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diff --git a/3058-h/3058-h.htm b/3058-h/3058-h.htm new file mode 100644 index 0000000..51f06f2 --- /dev/null +++ b/3058-h/3058-h.htm @@ -0,0 +1,8732 @@ +<!DOCTYPE html + PUBLIC "-//W3C//DTD XHTML 1.0 Strict//EN" + "http://www.w3.org/TR/xhtml1/DTD/xhtml1-strict.dtd"> +<html> +<head> +<meta http-equiv="Content-Type" content="text/html; charset=US-ASCII" /> +<title>A Changed Man and Other Tales</title> + <style type="text/css"> +/*<![CDATA[ XML blockout */ +<!-- + P { margin-top: .75em; + margin-bottom: .75em; + } + H1, H2 { + text-align: center; + margin-top: 2em; + margin-bottom: 2em; + } + H3, H4 { + text-align: left; + margin-top: 1em; + margin-bottom: 1em; + } + BODY{margin-left: 10%; + margin-right: 10%; + } + .blkquot {margin-left: 4em; margin-right: 4em;} /* block indent */ + // --> + /* XML end ]]>*/ + </style> +</head> +<body> +<h2> +<a href="#startoftext">A Changed Man and Other Tales, by Thomas Hardy</a> +</h2> +<pre> +The Project Gutenberg eBook, A Changed Man and Other Tales, by Thomas Hardy + + +This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere 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 www.gutenberg.org + + + + + +Title: A Changed Man and Other Tales + +Author: Thomas Hardy + +Release Date: November 2, 2004 [eBook #3058] + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: ISO-646-US (US-ASCII) + + +***START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK A CHANGED MAN AND OTHER TALES*** +</pre> +<p><a name="startoftext"></a></p> +<p>Transcribed from the 1920 Macmillan and Co. edition by David Price, +email ccx074@coventry.ac.uk</p> +<h1>A CHANGED MAN AND OTHER TALES</h1> +<p>Contents:</p> +<p>Prefatory Note<br /> +A Changed Man<br /> +The Waiting Supper<br /> +Alicia’s Diary<br /> +The Grave by the Handpost<br /> +Enter a Dragoon<br /> +A Tryst at an Ancient Earthwork<br /> +What the Shepherd Saw<br /> +A Committee Man of ‘The Terror’<br /> +Master John Horseleigh, Knight<br /> +The Duke’s Reappearance<br /> +A Mere Interlude</p> +<h2>PREFATORY NOTE</h2> +<p>I reprint in this volume, for what they may be worth, a dozen minor +novels that have been published in the periodical press at various dates +in the past, in order to render them accessible to readers who desire +to have them in the complete series issued by my publishers. For +aid in reclaiming some of the narratives I express my thanks to the +proprietors and editors of the newspapers and magazines in whose pages +they first appeared.</p> +<p>T. H.<br /> +<i>August</i> 1913.</p> +<h2>A CHANGED MAN</h2> +<h3>CHAPTER I</h3> +<p>The person who, next to the actors themselves, chanced to know most +of their story, lived just below ‘Top o’ Town’ (as +the spot was called) in an old substantially-built house, distinguished +among its neighbours by having an oriel window on the first floor, whence +could be obtained a raking view of the High Street, west and east, the +former including Laura’s dwelling, the end of the Town Avenue +hard by (in which were played the odd pranks hereafter to be mentioned), +the Port-Bredy road rising westwards, and the turning that led to the +cavalry barracks where the Captain was quartered. Looking eastward +down the town from the same favoured gazebo, the long perspective of +houses declined and dwindled till they merged in the highway across +the moor. The white riband of road disappeared over Grey’s +Bridge a quarter of a mile off, to plunge into innumerable rustic windings, +shy shades, and solitary undulations up hill and down dale for one hundred +and twenty miles till it exhibited itself at Hyde Park Corner as a smooth +bland surface in touch with a busy and fashionable world.</p> +<p>To the barracks aforesaid had recently arrived the ---th Hussars, +a regiment new to the locality. Almost before any acquaintance +with its members had been made by the townspeople, a report spread that +they were a ‘crack’ body of men, and had brought a splendid +band. For some reason or other the town had not been used as the +headquarters of cavalry for many years, the various troops stationed +there having consisted of casual detachments only; so that it was with +a sense of honour that everybody—even the small furniture-broker +from whom the married troopers hired tables and chairs—received +the news of their crack quality.</p> +<p>In those days the Hussar regiments still wore over the left shoulder +that attractive attachment, or frilled half-coat, hanging loosely behind +like the wounded wing of a bird, which was called the pelisse, though +it was known among the troopers themselves as a ‘sling-jacket.’ +It added amazingly to their picturesqueness in women’s eyes, and, +indeed, in the eyes of men also.</p> +<p>The burgher who lived in the house with the oriel window sat during +a great many hours of the day in that projection, for he was an invalid, +and time hung heavily on his hands unless he maintained a constant interest +in proceedings without. Not more than a week after the arrival +of the Hussars his ears were assailed by the shout of one schoolboy +to another in the street below.</p> +<p>‘Have ’ee heard this about the Hussars? They are +haunted! Yes—a ghost troubles ’em; he has followed +’em about the world for years.’</p> +<p>A haunted regiment: that was a new idea for either invalid or stalwart. +The listener in the oriel came to the conclusion that there were some +lively characters among the ---th Hussars.