mr. Barnet,’ she said with a little flutter, ‘I would +on your account if on anybody’s in existence. But you don’t know in +the least what it is you are asking—such an impracticable thing—I +won’t say ridiculous, of course, because I see that you are really in +earnest, and earnestness is never ridiculous to my mind.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Well, yes,’ said Barnet more slowly, dropping her hand, which he +had taken at the moment of pleading, ‘I am in earnest. The resolve, two +months ago, at the Cape, to come back once more was, it is true, rather sudden, +and as I see now, not well considered. But I am in earnest in asking.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘And I in declining. With all good feeling and all kindness, let me say +that I am quite opposed to the idea of marrying a second time.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Well, no harm has been done,’ he answered, with the same subdued +and tender humorousness that he had shown on such occasions in early life. +‘If you really won’t accept me, I must put up with it, I +suppose.’ His eye fell on the clock as he spoke. ‘Had you any +notion that it was so late?’ he asked. ‘How absorbed I have +been!’ +</p> + +<p> +She accompanied him to the hall, helped him to put on his overcoat, and let him +out of the house herself. +</p> + +<p> +‘Good-night,’ said Barnet, on the doorstep, as the lamp shone in +his face. ‘You are not offended with me?’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Certainly not. Nor you with me?’ +</p> + +<p> +‘I’ll consider whether I am or not,’ he pleasantly replied. +‘Good-night.’ +</p> + +<p> +She watched him safely through the gate; and when his footsteps had died away +upon the road, closed the door softly and returned to the room. Here the modest +widow long pondered his speeches, with eyes dropped to an unusually low level. +Barnet’s urbanity under the blow of her refusal greatly impressed her. +After having his long period of probation rendered useless by her decision, he +had shown no anger, and had philosophically taken her words as if he deserved +no better ones. It was very gentlemanly of him, certainly; it was more than +gentlemanly; it was heroic and grand. The more she meditated, the more she +questioned the virtue of her conduct in checking him so peremptorily; and went +to her bedroom in a mood of dissatisfaction. On looking in the glass she was +reminded that there was not so much remaining of her former beauty as to make +his frank declaration an impulsive natural homage to her cheeks and eyes; it +must undoubtedly have arisen from an old staunch feeling of his, deserving +tenderest consideration. She recalled to her mind with much pleasure that he +had told her he was staying at the Black-Bull Hotel; so that if, after waiting +a day or two, he should not, in his modesty, call again, she might then send +him a nice little note. To alter her views for the present was far from her +intention; but she would allow herself to be induced to reconsider the case, as +any generous woman ought to do. +</p> + +<p> +The morrow came and passed, and Mr. Barnet did not drop in. At every knock, +light youthful hues flew across her cheek; and she was abstracted in the +presence of her other visitors. In the evening she walked about the house, not +knowing what to do with herself; the conditions of existence seemed totally +different from those which ruled only four-and-twenty short hours ago. What had +been at first a tantalizing elusive sentiment was getting acclimatized within +her as a definite hope, and her person was so informed by that emotion that she +might almost have stood as its emblematical representative by the time the +clock struck ten. In short, an interest in Barnet precisely resembling that of +her early youth led her present heart to belie her yesterday’s words to +him, and she longed to see him again. +</p> + +<p> +The next day she walked out early, thinking she might meet him in the street. +The growing beauty of her romance absorbed her, and she went from the street to +the fields, and from the fields to the shore, without any consciousness of +distance, till reminded by her weariness that she could go no further. He had +nowhere appeared. In the evening she took a step which under the circumstances +seemed justifiable; she wrote a note to him at the hotel, inviting him to tea +with her at six precisely, and signing her note ‘Lucy.’ +</p> + +<p> +In a quarter of an hour the messenger came back. Mr. Barnet had left the hotel +early in the morning of the day before, but he had stated that he would +probably return in the course of the week. +</p> + +<p> +The note was sent back, to be given to him immediately on his arrival. +</p> + +<p> +There was no sign from the inn that this desired event had occurred, either on +the next day or the day following. On both nights she had been restless, and +had scarcely slept half-an-hour. +</p> + +<p> +On the Saturday, putting off all diffidence, Lucy went herself to the +Black-Bull, and questioned the staff closely. +</p> + +<p> +Mr. Barnet had cursorily remarked when leaving that he might return on the +Thursday or Friday, but they were directed not to reserve a room for him unless +he should write. +</p> + +<p> +He had left no address. +</p> + +<p> +Lucy sorrowfully took back her note went home, and resolved to wait. +</p> + +<p> +She did wait—years and years—but Barnet never reappeared. +</p> + +<p class="p2"> +<i>April</i> 1880. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap06"></a>INTERLOPERS AT THE KNAP</h2> + +<h3>CHAPTER I</h3> + +<p> +The north road from Casterbridge is tedious and lonely, especially in +winter-time. Along a part of its course it connects with Long-Ash Lane, a +monotonous track without a village or hamlet for many miles, and with very +seldom a turning. Unapprized wayfarers who are too old, or too young, or in +other respects too weak for the distance to be traversed, but who, +nevertheless, have to walk it, say, as they look wistfully ahead, ‘Once +at the top of that hill, and I must surely see the end of Long-Ash Lane!’ +But they reach the hilltop, and Long-Ash Lane stretches in front as mercilessly +as before. +</p> + +<p> +Some few years ago a certain farmer was riding through this lane in the gloom +of a winter evening. The farmer’s friend, a dairyman, was riding beside +him. A few paces in the rear rode the farmer’s man. All three were well +horsed on strong, round-barrelled cobs; and to be well horsed was to be in +better spirits about Long-Ash Lane than poor pedestrians could attain to during +its passage. +</p> + +<p> +But the farmer did not talk much to his friend as he rode along. The enterprise +which had brought him there filled his mind; for in truth it was important. Not +altogether so important was it, perhaps, when estimated by its value to society +at large; but if the true measure of a deed be proportionate to the space it +occupies in the heart of him who undertakes it, Farmer Charles Darton’s +business to-night could hold its own with the business of kings. +</p> + +<p> +He was a large farmer. His turnover, as it is called, was probably thirty +thousand pounds a year. He had a great many draught horses, a great many milch +cows, and of sheep a multitude. This comfortable position was, however, none of +his own making. It had been created by his father, a man of a very different +stamp from the present representative of the line. +</p> + +<p> +Darton, the father, had been a one-idea’d character, with a buttoned-up +pocket and a chink-like eye brimming with commercial subtlety. In Darton the +son, this trade subtlety had become transmuted into emotional, and the +harshness had disappeared; he would have been called a sad man but for his +constant care not to divide himself from lively friends by piping notes out of +harmony with theirs. Contemplative, he allowed his mind to be a quiet +meeting-place for memories and hopes. So that, naturally enough, since +succeeding to the agricultural calling, and up to his present age of +thirty-two, he had neither advanced nor receded as a capitalist—a +stationary result which did not agitate one of his unambitious, unstrategic +nature, since he had all that he desired. The motive of his expedition to-night +showed the same absence of anxious regard for Number One. +</p> + +<p> +The party rode on in the slow, safe trot proper to night-time and bad roads, +Farmer Darton’s head jigging rather unromantically up and down against +the sky, and his motions being repeated with bolder emphasis by his friend +Japheth Johns; while those of the latter were travestied in jerks still less +softened by art in the person of the lad who attended them. A pair of whitish +objects hung one on each side of the latter, bumping against him at each step, +and still further spoiling the grace of his seat. On close inspection they +might have been perceived to be open rush baskets—one containing a +turkey, and the other some bottles of wine. +</p> + +<p> +‘D’ye feel ye can meet your fate like a man, neighbour +Darton?’ asked Johns, breaking a silence which had lasted while +five-and-twenty hedgerow trees had glided by. +</p> + +<p> +Mr. Darton with a half-laugh murmured, ‘Ay—call it my fate! Hanging +and wiving go by destiny.’ And then they were silent again. +</p> + +<p> +The darkness thickened rapidly, at intervals shutting down on the land in a +perceptible flap, like the wave of a wing. The customary close of day was +accelerated by a simultaneous blurring of the air. With the fall of night had +come a mist just damp enough to incommode, but not sufficient to saturate them. +Countrymen as they were—born, as may be said, with only an open door +between them and the four seasons—they regarded the mist but as an added +obscuration, and ignored its humid quality. +</p> + +<p> +They were travelling in a direction that was enlivened by no modern current of +traffic, the place of Darton’s pilgrimage being an old-fashioned +village—one of the Hintocks (several villages of that name, with a +distinctive prefix or affix, lying thereabout)—where the people make the +best cider and cider-wine in all Wessex, and where the dunghills smell of +pomace instead of stable refuse as elsewhere. The lane was sometimes so narrow +that the brambles of the hedge, which hung forward like anglers’ rods +over a stream, scratched their hats and curry-combed their whiskers as they +passed. Yet this neglected lane had been a highway to Queen Elizabeth’s +subjects and the cavalcades of the past. Its day was over now, and its history +as a national artery done for ever. +</p> + +<p> +‘Why I have decided to marry her,’ resumed Darton (in a measured +musical voice of confidence which revealed a good deal of his composition), as +he glanced round to see that the lad was not too near, ‘is not only that +I like her, but that I can do no better, even from a fairly practical point of +view. That I might ha’ looked higher is possibly true, though it is +really all nonsense. I have had experience enough in looking above me. +“No more superior women for me,” said I—you know when. Sally +is a comely, independent, simple character, with no make-up about her, +who’ll think me as much a superior to her as I used to think—you +know who I mean—was to me.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Ay,’ said Johns. ‘However, I shouldn’t call Sally Hall +simple. Primary, because no Sally is; secondary, because if some could be, this +one wouldn’t. ’Tis a wrong denomination to apply to a woman, +Charles, and affects me, as your best man, like cold water. ’Tis like +recommending a stage play by saying there’s neither murder, villainy, nor +harm of any sort in it, when that’s what you’ve paid your +half-crown to see.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Well; may your opinion do you good. Mine’s a different one.’ +And turning the conversation from the philosophical to the practical, Darton +expressed a hope that the said Sally had received what he’d sent on by +the carrier that day. +</p> + +<p> +Johns wanted to know what that was. +</p> + +<p> +‘It is a dress,’ said Darton. ‘Not exactly a wedding-dress; +though she may use it as one if she likes. It is rather serviceable than +showy—suitable for the winter weather.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Good,’ said Johns. ‘Serviceable is a wise word in a +bridegroom. I commend ye, Charles.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘For,’ said Darton, ‘why should a woman dress up like a +rope-dancer because she’s going to do the most solemn deed of her life +except dying?’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Faith, why? But she will, because she will, I suppose,’ said +Dairyman Johns. +</p> + +<p> +‘H’m,’ said Darton. +</p> + +<p> +The lane they followed had been nearly straight for several miles, but it now +took a turn, and winding uncertainly for some distance forked into two. By +night country roads are apt to reveal ungainly qualities which pass without +observation during day; and though Darton had travelled this way before, he had +not done so frequently, Sally having been wooed at the house of a relative near +his own. He never remembered seeing at this spot a pair of alternative ways +looking so equally probable as these two did now. Johns rode on a few steps. +</p> + +<p> +‘Don’t be out of heart, sonny,’ he cried. ‘Here’s +a handpost. Enoch—come and climm this post, and tell us the way.’ +</p> + +<p> +The lad dismounted, and jumped into the hedge where the post stood under a +tree. +</p> + +<p> +‘Unstrap the baskets, or you’ll smash up that wine!’ cried +Darton, as the young man began spasmodically to climb the post, baskets and +all. +</p> + +<p> +‘Was there ever less head in a brainless world?’ said Johns. +‘Here, simple Nocky, I’ll do it.’ He leapt off, and with much +puffing climbed the post, striking a match when he reached the top, and moving +the light along the arm, the lad standing and gazing at the spectacle. +</p> + +<p> +‘I have faced tantalization these twenty years with a temper as mild as +milk!’ said Japheth; ‘but such things as this don’t come +short of devilry!’ And flinging the match away, he slipped down to the +ground. +</p> + +<p> +‘What’s the matter?’ asked Darton. +</p> + +<p> +‘Not a letter, sacred or heathen—not so much as would tell us the +way to the great fireplace—ever I should sin to say it! Either the moss +and mildew have eat away the words, or we have arrived in a land where the +natyves have lost the art o’ writing, and should ha’ brought our +compass like Christopher Columbus.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Let us take the straightest road,’ said Darton placidly; ‘I +shan’t be sorry to get there—’tis a tiresome ride. I would +have driven if I had known.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Nor I neither, sir,’ said Enoch. ‘These straps plough my +shoulder like a zull. If ’tis much further to your lady’s home, +Maister Darton, I shall ask to be let carry half of these good things in my +innerds—hee, hee!’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Don’t you be such a reforming radical, Enoch,’ said Johns +sternly. ‘Here, I’ll take the turkey.’ +</p> + +<p> +This being done, they went forward by the right-hand lane, which ascended a +hill, the left winding away under a plantation. The pit-a-pat of their +horses’ hoofs lessened up the slope; and the ironical directing-post +stood in solitude as before, holding out its blank arms to the raw breeze, +which brought a snore from the wood as if Skrymir the Giant were sleeping +there. +</p> + +<h3>CHAPTER II</h3> + +<p> +Three miles to the left of the travellers, along the road they had not +followed, rose an old house with mullioned windows of Ham-hill stone, and +chimneys of lavish solidity. It stood at the top of a slope beside +King’s-Hintock village-street; and immediately in front of it grew a +large sycamore-tree, whose bared roots formed a convenient staircase from the +road below to the front door of the dwelling. Its situation gave the house what +little distinctive name it possessed, namely, ‘The Knap.’ Some +forty yards off a brook dribbled past, which, for its size, made a great deal +of noise. At the back was a dairy barton, accessible for vehicles and +live-stock by a side ‘drong.’ Thus much only of the character of +the homestead could be divined out of doors at this shady evening-time. +</p> + +<p> +But within there was plenty of light to see by, as plenty was construed at +Hintock. Beside a Tudor fireplace, whose moulded four-centred arch was nearly +hidden by a figured blue-cloth blower, were seated two women—mother and +daughter—Mrs. Hall, and Sarah, or Sally; for this was a part of the world +where the latter modification had not as yet been effaced as a vulgarity by the +march of intellect. The owner of the name was the young woman by whose means +Mr. Darton proposed to put an end to his bachelor condition on the approaching +day. +</p> + +<p> +The mother’s bereavement had been so long ago as not to leave much mark +of its occurrence upon her now, either in face or clothes. She had resumed the +mob-cap of her early married life, enlivening its whiteness by a few +rose-du-Barry ribbons. Sally required no such aids to pinkness. Roseate +good-nature lit up her gaze; her features showed curves of decision and +judgment; and she might have been regarded without much mistake as a +warm-hearted, quick-spirited, handsome girl. +</p> + +<p> +She did most of the talking, her mother listening with a half-absent air, as +she picked up fragments of red-hot wood ember with the tongs, and piled them +upon the brands. But the number of speeches that passed was very small in +proportion to the meanings exchanged. Long experience together often enabled +them to see the course of thought in each other’s minds without a word +being spoken. Behind them, in the centre of the room, the table was spread for +supper, certain whiffs of air laden with fat vapours, which ever and anon +entered from the kitchen, denoting its preparation there. +</p> + +<p> +‘The new gown he was going to send you stays about on the way like +himself,’ Sally’s mother was saying. +</p> + +<p> +‘Yes, not finished, I daresay,’ cried Sally independently. +‘Lord, I shouldn’t be amazed if it didn’t come at all! Young +men make such kind promises when they are near you, and forget ’em when +they go away. But he doesn’t intend it as a wedding-gown—he gives +it to me merely as a gown to wear when I like—a travelling-dress is what +it would be called by some. Come rathe or come late it don’t much matter, +as I have a dress of my own to fall back upon. But what time is it?’ +</p> + +<p> +She went to the family clock and opened the glass, for the hour was not +otherwise discernible by night, and indeed at all times was rather a thing to +be investigated than beheld, so much more wall than window was there in the +apartment. ‘It is nearly eight,’ said she. +</p> + +<p> +‘Eight o’clock, and neither dress nor man,’ said Mrs. Hall. +</p> + +<p> +‘Mother, if you think to tantalize me by talking like that, you are much +mistaken! Let him be as late as he will—or stay away altogether—I +don’t care,’ said Sally. But a tender, minute quaver in the +negation showed that there was something forced in that statement. +</p> + +<p> +Mrs. Hall perceived it, and drily observed that she was not so sure about Sally +not caring. ‘But perhaps you don’t care so much as I do, after +all,’ she said. ‘For I see what you don’t, that it is a good +and flourishing match for you; a very honourable offer in Mr. Darton. And I +think I see a kind husband in him. So pray God ’twill go smooth, and wind +up well.’ +</p> + +<p> +Sally would not listen to misgivings. Of course it would go smoothly, she +asserted. ‘How you are up and down, mother!’ she went on. ‘At +this moment, whatever hinders him, we are not so anxious to see him as he is to +be here, and his thought runs on before him, and settles down upon us like the +star in the east. Hark!’ she exclaimed, with a breath of relief, her eyes +sparkling. ‘I heard something. Yes—here they are!’ +</p> + +<p> +The next moment her mother’s slower ear also distinguished the familiar +reverberation occasioned by footsteps clambering up the roots of the sycamore. +</p> + +<p> +‘Yes it sounds like them at last,’ she said. ‘Well, it is not +so very late after all, considering the distance.’ +</p> + +<p> +The footfall ceased, and they arose, expecting a knock. They began to think it +might have been, after all, some neighbouring villager under Bacchic influence, +giving the centre of the road a wide berth, when their doubts were dispelled by +the new-comer’s entry into the passage. The door of the room was gently +opened, and there appeared, not the pair of travellers with whom we have +already made acquaintance, but a pale-faced man in the garb of extreme +poverty—almost in rags. +</p> + +<p> +‘O, it’s a tramp—gracious me!’ said Sally, starting +back. +</p> + +<p> +His cheeks and eye-orbits were deep concaves—rather, it might be, from +natural weakness of constitution than irregular living, though there were +indications that he had led no careful life. He gazed at the two women fixedly +for a moment: then with an abashed, humiliated demeanour, dropped his glance to +the floor, and sank into a chair without uttering a word. +</p> + +<p> +Sally was in advance of her mother, who had remained standing by the fire. She +now tried to discern the visitor across the candles. +</p> + +<p> +‘Why—mother,’ said Sally faintly, turning back to Mrs. Hall. +‘It is Phil, from Australia!’ +</p> + +<p> +Mrs. Hall started, and grew pale, and a fit of coughing seized the man with the +ragged clothes. ‘To come home like this!’ she said. ‘O, +Philip—are you ill?’ +</p> + +<p> +‘No, no, mother,’ replied he impatiently, as soon as he could +speak. +</p> + +<p> +‘But for God’s sake how do you come here—and just now +too?’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Well, I am here,’ said the man. ‘How it is I hardly know. +I’ve come home, mother, because I was driven to it. Things were against +me out there, and went from bad to worse.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Then why didn’t you let us know?—you’ve not writ a +line for the last two or three years.’ +</p> + +<p> +The son admitted sadly that he had not. He said that he had hoped and thought +he might fetch up again, and be able to send good news. Then he had been +obliged to abandon that hope, and had finally come home from sheer +necessity—previously to making a new start. ‘Yes, things are very +bad with me,’ he repeated, perceiving their commiserating glances at his +clothes. +</p> + +<p> +They brought him nearer the fire, took his hat from his thin hand, which was so +small and smooth as to show that his attempts to fetch up again had not been in +a manual direction. His mother resumed her inquiries, and dubiously asked if he +had chosen to come that particular night for any special reason. +</p> + +<p> +For no reason, he told her. His arrival had been quite at random. Then Philip +Hall looked round the room, and saw for the first time that the table was laid +somewhat luxuriously, and for a larger number than themselves; and that an air +of festivity pervaded their dress. He asked quickly what was going on. +</p> + +<p> +‘Sally is going to be married in a day or two,’ replied the mother; +and she explained how Mr. Darton, Sally’s intended husband, was coming +there that night with the groomsman, Mr. Johns, and other details. ‘We +thought it must be their step when we heard you,’ said Mrs. Hall. +</p> + +<p> +The needy wanderer looked again on the floor. ‘I see—I see,’ +he murmured. ‘Why, indeed, should I have come to-night? Such folk as I +are not wanted here at these times, naturally. And I have no business +here—spoiling other people’s happiness.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Phil,’ said his mother, with a tear in her eye, but with a +thinness of lip and severity of manner which were presumably not more than past +events justified; ‘since you speak like that to me, I’ll speak +honestly to you. For these three years you have taken no thought for us. You +left home with a good supply of money, and strength and education, and you +ought to have made good use of it all. But you come back like a beggar; and +that you come in a very awkward time for us cannot be denied. Your return +to-night may do us much harm. But mind—you are welcome to this home as +long as it is mine. I don’t wish to turn you adrift. We will make the +best of a bad job; and I hope you are not seriously ill?’ +</p> + +<p> +‘O no. I have only this infernal cough.’ +</p> + +<p> +She looked at him anxiously. ‘I think you had better go to bed at +once,’ she said. +</p> + +<p> +‘Well—I shall be out of the way there,’ said the son wearily. +‘Having ruined myself, don’t let me ruin you by being seen in these +togs, for Heaven’s sake. Who do you say Sally is going to be married +to—a Farmer Darton?’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Yes—a gentleman-farmer—quite a wealthy man. Far better in +station than she could have expected. It is a good thing, altogether.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Well done, little Sal!’ said her brother, brightening and looking +up at her with a smile. ‘I ought to have written; but perhaps I have +thought of you all the more. But let me get out of sight. I would rather go and +jump into the river than be seen here. But have you anything I can drink? I am +confoundedly thirsty with my long tramp.