</p> +<p>He made Captain Maumbry’s acquaintance in an informal manner +at an afternoon tea to which he went in a wheeled chair—one of +the very rare outings that the state of his health permitted. +Maumbry showed himself to be a handsome man of twenty-eight or thirty, +with an attractive hint of wickedness in his manner that was sure to +make him adorable with good young women. The large dark eyes that +lit his pale face expressed this wickedness strongly, though such was +the adaptability of their rays that one could think they might have +expressed sadness or seriousness just as readily, if he had had a mind +for such.</p> +<p>An old and deaf lady who was present asked Captain Maumbry bluntly: +‘What’s this we hear about you? They say your regiment +is haunted.’</p> +<p>The Captain’s face assumed an aspect of grave, even sad, concern. +‘Yes,’ he replied, ‘it is too true.’</p> +<p>Some younger ladies smiled till they saw how serious he looked, when +they looked serious likewise.</p> +<p>‘Really?’ said the old lady.</p> +<p>‘Yes. We naturally don’t wish to say much about +it.’</p> +<p>‘No, no; of course not. But—how haunted?’</p> +<p>‘Well; the—<i>thing</i>, as I’ll call it, follows +us. In country quarters or town, abroad or at home, it’s +just the same.’</p> +<p>‘How do you account for it?’</p> +<p>‘H’m.’ Maumbry lowered his voice. ‘Some +crime committed by certain of our regiment in past years, we suppose.’</p> +<p>‘Dear me . . . How very horrid, and singular!’</p> +<p>‘But, as I said, we don’t speak of it much.’</p> +<p>‘No . . . no.’</p> +<p>When the Hussar was gone, a young lady, disclosing a long-suppressed +interest, asked if the ghost had been seen by any of the town.</p> +<p>The lawyer’s son, who always had the latest borough news, said +that, though it was seldom seen by any one but the Hussars themselves, +more than one townsman and woman had already set eyes on it, to his +or her terror. The phantom mostly appeared very late at night, +under the dense trees of the town-avenue nearest the barracks. +It was about ten feet high; its teeth chattered with a dry naked sound, +as if they were those of a skeleton; and its hip-bones could be heard +grating in their sockets.</p> +<p>During the darkest weeks of winter several timid persons were seriously +frightened by the object answering to this cheerful description, and +the police began to look into the matter. Whereupon the appearances +grew less frequent, and some of the Boys of the regiment thankfully +stated that they had not been so free from ghostly visitation for years +as they had become since their arrival in Casterbridge.</p> +<p>This playing at ghosts was the most innocent of the amusements indulged +in by the choice young spirits who inhabited the lichened, red-brick +building at the top of the town bearing ‘W.D.’ and a broad +arrow on its quoins. Far more serious escapades—levities +relating to love, wine, cards, betting—were talked of, with no +doubt more or less of exaggeration. That the Hussars, Captain +Maumbry included, were the cause of bitter tears to several young women +of the town and country is unquestionably true, despite the fact that +the gaieties of the young men wore a more staring colour in this old-fashioned +place than they would have done in a large and modern city.</p> +<h3>CHAPTER II</h3> +<p>Regularly once a week they rode out in marching order.</p> +<p>Returning up the town on one of these occasions, the romantic pelisse +flapping behind each horseman’s shoulder in the soft south-west +wind, Captain Maumbry glanced up at the oriel. A mutual nod was +exchanged between him and the person who sat there reading. The +reader and a friend in the room with him followed the troop with their +eyes all the way up the street, till, when the soldiers were opposite +the house in which Laura lived, that young lady became discernible in +the balcony.</p> +<p>‘They are engaged to be married, I hear,’ said the friend.</p> +<p>‘Who—Maumbry and Laura? Never—so soon?’</p> +<p>‘Yes.’</p> +<p>‘He’ll never marry. Several girls have been mentioned +in connection with his name. I am sorry for Laura.’</p> +<p>‘Oh, but you needn’t be. They are excellently matched.’</p> +<p>‘She’s only one more.’</p> +<p>‘She’s one more, and more still. She has regularly +caught him. She is a born player of the game of hearts, and she +knew how to beat him in his own practices. If there is one woman +in the town who has any chance of holding her own and marrying him, +she is that woman.’</p> +<p>This was true, as it turned out. By natural proclivity Laura +had from the first entered heart and soul into military romance as exhibited +in the plots and characters of those living exponents of it who came +under her notice. From her earliest young womanhood civilians, +however promising, had no chance of winning her interest if the meanest +warrior were within the horizon. It may be that the position of +her uncle’s house (which was her home) at the corner of West Street +nearest the barracks, the daily passing of the troops, the constant +blowing of trumpet-calls a furlong from her windows, coupled with the +fact that she knew nothing of the inner realities of military life, +and hence idealized it, had also helped her mind’s original bias +for thinking men-at-arms the only ones worthy of a woman’s heart.</p> +<p>Captain Maumbry was a typical prize; one whom all surrounding maidens +had coveted, ached for, angled for, wept for, had by her judicious management +become subdued to her purpose; and in addition to the pleasure of marrying +the man she loved, Laura had the joy of feeling herself hated by the +mothers of all the marriageable girls of the neighbourhood.</p> +<p>The man in the oriel went to the wedding; not as a guest, for at +this time he was but slightly acquainted with the parties; but mainly +because the church was close to his house; partly, too, for a reason +which moved many others to be spectators of the ceremony; a subconsciousness +that, though the couple might be happy in their experiences, there was +sufficient possibility of their being otherwise to colour the musings +of an onlooker with a pleasing pathos of conjecture. He could +on occasion do a pretty stroke of rhyming in those days, and he beguiled +the time of waiting by pencilling on a blank page of his prayer-book +a few lines which, though kept private then, may be given here:-</p> +<blockquote><p>AT A HASTY WEDDING</p> +<p>(Triolet)</p> +<p>If hours be years the twain are blest,<br /> + For now they solace swift desire<br /> +By lifelong ties that tether zest<br /> + If hours be years. The twain are blest<br /> +Do eastern suns slope never west,<br /> + Nor pallid ashes follow fire.<br /> +If hours be years the twain are blest<br /> + For now they solace swift desire.</p> +</blockquote> +<p>As if, however, to falsify all prophecies, the couple seemed to find +in marriage the secret of perpetuating the intoxication of a courtship +which, on Maumbry’s side at least, had opened without serious +intent. During the winter following they were the most popular +pair in and about Casterbridge—nay in South Wessex itself. +No smart dinner in the country houses of the younger and gayer families +within driving distance of the borough was complete without their lively +presence; Mrs. Maumbry was the blithest of the whirling figures at the +county ball; and when followed that inevitable incident of garrison-town +life, an amateur dramatic entertainment, it was just the same. +The acting was for the benefit of such and such an excellent charity—nobody +cared what, provided the play were played—and both Captain Maumbry +and his wife were in the piece, having been in fact, by mutual consent, +the originators of the performance. And so with laughter, and +thoughtlessness, and movement, all went merrily. There was a little +backwardness in the bill-paying of the couple; but in justice to them +it must be added that sooner or later all owings were paid.</p> +<h3>CHAPTER III</h3> +<p>At the chapel-of-ease attended by the troops there arose above the +edge of the pulpit one Sunday an unknown face. This was the face +of a new curate. He placed upon the desk, not the familiar sermon +book, but merely a Bible. The person who tells these things was +not present at that service, but he soon learnt that the young curate +was nothing less than a great surprise to his congregation; a mixed +one always, for though the Hussars occupied the body of the building, +its nooks and corners were crammed with civilians, whom, up to the present, +even the least uncharitable would have described as being attracted +thither less by the services than by the soldiery.</p> +<p>Now there arose a second reason for squeezing into an already overcrowded +church. The persuasive and gentle eloquence of Mr. Sainway operated +like a charm upon those accustomed only to the higher and dryer styles +of preaching, and for a time the other churches of the town were thinned +of their sitters.</p> +<p>At this point in the nineteenth century the sermon was the sole reason +for churchgoing amongst a vast body of religious people. The liturgy +was a formal preliminary, which, like the Royal proclamation in a court +of assize, had to be got through before the real interest began; and +on reaching home the question was simply: Who preached, and how did +he handle his subject? Even had an archbishop officiated in the +service proper nobody would have cared much about what was said or sung. +People who had formerly attended in the morning only began to go in +the evening, and even to the special addresses in the afternoon.</p> +<p>One day when Captain Maumbry entered his wife’s drawing-room, +filled with hired furniture, she thought he was somebody else, for he +had not come upstairs humming the most catching air afloat in musical +circles or in his usual careless way.</p> +<p>‘What’s the matter, Jack?’ she said without looking +up from a note she was writing.</p> +<p>‘Well—not much, that I know.’</p> +<p>‘O, but there is,’ she murmured as she wrote.</p> +<p>‘Why—this cursed new lath in a sheet—I mean the +new parson! He wants us to stop the band-playing on Sunday afternoons.’</p> +<p>Laura looked up aghast.</p> +<p>‘Why, it is the one thing that enables the few rational beings +hereabouts to keep alive from Saturday to Monday!’</p> +<p>‘He says all the town flock to the music and don’t come +to the service, and that the pieces played are profane, or mundane, +or inane, or something—not what ought to be played on Sunday. +Of course ’tis Lautmann who settles those things.’</p> +<p>Lautmann was the bandmaster.</p> +<p>The barrack-green on Sunday afternoons had, indeed, become the promenade +of a great many townspeople cheerfully inclined, many even of those +who attended in the morning at Mr. Sainway’s service; and little +boys who ought to have been listening to the curate’s afternoon +lecture were too often seen rolling upon the grass and making faces +behind the more dignified listeners.</p> +<p>Laura heard no more about the matter, however, for two or three weeks, +when suddenly remembering it she asked her husband if any further objections +had been raised.</p> +<p>‘O—Mr. Sainway. I forgot to tell you. I’ve +made his acquaintance. He is not a bad sort of man.’</p> +<p>Laura asked if either Maumbry or some others of the officers did +not give the presumptuous curate a good setting down for his interference.