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Yes, yes, we will bring something upstairs to you,’ said Sally, +with grief in her face. +</p> + +<p> +‘Ay, that will do nicely. But, Sally and mother—’ He stopped, +and they waited. ‘Mother, I have not told you all,’ he resumed +slowly, still looking on the floor between his knees. ‘Sad as what you +see of me is, there’s worse behind.’ +</p> + +<p> +His mother gazed upon him in grieved suspense, and Sally went and leant upon +the bureau, listening for every sound, and sighing. Suddenly she turned round, +saying, ‘Let them come, I don’t care! Philip, tell the worst, and +take your time.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Well, then,’ said the unhappy Phil, ‘I am not the only one +in this mess. Would to Heaven I were! But—’ +</p> + +<p> +‘O, Phil!’ +</p> + +<p> +‘I have a wife as destitute as I.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘A wife?’ said his mother. +</p> + +<p> +‘Unhappily!’ +</p> + +<p> +‘A wife! Yes, that is the way with sons!’ +</p> + +<p> +‘And besides—’ said he. +</p> + +<p> +‘Besides! O, Philip, surely—’ +</p> + +<p> +‘I have two little children.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Wife and children!’ whispered Mrs. Hall, sinking down confounded. +</p> + +<p> +‘Poor little things!’ said Sally involuntarily. +</p> + +<p> +His mother turned again to him. ‘I suppose these helpless beings are left +in Australia?’ +</p> + +<p> +‘No. They are in England.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Well, I can only hope you’ve left them in a respectable +place.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘I have not left them at all. They are here—within a few yards of +us. In short, they are in the stable.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Where?’ +</p> + +<p> +‘In the stable. I did not like to bring them indoors till I had seen you, +mother, and broken the bad news a bit to you. They were very tired, and are +resting out there on some straw.’ +</p> + +<p> +Mrs. Hall’s fortitude visibly broke down. She had been brought up not +without refinement, and was even more moved by such a collapse of genteel aims +as this than a substantial dairyman’s widow would in ordinary have been +moved. ‘Well, it must be borne,’ she said, in a low voice, with her +hands tightly joined. ‘A starving son, a starving wife, starving +children! Let it be. But why is this come to us now, to-day, to-night? Could no +other misfortune happen to helpless women than this, which will quite upset my +poor girl’s chance of a happy life? Why have you done us this wrong, +Philip? What respectable man will come here, and marry open-eyed into a family +of vagabonds?’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Nonsense, mother!’ said Sally vehemently, while her face flushed. +‘Charley isn’t the man to desert me. But if he should be, and +won’t marry me because Phil’s come, let him go and marry elsewhere. +I won’t be ashamed of my own flesh and blood for any man in +England—not I!’ And then Sally turned away and burst into tears. +</p> + +<p> +‘Wait till you are twenty years older and you will tell a different +tale,’ replied her mother. +</p> + +<p> +The son stood up. ‘Mother,’ he said bitterly, ‘as I have +come, so I will go. All I ask of you is that you will allow me and mine to lie +in your stable to-night. I give you my word that we’ll be gone by break +of day, and trouble you no further!’ +</p> + +<p> +Mrs. Hall, the mother, changed at that. ‘O no,’ she answered +hastily; ‘never shall it be said that I sent any of my own family from my +door. Bring ’em in, Philip, or take me out to them.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘We will put ’em all into the large bedroom,’ said Sally, +brightening, ‘and make up a large fire. Let’s go and help them in, +and call Rebekah.’ (Rebekah was the woman who assisted at the dairy and +housework; she lived in a cottage hard by with her husband, who attended to the +cows.) +</p> + +<p> +Sally went to fetch a lantern from the back-kitchen, but her brother said, +‘You won’t want a light. I lit the lantern that was hanging +there.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘What must we call your wife?’ asked Mrs. Hall. +</p> + +<p> +‘Helena,’ said Philip. +</p> + +<p> +With shawls over their heads they proceeded towards the back door. +</p> + +<p> +‘One minute before you go,’ interrupted Philip. ‘I—I +haven’t confessed all.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Then Heaven help us!’ said Mrs. Hall, pushing to the door and +clasping her hands in calm despair. +</p> + +<p> +‘We passed through Evershead as we came,’ he continued, ‘and +I just looked in at the “Sow-and-Acorn” to see if old Mike still +kept on there as usual. The carrier had come in from Sherton Abbas at that +moment, and guessing that I was bound for this place—for I think he knew +me—he asked me to bring on a dressmaker’s parcel for Sally that was +marked “immediate.” My wife had walked on with the children. +’Twas a flimsy parcel, and the paper was torn, and I found on looking at +it that it was a thick warm gown. I didn’t wish you to see poor Helena in +a shabby state. I was ashamed that you should—’twas not what she +was born to. I untied the parcel in the road, took it on to her where she was +waiting in the Lower Barn, and told her I had managed to get it for her, and +that she was to ask no question. She, poor thing, must have supposed I obtained +it on trust, through having reached a place where I was known, for she put it +on gladly enough. She has it on now. Sally has other gowns, I daresay.’ +</p> + +<p> +Sally looked at her mother, speechless. +</p> + +<p> +‘You have others, I daresay!’ repeated Phil, with a sick +man’s impatience. ‘I thought to myself, “Better Sally cry +than Helena freeze.” Well, is the dress of great consequence? ’Twas +nothing very ornamental, as far as I could see.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘No—no; not of consequence,’ returned Sally sadly, adding in +a gentle voice, ‘You will not mind if I lend her another instead of that +one, will you?’ +</p> + +<p> +Philip’s agitation at the confession had brought on another attack of the +cough, which seemed to shake him to pieces. He was so obviously unfit to sit in +a chair that they helped him upstairs at once; and having hastily given him a +cordial and kindled the bedroom fire, they descended to fetch their unhappy new +relations. +</p> + +<h3>CHAPTER III</h3> + +<p> +It was with strange feelings that the girl and her mother, lately so cheerful, +passed out of the back door into the open air of the barton, laden with hay +scents and the herby breath of cows. A fine sleet had begun to fall, and they +trotted across the yard quickly. The stable-door was open; a light shone from +it—from the lantern which always hung there, and which Philip had +lighted, as he said. Softly nearing the door, Mrs. Hall pronounced the name +‘Helena!’ +</p> + +<p> +There was no answer for the moment. Looking in she was taken by surprise. Two +people appeared before her. For one, instead of the drabbish woman she had +expected, Mrs. Hall saw a pale, dark-eyed, ladylike creature, whose personality +ruled her attire rather than was ruled by it. She was in a new and handsome +gown, of course, and an old bonnet. She was standing up, agitated; her hand was +held by her companion—none else than Sally’s affianced, Farmer +Charles Darton, upon whose fine figure the pale stranger’s eyes were +fixed, as his were fixed upon her. His other hand held the rein of his horse, +which was standing saddled as if just led in. +</p> + +<p> +At sight of Mrs. Hall they both turned, looking at her in a way neither quite +conscious nor unconscious, and without seeming to recollect that words were +necessary as a solution to the scene. In another moment Sally entered also, +when Mr. Darton dropped his companion’s hand, led the horse aside, and +came to greet his betrothed and Mrs. Hall. +</p> + +<p> +‘Ah!’ he said, smiling—with something like forced +composure—‘this is a roundabout way of arriving, you will say, my +dear Mrs. Hall. But we lost our way, which made us late. I saw a light here, +and led in my horse at once—my friend Johns and my man have gone back to +the little inn with theirs, not to crowd you too much. No sooner had I entered +than I saw that this lady had taken temporary shelter here—and found I +was intruding.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘She is my daughter-in-law,’ said Mrs. Hall calmly. ‘My son, +too, is in the house, but he has gone to bed unwell.’ +</p> + +<p> +Sally had stood staring wonderingly at the scene until this moment, hardly +recognizing Darton’s shake of the hand. The spell that bound her was +broken by her perceiving the two little children seated on a heap of hay. She +suddenly went forward, spoke to them, and took one on her arm and the other in +her hand. +</p> + +<p> +‘And two children?’ said Mr. Darton, showing thus that he had not +been there long enough as yet to understand the situation. +</p> + +<p> +‘My grandchildren,’ said Mrs. Hall, with as much affected ease as +before. +</p> + +<p> +Philip Hall’s wife, in spite of this interruption to her first +rencounter, seemed scarcely so much affected by it as to feel any one’s +presence in addition to Mr. Darton’s. However, arousing herself by a +quick reflection, she threw a sudden critical glance of her sad eyes upon Mrs. +Hall; and, apparently finding her satisfactory, advanced to her in a meek +initiative. Then Sally and the stranger spoke some friendly words to each +other, and Sally went on with the children into the house. Mrs. Hall and Helena +followed, and Mr. Darton followed these, looking at Helena’s dress and +outline, and listening to her voice like a man in a dream. +</p> + +<p> +By the time the others reached the house Sally had already gone upstairs with +the tired children. She rapped against the wall for Rebekah to come in and help +to attend to them, Rebekah’s house being a little +‘spit-and-dab’ cabin leaning against the substantial stone-work of +Mrs. Hall’s taller erection. When she came a bed was made up for the +little ones, and some supper given to them. On descending the stairs after +seeing this done Sally went to the sitting-room. Young Mrs. Hall entered it +just in advance of her, having in the interim retired with her mother-in-law to +take off her bonnet, and otherwise make herself presentable. Hence it was +evident that no further communication could have passed between her and Mr. +Darton since their brief interview in the stable. +</p> + +<p> +Mr. Japheth Johns now opportunely arrived, and broke up the restraint of the +company, after a few orthodox meteorological commentaries had passed between +him and Mrs. Hall by way of introduction. They at once sat down to supper, the +present of wine and turkey not being produced for consumption to-night, lest +the premature display of those gifts should seem to throw doubt on Mrs. +Hall’s capacities as a provider. +</p> + +<p> +‘Drink hearty, Mr. Johns—drink hearty,’ said that matron +magnanimously. ‘Such as it is there’s plenty of. But perhaps +cider-wine is not to your taste?—though there’s body in it.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Quite the contrairy, ma’am—quite the contrairy,’ said +the dairyman. ‘For though I inherit the malt-liquor principle from my +father, I am a cider-drinker on my mother’s side. She came from these +parts, you know. And there’s this to be said for’t—’tis +a more peaceful liquor, and don’t lie about a man like your hotter +drinks. With care, one may live on it a twelvemonth without knocking down a +neighbour, or getting a black eye from an old acquaintance.’ +</p> + +<p> +The general conversation thus begun was continued briskly, though it was in the +main restricted to Mrs. Hall and Japheth, who in truth required but little help +from anybody. There being slight call upon Sally’s tongue, she had ample +leisure to do what her heart most desired, namely, watch her intended husband +and her sister-in-law with a view of elucidating the strange momentary scene in +which her mother and herself had surprised them in the stable. If that scene +meant anything, it meant, at least, that they had met before. That there had +been no time for explanations Sally could see, for their manner was still one +of suppressed amazement at each other’s presence there. Darton’s +eyes, too, fell continually on the gown worn by Helena as if this were an added +riddle to his perplexity; though to Sally it was the one feature in the case +which was no mystery. He seemed to feel that fate had impishly changed his +vis-à-vis in the lover’s jig he was about to foot; that while the +gown had been expected to enclose a Sally, a Helena’s face looked out +from the bodice; that some long-lost hand met his own from the sleeves. +</p> + +<p> +Sally could see that whatever Helena might know of Darton, she knew nothing of +how the dress entered into his embarrassment. And at moments the young girl +would have persuaded herself that Darton’s looks at her sister-in-law +were entirely the fruit of the clothes query. But surely at other times a more +extensive range of speculation and sentiment was expressed by her lover’s +eye than that which the changed dress would account for. +</p> + +<p> +Sally’s independence made her one of the least jealous of women. But +there was something in the relations of these two visitors which ought to be +explained. +</p> + +<p> +Japheth Johns continued to converse in his well-known style, interspersing his +talk with some private reflections on the position of Darton and Sally, which, +though the sparkle in his eye showed them to be highly entertaining to himself, +were apparently not quite communicable to the company. At last he withdrew for +the night, going off to the roadside inn half-a-mile back, whither Darton +promised to follow him in a few minutes. +</p> + +<p> +Half-an-hour passed, and then Mr. Darton also rose to leave, Sally and her +sister-in-law simultaneously wishing him good-night as they retired upstairs to +their rooms. But on his arriving at the front door with Mrs. Hall a sharp +shower of rain began to come down, when the widow suggested that he should +return to the fire-side till the storm ceased. +</p> + +<p> +Darton accepted her proposal, but insisted that, as it was getting late, and +she was obviously tired, she should not sit up on his account, since he could +let himself out of the house, and would quite enjoy smoking a pipe by the +hearth alone. Mrs. Hall assented; and Darton was left by himself. He spread his +knees to the brands, lit up his tobacco as he had said, and sat gazing into the +fire, and at the notches of the chimney-crook which hung above. +</p> + +<p> +An occasional drop of rain rolled down the chimney with a hiss, and still he +smoked on; but not like a man whose mind was at rest. In the long run, however, +despite his meditations, early hours afield and a long ride in the open air +produced their natural result. He began to doze. +</p> + +<p> +How long he remained in this half-unconscious state he did not know. He +suddenly opened his eyes. The back-brand had burnt itself in two, and ceased to +flame; the light which he had placed on the mantelpiece had nearly gone out. +But in spite of these deficiencies there was a light in the apartment, and it +came from elsewhere. Turning his head he saw Philip Hall’s wife standing +at the entrance of the room with a bed-candle in one hand, a small brass +tea-kettle in the other, and <i>his</i> gown, as it certainly seemed, still +upon her. +</p> + +<p> +‘Helena!’ said Darton, starting up. +</p> + +<p> +Her countenance expressed dismay, and her first words were an apology. +‘I—did not know you were here, Mr. Darton,’ she said, while a +blush flashed to her cheek. ‘I thought every one had retired—I was +coming to make a little water boil; my husband seems to be worse. But perhaps +the kitchen fire can be lighted up again.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Don’t go on my account. By all means put it on here as you +intended,’ said Darton. ‘Allow me to help you.’ He went +forward to take the kettle from her hand, but she did not allow him, and placed +it on the fire herself. +</p> + +<p> +They stood some way apart, one on each side of the fireplace, waiting till the +water should boil, the candle on the mantel between them, and Helena with her +eyes on the kettle. Darton was the first to break the silence. ‘Shall I +call Sally?’ he said. +</p> + +<p> +‘O no,’ she quickly returned. ‘We have given trouble enough +already. We have no right here. But we are the sport of fate, and were obliged +to come.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘No right here!’ said he in surprise. +</p> + +<p> +‘None. I can’t explain it now,’ answered Helena. ‘This +kettle is very slow.’ +</p> + +<p> +There was another pause; the proverbial dilatoriness of watched pots was never +more clearly exemplified. +</p> + +<p> +Helena’s face was of that sort which seems to ask for assistance without +the owner’s knowledge—the very antipodes of Sally’s, which +was self-reliance expressed. Darton’s eyes travelled from the kettle to +Helena’s face, then back to the kettle, then to the face for rather a +longer time. ‘So I am not to know anything of the mystery that has +distracted me all the evening?’ he said. ‘How is it that a woman, +who refused me because (as I supposed) my position was not good enough for her +taste, is found to be the wife of a man who certainly seems to be worse off +than I?’ +</p> + +<p> +‘He had the prior claim,’ said she. +</p> + +<p> +‘What! you knew him at that time?’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Yes, yes! Please say no more,’ she implored. +</p> + +<p> +‘Whatever my errors, I have paid for them during the last five +years!’ +</p> + +<p> +The heart of Darton was subject to sudden overflowings. He was kind to a fault. +‘I am sorry from my soul,’ he said, involuntarily approaching her. +Helena withdrew a step or two, at which he became conscious of his movement, +and quickly took his former place. Here he stood without speaking, and the +little kettle began to sing. +</p> + +<p> +‘Well, you might have been my wife if you had chosen,’ he said at +last. ‘But that’s all past and gone. However, if you are in any +trouble or poverty I shall be glad to be of service, and as your relation by +marriage I shall have a right to be. Does your uncle know of your +distress?’ +</p> + +<p> +‘My uncle is dead. He left me without a farthing. And now we have two +children to maintain.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘What, left you nothing? How could he be so cruel as that?’ +</p> + +<p> +‘I disgraced myself in his eyes.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Now,’ said Darton earnestly, ‘let me take care of the +children, at least while you are so unsettled. <i>You</i> belong to another, so +I cannot take care of you.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Yes you can,’ said a voice; and suddenly a third figure stood +beside them. It was Sally. ‘You can, since you seem to wish to?’ +she repeated. ‘She no longer belongs to another . . . My poor brother is +dead!’ +</p> + +<p> +Her face was red, her eyes sparkled, and all the woman came to the front. +‘I have heard it!’ she went on to him passionately. ‘You can +protect her now as well as the children!’ She turned then to her agitated +sister-in-law. ‘I heard something,’ said Sally (in a gentle murmur, +differing much from her previous passionate words), ‘and I went into his +room. It must have been the moment you left. He went off so quickly, and +weakly, and it was so unexpected, that I couldn’t leave even to call +you.’ +</p> + +<p> +Darton was just able to gather from the confused discourse which followed that, +during his sleep by the fire, this brother whom he had never seen had become +worse; and that during Helena’s absence for water the end had +unexpectedly come. The two young women hastened upstairs, and he was again left +alone. +</p> + +<p class="p2"> +After standing there a short time he went to the front door and looked out; +till, softly closing it behind him, he advanced and stood under the large +sycamore-tree. The stars were flickering coldly, and the dampness which had +just descended upon the earth in rain now sent up a chill from it. Darton was +in a strange position, and he felt it. The unexpected appearance, in deep +poverty, of Helena—a young lady, daughter of a deceased naval officer, +who had been brought up by her uncle, a solicitor, and had refused Darton in +marriage years ago—the passionate, almost angry demeanour of Sally at +discovering them, the abrupt announcement that Helena was a widow; all this +coming together was a conjuncture difficult to cope with in a moment, and made +him question whether he ought to leave the house or offer assistance. But for +Sally’s manner he would unhesitatingly have done the latter. +</p> + +<p> +He was still standing under the tree when the door in front of him opened, and +Mrs. Hall came out. She went round to the garden-gate at the side without +seeing him. Darton followed her, intending to speak. +</p> + +<p> +Pausing outside, as if in thought, she proceeded to a spot where the sun came +earliest in spring-time, and where the north wind never blew; it was where the +row of beehives stood under the wall. Discerning her object, he waited till she +had accomplished it. +</p> + +<p> +It was the universal custom thereabout to wake the bees by tapping at their +hives whenever a death occurred in the household, under the belief that if this +were not done the bees themselves would pine away and perish during the ensuing +year. As soon as an interior buzzing responded to her tap at the first hive +Mrs. Hall went on to the second, and thus passed down the row. As soon as she +came back he met her. +</p> + +<p> +‘What can I do in this trouble, Mrs. Hall?’ he said. +</p> + +<p> +‘O—nothing, thank you, nothing,’ she said in a tearful voice, +now just perceiving him. ‘We have called Rebekah and her husband, and +they will do everything necessary.’ She told him in a few words the +particulars of her son’s arrival, broken in health—indeed, at +death’s very door, though they did not suspect it—and suggested, as +the result of a conversation between her and her daughter, that the wedding +should be postponed. +</p> + +<p> +‘Yes, of course,’ said Darton. ‘I think now to go straight to +the inn and tell Johns what has happened.’ It was not till after he had +shaken hands with her that he turned hesitatingly and added, ‘Will you +tell the mother of his children that, as they are now left fatherless, I shall +be glad to take the eldest of them, if it would be any convenience to her and +to you?’ +</p> + +<p> +Mrs. Hall promised that her son’s widow should he told of the offer, and +they parted. He retired down the rooty slope and disappeared in the direction +of the inn, where he informed Johns of the circumstances. Meanwhile Mrs. Hall +had entered the house, Sally was downstairs in the sitting-room alone, and her +mother explained to her that Darton had readily assented to the postponement. +</p> + +<p> +‘No doubt he has,’ said Sally, with sad emphasis. ‘It is not +put off for a week, or a month, or a year. I shall never marry him, and she +will!’ +</p> + +<h3>CHAPTER IV</h3> + +<p> +Time passed, and the household on the Knap became again serene under the +composing influences of daily routine. A desultory, very desultory +correspondence, dragged on between Sally Hall and Darton, who, not quite +knowing how to take her petulant words on the night of her brother’s +death, had continued passive thus long. Helena and her children remained at the +dairy-house, almost of necessity, and Darton therefore deemed it advisable to +stay away. +</p> + +<p> +One day, seven months later on, when Mr. Darton was as usual at his farm, +twenty miles from Hintock, a note reached him from Helena. She thanked him for +his kind offer about her children, which her mother-in-law had duly +communicated, and stated that she would be glad to accept it as regarded the +eldest, the boy. Helena had, in truth, good need to do so, for her uncle had +left her penniless, and all application to some relatives in the north had +failed. There was, besides, as she said, no good school near Hintock to which +she could send the child. +</p> + +<p> +On a fine summer day the boy came. He was accompanied half-way by Sally and his +mother—to the ‘White Horse,’ at Chalk Newton—where he +was handed over to Darton’s bailiff in a shining spring-cart, who met +them there. +</p> + +<p> +He was entered as a day-scholar at a popular school at Casterbridge, three or +four miles from Darton’s, having first been taught by Darton to ride a +forest-pony, on which he cantered to and from the aforesaid fount of knowledge, +and (as Darton hoped) brought away a promising headful of the same at each +diurnal expedition. The thoughtful taciturnity into which Darton had latterly +fallen was quite dissipated by the presence of this boy. +</p> + +<p> +When the Christmas holidays came it was arranged that he should spend them with +his mother. The journey was, for some reason or other, performed in two stages, +as at his coming, except that Darton in person took the place of the bailiff, +and that the boy and himself rode on horseback. +</p> + +<p> +Reaching the renowned ‘White Horse,’ Darton inquired if Miss and +young Mrs. Hall were there to meet little Philip (as they had agreed to be). He +was answered by the appearance of Helena alone at the door. +</p> + +<p> +‘At the last moment Sally would not come,’ she faltered. +</p> + +<p> +That meeting practically settled the point towards which these long-severed +persons were converging. But nothing was broached about it for some time yet. +Sally Hall had, in fact, imparted the first decisive motion to events by +refusing to accompany Helena. She soon gave them a second move by writing the +following note +</p> + +<p class="letter"> +‘[Private.]