</p> +<p>‘O well—we’ve forgotten that. He’s +a stunning preacher, they tell me.’</p> +<p>The acquaintance developed apparently, for the Captain said to her +a little later on, ‘There’s a good deal in Sainway’s +argument about having no band on Sunday afternoons. After all, +it is close to his church. But he doesn’t press his objections +unduly.’</p> +<p>‘I am surprised to hear you defend him!’</p> +<p>‘It was only a passing thought of mine. We naturally +don’t wish to offend the inhabitants of the town if they don’t +like it.’</p> +<p>‘But they do.’</p> +<p>The invalid in the oriel never clearly gathered the details of progress +in this conflict of lay and clerical opinion; but so it was that, to +the disappointment of musicians, the grief of out-walking lovers, and +the regret of the junior population of the town and country round, the +band-playing on Sunday afternoons ceased in Casterbridge barrack-square.</p> +<p>By this time the Maumbrys had frequently listened to the preaching +of the gentle if narrow-minded curate; for these light-natured, hit-or-miss, +rackety people went to church like others for respectability’s +sake. None so orthodox as your unmitigated worldling. A +more remarkable event was the sight to the man in the window of Captain +Maumbry and Mr. Sainway walking down the High Street in earnest conversation. +On his mentioning this fact to a caller he was assured that it was a +matter of common talk that they were always together.</p> +<p>The observer would soon have learnt this with his own eyes if he +had not been told. They began to pass together nearly every day. +Hitherto Mrs. Maumbry, in fashionable walking clothes, had usually been +her husband’s companion; but this was less frequent now. +The close and singular friendship between the two men went on for nearly +a year, when Mr. Sainway was presented to a living in a densely-populated +town in the midland counties. He bade the parishioners of his +old place a reluctant farewell and departed, the touching sermon he +preached on the occasion being published by the local printer. +Everybody was sorry to lose him; and it was with genuine grief that +his Casterbridge congregation learnt later on that soon after his induction +to his benefice, during some bitter weather, he had fallen seriously +ill of inflammation of the lungs, of which he eventually died.</p> +<p>We now get below the surface of things. Of all who had known +the dead curate, none grieved for him like the man who on his first +arrival had called him a ‘lath in a sheet.’ Mrs. Maumbry +had never greatly sympathized with the impressive parson; indeed, she +had been secretly glad that he had gone away to better himself. +He had considerably diminished the pleasures of a woman by whom the +joys of earth and good company had been appreciated to the full. +Sorry for her husband in his loss of a friend who had been none of hers, +she was yet quite unprepared for the sequel.</p> +<p>‘There is something that I have wanted to tell you lately, +dear,’ he said one morning at breakfast with hesitation. +‘Have you guessed what it is?’</p> +<p>She had guessed nothing.</p> +<p>‘That I think of retiring from the army.’</p> +<p>‘What!’</p> +<p>‘I have thought more and more of Sainway since his death, and +of what he used to say to me so earnestly. And I feel certain +I shall be right in obeying a call within me to give up this fighting +trade and enter the Church.’</p> +<p>‘What—be a parson?’</p> +<p>‘Yes.’</p> +<p>‘But what should <i>I</i> do?’</p> +<p>‘Be a parson’s wife.’</p> +<p>‘Never!’ she affirmed.</p> +<p>‘But how can you help it?’</p> +<p>‘I’ll run away rather!’ she said vehemently;</p> +<p>‘No, you mustn’t,’ Maumbry replied, in the tone +he used when his mind was made up. ‘You’ll get accustomed +to the idea, for I am constrained to carry it out, though it is against +my worldly interests. I am forced on by a Hand outside me to tread +in the steps of Sainway.’</p> +<p>‘Jack,’ she asked, with calm pallor and round eyes; ‘do +you mean to say seriously that you are arranging to be a curate instead +of a soldier?’</p> +<p>‘I might say a curate <i>is</i> a soldier—of the church +militant; but I don’t want to offend you with doctrine. +I distinctly say, yes.’</p> +<p>Late one evening, a little time onward, he caught her sitting by +the dim firelight in her room. She did not know he had entered; +and he found her weeping. ‘What are you crying about, poor +dearest?’ he said.</p> +<p>She started. ‘Because of what you have told me!’ +The Captain grew very unhappy; but he was undeterred.</p> +<p>In due time the town learnt, to its intense surprise, that Captain +Maumbry had retired from the ---th Hussars and gone to Fountall Theological +College to prepare for the ministry.</p> +<h3>CHAPTER IV</h3> +<p>‘O, the pity of it! Such a dashing soldier—so popular—such +an acquisition to the town—the soul of social life here! +And now! . . . One should not speak ill of the dead, but that dreadful +Mr. Sainway—it was too cruel of him!’</p> +<p>This is a summary of what was said when Captain, now the Reverend, +John Maumbry was enabled by circumstances to indulge his heart’s +desire of returning to the scene of his former exploits in the capacity +of a minister of the Gospel. A low-lying district of the town, +which at that date was crowded with impoverished cottagers, was crying +for a curate, and Mr. Maumbry generously offered himself as one willing +to undertake labours that were certain to produce little result, and +no thanks, credit, or emolument.