<br /> + +‘DEAR CHARLES,—Living here so long and intimately with Helena, I +have naturally learnt her history, especially that of it which refers to you. I +am sure she would accept you as a husband at the proper time, and I think you +ought to give her the opportunity. You inquire in an old note if I am sorry +that I showed temper (which it wasn’t) that night when I heard you +talking to her. No, Charles, I am not sorry at all for what I said +then.—Yours sincerely, SALLY HALL.’ +</p> + +<p> +Thus set in train, the transfer of Darton’s heart back to its original +quarters proceeded by mere lapse of time. In the following July, Darton went to +his friend Japheth to ask him at last to fulfil the bridal office which had +been in abeyance since the previous January twelvemonths. +</p> + +<p> +‘With all my heart, man o’ constancy!’ said Dairyman Johns +warmly. ‘I’ve lost most of my genteel fair complexion haymaking +this hot weather, ’tis true, but I’ll do your business as well as +them that look better. There be scents and good hair-oil in the world yet, +thank God, and they’ll take off the roughest o’ my edge. I’ll +compliment her. “Better late than never, Sally Hall,” I’ll +say.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘It is not Sally,’ said Darton hurriedly. ‘It is young Mrs. +Hall.’ +</p> + +<p> +Japheth’s face, as soon as he really comprehended, became a picture of +reproachful dismay. ‘Not Sally?’ he said. ‘Why not Sally? I +can’t believe it! Young Mrs. Hall! Well, well—where’s your +wisdom?’ +</p> + +<p> +Darton shortly explained particulars; but Johns would not be reconciled. +‘She was a woman worth having if ever woman was,’ he cried. +‘And now to let her go!’ +</p> + +<p> +‘But I suppose I can marry where I like,’ said Darton. +</p> + +<p> +‘H’m,’ replied the dairyman, lifting his eyebrows +expressively. ‘This don’t become you, Charles—it really do +not. If I had done such a thing you would have sworn I was a curst +no’thern fool to be drawn off the scent by such a red-herring +doll-oll-oll.’ +</p> + +<p> +Farmer Darton responded in such sharp terms to this laconic opinion that the +two friends finally parted in a way they had never parted before. Johns was to +be no groomsman to Darton after all. He had flatly declined. Darton went off +sorry, and even unhappy, particularly as Japheth was about to leave that side +of the county, so that the words which had divided them were not likely to be +explained away or softened down. +</p> + +<p> +A short time after the interview Darton was united to Helena at a simple +matter-of fact wedding; and she and her little girl joined the boy who had +already grown to look on Darton’s house as home. +</p> + +<p> +For some months the farmer experienced an unprecedented happiness and +satisfaction. There had been a flaw in his life, and it was as neatly mended as +was humanly possible. But after a season the stream of events followed less +clearly, and there were shades in his reveries. Helena was a fragile woman, of +little staying power, physically or morally, and since the time that he had +originally known her—eight or ten years before—she had been +severely tried. She had loved herself out, in short, and was now occasionally +given to moping. Sometimes she spoke regretfully of the gentilities of her +early life, and instead of comparing her present state with her condition as +the wife of the unlucky Hall, she mused rather on what it had been before she +took the first fatal step of clandestinely marrying him. She did not care to +please such people as those with whom she was thrown as a thriving +farmer’s wife. She allowed the pretty trifles of agricultural domesticity +to glide by her as sorry details, and had it not been for the children +Darton’s house would have seemed but little brighter than it had been +before. +</p> + +<p> +This led to occasional unpleasantness, until Darton sometimes declared to +himself that such endeavours as his to rectify early deviations of the heart by +harking back to the old point mostly failed of success. ‘Perhaps Johns +was right,’ he would say. ‘I should have gone on with Sally. Better +go with the tide and make the best of its course than stem it at the risk of a +capsize.’ But he kept these unmelodious thoughts to himself, and was +outwardly considerate and kind. +</p> + +<p> +This somewhat barren tract of his life had extended to less than a year and a +half when his ponderings were cut short by the loss of the woman they +concerned. When she was in her grave he thought better of her than when she had +been alive; the farm was a worse place without her than with her, after all. No +woman short of divine could have gone through such an experience as hers with +her first husband without becoming a little soured. Her stagnant sympathies, +her sometimes unreasonable manner, had covered a heart frank and well meaning, +and originally hopeful and warm. She left him a tiny red infant in white +wrappings. To make life as easy as possible to this touching object became at +once his care. +</p> + +<p> +As this child learnt to walk and talk Darton learnt to see feasibility in a +scheme which pleased him. Revolving the experiment which he had hitherto made +upon life, he fancied he had gained wisdom from his mistakes and caution from +his miscarriages. +</p> + +<p> +What the scheme was needs no penetration to discover. Once more he had +opportunity to recast and rectify his ill-wrought situations by returning to +Sally Hall, who still lived quietly on under her mother’s roof at +Hintock. Helena had been a woman to lend pathos and refinement to a home; Sally +was the woman to brighten it. She would not, as Helena did, despise the rural +simplicities of a farmer’s fireside. Moreover, she had a pre-eminent +qualification for Darton’s household; no other woman could make so +desirable a mother to her brother’s two children and Darton’s one +as Sally—while Darton, now that Helena had gone, was a more promising +husband for Sally than he had ever been when liable to reminders from an +uncured sentimental wound. +</p> + +<p> +Darton was not a man to act rapidly, and the working out of his reparative +designs might have been delayed for some time. But there came a winter evening +precisely like the one which had darkened over that former ride to Hintock, and +he asked himself why he should postpone longer, when the very landscape called +for a repetition of that attempt. +</p> + +<p> +He told his man to saddle the mare, booted and spurred himself with a younger +horseman’s nicety, kissed the two youngest children, and rode off. To +make the journey a complete parallel to the first, he would fain have had his +old acquaintance Japheth Johns with him. But Johns, alas! was missing. His +removal to the other side of the county had left unrepaired the breach which +had arisen between him and Darton; and though Darton had forgiven him a hundred +times, as Johns had probably forgiven Darton, the effort of reunion in present +circumstances was one not likely to be made. +</p> + +<p> +He screwed himself up to as cheerful a pitch as he could without his former +crony, and became content with his own thoughts as he rode, instead of the +words of a companion. The sun went down; the boughs appeared scratched in like +an etching against the sky; old crooked men with faggots at their backs said +‘Good-night, sir,’ and Darton replied ‘Good-night’ +right heartily. +</p> + +<p> +By the time he reached the forking roads it was getting as dark as it had been +on the occasion when Johns climbed the directing-post. Darton made no mistake +this time. ‘Nor shall I be able to mistake, thank Heaven, when I +arrive,’ he murmured. It gave him peculiar satisfaction to think that the +proposed marriage, like his first, was of the nature of setting in order things +long awry, and not a momentary freak of fancy. +</p> + +<p> +Nothing hindered the smoothness of his journey, which seemed not half its +former length. Though dark, it was only between five and six o’clock when +the bulky chimneys of Mrs. Hall’s residence appeared in view behind the +sycamore-tree. On second thoughts he retreated and put up at the ale-house as +in former time; and when he had plumed himself before the inn mirror, called +for something to drink, and smoothed out the incipient wrinkles of care, he +walked on to the Knap with a quick step. +</p> + +<h3>CHAPTER V</h3> + +<p> +That evening Sally was making ‘pinners’ for the milkers, who were +now increased by two, for her mother and herself no longer joined in milking +the cows themselves. But upon the whole there was little change in the +household economy, and not much in its appearance, beyond such minor +particulars as that the crack over the window, which had been a hundred years +coming, was a trifle wider; that the beams were a shade blacker; that the +influence of modernism had supplanted the open chimney corner by a grate; that +Rebekah, who had worn a cap when she had plenty of hair, had left it off now +she had scarce any, because it was reported that caps were not fashionable; and +that Sally’s face had naturally assumed a more womanly and experienced +cast. +</p> + +<p> +Mrs. Hall was actually lifting coals with the tongs, as she had used to do. +</p> + +<p> +‘Five years ago this very night, if I am not mistaken—’ she +said, laying on an ember. +</p> + +<p> +‘Not this very night—though ’twas one night this week,’ +said the correct Sally. +</p> + +<p> +‘Well, ’tis near enough. Five years ago Mr. Darton came to marry +you, and my poor boy Phil came home to die.’ She sighed. ‘Ah, +Sally,’ she presently said, ‘if you had managed well Mr. Darton +would have had you, Helena or none.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Don’t be sentimental about that, mother,’ begged Sally. +‘I didn’t care to manage well in such a case. Though I liked him, I +wasn’t so anxious. I would never have married the man in the midst of +such a hitch as that was,’ she added with decision; ‘and I +don’t think I would if he were to ask me now.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘I am not sure about that, unless you have another in your eye.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘I wouldn’t; and I’ll tell you why. I could hardly marry him +for love at this time o’ day. And as we’ve quite enough to live on +if we give up the dairy to-morrow, I should have no need to marry for any +meaner reason . . . I am quite happy enough as I am, and there’s an end +of it.’ +</p> + +<p> +Now it was not long after this dialogue that there came a mild rap at the door, +and in a moment there entered Rebekah, looking as though a ghost had arrived. +The fact was that that accomplished skimmer and churner (now a resident in the +house) had overheard the desultory observations between mother and daughter, +and on opening the door to Mr. Darton thought the coincidence must have a +grisly meaning in it. Mrs. Hall welcomed the farmer with warm surprise, as did +Sally, and for a moment they rather wanted words. +</p> + +<p> +‘Can you push up the chimney-crook for me, Mr Darton? the notches +hitch,’ said the matron. He did it, and the homely little act bridged +over the awkward consciousness that he had been a stranger for four years. +</p> + +<p> +Mrs. Hall soon saw what he had come for, and left the principals together while +she went to prepare him a late tea, smiling at Sally’s recent hasty +assertions of indifference, when she saw how civil Sally was. When tea was +ready she joined them. She fancied that Darton did not look so confident as +when he had arrived; but Sally was quite light-hearted, and the meal passed +pleasantly. +</p> + +<p> +About seven he took his leave of them. Mrs. Hall went as far as the door to +light him down the slope. On the doorstep he said frankly—‘I came +to ask your daughter to marry me; chose the night and everything, with an eye +to a favourable answer. But she won’t.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Then she’s a very ungrateful girl!’ emphatically said Mrs. +Hall. +</p> + +<p> +Darton paused to shape his sentence, and asked, ‘I—I suppose +there’s nobody else more favoured?’ +</p> + +<p> +‘I can’t say that there is, or that there isn’t,’ +answered Mrs. Hall. ‘She’s private in some things. I’m on +your side, however, Mr. Darton, and I’ll talk to her.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Thank ‘ee, thank ‘ee!’ said the farmer in a gayer +accent; and with this assurance the not very satisfactory visit came to an end. +Darton descended the roots of the sycamore, the light was withdrawn, and the +door closed. At the bottom of the slope he nearly ran against a man about to +ascend. +</p> + +<p> +‘Can a jack-o’-lent believe his few senses on such a dark night, or +can’t he?’ exclaimed one whose utterance Darton recognized in a +moment, despite its unexpectedness. ‘I dare not swear he can, though I +fain would!’ The speaker was Johns. +</p> + +<p> +Darton said he was glad of this opportunity, bad as it was, of putting an end +to the silence of years, and asked the dairyman what he was travelling that way +for. +</p> + +<p> +Japheth showed the old jovial confidence in a moment. ‘I’m going to +see your—relations—as they always seem to me,’ he +said—‘Mrs. Hall and Sally. Well, Charles, the fact is I find the +natural barbarousness of man is much increased by a bachelor life, and, as your +leavings were always good enough for me, I’m trying civilization +here.’ He nodded towards the house. +</p> + +<p> +‘Not with Sally—to marry her?’ said Darton, feeling something +like a rill of ice water between his shoulders. +</p> + +<p> +‘Yes, by the help of Providence and my personal charms. And I think I +shall get her. I am this road every week—my present dairy is only four +miles off, you know, and I see her through the window. ’Tis rather odd +that I was going to speak practical to-night to her for the first time. +You’ve just called?’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Yes, for a short while. But she didn’t say a word about +you.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘A good sign, a good sign. Now that decides me. I’ll swing the +mallet and get her answer this very night as I planned.’ +</p> + +<p> +A few more remarks, and Darton, wishing his friend joy of Sally in a slightly +hollow tone of jocularity, bade him good-bye. Johns promised to write +particulars, and ascended, and was lost in the shade of the house and tree. A +rectangle of light appeared when Johns was admitted, and all was dark again. +</p> + +<p> +‘Happy Japheth!’ said Darton. ‘This then is the +explanation!’ +</p> + +<p> +He determined to return home that night. In a quarter of an hour he passed out +of the village, and the next day went about his swede-lifting and storing as if +nothing had occurred. +</p> + +<p> +He waited and waited to hear from Johns whether the wedding-day was fixed: but +no letter came. He learnt not a single particular till, meeting Johns one day +at a horse-auction, Darton exclaimed genially—rather more genially than +he felt—‘When is the joyful day to be?’ +</p> + +<p> +To his great surprise a reciprocity of gladness was not conspicuous in Johns. +‘Not at all,’ he said, in a very subdued tone. ‘’Tis a +bad job; she won’t have me.’ +</p> + +<p> +Darton held his breath till he said with treacherous solicitude, ‘Try +again—’tis coyness.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘O no,’ said Johns decisively. ‘There’s been none of +that. We talked it over dozens of times in the most fair and square way. She +tells me plainly, I don’t suit her. ’Twould be simply annoying her +to ask her again. Ah, Charles, you threw a prize away when you let her slip +five years ago.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘I did—I did,’ said Darton. +</p> + +<p> +He returned from that auction with a new set of feelings in play. He had +certainly made a surprising mistake in thinking Johns his successful rival. It +really seemed as if he might hope for Sally after all. +</p> + +<p> +This time, being rather pressed by business, Darton had recourse to +pen-and-ink, and wrote her as manly and straightforward a proposal as any woman +could wish to receive. The reply came promptly:- +</p> + +<p class="letter"> +‘DEAR MR. DARTON,—I am as sensible as any woman can be of the +goodness that leads you to make me this offer a second time. Better women than +I would be proud of the honour, for when I read your nice long speeches on +mangold-wurzel, and such like topics, at the Casterbridge Farmers’ Club, +I do feel it an honour, I assure you. But my answer is just the same as before. +I will not try to explain what, in truth, I cannot explain—my reasons; I +will simply say that I must decline to be married to you. With good wishes as +in former times, I am, your faithful friend, +</p> + +<p class="right"> +‘SALLY HALL.’ +</p> + +<p> +Darton dropped the letter hopelessly. Beyond the negative, there was just a +possibility of sarcasm in it—‘nice long speeches on +mangold-wurzel’ had a suspicious sound. However, sarcasm or none, there +was the answer, and he had to be content. +</p> + +<p> +He proceeded to seek relief in a business which at this time engrossed much of +his attention—that of clearing up a curious mistake just current in the +county, that he had been nearly ruined by the recent failure of a local bank. A +farmer named Darton had lost heavily, and the similarity of name had probably +led to the error. Belief in it was so persistent that it demanded several days +of letter-writing to set matters straight, and persuade the world that he was +as solvent as ever he had been in his life. He had hardly concluded this +worrying task when, to his delight, another letter arrived in the handwriting +of Sally. +</p> + +<p> +Darton tore it open; it was very short. +</p> + +<p class="letter"> +‘DEAR MR. DARTON,—We have been so alarmed these last few days by +the report that you were ruined by the stoppage of —‘s Bank, that, +now it is contradicted I hasten, by my mother’s wish, to say how truly +glad we are to find there is no foundation for the report. After your kindness +to my poor brother’s children, I can do no less than write at such a +moment. We had a letter from each of them a few days ago.—Your faithful +friend, +</p> + +<p class="right"> +‘SALLY HALL.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Mercenary little woman!’ said Darton to himself with a smile. +‘Then that was the secret of her refusal this time—she thought I +was ruined.’ +</p> + +<p> +Now, such was Darton, that as hours went on he could not help feeling too +generously towards Sally to condemn her in this. What did he want in a wife? he +asked himself. Love and integrity. What next? Worldly wisdom. And was there +really more than worldly wisdom in her refusal to go aboard a sinking ship? She +now knew it was otherwise. ‘Begad,’ he said, ‘I’ll try +her again.’ +</p> + +<p> +The fact was he had so set his heart upon Sally, and Sally alone, that nothing +was to be allowed to baulk him; and his reasoning was purely formal. +</p> + +<p> +Anniversaries having been unpropitious, he waited on till a bright day late in +May—a day when all animate nature was fancying, in its trusting, foolish +way, that it was going to bask out of doors for evermore. As he rode through +Long-Ash Lane it was scarce recognizable as the track of his two winter +journeys. No mistake could be made now, even with his eyes shut. The +cuckoo’s note was at its best, between April tentativeness and midsummer +decrepitude, and the reptiles in the sun behaved as winningly as kittens on a +hearth. Though afternoon, and about the same time as on the last occasion, it +was broad day and sunshine when he entered Hintock, and the details of the Knap +dairy-house were visible far up the road. He saw Sally in the garden, and was +set vibrating. He had first intended to go on to the inn; but ‘No,’ +he said; ‘I’ll tie my horse to the garden-gate. If all goes well it +can soon be taken round: if not, I mount and ride away’ +</p> + +<p> +The tall shade of the horseman darkened the room in which Mrs. Hall sat, and +made her start, for he had ridden by a side path to the top of the slope, where +riders seldom came. In a few seconds he was in the garden with Sally. +</p> + +<p> +Five—ay, three minutes—did the business at the back of that row of +bees. Though spring had come, and heavenly blue consecrated the scene, Darton +succeeded not. ‘<i>No</i>,’ said Sally firmly. ‘I will never, +never marry you, Mr. Darton. I would have done it once; but now I never +can.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘But!’—implored Mr. Darton. And with a burst of real +eloquence he went on to declare all sorts of things that he would do for her. +He would drive her to see her mother every week—take her to +London—settle so much money upon her—Heaven knows what he did not +promise, suggest, and tempt her with. But it availed nothing. She interposed +with a stout negative, which closed the course of his argument like an iron +gate across a highway. Darton paused. +</p> + +<p> +‘Then,’ said he simply, ‘you hadn’t heard of my +supposed failure when you declined last time?’ +</p> + +<p> +‘I had not,’ she said. ‘But if I had ’twould have been +all the same.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘And ’tis not because of any soreness from my slighting you years +ago?’ +</p> + +<p> +‘No. That soreness is long past.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Ah—then you despise me, Sally?’ +</p> + +<p> +‘No,’ she slowly answered. ‘I don’t altogether despise +you. I don’t think you quite such a hero as I once did—that’s +all. The truth is, I am happy enough as I am; and I don’t mean to marry +at all. Now, may <i>I</i> ask a favour, sir?’ She spoke with an ineffable +charm, which, whenever he thought of it, made him curse his loss of her as long +as he lived. +</p> + +<p> +‘To any extent.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Please do not put this question to me any more. Friends as long as you +like, but lovers and married never.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘I never will,’ said Darton. ‘Not if I live a hundred +years.’ +</p> + +<p> +And he never did. That he had worn out his welcome in her heart was only too +plain. +</p> + +<p> +When his step-children had grown up, and were placed out in life, all +communication between Darton and the Hall family ceased. It was only by chance +that, years after, he learnt that Sally, notwithstanding the solicitations her +attractions drew down upon her, had refused several offers of marriage, and +steadily adhered to her purpose of leading a single life +</p> + +<p class="p2"> +May 1884. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap07"></a>THE DISTRACTED PREACHER</h2> + +<h3>CHAPTER I—HOW HIS COLD WAS CURED</h3> + +<p> +Something delayed the arrival of the Wesleyan minister, and a young man came +temporarily in his stead. It was on the thirteenth of January 183- that Mr. +Stockdale, the young man in question, made his humble entry into the village, +unknown, and almost unseen. But when those of the inhabitants who styled +themselves of his connection became acquainted with him, they were rather +pleased with the substitute than otherwise, though he had scarcely as yet +acquired ballast of character sufficient to steady the consciences of the +hundred-and-forty Methodists of pure blood who, at this time, lived in +Nether-Moynton, and to give in addition supplementary support to the mixed race +which went to church in the morning and chapel in the evening, or when there +was a tea—as many as a hundred-and-ten people more, all told, and +including the parish-clerk in the winter-time, when it was too dark for the +vicar to observe who passed up the street at seven o’clock—which, +to be just to him, he was never anxious to do. +</p> + +<p> +It was owing to this overlapping of creeds that the celebrated +population-puzzle arose among the denser gentry of the district around +Nether-Moynton: how could it be that a parish containing fifteen score of +strong full-grown Episcopalians, and nearly thirteen score of well-matured +Dissenters, numbered barely two-and-twenty score adults in all? +</p> + +<p> +The young man being personally interesting, those with whom he came in contact +were content to waive for a while the graver question of his sufficiency. It is +said that at this time of his life his eyes were affectionate, though without a +ray of levity; that his hair was curly, and his figure tall; that he was, in +short, a very lovable youth, who won upon his female hearers as soon as they +saw and heard him, and caused them to say, ‘Why didn’t we know of +this before he came, that we might have gied him a warmer welcome!’ +</p> + +<p> +The fact was that, knowing him to be only provisionally selected, and expecting +nothing remarkable in his person or doctrine, they and the rest of his flock in +Nether-Moynton had felt almost as indifferent about his advent as if they had +been the soundest church-going parishioners in the country, and he their true +and appointed parson. Thus when Stockdale set foot in the place nobody had +secured a lodging for him, and though his journey had given him a bad cold in +the head, he was forced to attend to that business himself. On inquiry he +learnt that the only possible accommodation in the village would be found at +the house of one Mrs. Lizzy Newberry, at the upper end of the street. +</p> + +<p> +It was a youth who gave this information, and Stockdale asked him who Mrs. +Newberry might be. +</p> + +<p> +The boy said that she was a widow-woman, who had got no husband, because he was +dead. Mr. Newberry, he added, had been a well-to-do man enough, as the saying +was, and a farmer; but he had gone off in a decline. As regarded Mrs. +Newberry’s serious side, Stockdale gathered that she was one of the +trimmers who went to church and chapel both. +</p> + +<p> +‘I’ll go there,’ said Stockdale, feeling that, in the absence +of purely sectarian lodgings, he could do no better. +</p> + +<p> +‘She’s a little particular, and won’t hae gover’ment +folks, or curates, or the pa’son’s friends, or such like,’ +said the lad dubiously. +</p> + +<p> +‘Ah, that may be a promising sign: I’ll call. Or no; just you go up +and ask first if she can find room for me. I have to see one or two persons on +another matter. You will find me down at the carrier’s.’ +</p> + +<p> +In a quarter of an hour the lad came back, and said that Mrs. Newberry would +have no objection to accommodate him, whereupon Stockdale called at the house. +</p> + +<p> +It stood within a garden-hedge, and seemed to be roomy and comfortable. He saw +an elderly woman, with whom he made arrangements to come the same night, since +there was no inn in the place, and he wished to house himself as soon as +possible; the village being a local centre from which he was to radiate at once +to the different small chapels in the neighbourhood. He forthwith sent his +luggage to Mrs. Newberry’s from the carrier’s, where he had taken +shelter, and in the evening walked up to his temporary home. +</p> + +<p> +As he now lived there, Stockdale felt it unnecessary to knock at the door; and +entering quietly he had the pleasure of hearing footsteps scudding away like +mice into the back quarters. He advanced to the parlour, as the front room was +called, though its stone floor was scarcely disguised by the carpet, which only +over-laid the trodden areas, leaving sandy deserts under the bulging mouldings +of the table-legs, playing with brass furniture. But the room looked snug and +cheerful. The firelight shone out brightly, trembling on the knobs and handles, +and lurking in great strength on the under surface of the chimney-piece. A deep +arm-chair, covered with horsehair, and studded with a countless throng of brass +nails, was pulled up on one side of the fireplace. The tea-things were on the +table, the teapot cover was open, and a little hand-bell had been laid at that +precise point towards which a person seated in the great chair might be +expected instinctively to stretch his hand. +</p> + +<p> +Stockdale sat down, not objecting to his experience of the room thus far, and +began his residence by tinkling the bell. A little girl crept in at the +summons, and made tea for him. Her name, she said, was Marther Sarer, and she +lived out there, nodding towards the road and village generally. Before +Stockdale had got far with his meal, a tap sounded on the door behind him, and +on his telling the inquirer to come in, a rustle of garments caused him to turn +his head. He saw before him a fine and extremely well-made young woman, with +dark hair, a wide, sensible, beautiful forehead, eyes that warmed him before he +knew it, and a mouth that was in itself a picture to all appreciative souls. +</p> + +<p> +‘Can I get you anything else for tea?’ she said, coming forward a +step or two, an expression of liveliness on her features, and her hand waving +the door by its edge. +</p> + +<p> +‘Nothing, thank you,’ said Stockdale, thinking less of what he +replied than of what might be her relation to the household. +</p> + +<p> +‘You are quite sure?’ said the young woman, apparently aware that +he had not considered his answer. +</p> + +<p> +He conscientiously examined the tea-things, and found them all there. +‘Quite sure, Miss Newberry,’ he said. +</p> + +<p> +‘It is Mrs. Newberry,’ she said. ‘Lizzy Newberry, I used to +be Lizzy Simpkins.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘O, I beg your pardon, Mrs. Newberry.’ And before he had occasion +to say more she left the room. +</p> + +<p> +Stockdale remained in some doubt till Martha Sarah came to clear the table. +‘Whose house is this, my little woman,’ said he. +</p> + +<p> +‘Mrs. Lizzy Newberry’s, sir.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Then Mrs. Newberry is not the old lady I saw this afternoon?’ +</p> + +<p> +‘No. That’s Mrs. Newberry’s mother. It was Mrs. Newberry who +comed in to you just by now, because she wanted to see if you was +good-looking.’ +</p> + +<p> +Later in the evening, when Stockdale was about to begin supper, she came again. +‘I have come myself, Mr. Stockdale,’ she said. The minister stood +up in acknowledgment of the honour. ‘I am afraid little Marther might not +make you understand. What will you have for supper?—there’s cold +rabbit, and there’s a ham uncut.’ +</p> + +<p> +Stockdale said he could get on nicely with those viands, and supper was laid. +He had no more than cut a slice when tap-tap came to the door again. The +minister had already learnt that this particular rhythm in taps denoted the +fingers of his enkindling landlady, and the doomed young fellow buried his +first mouthful under a look of receptive blandness. +</p> + +<p> +‘We have a chicken in the house, Mr. Stockdale—I quite forgot to +mention it just now. Perhaps you would like Marther Sarer to bring it +up?’ +</p> + +<p> +Stockdale had advanced far enough in the art of being a young man to say that +he did not want the chicken, unless she brought it up herself; but when it was +uttered he blushed at the daring gallantry of the speech, perhaps a shade too +strong for a serious man and a minister. In three minutes the chicken appeared, +but, to his great surprise, only in the hands of Martha Sarah. Stockdale was +disappointed, which perhaps it was intended that he should be. +</p> + +<p> +He had finished supper, and was not in the least anticipating Mrs. Newberry +again that night, when she tapped and entered as before. Stockdale’s +gratified look told that she had lost nothing by not appearing when expected. +It happened that the cold in the head from which the young man suffered had +increased with the approach of night, and before she had spoken he was seized +with a violent fit of sneezing which he could not anyhow repress. +</p> + +<p> +Mrs. Newberry looked full of pity. ‘Your cold is very bad to-night, Mr. +Stockdale.’ +</p> + +<p> +Stockdale replied that it was rather troublesome. +</p> + +<p> +‘And I’ve a good mind’—she added archly, looking at the +cheerless glass of water on the table, which the abstemious minister was going +to drink. +</p> + +<p> +‘Yes, Mrs. Newberry?’ +</p> + +<p> +‘I’ve a good mind that you should have something more likely to +cure it than that cold stuff.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Well,’ said Stockdale, looking down at the glass, ‘as there +is no inn here, and nothing better to be got in the village, of course it will +do.’ +</p> + +<p> +To this she replied, ‘There is something better, not far off, though not +in the house. I really think you must try it, or you may be ill. Yes, Mr. +Stockdale, you shall.’ She held up her finger, seeing that he was about +to speak. ‘Don’t ask what it is; wait, and you shall see.’ +</p> + +<p> +Lizzy went away, and Stockdale waited in a pleasant mood. Presently she +returned with her bonnet and cloak on, saying, ‘I am so sorry, but you +must help me to get it. Mother has gone to bed. Will you wrap yourself up, and +come this way, and please bring that cup with you?’ +</p> + +<p> +Stockdale, a lonely young fellow, who had for weeks felt a great craving for +somebody on whom to throw away superfluous interest, and even tenderness, was +not sorry to join her; and followed his guide through the back door, across the +garden, to the bottom, where the boundary was a wall. This wall was low, and +beyond it Stockdale discerned in the night shades several grey headstones, and +the outlines of the church roof and tower. +</p> + +<p> +‘It is easy to get up this way,’ she said, stepping upon a bank +which abutted on the wall; then putting her foot on the top of the stonework, +and descending a spring inside, where the ground was much higher, as is the +manner of graveyards to be. Stockdale did the same, and followed her in the +dusk across the irregular ground till they came to the tower door, which, when +they had entered, she softly closed behind them. +</p> + +<p> +‘You can keep a secret?’ she said, in a musical voice. +</p> + +<p> +‘Like an iron chest!’ said he fervently. +</p> + +<p> +Then from under her cloak she produced a small lighted lantern, which the +minister had not noticed that she carried at all. The light showed them to be +close to the singing-gallery stairs, under which lay a heap of lumber of all +sorts, but consisting mostly of decayed framework, pews, panels, and pieces of +flooring, that from time to time had been removed from their original fixings +in the body of the edifice and replaced by new. +</p> + +<p> +‘Perhaps you will drag some of those boards aside?’ she said, +holding the lantern over her head to light him better. ‘Or will you take +the lantern while I move them?’ +</p> + +<p> +‘I can manage it,’ said the young man, and acting as she ordered, +he uncovered, to his surprise, a row of little barrels bound with wood hoops, +each barrel being about as large as the nave of a heavy waggon-wheel. +</p> + +<p> +When they were laid open Lizzy fixed her eyes on him, as if she wondered what +he would say. +</p> + +<p> +‘You know what they are?’ she asked, finding that he did not speak. +</p> + +<p> +‘Yes, barrels,’ said Stockdale simply. He was an inland man, the +son of highly respectable parents, and brought up with a single eye to the +ministry; and the sight suggested nothing beyond the fact that such articles +were there. +</p> + +<p> +‘You are quite right, they are barrels,’ she said, in an emphatic +tone of candour that was not without a touch of irony. +</p> + +<p> +Stockdale looked at her with an eye of sudden misgiving. ‘Not +smugglers’ liquor?’ he said. +</p> + +<p> +‘Yes,’ said she. ‘They are tubs of spirit that have +accidentally come over in the dark from France.’ +</p> + +<p> +In Nether-Moynton and its vicinity at this date people always smiled at the +sort of sin called in the outside world illicit trading; and these little kegs +of gin and brandy were as well known to the inhabitants as turnips. So that +Stockdale’s innocent ignorance, and his look of alarm when he guessed the +sinister mystery, seemed to strike Lizzy first as ludicrous, and then as very +awkward for the good impression that she wished to produce upon him. +</p> + +<p> +‘Smuggling is carried on here by some of the people,’ she said in a +gentle, apologetic voice. ‘It has been their practice for generations, +and they think it no harm. Now, will you roll out one of the tubs?’ +</p> + +<p> +‘What to do with it?’ said the minister. +</p> + +<p> +‘To draw a little from it to cure your cold,’ she answered. +‘It is so ‘nation strong that it drives away that sort of thing in +a jiffy. O, it is all right about our taking it. I may have what I like; the +owner of the tubs says so. I ought to have had some in the house, and then I +shouldn’t ha’ been put to this trouble; but I drink none myself, +and so I often forget to keep it indoors.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘You are allowed to help yourself, I suppose, that you may not inform +where their hiding-place is?’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Well, no; not that particularly; but I may take any if I want it. So +help yourself.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘I will, to oblige you, since you have a right to it,’ murmured the +minister; and though he was not quite satisfied with his part in the +performance, he rolled one of the ‘tubs’ out from the corner into +the middle of the tower floor. ‘How do you wish me to get it +out—with a gimlet, I suppose?’ +</p> + +<p> +‘No, I’ll show you,’ said his interesting companion; and she +held up with her other hand a shoemaker’s awl and a hammer. ‘You +must never do these things with a gimlet, because the wood-dust gets in; and +when the buyers pour out the brandy that would tell them that the tub had been +broached. An awl makes no dust, and the hole nearly closes up again. Now tap +one of the hoops forward.’ +</p> + +<p> +Stockdale took the hammer and did so. +</p> + +<p> +‘Now make the hole in the part that was covered by the hoop.’ +</p> + +<p> +He made the hole as directed. ‘It won’t run out,’ he said. +</p> + +<p> +‘O yes it will,’ said she. ‘Take the tub between your knees, +and squeeze the heads; and I’ll hold the cup.’ +</p> + +<p> +Stockdale obeyed; and the pressure taking effect upon the tub, which seemed, to +be thin, the spirit spirted out in a stream. When the cup was full he ceased +pressing, and the flow immediately stopped. ‘Now we must fill up the keg +with water,’ said Lizzy, ‘or it will cluck like forty hens when it +is handled, and show that ’tis not full.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘But they tell you you may take it?’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Yes, the <i>smugglers</i>: but the <i>buyers</i> must not know that the +smugglers have been kind to me at their expense.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘I see,’ said Stockdale doubtfully. ‘I much question the +honesty of this proceeding.’ +</p> + +<p> +By her direction he held the tub with the hole upwards, and while he went +through the process of alternately pressing and ceasing to press, she produced +a bottle of water, from which she took mouthfuls, conveying each to the keg by +putting her pretty lips to the hole, where it was sucked in at each recovery of +the cask from pressure. When it was again full he plugged the hole, knocked the +hoop down to its place, and buried the tub in the lumber as before. +</p> + +<p> +‘Aren’t the smugglers afraid that you will tell?’ he asked, +as they recrossed the churchyard. +</p> + +<p> +‘O no; they are not afraid of that. I couldn’t do such a +thing.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘They have put you into a very awkward corner,’ said Stockdale +emphatically. ‘You must, of course, as an honest person, sometimes feel +that it is your duty to inform—really you must.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Well, I have never particularly felt it as a duty; and, besides, my +first husband—’ She stopped, and there was some confusion in her +voice. Stockdale was so honest and unsophisticated that he did not at once +discern why she paused: but at last he did perceive that the words were a slip, +and that no woman would have uttered ‘first husband’ by accident +unless she had thought pretty frequently of a second. He felt for her +confusion, and allowed her time to recover and proceed. ‘My +husband,’ she said, in a self-corrected tone, ‘used to know of +their doings, and so did my father, and kept the secret. I cannot inform, in +fact, against anybody.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘I see the hardness of it,’ he continued, like a man who looked far +into the moral of things. ‘And it is very cruel that you should be tossed +and tantalized between your memories and your conscience. I do hope, Mrs. +Newberry, that you will soon see your way out of this unpleasant +position.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Well, I don’t just now,’ she murmured. +</p> + +<p> +By this time they had passed over the wall and entered the house, where she +brought him a glass and hot water, and left him to his own reflections. He +looked after her vanishing form, asking himself whether he, as a respectable +man, and a minister, and a shining light, even though as yet only of the +halfpenny-candle sort, were quite justified in doing this thing. A sneeze +settled the question; and he found that when the fiery liquor was lowered by +the addition of twice or thrice the quantity of water, it was one of the +prettiest cures for a cold in the head that he had ever known, particularly at +this chilly time of the year. +</p> + +<p> +Stockdale sat in the deep chair about twenty minutes sipping and meditating, +till he at length took warmer views of things, and longed for the morrow, when +he would see Mrs. Newberry again. He then felt that, though chronologically at +a short distance, it would in an emotional sense be very long before to-morrow +came, and walked restlessly round the room. His eye was attracted by a framed +and glazed sampler in which a running ornament of fir-trees and peacocks +surrounded the following pretty bit of sentiment:- +</p> + +<p class="poem"> +‘Rose-leaves smell when roses thrive,<br /> +Here’s my work while I’m alive;<br /> +Rose-leaves smell when shrunk and shed,<br /> +Here’s my work when I am dead. +</p> + +<p class="letter"> +‘Lizzy Simpkins. Fear God. Honour the King.<br /> + ‘Aged 11 years. +</p> + +<p> +‘’Tis hers,’ he said to himself. ‘Heavens, how I like +that name!’ +</p> + +<p> +Before he had done thinking that no other name from Abigail to Zenobia would +have suited his young landlady so well, tap-tap came again upon the door; and +the minister started as her face appeared yet another time, looking so +disinterested that the most ingenious would have refrained from asserting that +she had come to affect his feelings by her seductive eyes. +</p> + +<p> +‘Would you like a fire in your room, Mr. Stockdale, on account of your +cold?’ +</p> + +<p> +The minister, being still a little pricked in the conscience for countenancing +her in watering the spirits, saw here a way to self-chastisement. ‘No, I +thank you,’ he said firmly; ‘it is not necessary. I have never been +used to one in my life, and it would be giving way to luxury too far.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Then I won’t insist,’ she said, and disconcerted him by +vanishing instantly. +</p> + +<p> +Wondering if she was vexed by his refusal, he wished that he had chosen to have +a fire, even though it should have scorched him out of bed and endangered his +self-discipline for a dozen days. However, he consoled himself with what was in +truth a rare consolation for a budding lover, that he was under the same roof +with Lizzy; her guest, in fact, to take a poetical view of the term lodger; and +that he would certainly see her on the morrow. +</p> + +<p> +The morrow came, and Stockdale rose early, his cold quite gone. He had never in +his life so longed for the breakfast hour as he did that day, and punctually at +eight o’clock, after a short walk, to reconnoitre the premises, he +re-entered the door of his dwelling. Breakfast passed, and Martha Sarah +attended, but nobody came voluntarily as on the night before to inquire if +there were other wants which he had not mentioned, and which she would attempt +to gratify. He was disappointed, and went out, hoping to see her at dinner. +Dinner time came; he sat down to the meal, finished it, lingered on for a whole +hour, although two new teachers were at that moment waiting at the chapel-door +to speak to him by appointment. It was useless to wait longer, and he slowly +went his way down the lane, cheered by the thought that, after all, he would +see her in the evening, and perhaps engage again in the delightful +tub-broaching in the neighbouring church tower, which proceeding he resolved to +render more moral by steadfastly insisting that no water should be introduced +to fill up, though the tub should cluck like all the hens in Christendom. But +nothing could disguise the fact that it was a queer business; and his +countenance fell when he thought how much more his mind was interested in that +matter than in his serious duties. +</p> + +<p> +However, compunction vanished with the decline of day. Night came, and his tea +and supper; but no Lizzy Newberry, and no sweet temptations. At last the +minister could bear it no longer, and said to his quaint little attendant, +‘Where is Mrs. Newberry to-day?’ judiciously handing a penny as he +spoke. +</p> + +<p> +‘She’s busy,’ said Martha. +</p> + +<p> +‘Anything serious happened?’ he asked, handing another penny, and +revealing yet additional pennies in the background. +</p> + +<p> +‘O no—nothing at all!’ said she, with breathless confidence. +‘Nothing ever happens to her. She’s only biding upstairs in bed +because ’tis her way sometimes.’ +</p> + +<p> +Being a young man of some honour, he would not question further, and assuming +that Lizzy must have a bad headache, or other slight ailment, in spite of what +the girl had said, he went to bed dissatisfied, not even setting eyes on old +Mrs. Simpkins. ‘I said last night that I should see her to-morrow,’ +he reflected; ‘but that was not to be!’ +</p> + +<p> +Next day he had better fortune, or worse, meeting her at the foot of the stairs +in the morning, and being favoured by a visit or two from her during the +day—once for the purpose of making kindly inquiries about his comfort, as +on the first evening, and at another time to place a bunch of winter-violets on +his table, with a promise to renew them when they drooped. On these occasions +there was something in her smile which showed how conscious she was of the +effect she produced, though it must be said that it was rather a humorous than +a designing consciousness, and savoured more of pride than of vanity. +</p> + +<p> +As for Stockdale, he clearly perceived that he possessed unlimited capacity for +backsliding, and wished that tutelary saints were not denied to Dissenters. He +set a watch upon his tongue and eyes for the space of one hour and a half, +after which he found it was useless to struggle further, and gave himself up to +the situation. ‘The other minister will be here in a month,’ he +said to himself when sitting over the fire. ‘Then I shall be off, and she +will distract my mind no more! . . . And then, shall I go on living by myself +for ever? No; when my two years of probation are finished, I shall have a +furnished house to live in, with a varnished door and a brass knocker; and +I’ll march straight back to her, and ask her flat, as soon as the last +plate is on the dresser! +</p> + +<p> +Thus a titillating fortnight was passed by young Stockdale, during which time +things proceeded much as such matters have done ever since the beginning of +history. He saw the object of attachment several times one day, did not see her +at all the next, met her when he least expected to do so, missed her when hints +and signs as to where she should be at a given hour almost amounted to an +appointment. This mild coquetry was perhaps fair enough under the circumstances +of their being so closely lodged, and Stockdale put up with it as +philosophically as he was able. Being in her own house, she could, after vexing +him or disappointing him of her presence, easily win him back by suddenly +surrounding him with those little attentions which her position as his landlady +put it in her power to bestow. When he had waited indoors half the day to see +her, and on finding that she would not be seen, had gone off in a huff to the +dreariest and dampest walk he could discover, she would restore equilibrium in +the evening with ‘Mr. Stockdale, I have fancied you must feel draught +o’ nights from your bedroom window, and so I have been putting up thicker +curtains this afternoon while you were out;’ or, ‘I noticed that +you sneezed twice again this morning, Mr. Stockdale. Depend upon it that cold +is hanging about you yet; I am sure it is—I have thought of it +continually; and you must let me make a posset for you.’ +</p> + +<p> +Sometimes in coming home he found his sitting-room rearranged, chairs placed +where the table had stood, and the table ornamented with the few fresh flowers +and leaves that could be obtained at this season, so as to add a novelty to the +room. At times she would be standing on a chair outside the house, trying to +nail up a branch of the monthly rose which the winter wind had blown down; and +of course he stepped forward to assist her, when their hands got mixed in +passing the shreds and nails. Thus they became friends again after a +disagreement. She would utter on these occasions some pretty and deprecatory +remark on the necessity of her troubling him anew; and he would straightway say +that he would do a hundred times as much for her if she should so require. +</p> + +<h3>CHAPTER II—HOW HE SAW TWO OTHER MEN</h3> + +<p> +Matters being in this advancing state, Stockdale was rather surprised one +cloudy evening, while sitting in his room, at hearing her speak in low tones of +expostulation to some one at the door. It was nearly dark, but the shutters +were not yet closed, nor the candles lighted; and Stockdale was tempted to +stretch his head towards the window. He saw outside the door a young man in +clothes of a whitish colour, and upon reflection judged their wearer to be the +well-built and rather handsome miller who lived below. The miller’s voice +was alternately low and firm, and sometimes it reached the level of positive +entreaty; but what the words were Stockdale could in no way hear. +</p> + +<p> +Before the colloquy had ended, the minister’s attention was attracted by +a second incident. Opposite Lizzy’s home grew a clump of laurels, forming +a thick and permanent shade. One of the laurel boughs now quivered against the +light background of sky, and in a moment the head of a man peered out, and +remained still. He seemed to be also much interested in the conversation at the +door, and was plainly lingering there to watch and listen. Had Stockdale stood +in any other relation to Lizzy than that of a lover, he might have gone out and +investigated the meaning of this: but being as yet but an unprivileged ally, he +did nothing more than stand up and show himself against the firelight, +whereupon the listener disappeared, and Lizzy and the miller spoke in lower +tones. +</p> + +<p> +Stockdale was made so uneasy by the circumstance, that as soon as the miller +was gone, he said, ‘Mrs. Newberry, are you aware that you were watched +just now, and your conversation heard?’ +</p> + +<p> +‘When?’ she said. +</p> + +<p> +‘When you were talking to that miller. A man was looking from the +laurel-tree as jealously as if he could have eaten you.’ +</p> + +<p> +She showed more concern than the trifling event seemed to demand, and he added, +‘Perhaps you were talking of things you did not wish to be +overheard?’ +</p> + +<p> +‘I was talking only on business,’ she said. +</p> + +<p> +‘Lizzy, be frank!’ said the young man. ‘If it was only on +business, why should anybody wish to listen to you?’ +</p> + +<p> +She looked curiously at him. ‘What else do you think it could be, +then?’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Well—the only talk between a young woman and man that is likely to +amuse an eavesdropper.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Ah yes,’ she said, smiling in spite of her preoccupation. +‘Well, my cousin Owlett has spoken to me about matrimony, every now and +then, that’s true; but he was not speaking of it then. I wish he had been +speaking of it, with all my heart. It would have been much less serious for +me.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘O Mrs. Newberry!’ +</p> + +<p> +‘It would. Not that I should ha’ chimed in with him, of course. I +wish it for other reasons. I am glad, Mr. Stockdale, that you have told me of +that listener. It is a timely warning, and I must see my cousin again.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘But don’t go away till I have spoken,’ said the minister. +‘I’ll out with it at once, and make no more ado. Let it be Yes or +No between us, Lizzy; please do!’ And he held out his hand, in which she +freely allowed her own to rest, but without speaking. +</p> + +<p> +‘You mean Yes by that?’ he asked, after waiting a while. +</p> + +<p> +‘You may be my sweetheart, if you will.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Why not say at once you will wait for me until I have a house and can +come back to marry you.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Because I am thinking—thinking of something else,’ she said +with embarrassment. ‘It all comes upon me at once, and I must settle one +thing at a time.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘At any rate, dear Lizzy, you can assure me that the miller shall not be +allowed to speak to you except on business? You have never directly encouraged +him?’ +</p> + +<p> +She parried the question by saying, ‘You see, he and his party have been +in the habit of leaving things on my premises sometimes, and as I have not +denied him, it makes him rather forward.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Things—what things?’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Tubs—they are called Things here.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘But why don’t you deny him, my dear Lizzy?’ +</p> + +<p> +‘I cannot well.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘You are too timid. It is unfair of him to impose so upon you, and get +your good name into danger by his smuggling tricks. Promise me that the next +time he wants to leave his tubs here you will let me roll them into the +street?’ +</p> + +<p> +She shook her head. ‘I would not venture to offend the neighbours so much +as that,’ said she, ‘or do anything that would be so likely to put +poor Owlett into the hands of the excisemen.’ +</p> + +<p> +Stockdale sighed, and said that he thought hers a mistaken generosity when it +extended to assisting those who cheated the king of his dues. ‘At any +rate, you will let me make him keep his distance as your lover, and tell him +flatly that you are not for him?’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Please not, at present,’ she said. ‘I don’t wish to +offend my old neighbours. It is not only Owlett who is concerned.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘This is too bad,’ said Stockdale impatiently. +</p> + +<p> +‘On my honour, I won’t encourage him as my lover,’ Lizzy +answered earnestly. ‘A reasonable man will be satisfied with that.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Well, so I am,’ said Stockdale, his countenance clearing. +</p> + +<h3>CHAPTER III—THE MYSTERIOUS GREATCOAT</h3> + +<p> +Stockdale now began to notice more particularly a feature in the life of his +fair landlady, which he had casually observed but scarcely ever thought of +before. It was that she was markedly irregular in her hours of rising. For a +week or two she would be tolerably punctual, reaching the ground-floor within a +few minutes of half-past seven. Then suddenly she would not be visible till +twelve at noon, perhaps for three or four days in succession; and twice he had +certain proof that she did not leave her room till half-past three in the +afternoon. The second time that this extreme lateness came under his notice was +on a day when he had particularly wished to consult with her about his future +movements; and he concluded, as he always had done, that she had a cold, +headache, or other ailment, unless she had kept herself invisible to avoid +meeting and talking to him, which he could hardly believe. The former +supposition was disproved, however, by her innocently saying, some days later, +when they were speaking on a question of health, that she had never had a +moment’s heaviness, headache, or illness of any kind since the previous +January twelvemonth. +</p> + +<p> +‘I am glad to hear it,’ said he. ‘I thought quite +otherwise.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘What, do I look sickly?’ she asked, turning up her face to show +the impossibility of his gazing on it and holding such a belief for a moment. +</p> + +<p> +‘Not at all; I merely thought so from your being sometimes obliged to +keep your room through the best part of the day.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘O, as for that—it means nothing,’ she murmured, with a look +which some might have called cold, and which was the worst look that he liked +to see upon her. ‘It is pure sleepiness, Mr. Stockdale.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Never!’ +</p> + +<p> +‘It is, I tell you. When I stay in my room till half-past three in the +afternoon, you may always be sure that I slept soundly till three, or I +shouldn’t have stayed there.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘It is dreadful,’ said Stockdale, thinking of the disastrous +effects of such indulgence upon the household of a minister, should it become a +habit of everyday occurrence. +</p> + +<p> +‘But then,’ she said, divining his good and prescient thoughts, +‘it only happens when I stay awake all night. I don’t go to sleep +till five or six in the morning sometimes.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Ah, that’s another matter,’ said Stockdale. +‘Sleeplessness to such an alarming extent is real illness. Have you +spoken to a doctor?’ +</p> + +<p> +‘O no—there is no need for doing that—it is all natural to +me.’ And she went away without further remark. +</p> + +<p> +Stockdale might have waited a long time to know the real cause of her +sleeplessness, had it not happened that one dark night he was sitting in his +bedroom jotting down notes for a sermon, which occupied him perfunctorily for a +considerable time after the other members of the household had retired. He did +not get to bed till one o’clock. Before he had fallen asleep he heard a +knocking at the front door, first rather timidly performed, and then louder. +Nobody answered it, and the person knocked again. As the house still remained +undisturbed, Stockdale got out of bed, went to his window, which overlooked the +door, and opening it, asked who was there. +</p> + +<p> +A young woman’s voice replied that Susan Wallis was there, and that she +had come to ask if Mrs. Newberry could give her some mustard to make a plaster +with, as her father was taken very ill on the chest. +</p> + +<p> +The minister, having neither bell nor servant, was compelled to act in person. +‘I will call Mrs. Newberry,’ he said. Partly dressing himself; he +went along the passage and tapped at Lizzy’s door. She did not answer, +and, thinking of her erratic habits in the matter of sleep, he thumped the door +persistently, when he discovered, by its moving ajar under his knocking, that +it had only been gently pushed to. As there was now a sufficient entry for the +voice, he knocked no longer, but said in firm tones, ‘Mrs. Newberry, you +are wanted.’ +</p> + +<p> +The room was quite silent; not a breathing, not a rustle, came from any part of +it. Stockdale now sent a positive shout through the open space of the door: +‘Mrs. Newberry!’—still no answer, or movement of any kind +within. Then he heard sounds from the opposite room, that of Lizzy’s +mother, as if she had been aroused by his uproar though Lizzy had not, and was +dressing herself hastily. Stockdale softly closed the younger woman’s +door and went on to the other, which was opened by Mrs. Simpkins before he +could reach it. She was in her ordinary clothes, and had a light in her hand. +</p> + +<p> +‘What’s the person calling about?’ she said in alarm. +</p> + +<p> +Stockdale told the girl’s errand, adding seriously, ‘I cannot wake +Mrs. Newberry.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘It is no matter,’ said her mother. ‘I can let the girl have +what she wants as well as my daughter.’ And she came out of the room and +went downstairs. +</p> + +<p> +Stockdale retired towards his own apartment, saying, however, to Mrs. Simpkins +from the landing, as if on second thoughts, ‘I suppose there is nothing +the matter with Mrs. Newberry, that I could not wake her?’ +</p> + +<p> +‘O no,’ said the old lady hastily. ‘Nothing at all.’ +</p> + +<p> +Still the minister was not satisfied. ‘Will you go in and see?’ he +said. ‘I should be much more at ease.’ +</p> + +<p> +Mrs. Simpkins returned up the staircase, went to her daughter’s room, and +came out again almost instantly. ‘There is nothing at all the matter with +Lizzy,’ she said; and descended again to attend to the applicant, who, +having seen the light, had remained quiet during this interval. +</p> + +<p> +Stockdale went into his room and lay down as before. He heard Lizzy’s +mother open the front door, admit the girl, and then the murmured discourse of +both as they went to the store-cupboard for the medicament required. The girl +departed, the door was fastened, Mrs. Simpkins came upstairs, and the house was +again in silence. Still the minister did not fall asleep. He could not get rid +of a singular suspicion, which was all the more harassing in being, if true, +the most unaccountable thing within his experience. That Lizzy Newberry was in +her bedroom when he made such a clamour at the door he could not possibly +convince himself; notwithstanding that he had heard her come upstairs at the +usual time, go into her chamber, and shut herself up in the usual way. Yet all +reason was so much against her being elsewhere, that he was constrained to go +back again to the unlikely theory of a heavy sleep, though he had heard neither +breath nor movement during a shouting and knocking loud enough to rouse the +Seven Sleepers. +</p> + +<p> +Before coming to any positive conclusion he fell asleep himself, and did not +awake till day. He saw nothing of Mrs. Newberry in the morning, before he went +out to meet the rising sun, as he liked to do when the weather was fine; but as +this was by no means unusual, he took no notice of it. At breakfast-time he +knew that she was not far off by hearing her in the kitchen, and though he saw +nothing of her person, that back apartment being rigorously closed against his +eyes, she seemed to be talking, ordering, and bustling about among the pots and +skimmers in so ordinary a manner, that there was no reason for his wasting more +time in fruitless surmise. +</p> + +<p> +The minister suffered from these distractions, and his extemporized sermons +were not improved thereby. Already he often said Romans for Corinthians in the +pulpit, and gave out hymns in strange cramped metres, that hitherto had always +been skipped, because the congregation could not raise a tune to fit them. He +fully resolved that as soon as his few weeks of stay approached their end he +would cut the matter short, and commit himself by proposing a definite +engagement, repenting at leisure if necessary. +</p> + +<p> +With this end in view, he suggested to her on the evening after her mysterious +sleep that they should take a walk together just before dark, the latter part +of the proposition being introduced that they might return home unseen. She +consented to go; and away they went over a stile, to a shrouded footpath suited +for the occasion. But, in spite of attempts on both sides, they were unable to +infuse much spirit into the ramble. She looked rather paler than usual, and +sometimes turned her head away. +</p> + +<p> +‘Lizzy,’ said Stockdale reproachfully, when they had walked in +silence a long distance. +</p> + +<p> +‘Yes,’ said she. +</p> + +<p> +‘You yawned—much my company is to you!’ He put it in that +way, but he was really wondering whether her yawn could possibly have more to +do with physical weariness from the night before than mental weariness of that +present moment. Lizzy apologized, and owned that she was rather tired, which +gave him an opening for a direct question on the point; but his modesty would +not allow him to put it to her; and he uncomfortably resolved to wait. +</p> + +<p> +The month of February passed with alternations of mud and frost, rain and +sleet, east winds and north-westerly gales. The hollow places in the ploughed +fields showed themselves as pools of water, which had settled there from the +higher levels, and had not yet found time to soak away. The birds began to get +lively, and a single thrush came just before sunset each evening, and sang +hopefully on the large elm-tree which stood nearest to Mrs. Newberry’s +house. Cold blasts and brittle earth had given place to an oozing dampness more +unpleasant in itself than frost; but it suggested coming spring, and its +unpleasantness was of a bearable kind. +</p> + +<p> +Stockdale had been going to bring about a practical understanding with Lizzy at +least half-a-dozen times; but, what with the mystery of her apparent absence on +the night of the neighbour’s call, and her curious way of lying in bed at +unaccountable times, he felt a check within him whenever he wanted to speak +out. Thus they still lived on as indefinitely affianced lovers, each of whom +hardly acknowledged the other’s claim to the name of chosen one. +Stockdale persuaded himself that his hesitation was owing to the postponement +of the ordained minister’s arrival, and the consequent delay in his own +departure, which did away with all necessity for haste in his courtship; but +perhaps it was only that his discretion was reasserting itself, and telling him +that he had better get clearer ideas of Lizzy before arranging for the grand +contract of his life with her. She, on her part, always seemed ready to be +urged further on that question than he had hitherto attempted to go; but she +was none the less independent, and to a degree which would have kept from +flagging the passion of a far more mutable man. +</p> + +<p> +On the evening of the first of March he went casually into his bedroom about +dusk, and noticed lying on a chair a greatcoat, hat, and breeches. Having no +recollection of leaving any clothes of his own in that spot, he went and +examined them as well as he could in the twilight, and found that they did not +belong to him. He paused for a moment to consider how they might have got +there. He was the only man living in the house; and yet these were not his +garments, unless he had made a mistake. No, they were not his. He called up +Martha Sarah. +</p> + +<p> +‘How did these things come in my room?’ he said, flinging the +objectionable articles to the floor. +</p> + +<p> +Martha said that Mrs. Newberry had given them to her to brush, and that she had +brought them up there thinking they must be Mr. Stockdale’s, as there was +no other gentleman a-lodging there. +</p> + +<p> +‘Of course you did,’ said Stockdale. ‘Now take them down to +your mis’ess, and say they are some clothes I have found here and know +nothing about.’ +</p> + +<p> +As the door was left open he heard the conversation downstairs. ‘How +stupid!’ said Mrs. Newberry, in a tone of confusion. ‘Why, Marther +Sarer, I did not tell you to take ’em to Mr. Stockdale’s +room?’ +</p> + +<p> +‘I thought they must be his as they was so muddy,’ said Martha +humbly. +</p> + +<p> +‘You should have left ’em on the clothes-horse,’ said the +young mistress severely; and she came upstairs with the garments on her arm, +quickly passed Stockdale’s room, and threw them forcibly into a closet at +the end of a passage. With this the incident ended, and the house was silent +again. +</p> + +<p> +There would have been nothing remarkable in finding such clothes in a +widow’s house had they been clean; or moth-eaten, or creased, or mouldy +from long lying by; but that they should be splashed with recent mud bothered +Stockdale a good deal. When a young pastor is in the aspen stage of attachment, +and open to agitation at the merest trifles, a really substantial incongruity +of this complexion is a disturbing thing. However, nothing further occurred at +that time; but he became watchful, and given to conjecture, and was unable to +forget the circumstance. +</p> + +<p> +One morning, on looking from his window, he saw Mrs. Newberry herself brushing +the tails of a long drab greatcoat, which, if he mistook not, was the very same +garment as the one that had adorned the chair of his room. It was densely +splashed up to the hollow of the back with neighbouring Nether-Moynton mud, to +judge by its colour, the spots being distinctly visible to him in the sunlight. +The previous day or two having been wet, the inference was irresistible that +the wearer had quite recently been walking some considerable distance about the +lanes and fields. Stockdale opened the window and looked out, and Mrs. Newberry +turned her head. Her face became slowly red; she never had looked prettier, or +more incomprehensible, he waved his hand affectionately, and said good-morning; +she answered with embarrassment, having ceased her occupation on the instant +that she saw him, and rolled up the coat half-cleaned. +</p> + +<p> +Stockdale shut the window. Some simple explanation of her proceeding was +doubtless within the bounds of possibility; but he himself could not think of +one; and he wished that she had placed the matter beyond conjecture by +voluntarily saying something about it there and then. +</p> + +<p> +But, though Lizzy had not offered an explanation at the moment, the subject was +brought forward by her at the next time of their meeting. She was chatting to +him concerning some other event, and remarked that it happened about the time +when she was dusting some old clothes that had belonged to her poor husband. +</p> + +<p> +‘You keep them clean out of respect to his memory?’ said Stockdale +tentatively. +</p> + +<p> +‘I air and dust them sometimes,’ she said, with the most charming +innocence in the world. +</p> + +<p> +‘Do dead men come out of their graves and walk in mud?’ murmured +the minister, in a cold sweat at the deception that she was practising. +</p> + +<p> +‘What did you say?’ asked Lizzy. +</p> + +<p> +‘Nothing, nothing,’ said he mournfully. ‘Mere words—a +phrase that will do for my sermon next Sunday.’ It was too plain that +Lizzy was unaware that he had seen actual pedestrian splashes upon the skirts +of the tell-tale overcoat, and that she imagined him to believe it had come +direct from some chest or drawer. +</p> + +<p> +The aspect of the case was now considerably darker. Stockdale was so much +depressed by it that he did not challenge her explanation, or threaten to go +off as a missionary to benighted islanders, or reproach her in any way +whatever. He simply parted from her when she had done talking, and lived on in +perplexity, till by degrees his natural manner became sad and constrained. +</p> + +<h3>CHAPTER IV—AT THE TIME OF THE NEW MOON</h3> + +<p> +The following Thursday was changeable, damp, and gloomy; and the night +threatened to be windy and unpleasant. Stockdale had gone away to Knollsea in +the morning, to be present at some commemoration service there, and on his +return he was met by the attractive Lizzy in the passage. Whether influenced by +the tide of cheerfulness which had attended him that day, or by the drive +through the open air, or whether from a natural disposition to let bygones +alone, he allowed himself to be fascinated into forgetfulness of the greatcoat +incident, and upon the whole passed a pleasant evening; not so much in her +society as within sound of her voice, as she sat talking in the back parlour to +her mother, till the latter went to bed. Shortly after this Mrs. Newberry +retired, and then Stockdale prepared to go upstairs himself. But before he left +the room he remained standing by the dying embers awhile, thinking long of one +thing and another; and was only aroused by the flickering of his candle in the +socket as it suddenly declined and went out. Knowing that there were a +tinder-box, matches, and another candle in his bedroom, he felt his way +upstairs without a light. On reaching his chamber he laid his hand on every +possible ledge and corner for the tinderbox, but for a long time in vain. +Discovering it at length, Stockdale produced a spark, and was kindling the +brimstone, when he fancied that he heard a movement in the passage. He blew +harder at the lint, the match flared up, and looking by aid of the blue light +through the door, which had been standing open all this time, he was surprised +to see a male figure vanishing round the top of the staircase with the evident +intention of escaping unobserved. The personage wore the clothes which Lizzy +had been brushing, and something in the outline and gait suggested to the +minister that the wearer was Lizzy herself. +</p> + +<p> +But he was not sure of this; and, greatly excited, Stockdale determined to +investigate the mystery, and to adopt his own way for doing it. He blew out the +match without lighting the candle, went into the passage, and proceeded on +tiptoe towards Lizzy’s room. A faint grey square of light in the +direction of the chamber-window as he approached told him that the door was +open, and at once suggested that the occupant was gone. He turned and brought +down his fist upon the handrail of the staircase: ‘It was she; in her +late husband’s coat and hat!’ +</p> + +<p> +Somewhat relieved to find that there was no intruder in the case, yet none the +less surprised, the minister crept down the stairs, softly put on his boots, +overcoat, and hat, and tried the front door. It was fastened as usual: he went +to the back door, found this unlocked, and emerged into the garden. The night +was mild and moonless, and rain had lately been falling, though for the present +it had ceased. There was a sudden dropping from the trees and bushes every now +and then, as each passing wind shook their boughs. Among these sounds Stockdale +heard the faint fall of feet upon the road outside, and he guessed from the +step that it was Lizzy’s. He followed the sound, and, helped by the +circumstance of the wind blowing from the direction in which the pedestrian +moved, he got nearly close to her, and kept there, without risk of being +overheard. While he thus followed her up the street or lane, as it might +indifferently be called, there being more hedge than houses on either side, a +figure came forward to her from one of the cottage doors. Lizzy stopped; the +minister stepped upon the grass and stopped also. +</p> + +<p> +‘Is that Mrs. Newberry?’ said the man who had come out, whose voice +Stockdale recognized as that of one of the most devout members of his +congregation. +</p> + +<p> +‘It is,’ said Lizzy. +</p> + +<p> +‘I be quite ready—I’ve been here this quarter-hour.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Ah, John,’ said she, ‘I have bad news; there is danger +to-night for our venture.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘And d’ye tell o’t! I dreamed there might be.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Yes,’ she said hurriedly; ‘and you must go at once round to +where the chaps are waiting, and tell them they will not be wanted till +to-morrow night at the same time. I go to burn the lugger off.