</p> +<p>Let the truth be told about him as a clergyman; he proved to be anything +but a brilliant success. Painstaking, single-minded, deeply in +earnest as all could see, his delivery was laboured, his sermons were +dull to listen to, and alas, too, too long. Even the dispassionate +judges who sat by the hour in the bar-parlour of the White Hart—an +inn standing at the dividing line between the poor quarter aforesaid +and the fashionable quarter of Maumbry’s former triumphs, and +hence affording a position of strict impartiality—agreed in substance +with the young ladies to the westward, though their views were somewhat +more tersely expressed: ‘Surely, God A’mighty spwiled a +good sojer to make a bad pa’son when He shifted Cap’n Ma’mbry +into a sarpless!’</p> +<p>The latter knew that such things were said, but he pursued his daily’ +labours in and out of the hovels with serene unconcern.</p> +<p>It was about this time that the invalid in the oriel became more +than a mere bowing acquaintance of Mrs. Maumbry’s. She had +returned to the town with her husband, and was living with him in a +little house in the centre of his circle of ministration, when by some +means she became one of the invalid’s visitors. After a +general conversation while sitting in his room with a friend of both, +an incident led up to the matter that still rankled deeply in her soul. +Her face was now paler and thinner than it had been; even more attractive, +her disappointments having inscribed themselves as meek thoughtfulness +on a look that was once a little frivolous. The two ladies had +called to be allowed to use the window for observing the departure of +the Hussars, who were leaving for barracks much nearer to London.</p> +<p>The troopers turned the corner of Barrack Road into the top of High +Street, headed by their band playing ‘The girl I left behind me’ +(which was formerly always the tune for such times, though it is now +nearly disused). They came and passed the oriel, where an officer +or two, looking up and discovering Mrs. Maumbry, saluted her, whose +eyes filled with tears as the notes of the band waned away. Before +the little group had recovered from that sense of the romantic which +such spectacles impart, Mr. Maumbry came along the pavement. He +probably had bidden his former brethren-in-arms a farewell at the top +of the street, for he walked from that direction in his rather shabby +clerical clothes, and with a basket on his arm which seemed to hold +some purchases he had been making for his poorer parishioners. +Unlike the soldiers he went along quite unconscious of his appearance +or of the scene around.</p> +<p>The contrast was too much for Laura. With lips that now quivered, +she asked the invalid what he thought of the change that had come to +her.</p> +<p>It was difficult to answer, and with a wilfulness that was too strong +in her she repeated the question.</p> +<p>‘Do you think,’ she added, ‘that a woman’s +husband has a right to do such a thing, even if he does feel a certain +call to it?’</p> +<p>Her listener sympathized too largely with both of them to be anything +but unsatisfactory in his reply. Laura gazed longingly out of +the window towards the thin dusty line of Hussars, now smalling towards +the Mellstock Ridge. ‘I,’ she said, ‘who should +have been in their van on the way to London, am doomed to fester in +a hole in Durnover Lane!’</p> +<p>Many events had passed and many rumours had been current concerning +her before the invalid saw her again after her leave-taking that day.</p> +<h3>CHAPTER V</h3> +<p>Casterbridge had known many military and civil episodes; many happy +times, and times less happy; and now came the time of her visitation. +The scourge of cholera had been laid on the suffering country, and the +low-lying purlieus of this ancient borough had more than their share +of the infliction. Mixen Lane, in the Durnover quarter, and in +Maumbry’s parish, was where the blow fell most heavily. +Yet there was a certain mercy in its choice of a date, for Maumbry was +the man for such an hour.</p> +<p>The spread of the epidemic was so rapid that many left the town and +took lodgings in the villages and farms. Mr. Maumbry’s house +was close to the most infected street, and he himself was occupied morn, +noon, and night in endeavours to stamp out the plague and in alleviating +the sufferings of the victims. So, as a matter of ordinary precaution, +he decided to isolate his wife somewhere away from him for a while.</p> +<p>She suggested a village by the sea, near Budmouth Regis, and lodgings +were obtained for her at Creston, a spot divided from the Casterbridge +valley by a high ridge that gave it quite another atmosphere, though +it lay no more than six miles off.</p> +<p>Thither she went. While she was rusticating in this place of +safety, and her husband was slaving in the slums, she struck up an acquaintance +with a lieutenant in the ---st Foot, a Mr. Vannicock, who was stationed +with his regiment at the Budmouth infantry barracks. As Laura +frequently sat on the shelving beach, watching each thin wave slide +up to her, and hearing, without heeding, its gnaw at the pebbles in +its retreat, he often took a walk that way.</p> +<p>The acquaintance grew and ripened. Her situation, her history, +her beauty, her age—a year or two above his own—all tended +to make an impression on the young man’s heart, and a reckless +flirtation was soon in blithe progress upon that lonely shore.