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘I will,’ he said; and instantly went off through a gate, Lizzy +continuing her way. +</p> + +<p> +On she tripped at a quickening pace till the lane turned into the +turnpike-road, which she crossed, and got into the track for Ringsworth. Here +she ascended the hill without the least hesitation, passed the lonely hamlet of +Holworth, and went down the vale on the other side. Stockdale had never taken +any extensive walks in this direction, but he was aware that if she persisted +in her course much longer she would draw near to the coast, which was here +between two and three miles distant from Nether-Moynton; and as it had been +about a quarter-past eleven o’clock when they set out, her intention +seemed to be to reach the shore about midnight. +</p> + +<p> +Lizzy soon ascended a small mound, which Stockdale at the same time adroitly +skirted on the left; and a dull monotonous roar burst upon his ear. The hillock +was about fifty yards from the top of the cliffs, and by day it apparently +commanded a full view of the bay. There was light enough in the sky to show her +disguised figure against it when she reached the top, where she paused, and +afterwards sat down. Stockdale, not wishing on any account to alarm her at this +moment, yet desirous of being near her, sank upon his hands and knees, crept a +little higher up, and there stayed still. +</p> + +<p> +The wind was chilly, the ground damp, and his position one in which he did not +care to remain long. However, before he had decided to leave it, the young man +heard voices behind him. What they signified he did not know; but, fearing that +Lizzy was in danger, he was about to run forward and warn her that she might be +seen, when she crept to the shelter of a little bush which maintained a +precarious existence in that exposed spot; and her form was absorbed in its +dark and stunted outline as if she had become part of it. She had evidently +heard the men as well as he. They passed near him, talking in loud and careless +tones, which could be heard above the uninterrupted washings of the sea, and +which suggested that they were not engaged in any business at their own risk. +This proved to be the fact: some of their words floated across to him, and +caused him to forget at once the coldness of his situation. +</p> + +<p> +‘What’s the vessel?’ +</p> + +<p> +‘A lugger, about fifty tons.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘From Cherbourg, I suppose?’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Yes, ’a b’lieve.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘But it don’t all belong to Owlett?’ +</p> + +<p> +‘O no. He’s only got a share. There’s another or two in +it—a farmer and such like, but the names I don’t know.’ +</p> + +<p> +The voices died away, and the heads and shoulders of the men diminished towards +the cliff, and dropped out of sight. +</p> + +<p> +‘My darling has been tempted to buy a share by that unbeliever +Owlett,’ groaned the minister, his honest affection for Lizzy having +quickened to its intensest point during these moments of risk to her person and +name. ‘That’s why she’s here,’ he said to himself. +‘O, it will be the ruin of her!’ +</p> + +<p> +His perturbation was interrupted by the sudden bursting out of a bright and +increasing light from the spot where Lizzy was in hiding. A few seconds later, +and before it had reached the height of a blaze, he heard her rush past him +down the hollow like a stone from a sling, in the direction of home. The light +now flared high and wide, and showed its position clearly. She had kindled a +bough of furze and stuck it into the bush under which she had been crouching; +the wind fanned the flame, which crackled fiercely, and threatened to consume +the bush as well as the bough. Stockdale paused just long enough to notice thus +much, and then followed rapidly the route taken by the young woman. His +intention was to overtake her, and reveal himself as a friend; but run as he +would he could see nothing of her. Thus he flew across the open country about +Holworth, twisting his legs and ankles in unexpected fissures and descents, +till, on coming to the gate between the downs and the road, he was forced to +pause to get breath. There was no audible movement either in front or behind +him, and he now concluded that she had not outrun him, but that, hearing him at +her heels, and believing him one of the excise party, she had hidden herself +somewhere on the way, and let him pass by. +</p> + +<p> +He went on at a more leisurely pace towards the village. On reaching the house +he found his surmise to be correct, for the gate was on the latch, and the door +unfastened, just as he had left them. Stockdale closed the door behind him, and +waited silently in the passage. In about ten minutes he heard the same light +footstep that he had heard in going out; it paused at the gate, which opened +and shut softly, and then the door-latch was lifted, and Lizzy came in. +</p> + +<p> +Stockdale went forward and said at once, ‘Lizzy, don’t be +frightened. I have been waiting up for you.’ +</p> + +<p> +She started, though she had recognized the voice. ‘It is Mr. Stockdale, +isn’t it?’ she said. +</p> + +<p> +‘Yes,’ he answered, becoming angry now that she was safe indoors, +and not alarmed. ‘And a nice game I’ve found you out in to-night. +You are in man’s clothes, and I am ashamed of you!’ +</p> + +<p> +Lizzy could hardly find a voice to answer this unexpected reproach. +</p> + +<p> +‘I am only partly in man’s clothes,’ she faltered, shrinking +back to the wall. ‘It is only his greatcoat and hat and breeches that +I’ve got on, which is no harm, as he was my own husband; and I do it only +because a cloak blows about so, and you can’t use your arms. I have got +my own dress under just the same—it is only tucked in! Will you go away +upstairs and let me pass? I didn’t want you to see me at such a time as +this!’ +</p> + +<p> +‘But I have a right to see you! How do you think there can be anything +between us now?’ Lizzy was silent. ‘You are a smuggler,’ he +continued sadly. +</p> + +<p> +‘I have only a share in the run,’ she said. +</p> + +<p> +‘That makes no difference. Whatever did you engage in such a trade as +that for, and keep it such a secret from me all this time?’ +</p> + +<p> +‘I don’t do it always. I only do it in winter-time when ’tis +new moon.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Well, I suppose that’s because it can’t be done anywhen else +. . . You have regularly upset me, Lizzy.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘I am sorry for that,’ Lizzy meekly replied. +</p> + +<p> +‘Well now,’ said he more tenderly, ‘no harm is done as yet. +Won’t you for the sake of me give up this blamable and dangerous practice +altogether?’ +</p> + +<p> +‘I must do my best to save this run,’ said she, getting rather +husky in the throat. ‘I don’t want to give you up—you know +that; but I don’t want to lose my venture. I don’t know what to do +now! Why I have kept it so secret from you is that I was afraid you would be +angry if you knew.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘I should think so! I suppose if I had married you without finding this +out you’d have gone on with it just the same?’ +</p> + +<p> +‘I don’t know. I did not think so far ahead. I only went to-night +to burn the folks off, because we found that the excisemen knew where the tubs +were to be landed.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘It is a pretty mess to be in altogether, is this,’ said the +distracted young minister. ‘Well, what will you do now?’ +</p> + +<p> +Lizzy slowly murmured the particulars of their plan, the chief of which were +that they meant to try their luck at some other point of the shore the next +night; that three landing-places were always agreed upon before the run was +attempted, with the understanding that, if the vessel was ‘burnt +off’ from the first point, which was Ringsworth, as it had been by her +to-night, the crew should attempt to make the second, which was Lulstead Cove, +on the second night; and if there, too, danger threatened, they should on the +third night try the third place, which was behind a headland further west. +</p> + +<p> +‘Suppose the officers hinder them landing there too?’ he said, his +attention to this interesting programme displacing for a moment his concern at +her share in it. +</p> + +<p> +‘Then we shan’t try anywhere else all this dark—that’s +what we call the time between moon and moon—and perhaps they’ll +string the tubs to a stray-line, and sink ’em a little-ways from shore, +and take the bearings; and then when they have a chance they’ll go to +creep for ’em.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘What’s that?’ +</p> + +<p> +‘O, they’ll go out in a boat and drag a creeper—that’s +a grapnel—along the bottom till it catch hold of the stray-line.’ +</p> + +<p> +The minister stood thinking; and there was no sound within doors but the tick +of the clock on the stairs, and the quick breathing of Lizzy, partly from her +walk and partly from agitation, as she stood close to the wall, not in such +complete darkness but that he could discern against its whitewashed surface the +greatcoat and broad hat which covered her. +</p> + +<p> +‘Lizzy, all this is very wrong,’ he said. ‘Don’t you +remember the lesson of the tribute-money? “Render unto Caesar the things +that are Caesar’s.” Surely you have heard that read times enough in +your growing up?’ +</p> + +<p> +‘He’s dead,’ she pouted. +</p> + +<p> +‘But the spirit of the text is in force just the same.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘My father did it, and so did my grandfather, and almost everybody in +Nether-Moynton lives by it, and life would be so dull if it wasn’t for +that, that I should not care to live at all.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘I am nothing to live for, of course,’ he replied bitterly. +‘You would not think it worth while to give up this wild business and +live for me alone?’ +</p> + +<p> +‘I have never looked at it like that.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘And you won’t promise and wait till I am ready?’ +</p> + +<p> +‘I cannot give you my word to-night.’ And, looking thoughtfully +down, she gradually moved and moved away, going into the adjoining room, and +closing the door between them. She remained there in the dark till he was tired +of waiting, and had gone up to his own chamber. +</p> + +<p> +Poor Stockdale was dreadfully depressed all the next day by the discoveries of +the night before. Lizzy was unmistakably a fascinating young woman, but as a +minister’s wife she was hardly to be contemplated. ‘If I had only +stuck to father’s little grocery business, instead of going in for the +ministry, she would have suited me beautifully!’ he said sadly, until he +remembered that in that case he would never have come from his distant home to +Nether-Moynton, and never have known her. +</p> + +<p> +The estrangement between them was not complete, but it was sufficient to keep +them out of each other’s company. Once during the day he met her in the +garden-path, and said, turning a reproachful eye upon her, ‘Do you +promise, Lizzy?’ But she did not reply. The evening drew on, and he knew +well enough that Lizzy would repeat her excursion at night—her +half-offended manner had shown that she had not the slightest intention of +altering her plans at present. He did not wish to repeat his own share of the +adventure; but, act as he would, his uneasiness on her account increased with +the decline of day. Supposing that an accident should befall her, he would +never forgive himself for not being there to help, much as he disliked the idea +of seeming to countenance such unlawful escapades. +</p> + +<h3>CHAPTER V—HOW THEY WENT TO LULSTEAD COVE</h3> + +<p> +As he had expected, she left the house at the same hour at night, this time +passing his door without stealth, as if she knew very well that he would be +watching, and were resolved to brave his displeasure. He was quite ready, +opened the door quickly, and reached the back door almost as soon as she. +</p> + +<p> +‘Then you will go, Lizzy?’ he said as he stood on the step beside +her, who now again appeared as a little man with a face altogether unsuited to +his clothes. +</p> + +<p> +‘I must,’ she said, repressed by his stern manner. +</p> + +<p> +‘Then I shall go too,’ said he. +</p> + +<p> +‘And I am sure you will enjoy it!’ she exclaimed in more buoyant +tones. ‘Everybody does who tries it.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘God forbid that I should!’ he said. ‘But I must look after +you.’ +</p> + +<p> +They opened the wicket and went up the road abreast of each other, but at some +distance apart, scarcely a word passing between them. The evening was rather +less favourable to smuggling enterprise than the last had been, the wind being +lower, and the sky somewhat clear towards the north. +</p> + +<p> +‘It is rather lighter,’ said Stockdale. +</p> + +<p> +‘’Tis, unfortunately,’ said she. ‘But it is only from +those few stars over there. The moon was new to-day at four o’clock, and +I expected clouds. I hope we shall be able to do it this dark, for when we have +to sink ’em for long it makes the stuff taste bleachy, and folks +don’t like it so well.’ +</p> + +<p> +Her course was different from that of the preceding night, branching off to the +left over Lord’s Barrow as soon as they had got out of the lane and +crossed the highway. By the time they reached Chaldon Down, Stockdale, who had +been in perplexed thought as to what he should say to her, decided that he +would not attempt expostulation now, while she was excited by the adventure, +but wait till it was over, and endeavour to keep her from such practices in +future. It occurred to him once or twice, as they rambled on, that should they +be surprised by the excisemen, his situation would be more awkward than hers, +for it would be difficult to prove his true motive in coming to the spot; but +the risk was a slight consideration beside his wish to be with her. +</p> + +<p> +They now arrived at a ravine which lay on the outskirts of Chaldon, a village +two miles on their way towards the point of the shore they sought. Lizzy broke +the silence this time: ‘I have to wait here to meet the carriers. I +don’t know if they have come yet. As I told you, we go to Lulstead Cove +to-night, and it is two miles further than Ringsworth.’ +</p> + +<p> +It turned out that the men had already come; for while she spoke two or three +dozen heads broke the line of the slope, and a company of them at once +descended from the bushes where they had been lying in wait. These carriers +were men whom Lizzy and other proprietors regularly employed to bring the tubs +from the boat to a hiding-place inland. They were all young fellows of +Nether-Moynton, Chaldon, and the neighbourhood, quiet and inoffensive persons, +who simply engaged to carry the cargo for Lizzy and her cousin Owlett, as they +would have engaged in any other labour for which they were fairly well paid. +</p> + +<p> +At a word from her they closed in together. ‘You had better take it +now,’ she said to them; and handed to each a packet. It contained six +shillings, their remuneration for the night’s undertaking, which was paid +beforehand without reference to success or failure; but, besides this, they had +the privilege of selling as agents when the run was successfully made. As soon +as it was done, she said to them, ‘The place is the old one near Lulstead +Cove;’ the men till that moment not having been told whither they were +bound, for obvious reasons. ‘Owlett will meet you there,’ added +Lizzy. ‘I shall follow behind, to see that we are not watched.’ +</p> + +<p> +The carriers went on, and Stockdale and Mrs. Newberry followed at a distance of +a stone’s throw. ‘What do these men do by day?’ he said. +</p> + +<p> +‘Twelve or fourteen of them are labouring men. Some are brickmakers, some +carpenters, some shoe-makers, some thatchers. They are all known to me very +well. Nine of ’em are of your own congregation.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘I can’t help that,’ said Stockdale. +</p> + +<p> +‘O, I know you can’t. I only told you. The others are more +church-inclined, because they supply the pa’son with all the spirits he +requires, and they don’t wish to show unfriendliness to a +customer.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘How do you choose ’em?’ said Stockdale. +</p> + +<p> +‘We choose ’em for their closeness, and because they are strong and +surefooted, and able to carry a heavy load a long way without being +tired.’ +</p> + +<p> +Stockdale sighed as she enumerated each particular, for it proved how far +involved in the business a woman must be who was so well acquainted with its +conditions and needs. And yet he felt more tenderly towards her at this moment +than he had felt all the foregoing day. Perhaps it was that her experienced +manner and hold indifference stirred his admiration in spite of himself. +</p> + +<p> +‘Take my arm, Lizzy,’ he murmured. +</p> + +<p> +‘I don’t want it,’ she said. ‘Besides, we may never be +to each other again what we once have been.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘That depends upon you,’ said he, and they went on again as before. +</p> + +<p> +The hired carriers paced along over Chaldon Down with as little hesitation as +if it had been day, avoiding the cart-way, and leaving the village of East +Chaldon on the left, so as to reach the crest of the hill at a lonely trackless +place not far from the ancient earthwork called Round Pound. An hour’s +brisk walking brought them within sound of the sea, not many hundred yards from +Lulstead Cove. Here they paused, and Lizzy and Stockdale came up with them, +when they went on together to the verge of the cliff. One of the men now +produced an iron bar, which he drove firmly into the soil a yard from the edge, +and attached to it a rope that he had uncoiled from his body. They all began to +descend, partly stepping, partly sliding down the incline, as the rope slipped +through their hands. +</p> + +<p> +‘You will not go to the bottom, Lizzy?’ said Stockdale anxiously. +</p> + +<p> +‘No. I stay here to watch,’ she said. ‘Owlett is down +there.’ +</p> + +<p> +The men remained quite silent when they reached the shore; and the next thing +audible to the two at the top was the dip of heavy oars, and the dashing of +waves against a boat’s bow. In a moment the keel gently touched the +shingle, and Stockdale heard the footsteps of the thirty-six carriers running +forwards over the pebbles towards the point of landing. +</p> + +<p> +There was a sousing in the water as of a brood of ducks plunging in, showing +that the men had not been particular about keeping their legs, or even their +waists, dry from the brine: but it was impossible to see what they were doing, +and in a few minutes the shingle was trampled again. The iron bar sustaining +the rope, on which Stockdale’s hand rested, began to swerve a little, and +the carriers one by one appeared climbing up the sloping cliff; dripping +audibly as they came, and sustaining themselves by the guide-rope. Each man on +reaching the top was seen to be carrying a pair of tubs, one on his back and +one on his chest, the two being slung together by cords passing round the chine +hoops, and resting on the carrier’s shoulders. Some of the stronger men +carried three by putting an extra one on the top behind, but the customary load +was a pair, these being quite weighty enough to give their bearer the sensation +of having chest and backbone in contact after a walk of four or five miles. +</p> + +<p> +‘Where is Owlett?’ said Lizzy to one of them. +</p> + +<p> +‘He will not come up this way,’ said the carrier. ‘He’s +to bide on shore till we be safe off.’ Then, without waiting for the +rest, the foremost men plunged across the down; and, when the last had +ascended, Lizzy pulled up the rope, wound it round her arm, wriggled the bar +from the sod, and turned to follow the carriers. +</p> + +<p> +‘You are very anxious about Owlett’s safety,’ said the +minister. +</p> + +<p> +‘Was there ever such a man!’ said Lizzy. ‘Why, isn’t he +my cousin?’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Yes. Well, it is a bad night’s work,’ said Stockdale +heavily. ‘But I’ll carry the bar and rope for you.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Thank God, the tubs have got so far all right,’ said she. +</p> + +<p> +Stockdale shook his head, and, taking the bar, walked by her side towards the +downs; and the moan of the sea was heard no more. +</p> + +<p> +‘Is this what you meant the other day when you spoke of having business +with Owlett?’ the young man asked. +</p> + +<p> +‘This is it,’ she replied. ‘I never see him on any other +matter.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘A partnership of that kind with a young man is very odd.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘It was begun by my father and his, who were brother-laws.’ +</p> + +<p> +Her companion could not blind himself to the fact that where tastes and +pursuits were so akin as Lizzy’s and Owlett’s, and where risks were +shared, as with them, in every undertaking, there would be a peculiar +appropriateness in her answering Owlett’s standing question on matrimony +in the affirmative. This did not soothe Stockdale, its tendency being rather to +stimulate in him an effort to make the pair as inappropriate as possible, and +win her away from this nocturnal crew to correctness of conduct and a +minister’s parlour in some far-removed inland county. +</p> + +<p> +They had been walking near enough to the file of carriers for Stockdale to +perceive that, when they got into the road to the village, they split up into +two companies of unequal size, each of which made off in a direction of its +own. One company, the smaller of the two, went towards the church, and by the +time that Lizzy and Stockdale reached their own house these men had scaled the +churchyard wall, and were proceeding noiselessly over the grass within. +</p> + +<p> +‘I see that Owlett has arranged for one batch to be put in the church +again,’ observed Lizzy. ‘Do you remember my taking you there the +first night you came?’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Yes, of course,’ said Stockdale. ‘No wonder you had +permission to broach the tubs—they were his, I suppose?’ +</p> + +<p> +‘No, they were not—they were mine; I had permission from myself. +The day after that they went several miles inland in a waggon-load of manure, +and sold very well.’ +</p> + +<p> +At this moment the group of men who had made off to the left some time before +began leaping one by one from the hedge opposite Lizzy’s house, and the +first man, who had no tubs upon his shoulders, came forward. +</p> + +<p> +‘Mrs. Newberry, isn’t it?’ he said hastily. +</p> + +<p> +‘Yes, Jim,’ said she. ‘What’s the matter?’ +</p> + +<p> +‘I find that we can’t put any in Badger’s Clump to-night, +Lizzy,’ said Owlett. ‘The place is watched. We must sling the +apple-tree in the orchet if there’s time. We can’t put any more +under the church lumber than I have sent on there, and my mixen hev already +more in en than is safe.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Very well,’ she said. ‘Be quick about it—that’s +all. What can I do?’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Nothing at all, please. Ah, it is the minister!—you two that +can’t do anything had better get indoors and not be zeed.’ +</p> + +<p> +While Owlett thus conversed, in a tone so full of contraband anxiety and so +free from lover’s jealousy, the men who followed him had been descending +one by one from the hedge; and it unfortunately happened that when the hindmost +took his leap, the cord slipped which sustained his tubs: the result was that +both the kegs fell into the road, one of them being stove in by the blow. +</p> + +<p> +‘’Od drown it all!’ said Owlett, rushing back. +</p> + +<p> +‘It is worth a good deal, I suppose?’ said Stockdale. +</p> + +<p> +‘O no—about two guineas and half to us now,’ said Lizzy +excitedly. ‘It isn’t that—it is the smell! It is so blazing +strong before it has been lowered by water, that it smells dreadfully when +spilt in the road like that! I do hope Latimer won’t pass by till it is +gone off.’ +</p> + +<p> +Owlett and one or two others picked up the burst tub and began to scrape and +trample over the spot, to disperse the liquor as much as possible; and then +they all entered the gate of Owlett’s orchard, which adjoined +Lizzy’s garden on the right. Stockdale did not care to follow them, for +several on recognizing him had looked wonderingly at his presence, though they +said nothing. Lizzy left his side and went to the bottom of the garden, looking +over the hedge into the orchard, where the men could be dimly seen bustling +about, and apparently hiding the tubs. All was done noiselessly, and without a +light; and when it was over they dispersed in different directions, those who +had taken their cargoes to the church having already gone off to their homes. +</p> + +<p> +Lizzy returned to the garden-gate, over which Stockdale was still abstractedly +leaning. ‘It is all finished: I am going indoors now,’ she said +gently. ‘I will leave the door ajar for you.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘O no—you needn’t,’ said Stockdale; ‘I am coming +too.’ +</p> + +<p> +But before either of them had moved, the faint clatter of horses’ hoofs +broke upon the ear, and it seemed to come from the point where the track across +the down joined the hard road. +</p> + +<p> +‘They are just too late!’ cried Lizzy exultingly. +</p> + +<p> +‘Who?’ said Stockdale. +</p> + +<p> +‘Latimer, the riding-officer, and some assistant of his. We had better go +indoors.’ +</p> + +<p> +They entered the house, and Lizzy bolted the door. ‘Please don’t +get a light, Mr. Stockdale,’ she said. +</p> + +<p> +‘Of course I will not,’ said he. +</p> + +<p> +‘I thought you might be on the side of the king,’ said Lizzy, with +faintest sarcasm. +</p> + +<p> +‘I am,’ said Stockdale. ‘But, Lizzy Newberry, I love you, and +you know it perfectly well; and you ought to know, if you do not, what I have +suffered in my conscience on your account these last few days!’ +</p> + +<p> +‘I guess very well,’ she said hurriedly. ‘Yet I don’t +see why. Ah, you are better than I!’ +</p> + +<p> +The trotting of the horses seemed to have again died away, and the pair of +listeners touched each other’s fingers in the cold +‘Good-night’ of those whom something seriously divided. They were +on the landing, but before they had taken three steps apart, the tramp of the +horsemen suddenly revived, almost close to the house. Lizzy turned to the +staircase window, opened the casement about an inch, and put her face close to +the aperture. ‘Yes, one of ’em is Latimer,’ she whispered. +‘He always rides a white horse. One would think it was the last colour +for a man in that line.’ +</p> + +<p> +Stockdale looked, and saw the white shape of the animal as it passed by; but +before the riders had gone another ten yards, Latimer reined in his horse, and +said something to his companion which neither Stockdale nor Lizzy could hear. +Its drift was, however, soon made evident, for the other man stopped also; and +sharply turning the horses’ heads they cautiously retraced their steps. +When they were again opposite Mrs. Newberry’s garden, Latimer dismounted, +and the man on the dark horse did the same. +</p> + +<p> +Lizzy and Stockdale, intently listening and observing the proceedings, +naturally put their heads as close as possible to the slit formed by the +slightly opened casement; and thus it occurred that at last their cheeks came +positively into contact. They went on listening, as if they did not know of the +singular incident which had happened to their faces, and the pressure of each +to each rather increased than lessened with the lapse of time. +</p> + +<p> +They could hear the excisemen sniffing the air like hounds as they paced slowly +along. When they reached the spot where the tub had burst, both stopped on the +instant. +</p> + +<p> +‘Ay, ay, ’tis quite strong here,’ said the second officer. +‘Shall we knock at the door?’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Well, no,’ said Latimer. ‘Maybe this is only a trick to put +us off the scent. They wouldn’t kick up this stink anywhere near their +hiding-place. I have known such things before.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Anyhow, the things, or some of ’em, must have been brought this +way,’ said the other. +</p> + +<p> +‘Yes,’ said Latimer musingly. ‘Unless ’tis all done to +tole us the wrong way. I have a mind that we go home for to-night without +saying a word, and come the first thing in the morning with more hands. I know +they have storages about here, but we can do nothing by this owl’s light. +We will look round the parish and see if everybody is in bed, John; and if all +is quiet, we will do as I say.’ +</p> + +<p> +They went on, and the two inside the window could hear them passing leisurely +through the whole village, the street of which curved round at the bottom and +entered the turnpike road at another junction. This way the excisemen followed, +and the amble of their horses died quite away. +</p> + +<p> +‘What will you do?’ said Stockdale, withdrawing from his position. +</p> + +<p> +She knew that he alluded to the coming search by the officers, to divert her +attention from their own tender incident by the casement, which he wished to be +passed over as a thing rather dreamt of than done. ‘O, nothing,’ +she replied, with as much coolness as she could command under her +disappointment at his manner. ‘We often have such storms as this. You +would not be frightened if you knew what fools they are. Fancy riding o’ +horseback through the place: of course they will hear and see nobody while they +make that noise; but they are always afraid to get off, in case some of our +fellows should burst out upon ’em, and tie them up to the gate-post, as +they have done before now. Good-night, Mr. Stockdale.’ +</p> + +<p> +She closed the window and went to her room, where a tear fell from her eyes; +and that not because of the alertness of the riding-officers. +</p> + +<h3>CHAPTER VI—THE GREAT SEARCH AT NETHER-MOYNTON</h3> + +<p> +Stockdale was so excited by the events of the evening, and the dilemma that he +was placed in between conscience and love, that he did not sleep, or even doze, +but remained as broadly awake as at noonday. As soon as the grey light began to +touch ever so faintly the whiter objects in his bedroom he arose, dressed +himself, and went downstairs into the road. +</p> + +<p> +The village was already astir. Several of the carriers had heard the well-known +tramp of Latimer’s horse while they were undressing in the dark that +night, and had already communicated with each other and Owlett on the subject. +The only doubt seemed to be about the safety of those tubs which had been left +under the church gallery-stairs, and after a short discussion at the corner of +the mill, it was agreed that these should be removed before it got lighter, and +hidden in the middle of a double hedge bordering the adjoining field. However, +before anything could be carried into effect, the footsteps of many men were +heard coming down the lane from the highway. +</p> + +<p> +‘Damn it, here they be,’ said Owlett, who, having already drawn the +hatch and started his mill for the day, stood stolidly at the mill-door covered +with flour, as if the interest of his whole soul was bound up in the shaking +walls around him. +</p> + +<p> +The two or three with whom he had been talking dispersed to their usual work, +and when the excise officers, and the formidable body of men they had hired, +reached the village cross, between the mill and Mrs. Newberry’s house, +the village wore the natural aspect of a place beginning its morning labours. +</p> + +<p> +‘Now,’ said Latimer to his associates, who numbered thirteen men in +all, ‘what I know is that the things are somewhere in this here place. We +have got the day before us, and ’tis hard if we can’t light upon +’em and get ’em to Budmouth Custom-house before night. First we +will try the fuel-houses, and then we’ll work our way into the chimmers, +and then to the ricks and stables, and so creep round. You have nothing but +your noses to guide ye, mind, so use ’em to-day if you never did in your +lives before.’ +</p> + +<p> +Then the search began. Owlett, during the early part, watched from his +mill-window, Lizzy from the door of her house, with the greatest +self-possession. A farmer down below, who also had a share in the run, rode +about with one eye on his fields and the other on Latimer and his myrmidons, +prepared to put them off the scent if he should be asked a question. Stockdale, +who was no smuggler at all, felt more anxiety than the worst of them, and went +about his studies with a heavy heart, coming frequently to the door to ask +Lizzy some question or other on the consequences to her of the tubs being +found. +</p> + +<p> +‘The consequences,’ she said quietly, ‘are simply that I +shall lose ’em. As I have none in the house or garden, they can’t +touch me personally.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘But you have some in the orchard?’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Owlett rents that of me, and he lends it to others. So it will be hard +to say who put any tubs there if they should be found.’ +</p> + +<p> +There was never such a tremendous sniffing known as that which took place in +Nether-Moynton parish and its vicinity this day. All was done methodically, and +mostly on hands and knees. At different hours of the day they had different +plans. From daybreak to breakfast-time the officers used their sense of smell +in a direct and straightforward manner only, pausing nowhere but at such places +as the tubs might be supposed to be secreted in at that very moment, pending +their removal on the following night. Among the places tested and examined were +</p> + +<table summary="" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto"> + +<tr> +<td>Hollow trees</td><td>Cupboards</td><td>Culverts</td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td>Potato-graves</td><td>Clock-cases</td><td>Hedgerows</td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td>Fuel-houses</td><td>Chimney-flues</td><td>Faggot-ricks</td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td>Bedrooms</td><td>Rainwater-butts</td><td>Haystacks</td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td>Apple-lofts</td><td>Pigsties</td><td>Coppers and ovens.</td> +</tr> + +</table> + +<p> +After breakfast they recommenced with renewed vigour, taking a new line; that +is to say, directing their attention to clothes that might be supposed to have +come in contact with the tubs in their removal from the shore, such garments +being usually tainted with the spirit, owing to its oozing between the staves. +They now sniffed at— +</p> + +<table summary="" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto"> + +<tr> +<td>Smock-frocks</td><td>Smiths’ and shoemakers’ aprons</td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td>Old shirts and waistcoats</td><td>Knee-naps and hedging-gloves</td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td>Coats and hats</td><td>Tarpaulins</td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td>Breeches and leggings</td><td>Market-cloaks</td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td>Women’s shawls and gowns</td><td>Scarecrows</td> +</tr> + +</table> + +<p> +And as soon as the mid-day meal was over, they pushed their search into places +where the spirits might have been thrown away in alarm:- +</p> + +<table summary="" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto"> + +<tr> +<td>Horse-ponds</td><td>Mixens</td><td>Sinks in yards</td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td>Stable-drains</td><td>Wet ditches</td><td>Road-scrapings, and</td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td>Cinder-heaps</td><td>Cesspools</td><td>Back-door gutters.</td> +</tr> + +</table> + +<p> +But still these indefatigable excisemen discovered nothing more than the +original tell-tale smell in the road opposite Lizzy’s house, which even +yet had not passed off. +</p> + +<p> +‘I’ll tell ye what it is, men,’ said Latimer, about three +o’clock in the afternoon, ‘we must begin over again. Find them tubs +I will.’ +</p> + +<p> +The men, who had been hired for the day, looked at their hands and knees, muddy +with creeping on all fours so frequently, and rubbed their noses, as if they +had almost had enough of it; for the quantity of bad air which had passed into +each one’s nostril had rendered it nearly as insensible as a flue. +However, after a moment’s hesitation, they prepared to start anew, except +three, whose power of smell had quite succumbed under the excessive wear and +tear of the day. +</p> + +<p> +By this time not a male villager was to be seen in the parish. Owlett was not +at his mill, the farmers were not in their fields, the parson was not in his +garden, the smith had left his forge, and the wheelwright’s shop was +silent. +</p> + +<p> +‘Where the divil are the folk gone?’ said Latimer, waking up to the +fact of their absence, and looking round. ‘I’ll have ’em up +for this! Why don’t they come and help us? There’s not a man about +the place but the Methodist parson, and he’s an old woman. I demand +assistance in the king’s name!’ +</p> + +<p> +‘We must find the jineral public afore we can demand that,’ said +his lieutenant. +</p> + +<p> +‘Well, well, we shall do better without ’em,’ said Latimer, +who changed his moods at a moment’s notice. ‘But there’s +great cause of suspicion in this silence and this keeping out of sight, and +I’ll bear it in mind. Now we will go across to Owlett’s orchard, +and see what we can find there.’ +</p> + +<p> +Stockdale, who heard this discussion from the garden-gate, over which he had +been leaning, was rather alarmed, and thought it a mistake of the villagers to +keep so completely out of the way. He himself, like the excisemen, had been +wondering for the last half-hour what could have become of them. Some labourers +were of necessity engaged in distant fields, but the master-workmen should have +been at home; though one and all, after just showing themselves at their shops, +had apparently gone off for the day. He went in to Lizzy, who sat at a back +window sewing, and said, ‘Lizzy, where are the men?’ +</p> + +<p> +Lizzy laughed. ‘Where they mostly are when they’re run so hard as +this.’ She cast her eyes to heaven. ‘Up there,’ she said. +</p> + +<p> +Stockdale looked up. ‘What—on the top of the church tower?’ +he asked, seeing the direction of her glance. +</p> + +<p> +‘Yes.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Well, I expect they will soon have to come down,’ said he gravely. +‘I have been listening to the officers, and they are going to search the +orchard over again, and then every nook in the church.’ +</p> + +<p> +Lizzy looked alarmed for the first time. ‘Will you go and tell our +folk?’ she said. ‘They ought to be let know.’ Seeing his +conscience struggling within him like a boiling pot, she added, ‘No, +never mind, I’ll go myself.’ +</p> + +<p> +She went out, descended the garden, and climbed over the churchyard wall at the +same time that the preventive-men were ascending the road to the orchard. +Stockdale could do no less than follow her. By the time that she reached the +tower entrance he was at her side, and they entered together. +</p> + +<p> +Nether-Moynton church-tower was, as in many villages, without a turret, and the +only way to the top was by going up to the singers’ gallery, and thence +ascending by a ladder to a square trap-door in the floor of the bell-loft, +above which a permanent ladder was fixed, passing through the bells to a hole +in the roof. When Lizzy and Stockdale reached the gallery and looked up, +nothing but the trap-door and the five holes for the bell-ropes appeared. The +ladder was gone. +</p> + +<p> +‘There’s no getting up,’ said Stockdale. +</p> + +<p> +‘O yes, there is,’ said she. ‘There’s an eye looking at +us at this moment through a knot-hole in that trap-door.’ +</p> + +<p> +And as she spoke the trap opened, and the dark line of the ladder was seen +descending against the white-washed wall. When it touched the bottom Lizzy +dragged it to its place, and said, ‘If you’ll go up, I’ll +follow.’ +</p> + +<p> +The young man ascended, and presently found himself among consecrated bells for +the first time in his life, nonconformity having been in the Stockdale blood +for some generations. He eyed them uneasily, and looked round for Lizzy. Owlett +stood here, holding the top of the ladder. +</p> + +<p> +‘What, be you really one of us?’ said the miller. +</p> + +<p> +‘It seems so,’ said Stockdale sadly. +</p> + +<p> +‘He’s not,’ said Lizzy, who overheard. ‘He’s +neither for nor against us. He’ll do us no harm.’ +</p> + +<p> +She stepped up beside them, and then they went on to the next stage, which, +when they had clambered over the dusty bell-carriages, was of easy ascent, +leading towards the hole through which the pale sky appeared, and into the open +air. Owlett remained behind for a moment, to pull up the lower ladder. +</p> + +<p> +‘Keep down your heads,’ said a voice, as soon as they set foot on +the flat. +</p> + +<p> +Stockdale here beheld all the missing parishioners, lying on their stomachs on +the tower roof, except a few who, elevated on their hands and knees, were +peeping through the embrasures of the parapet. Stockdale did the same, and saw +the village lying like a map below him, over which moved the figures of the +excisemen, each foreshortened to a crablike object, the crown of his hat +forming a circular disc in the centre of him. Some of the men had turned their +heads when the young preacher’s figure arose among them. +</p> + +<p> +‘What, Mr. Stockdale?’ said Matt Grey, in a tone of surprise. +</p> + +<p> +‘I’d as lief that it hadn’t been,’ said Jim Clarke. +‘If the pa’son should see him a trespassing here in his tower, +’twould be none the better for we, seeing how ’a do hate +chapel-members. He’d never buy a tub of us again, and he’s as good +a customer as we have got this side o’ Warm’ll.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Where is the pa’son?’ said Lizzy. +</p> + +<p> +‘In his house, to be sure, that he mid see nothing of what’s going +on—where all good folks ought to be, and this young man likewise.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Well, he has brought some news,’ said Lizzy. ‘They are going +to search the orchet and church; can we do anything if they should find?’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Yes,’ said her cousin Owlett. ‘That’s what we’ve +been talking o’, and we have settled our line. Well, be dazed!’ +</p> + +<p> +The exclamation was caused by his perceiving that some of the searchers, having +got into the orchard, and begun stooping and creeping hither and thither, were +pausing in the middle, where a tree smaller than the rest was growing. They +drew closer, and bent lower than ever upon the ground. +</p> + +<p> +‘O, my tubs!’ said Lizzy faintly, as she peered through the parapet +at them. +</p> + +<p> +‘They have got ’em, ’a b’lieve,’ said Owlett. +</p> + +<p> +The interest in the movements of the officers was so keen that not a single eye +was looking in any other direction; but at that moment a shout from the church +beneath them attracted the attention of the smugglers, as it did also of the +party in the orchard, who sprang to their feet and went towards the churchyard +wall. At the same time those of the Government men who had entered the church +unperceived by the smugglers cried aloud, ‘Here be some of ’em at +last.’ +</p> + +<p> +The smugglers remained in a blank silence, uncertain whether ‘some of +’em’ meant tubs or men; but again peeping cautiously over the edge +of the tower they learnt that tubs were the things descried; and soon these +fated articles were brought one by one into the middle of the churchyard from +their hiding-place under the gallery-stairs. +</p> + +<p> +‘They are going to put ’em on Hinton’s vault till they find +the rest!’ said Lizzy hopelessly. The excisemen had, in fact, begun to +pile up the tubs on a large stone slab which was fixed there; and when all were +brought out from the tower, two or three of the men were left standing by them, +the rest of the party again proceeding to the orchard. +</p> + +<p> +The interest of the smugglers in the next manoeuvres of their enemies became +painfully intense. Only about thirty tubs had been secreted in the lumber of +the tower, but seventy were hidden in the orchard, making up all that they had +brought ashore as yet, the remainder of the cargo having been tied to a sinker +and dropped overboard for another night’s operations. The excisemen, +having re-entered the orchard, acted as if they were positive that here lay +hidden the rest of the tubs, which they were determined to find before +nightfall. They spread themselves out round the field, and advancing on all +fours as before, went anew round every apple-tree in the enclosure. The young +tree in the middle again led them to pause, and at length the whole company +gathered there in a way which signified that a second chain of reasoning had +led to the same results as the first. +</p> + +<p> +When they had examined the sod hereabouts for some minutes, one of the men +rose, ran to a disused porch of the church where tools were kept, and returned +with the sexton’s pickaxe and shovel, with which they set to work. +</p> + +<p> +‘Are they really buried there?’ said the minister, for the grass +was so green and uninjured that it was difficult to believe it had been +disturbed. The smugglers were too interested to reply, and presently they saw, +to their chagrin, the officers stand several on each side of the tree; and, +stooping and applying their hands to the soil, they bodily lifted the tree and +the turf around it. The apple-tree now showed itself to be growing in a shallow +box, with handles for lifting at each of the four sides. Under the site of the +tree a square hole was revealed, and an exciseman went and looked down. +</p> + +<p> +‘It is all up now,’ said Owlett quietly. ‘And now all of ye +get down before they notice we are here; and be ready for our next move. I had +better bide here till dark, or they may take me on suspicion, as ’tis on +my ground. I’ll be with ye as soon as daylight begins to pink in.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘And I?’ said Lizzy. +</p> + +<p> +‘You please look to the linch-pins and screws; then go indoors and know +nothing at all. The chaps will do the rest.’ +</p> + +<p> +The ladder was replaced, and all but Owlett descended, the men passing off one +by one at the back of the church, and vanishing on their respective errands. +</p> + +<p> +Lizzy walked boldly along the street, followed closely by the minister. +</p> + +<p> +‘You are going indoors, Mrs. Newberry?’ he said. +</p> + +<p> +She knew from the words ‘Mrs. Newberry’ that the division between +them had widened yet another degree. +</p> + +<p> +‘I am not going home,’ she said. ‘I have a little thing to do +before I go in. Martha Sarah will get your tea.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘O, I don’t mean on that account,’ said Stockdale. +‘What <i>can</i> you have to do further in this unhallowed affair?’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Only a little,’ she said. +</p> + +<p> +‘What is that? I’ll go with you.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘No, I shall go by myself. Will you please go indoors? I shall be there +in less than an hour.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘You are not going to run any danger, Lizzy?’ said the young man, +his tenderness reasserting itself. +</p> + +<p> +‘None whatever—worth mentioning,’ answered she, and went down +towards the Cross. +</p> + +<p> +Stockdale entered the garden gate, and stood behind it looking on. The +excisemen were still busy in the orchard, and at last he was tempted to enter, +and watch their proceedings. When he came closer he found that the secret +cellar, of whose existence he had been totally unaware, was formed by timbers +placed across from side to side about a foot under the ground, and grassed +over. +</p> + +<p> +The excisemen looked up at Stockdale’s fair and downy countenance, and +evidently thinking him above suspicion, went on with their work again. As soon +as all the tubs were taken out, they began tearing up the turf; pulling out the +timbers, and breaking in the sides, till the cellar was wholly dismantled and +shapeless, the apple-tree lying with its roots high to the air. But the hole +which had in its time held so much contraband merchandize was never completely +filled up, either then or afterwards, a depression in the greensward marking +the spot to this day. +</p> + +<h3>CHAPTER VII—THE WALK TO WARM’ELL CROSS AND AFTERWARDS</h3> + +<p> +As the goods had all to be carried to Budmouth that night, the +excisemen’s next object was to find horses and carts for the journey, and +they went about the village for that purpose. Latimer strode hither and thither +with a lump of chalk in his hand, marking broad-arrows so vigorously on every +vehicle and set of harness that he came across, that it seemed as if he would +chalk broad-arrows on the very hedges and roads. The owner of every conveyance +so marked was bound to give it up for Government purposes. Stockdale, who had +had enough of the scene, turned indoors thoughtful and depressed. Lizzy was +already there, having come in at the back, though she had not yet taken off her +bonnet. She looked tired, and her mood was not much brighter than his own. They +had but little to say to each other; and the minister went away and attempted +to read; but at this he could not succeed, and he shook the little bell for +tea. +</p> + +<p> +Lizzy herself brought in the tray, the girl having run off into the village +during the afternoon, too full of excitement at the proceedings to remember her +state of life. However, almost before the sad lovers had said anything to each +other, Martha came in in a steaming state. +</p> + +<p> +‘O, there’s such a stoor, Mrs. Newberry and Mr. Stockdale! The +king’s excisemen can’t get the carts ready nohow at all! They +pulled Thomas Ballam’s, and William Rogers’s, and Stephen +Sprake’s carts into the road, and off came the wheels, and down fell the +carts; and they found there was no linch-pins in the arms; and then they tried +Samuel Shane’s waggon, and found that the screws were gone from he, and +at last they looked at the dairyman’s cart, and he’s got none +neither! They have gone now to the blacksmith’s to get some made, but +he’s nowhere to be found!’ +</p> + +<p> +Stockdale looked at Lizzy, who blushed very slightly, and went out of the room, +followed by Martha Sarah. But before they had got through the passage there was +a rap at the front door, and Stockdale recognized Latimer’s voice +addressing Mrs. Newberry, who had turned back. +</p> + +<p> +‘For God’s sake, Mrs. Newberry, have you seen Hardman the +blacksmith up this way? If we could get hold of him, we’d e’en +a’most drag him by the hair of his head to his anvil, where he ought to +be.