</p> +<p>It was said by her detractors afterwards that she had chosen her +lodging to be near this gentleman, but there is reason to believe that +she had never seen him till her arrival there. Just now Casterbridge +was so deeply occupied with its own sad affairs—a daily burying +of the dead and destruction of contaminated clothes and bedding—that +it had little inclination to promulgate such gossip as may have reached +its ears on the pair. Nobody long considered Laura in the tragic +cloud which overhung all.</p> +<p>Meanwhile, on the Budmouth side of the hill the very mood of men +was in contrast. The visitation there had been slight and much +earlier, and normal occupations and pastimes had been resumed. +Mr. Maumbry had arranged to see Laura twice a week in the open air, +that she might run no risk from him; and, having heard nothing of the +faint rumour, he met her as usual one dry and windy afternoon on the +summit of the dividing hill, near where the high road from town to town +crosses the old Ridge-way at right angles.</p> +<p>He waved his hand, and smiled as she approached, shouting to her: +‘We will keep this wall between us, dear.’ (Walls +formed the field-fences here.) ‘You mustn’t be endangered. +It won’t be for long, with God’s help!’</p> +<p>‘I will do as you tell me, Jack. But you are running +too much risk yourself, aren’t you? I get little news of +you; but I fancy you are.’</p> +<p>‘Not more than others.’</p> +<p>Thus somewhat formally they talked, an insulating wind beating the +wall between them like a mill-weir.</p> +<p>‘But you wanted to ask me something?’ he added.</p> +<p>‘Yes. You know we are trying in Budmouth to raise some +money for your sufferers; and the way we have thought of is by a dramatic +performance. They want me to take a part.’</p> +<p>His face saddened. ‘I have known so much of that sort +of thing, and all that accompanies it! I wish you had thought +of some other way.’</p> +<p>She said lightly that she was afraid it was all settled. ‘You +object to my taking a part, then? Of course—’</p> +<p>He told her that he did not like to say he positively objected. +He wished they had chosen an oratorio, or lecture, or anything more +in keeping with the necessity it was to relieve.</p> +<p>‘But,’ said she impatiently, ‘people won’t +come to oratorios or lectures! They will crowd to comedies and +farces.’</p> +<p>‘Well, I cannot dictate to Budmouth how it shall earn the money +it is going to give us. Who is getting up this performance?’</p> +<p>‘The boys of the ---st.’</p> +<p>‘Ah, yes; our old game!’ replied Mr. Maumbry. ‘The +grief of Casterbridge is the excuse for their frivolity. Candidly, +dear Laura, I wish you wouldn’t play in it. But I don’t +forbid you to. I leave the whole to your judgment.’</p> +<p>The interview ended, and they went their ways northward and southward. +Time disclosed to all concerned that Mrs. Maumbry played in the comedy +as the heroine, the lover’s part being taken by Mr. Vannicock.</p> +<h3>CHAPTER VI</h3> +<p>Thus was helped on an event which the conduct of the mutually-attracted +ones had been generating for some time.</p> +<p>It is unnecessary to give details. The ---st Foot left for +Bristol, and this precipitated their action. After a week of hesitation +she agreed to leave her home at Creston and meet Vannicock on the ridge +hard by, and to accompany him to Bath, where he had secured lodgings +for her, so that she would be only about a dozen miles from his quarters.</p> +<p>Accordingly, on the evening chosen, she laid on her dressing-table +a note for her husband, running thus:-</p> +<blockquote><p>DEAR JACK—I am unable to endure this life any longer, +and I have resolved to put an end to it. I told you I should run +away if you persisted in being a clergyman, and now I am doing it. +One cannot help one’s nature. I have resolved to throw in +my lot with Mr. Vannicock, and I hope rather than expect you will forgive +me.—L.</p> +</blockquote> +<p>Then, with hardly a scrap of luggage, she went, ascending to the +ridge in the dusk of early evening. Almost on the very spot where +her husband had stood at their last tryst she beheld the outline of +Vannicock, who had come all the way from Bristol to fetch her.</p> +<p>‘I don’t like meeting here—it is so unlucky!’ +she cried to him. ‘For God’s sake let us have a place +of our own. Go back to the milestone, and I’ll come on.’</p> +<p>He went back to the milestone that stands on the north slope of the +ridge, where the old and new roads diverge, and she joined him there.</p> +<p>She was taciturn and sorrowful when he asked her why she would not +meet him on the top. At last she inquired how they were going +to travel.</p> +<p>He explained that he proposed to walk to Mellstock Hill, on the other +side of Casterbridge, where a fly was waiting to take them by a cross-cut +into the Ivell Road, and onward to that town. The Bristol railway +was open to Ivell.</p> +<p>This plan they followed, and walked briskly through the dull gloom +till they neared Casterbridge, which place they avoided by turning to +the right at the Roman Amphitheatre and bearing round to Durnover Cross. +Thence the way was solitary and open across the moor to the hill whereon +the Ivell fly awaited them.</p> +<p>‘I have noticed for some time,’ she said, ‘a lurid +glare over the Durnover end of the town. It seems to come from +somewhere about Mixen Lane.’</p> +<p>‘The lamps,’ he suggested.</p> +<p>‘There’s not a lamp as big as a rushlight in the whole +lane. It is where the cholera is worst.’</p> +<p>By Standfast Corner, a little beyond the Cross, they suddenly obtained +an end view of the lane. Large bonfires were burning in the middle +of the way, with a view to purifying the air; and from the wretched +tenements with which the lane was lined in those days persons were bringing +out bedding and clothing. Some was thrown into the fires, the +rest placed in wheel-barrows and wheeled into the moor directly in the +track of the fugitives.