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘He’s an idle man, Mr. Latimer,’ said Lizzy archly. +‘What do you want him for?’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Why, there isn’t a horse in the place that has got more than three +shoes on, and some have only two. The waggon-wheels be without strakes, and +there’s no linch-pins to the carts. What with that, and the bother about +every set of harness being out of order, we shan’t be off before +nightfall—upon my soul we shan’t. ’Tis a rough lot, Mrs. +Newberry, that you’ve got about you here; but they’ll play at this +game once too often, mark my words they will! There’s not a man in the +parish that don’t deserve to be whipped.’ +</p> + +<p> +It happened that Hardman was at that moment a little further up the lane, +smoking his pipe behind a holly-bush. When Latimer had done speaking he went on +in this direction, and Hardman, hearing the exciseman’s steps, found +curiosity too strong for prudence. He peeped out from the bush at the very +moment that Latimer’s glance was on it. There was nothing left for him to +do but to come forward with unconcern. +</p> + +<p> +‘I’ve been looking for you for the last hour!’ said Latimer +with a glare in his eye. +</p> + +<p> +‘Sorry to hear that,’ said Hardman. ‘I’ve been out for +a stroll, to look for more hid tubs, to deliver ’em up to +Gover’ment.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘O yes, Hardman, we know it,’ said Latimer, with withering sarcasm. +‘We know that you’ll deliver ’em up to Gover’ment. We +know that all the parish is helping us, and have been all day! Now you please +walk along with me down to your shop, and kindly let me hire ye in the +king’s name.’ +</p> + +<p> +They went down the lane together; and presently there resounded from the smithy +the ring of a hammer not very briskly swung. However, the carts and horses were +got into some sort of travelling condition, but it was not until after the +clock had struck six, when the muddy roads were glistening under the horizontal +light of the fading day. The smuggled tubs were soon packed into the vehicles, +and Latimer, with three of his assistants, drove slowly out of the village in +the direction of the port of Budmouth, some considerable number of miles +distant, the other excisemen being left to watch for the remainder of the +cargo, which they knew to have been sunk somewhere between Ringsworth and +Lulstead Cove, and to unearth Owlett, the only person clearly implicated by the +discovery of the cave. +</p> + +<p> +Women and children stood at the doors as the carts, each chalked with the +Government pitchfork, passed in the increasing twilight; and as they stood they +looked at the confiscated property with a melancholy expression that told only +too plainly the relation which they bore to the trade. +</p> + +<p> +‘Well, Lizzy,’ said Stockdale, when the crackle of the wheels had +nearly died away. ‘This is a fit finish to your adventure. I am truly +thankful that you have got off without suspicion, and the loss only of the +liquor. Will you sit down and let me talk to you?’ +</p> + +<p> +‘By and by,’ she said. ‘But I must go out now.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Not to that horrid shore again?’ he said blankly. +</p> + +<p> +‘No, not there. I am only going to see the end of this day’s +business.’ +</p> + +<p> +He did not answer to this, and she moved towards the door slowly, as if waiting +for him to say something more. +</p> + +<p> +‘You don’t offer to come with me,’ she added at last. +‘I suppose that’s because you hate me after all this?’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Can you say it, Lizzy, when you know I only want to save you from such +practices? Come with you of course I will, if it is only to take care of you. +But why will you go out again?’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Because I cannot rest indoors. Something is happening, and I must know +what. Now, come!’ And they went into the dusk together. +</p> + +<p> +When they reached the turnpike-road she turned to the right, and he soon +perceived that they were following the direction of the excisemen and their +load. He had given her his arm, and every now and then she suddenly pulled it +back, to signify that he was to halt a moment and listen. They had walked +rather quickly along the first quarter of a mile, and on the second or third +time of standing still she said, ‘I hear them ahead—don’t +you?’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Yes,’ he said; ‘I hear the wheels. But what of that?’ +</p> + +<p> +‘I only want to know if they get clear away from the +neighbourhood.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Ah,’ said he, a light breaking upon him. ‘Something +desperate is to be attempted!—and now I remember there was not a man +about the village when we left.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Hark!’ she murmured. The noise of the cartwheels had stopped, and +given place to another sort of sound. +</p> + +<p> +‘’Tis a scuffle!’ said Stockdale. ‘There’ll be +murder! Lizzy, let go my arm; I am going on. On my conscience, I must not stay +here and do nothing!’ +</p> + +<p> +‘There’ll be no murder, and not even a broken head,’ she +said. ‘Our men are thirty to four of them: no harm will be done at +all.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Then there <i>is</i> an attack!’ exclaimed Stockdale; ‘and +you knew it was to be. Why should you side with men who break the laws like +this?’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Why should you side with men who take from country traders what they +have honestly bought wi’ their own money in France?’ said she +firmly. +</p> + +<p> +‘They are not honestly bought,’ said he. +</p> + +<p> +‘They are,’ she contradicted. ‘I and Owlett and the others +paid thirty shillings for every one of the tubs before they were put on board +at Cherbourg, and if a king who is nothing to us sends his people to steal our +property, we have a right to steal it back again.’ +</p> + +<p> +Stockdale did not stop to argue the matter, but went quickly in the direction +of the noise, Lizzy keeping at his side. ‘Don’t you interfere, will +you, dear Richard?’ she said anxiously, as they drew near. +‘Don’t let us go any closer: ’tis at Warm’ell Cross +where they are seizing ’em. You can do no good, and you may meet with a +hard blow!’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Let us see first what is going on,’ he said. But before they had +got much further the noise of the cartwheels began again; and Stockdale soon +found that they were coming towards him. In another minute the three carts came +up, and Stockdale and Lizzy stood in the ditch to let them pass. +</p> + +<p> +Instead of being conducted by four men, as had happened when they went out of +the village, the horses and carts were now accompanied by a body of from twenty +to thirty, all of whom, as Stockdale perceived to his astonishment, had +blackened faces. Among them walked six or eight huge female figures, whom, from +their wide strides, Stockdale guessed to be men in disguise. As soon as the +party discerned Lizzy and her companion four or five fell back, and when the +carts had passed, came close to the pair. +</p> + +<p> +‘There is no walking up this way for the present,’ said one of the +gaunt women, who wore curls a foot long, dangling down the sides of her face, +in the fashion of the time. Stockdale recognized this lady’s voice as +Owlett’s. +</p> + +<p> +‘Why not?’ said Stockdale. ‘This is the public +highway.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Now look here, youngster,’ said Owlett. ‘O, ’tis the +Methodist parson!—what, and Mrs. Newberry! Well, you’d better not +go up that way, Lizzy. They’ve all run off, and folks have got their own +again.’ +</p> + +<p> +The miller then hastened on and joined his comrades. Stockdale and Lizzy also +turned back. ‘I wish all this hadn’t been forced upon us,’ +she said regretfully. ‘But if those excisemen had got off with the tubs, +half the people in the parish would have been in want for the next month or +two.’ +</p> + +<p> +Stockdale was not paying much attention to her words, and he said, ‘I +don’t think I can go back like this. Those four poor excisemen may be +murdered for all I know.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Murdered!’ said Lizzy impatiently. ‘We don’t do murder +here.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Well, I shall go as far as Warm’ell Cross to see,’ said +Stockdale decisively; and, without wishing her safe home or anything else, the +minister turned back. Lizzy stood looking at him till his form was absorbed in +the shades; and then, with sadness, she went in the direction of +Nether-Moynton. +</p> + +<p> +The road was lonely, and after nightfall at this time of the year there was +often not a passer for hours. Stockdale pursued his way without hearing a sound +beyond that of his own footsteps; and in due time he passed beneath the trees +of the plantation which surrounded the Warm’ell Cross-road. Before he had +reached the point of intersection he heard voices from the thicket. +</p> + +<p> +‘Hoi-hoi-hoi! Help, help!’ +</p> + +<p> +The voices were not at all feeble or despairing, but they were unmistakably +anxious. Stockdale had no weapon, and before plunging into the pitchy darkness +of the plantation he pulled a stake from the hedge, to use in case of need. +When he got among the trees he shouted—‘What’s the +matter—where are you?’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Here,’ answered the voices; and, pushing through the brambles in +that direction, he came near the objects of his search. +</p> + +<p> +‘Why don’t you come forward?’ said Stockdale. +</p> + +<p> +‘We be tied to the trees!’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Who are you?’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Poor Will Latimer the exciseman!’ said one plaintively. +‘Just come and cut these cords, there’s a good man. We were afraid +nobody would pass by to-night.’ +</p> + +<p> +Stockdale soon loosened them, upon which they stretched their limbs and stood +at their ease. +</p> + +<p> +‘The rascals!’ said Latimer, getting now into a rage, though he had +seemed quite meek when Stockdale first came up. ‘’Tis the same set +of fellows. I know they were Moynton chaps to a man.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘But we can’t swear to ’em,’ said another. ‘Not +one of ’em spoke.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘What are you going to do?’ said Stockdale. +</p> + +<p> +‘I’d fain go back to Moynton, and have at ’em again!’ +said Latimer. +</p> + +<p> +‘So would we!’ said his comrades. +</p> + +<p> +‘Fight till we die!’ said Latimer. +</p> + +<p> +‘We will, we will!’ said his men. +</p> + +<p> +‘But,’ said Latimer, more frigidly, as they came out of the +plantation, ‘we don’t <i>know</i> that these chaps with black faces +were Moynton men? And proof is a hard thing.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘So it is,’ said the rest. +</p> + +<p> +‘And therefore we won’t do nothing at all,’ said Latimer, +with complete dispassionateness. ‘For my part, I’d sooner be them +than we. The clitches of my arms are burning like fire from the cords those two +strapping women tied round ’em. My opinion is, now I have had time to +think o’t, that you may serve your Gover’ment at too high a price. +For these two nights and days I have not had an hour’s rest; and, please +God, here’s for home-along.’ +</p> + +<p> +The other officers agreed heartily to this course; and, thanking Stockdale for +his timely assistance, they parted from him at the Cross, taking themselves the +western road, and Stockdale going back to Nether-Moynton. +</p> + +<p> +During that walk the minister was lost in reverie of the most painful kind. As +soon as he got into the house, and before entering his own rooms, he advanced +to the door of the little back parlour in which Lizzy usually sat with her +mother. He found her there alone. Stockdale went forward, and, like a man in a +dream, looked down upon the table that stood between him and the young woman, +who had her bonnet and cloak still on. As he did not speak, she looked up from +her chair at him, with misgiving in her eye. +</p> + +<p> +‘Where are they gone?’ he then said listlessly. +</p> + +<p> +‘Who?—I don’t know. I have seen nothing of them since. I came +straight in here.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘If your men can manage to get off with those tubs, it will be a great +profit to you, I suppose?’ +</p> + +<p> +‘A share will be mine, a share my cousin Owlett’s, a share to each +of the two farmers, and a share divided amongst the men who helped us.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘And you still think,’ he went on slowly, ‘that you will not +give this business up?’ +</p> + +<p> +Lizzy rose, and put her hand upon his shoulder. ‘Don’t ask +that,’ she whispered. ‘You don’t know what you are asking. I +must tell you, though I meant not to do it. What I make by that trade is all I +have to keep my mother and myself with.’ +</p> + +<p> +He was astonished. ‘I did not dream of such a thing,’ he said. +‘I would rather have swept the streets, had I been you. What is money +compared with a clear conscience?’ +</p> + +<p> +‘My conscience is clear. I know my mother, but the king I have never +seen. His dues are nothing to me. But it is a great deal to me that my mother +and I should live.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Marry me, and promise to give it up. I will keep your mother.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘It is good of you,’ she said, trembling a little. ‘Let me +think of it by myself. I would rather not answer now.’ +</p> + +<p> +She reserved her answer till the next day, and came into his room with a solemn +face. ‘I cannot do what you wished!’ she said passionately. +‘It is too much to ask. My whole life ha’ been passed in this +way.’ Her words and manner showed that before entering she had been +struggling with herself in private, and that the contention had been strong. +</p> + +<p> +Stockdale turned pale, but he spoke quietly. ‘Then, Lizzy, we must part. +I cannot go against my principles in this matter, and I cannot make my +profession a mockery. You know how I love you, and what I would do for you; but +this one thing I cannot do.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘But why should you belong to that profession?’ she burst out. +‘I have got this large house; why can’t you marry me, and live here +with us, and not be a Methodist preacher any more? I assure you, Richard, it is +no harm, and I wish you could only see it as I do! We only carry it on in +winter: in summer it is never done at all. It stirs up one’s dull life at +this time o’ the year, and gives excitement, which I have got so used to +now that I should hardly know how to do ‘ithout it. At nights, when the +wind blows, instead of being dull and stupid, and not noticing whether it do +blow or not, your mind is afield, even if you are not afield yourself; and you +are wondering how the chaps are getting on; and you walk up and down the room, +and look out o’ window, and then you go out yourself, and know your way +about as well by night as by day, and have hairbreadth escapes from old Latimer +and his fellows, who are too stupid ever to really frighten us, and only make +us a bit nimble.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘He frightened you a little last night, anyhow: and I would advise you to +drop it before it is worse.’ +</p> + +<p> +She shook her head. ‘No, I must go on as I have begun. I was born to it. +It is in my blood, and I can’t be cured. O, Richard, you cannot think +what a hard thing you have asked, and how sharp you try me when you put me +between this and my love for ‘ee!’ +</p> + +<p> +Stockdale was leaning with his elbow on the mantelpiece, his hands over his +eyes. ‘We ought never to have met, Lizzy,’ he said. ‘It was +an ill day for us! I little thought there was anything so hopeless and +impossible in our engagement as this. Well, it is too late now to regret +consequences in this way. I have had the happiness of seeing you and knowing +you at least.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘You dissent from Church, and I dissent from State,’ she said. +‘And I don’t see why we are not well matched.’ +</p> + +<p> +He smiled sadly, while Lizzy remained looking down, her eyes beginning to +overflow. +</p> + +<p> +That was an unhappy evening for both of them, and the days that followed were +unhappy days. Both she and he went mechanically about their employments, and +his depression was marked in the village by more than one of his denomination +with whom he came in contact. But Lizzy, who passed her days indoors, was +unsuspected of being the cause: for it was generally understood that a quiet +engagement to marry existed between her and her cousin Owlett, and had existed +for some time. +</p> + +<p> +Thus uncertainly the week passed on; till one morning Stockdale said to her: +‘I have had a letter, Lizzy. I must call you that till I am gone.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Gone?’ said she blankly. +</p> + +<p> +‘Yes,’ he said. ‘I am going from this place. I felt it would +be better for us both that I should not stay after what has happened. In fact, +I couldn’t stay here, and look on you from day to day, without becoming +weak and faltering in my course. I have just heard of an arrangement by which +the other minister can arrive here in about a week; and let me go +elsewhere.’ +</p> + +<p> +That he had all this time continued so firmly fixed in his resolution came upon +her as a grievous surprise. ‘You never loved me!’ she said +bitterly. +</p> + +<p> +‘I might say the same,’ he returned; ‘but I will not. Grant +me one favour. Come and hear my last sermon on the day before I go.’ +</p> + +<p> +Lizzy, who was a church-goer on Sunday mornings, frequently attended +Stockdale’s chapel in the evening with the rest of the double-minded; and +she promised. +</p> + +<p> +It became known that Stockdale was going to leave, and a good many people +outside his own sect were sorry to hear it. The intervening days flew rapidly +away, and on the evening of the Sunday which preceded the morning of his +departure Lizzy sat in the chapel to hear him for the last time. The little +building was full to overflowing, and he took up the subject which all had +expected, that of the contraband trade so extensively practised among them. His +hearers, in laying his words to their own hearts, did not perceive that they +were most particularly directed against Lizzy, till the sermon waxed warm, and +Stockdale nearly broke down with emotion. In truth his own earnestness, and her +sad eyes looking up at him, were too much for the young man’s equanimity. +He hardly knew how he ended. He saw Lizzy, as through a mist, turn and go away +with the rest of the congregation; and shortly afterwards followed her home. +</p> + +<p> +She invited him to supper, and they sat down alone, her mother having, as was +usual with her on Sunday nights, gone to bed early. +</p> + +<p> +‘We will part friends, won’t we?’ said Lizzy, with forced +gaiety, and never alluding to the sermon: a reticence which rather disappointed +him. +</p> + +<p> +‘We will,’ he said, with a forced smile on his part; and they sat +down. +</p> + +<p> +It was the first meal that they had ever shared together in their lives, and +probably the last that they would so share. When it was over, and the +indifferent conversation could no longer be continued, he arose and took her +hand. ‘Lizzy,’ he said, ‘do you say we must part—do +you?’ +</p> + +<p> +‘You do,’ she said solemnly. ‘I can say no more.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Nor I,’ said he. ‘If that is your answer, good-bye!’ +</p> + +<p> +Stockdale bent over her and kissed her, and she involuntarily returned his +kiss. ‘I shall go early,’ he said hurriedly. ‘I shall not see +you again.’ +</p> + +<p> +And he did leave early. He fancied, when stepping forth into the grey morning +light, to mount the van which was to carry him away, that he saw a face between +the parted curtains of Lizzy’s window, but the light was faint, and the +panes glistened with wet; so he could not be sure. Stockdale mounted the +vehicle, and was gone; and on the following Sunday the new minister preached in +the chapel of the Moynton Wesleyans. +</p> + +<p class="p2"> +One day, two years after the parting, Stockdale, now settled in a midland town, +came into Nether-Moynton by carrier in the original way. Jogging along in the +van that afternoon he had put questions to the driver, and the answers that he +received interested the minister deeply. The result of them was that he went +without the least hesitation to the door of his former lodging. It was about +six o’clock in the evening, and the same time of year as when he had +left; now, too, the ground was damp and glistening, the west was bright, and +Lizzy’s snowdrops were raising their heads in the border under the wall. +</p> + +<p> +Lizzy must have caught sight of him from the window, for by the time that he +reached the door she was there holding it open: and then, as if she had not +sufficiently considered her act of coming out, she drew herself back, saying +with some constraint, ‘Mr. Stockdale!’ +</p> + +<p> +‘You knew it was,’ said Stockdale, taking her hand. ‘I wrote +to say I should call.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Yes, but you did not say when,’ she answered. +</p> + +<p> +‘I did not. I was not quite sure when my business would lead me to these +parts.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘You only came because business brought you near?’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Well, that is the fact; but I have often thought I should like to come +on purpose to see you . . . But what’s all this that has happened? I told +you how it would be, Lizzy, and you would not listen to me.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘I would not,’ she said sadly. ‘But I had been brought up to +that life; and it was second nature to me. However, it is all over now. The +officers have blood-money for taking a man dead or alive, and the trade is +going to nothing. We were hunted down like rats.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Owlett is quite gone, I hear.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Yes. He is in America. We had a dreadful struggle that last time, when +they tried to take him. It is a perfect miracle that he lived through it; and +it is a wonder that I was not killed. I was shot in the hand. It was not by +aim; the shot was really meant for my cousin; but I was behind, looking on as +usual, and the bullet came to me. It bled terribly, but I got home without +fainting; and it healed after a time. You know how he suffered?’ +</p> + +<p> +‘No,’ said Stockdale. ‘I only heard that he just escaped with +his life.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘He was shot in the back; but a rib turned the ball. He was badly hurt. +We would not let him be took. The men carried him all night across the meads to +Kingsbere, and hid him in a barn, dressing his wound as well as they could, +till he was so far recovered as to be able to get about. He had gied up his +mill for some time; and at last he got to Bristol, and took a passage to +America, and he’s settled in Wisconsin.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘What do you think of smuggling now?’ said the minister gravely. +</p> + +<p> +‘I own that we were wrong,’ said she. ‘But I have suffered +for it. I am very poor now, and my mother has been dead these twelve months . . +. But won’t you come in, Mr. Stockdale?’ +</p> + +<p> +Stockdale went in; and it is to be supposed that they came to an understanding; +for a fortnight later there was a sale of Lizzy’s furniture, and after +that a wedding at a chapel in a neighbouring town. +</p> + +<p> +He took her away from her old haunts to the home that he had made for himself +in his native county, where she studied her duties as a minister’s wife +with praiseworthy assiduity. It is said that in after years she wrote an +excellent tract called <i>Render unto Caesar; or, The Repentant Villagers</i>, +in which her own experience was anonymously used as the introductory story. +Stockdale got it printed, after making some corrections, and putting in a few +powerful sentences of his own; and many hundreds of copies were distributed by +the couple in the course of their married life. +</p> + +<p class="p2"> +<i>April</i> 1879. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div style='display:block;margin-top:4em'>*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK WESSEX TALES ***</div> +<div style='display:block;margin:1em 0;'>This file should be named 3056-h.htm or 3056-h.zip</div> +<div style='display:block;margin:1em 0;'>This and all associated files of various formats will be found in https://www.gutenberg.org/3/0/5/3056/</div> +<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> +Updated editions will replace the previous one—the old editions will +be renamed. +</div> + +<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> +Creating the works from print editions not protected by U.S. copyright +law means that no one owns a United States copyright in these works, +so the Foundation (and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United +States without permission and without paying copyright +royalties. 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