</p> +<p>They followed on, and came up to where a vast copper was set in the +open air. Here the linen was boiled and disinfected. By +the light of the lanterns Laura discovered that her husband was standing +by the copper, and that it was he who unloaded the barrow and immersed +its contents. The night was so calm and muggy that the conversation +by the copper reached her ears.</p> +<p>‘Are there many more loads to-night?’</p> +<p>‘There’s the clothes o’ they that died this afternoon, +sir. But that might bide till to-morrow, for you must be tired +out.’</p> +<p>‘We’ll do it at once, for I can’t ask anybody else +to undertake it. Overturn that load on the grass and fetch the +rest.’</p> +<p>The man did so and went off with the barrow. Maumbry paused +for a moment to wipe his face, and resumed his homely drudgery amid +this squalid and reeking scene, pressing down and stirring the contents +of the copper with what looked like an old rolling-pin. The steam +therefrom, laden with death, travelled in a low trail across the meadow.</p> +<p>Laura spoke suddenly: ‘I won’t go to-night after all. +He is so tired, and I must help him. I didn’t know things +were so bad as this!’</p> +<p>Vannicock’s arm dropped from her waist, where it had been resting +as they walked. ‘Will you leave?’ she asked.</p> +<p>‘I will if you say I must. But I’d rather help +too.’ There was no expostulation in his tone.</p> +<p>Laura had gone forward. ‘Jack,’ she said, ‘I +am come to help!’</p> +<p>The weary curate turned and held up the lantern. ‘O—what, +is it you, Laura?’ he asked in surprise. ‘Why did +you come into this? You had better go back—the risk is great.’</p> +<p>‘But I want to help you, Jack. Please let me help! +I didn’t come by myself—Mr. Vannicock kept me company. +He will make himself useful too, if he’s not gone on. Mr. +Vannicock!’</p> +<p>The young lieutenant came forward reluctantly. Mr. Maumbry +spoke formally to him, adding as he resumed his labour, ‘I thought +the ---st Foot had gone to Bristol.’</p> +<p>‘We have. But I have run down again for a few things.’</p> +<p>The two newcomers began to assist, Vannicock placing on the ground +the small bag containing Laura’s toilet articles that he had been +carrying. The barrowman soon returned with another load, and all +continued work for nearly a half-hour, when a coachman came out from +the shadows to the north.</p> +<p>‘Beg pardon, sir,’ he whispered to Vannicock, ‘but +I’ve waited so long on Mellstock hill that at last I drove down +to the turnpike; and seeing the light here, I ran on to find out what +had happened.’</p> +<p>Lieutenant Vannicock told him to wait a few minutes, and the last +barrow-load was got through. Mr. Maumbry stretched himself and +breathed heavily, saying, ‘There; we can do no more.’</p> +<p>As if from the relaxation of effort he seemed to be seized with violent +pain. He pressed his hands to his sides and bent forward.</p> +<p>‘Ah! I think it has got hold of me at last,’ he +said with difficulty. ‘I must try to get home. Let +Mr. Vannicock take you back, Laura.’</p> +<p>He walked a few steps, they helping him, but was obliged to sink +down on the grass.</p> +<p>‘I am—afraid—you’ll have to send for a hurdle, +or shutter, or something,’ he went on feebly, ‘or try to +get me into the barrow.’</p> +<p>But Vannicock had called to the driver of the fly, and they waited +until it was brought on from the turnpike hard by. Mr. Maumbry +was placed therein. Laura entered with him, and they drove to +his humble residence near the Cross, where he was got upstairs.</p> +<p>Vannicock stood outside by the empty fly awhile, but Laura did not +reappear. He thereupon entered the fly and told the driver to +take him back to Ivell.</p> +<h3>CHAPTER VII</h3> +<p>Mr. Maumbry had over-exerted himself in the relief of the suffering +poor, and fell a victim—one of the last—to the pestilence +which had carried off so many. Two days later he lay in his coffin.</p> +<p>Laura was in the room below. A servant brought in some letters, +and she glanced them over. One was the note from herself to Maumbry, +informing him that she was unable to endure life with him any longer +and was about to elope with Vannicock. Having read the letter +she took it upstairs to where the dead man was, and slipped it into +his coffin. The next day she buried him.</p> +<p>She was now free.</p> +<p>She shut up his house at Durnover Cross and returned to her lodgings +at Creston. Soon she had a letter from Vannicock, and six weeks +after her husband’s death her lover came to see her.</p> +<p>‘I forgot to give you back this—that night,’ he +said presently, handing her the little bag she had taken as her whole +luggage when leaving.</p> +<p>Laura received it and absently shook it out. There fell upon +the carpet her brush, comb, slippers, nightdress, and other simple necessaries +for a journey. They had an intolerably ghastly look now, and she +tried to cover them.</p> +<p>‘I can now,’ he said, ‘ask you to belong to me +legally—when a proper interval has gone—instead of as we +meant.’</p> +<p>There was languor in his utterance, hinting at a possibility that +it was perfunctorily made. Laura picked up her articles, answering +that he certainly could so ask her—she was free. Yet not +her expression either could be called an ardent response. Then +she blinked more and more quickly and put her handkerchief to her face. +She was weeping violently.</p> +<p>He did not move or try to comfort her in any way. What had +come between them? No living person. They had been lovers. +There was now no material obstacle whatever to their union. But +there was the insistent shadow of that unconscious one; the thin figure +of him, moving to and fro in front of the ghastly furnace in the gloom +of Durnover Moor.</p> +<p>Yet Vannicock called upon Laura when he was in the neighbourhood, +which was not often; but in two years, as if on purpose to further the +marriage which everybody was expecting, the ---st Foot returned to Budmouth +Regis.</p> +<p>Thereupon the two could not help encountering each other at times. +But whether because the obstacle had been the source of the love, or +from a sense of error, and because Mrs. Maumbry bore a less attractive +look as a widow than before, their feelings seemed to decline from their +former incandescence to a mere tepid civility. What domestic issues +supervened in Vannicock’s further story the man in the oriel never +knew; but Mrs. Maumbry lived and died a widow.</p> +<p>1900.</p> +<h2>THE WAITING SUPPER</h2> +<h3>CHAPTER I</h3> +<p>Whoever had perceived the yeoman standing on Squire Everard’s +lawn in the dusk of that October evening fifty years ago, might have +said at first sight that he was loitering there from idle curiosity. +For a large five-light window of the manor-house in front of him was +unshuttered and uncurtained, so that the illuminated room within could +be scanned almost to its four corners. Obviously nobody was ever +expected to be in this part of the grounds after nightfall.</p> +<p>The apartment thus swept by an eye from without was occupied by two +persons; they were sitting over dessert, the tablecloth having been +removed in the old-fashioned way. The fruits were local, consisting +of apples, pears, nuts, and such other products of the summer as might +be presumed to grow on the estate. There was strong ale and rum +on the table, and but little wine. Moreover, the appointments +of the dining-room were simple and homely even for the date, betokening +a countrified household of the smaller gentry, without much wealth or +ambition—formerly a numerous class, but now in great part ousted +by the territorial landlords.</p> +<p>One of the two sitters was a young lady in white muslin, who listened +somewhat impatiently to the remarks of her companion, an elderly, rubicund +personage, whom the merest stranger could have pronounced to be her +father. The watcher evinced no signs of moving, and it became +evident that affairs were not so simple as they first had seemed. +The tall farmer was in fact no accidental spectator, and he stood by +premeditation close to the trunk of a tree, so that had any traveller +passed along the road without the park gate, or even round the lawn +to the door, that person would scarce have noticed the other, notwithstanding +that the gate was quite near at hand, and the park little larger than +a paddock. There was still light enough in the western heaven +to brighten faintly one side of the man’s face, and to show against +the trunk of the tree behind the admirable cut of his profile; also +to reveal that the front of the manor-house, small though it seemed, +was solidly built of stone in that never-to-be-surpassed style for the +English country residence—the mullioned and transomed Elizabethan.</p> +<p>The lawn, although neglected, was still as level as a bowling-green—which +indeed it might once have served for; and the blades of grass before +the window were raked by the candle-shine, which stretched over them +so far as to touch the yeoman’s face in front.</p> +<p>Within the dining-room there were also, with one of the twain, the +same signs of a hidden purpose that marked the farmer. The young +lady’s mind was straying as clearly into the shadows as that of +the loiterer was fixed upon the room—nay, it could be said that +she was quite conscious of his presence outside. Impatience caused +her foot to beat silently on the carpet, and she more than once rose +to leave the table. This proceeding was checked by her father, +who would put his hand upon her shoulder and unceremoniously press her +down into her chair, till he should have concluded his observations. +Her replies were brief enough, and there was factitiousness in her smiles +of assent to his views. A small iron casement between two of the +mullions was open, and some occasional words of the dialogue were audible +without.</p> +<p>‘As for drains—how can I put in drains? The pipes +don’t cost much, that’s true; but the labour in sinking +the trenches is ruination. And then the gates—they should +be hung to stone posts, otherwise there’s no keeping them up through +harvest.’ The Squire’s voice was strongly toned with +the local accent, so that he said ‘draïns’ and ‘geäts’ +like the rustics on his estate.</p> +<p>The landscape without grew darker, and the young man’s figure +seemed to be absorbed into the trunk of the tree. The small stars +filled in between the larger, the nebulae between the small stars, the +trees quite lost their voice; and if there was still a sound, it was +from the cascade of a stream which stretched along under the trees that +bounded the lawn on its northern side.</p> +<p>At last the young girl did get to her feet and secure her retreat. +‘I have something to do, papa,’ she said. ‘I +shall not be in the drawing-room just yet.’</p> +<p>‘Very well,’ replied he. ‘Then I won’t +hurry.’ And closing the door behind her, he drew his decanters +together and settled down in his chair.</p> +<p>Three minutes after that a woman’s shape emerged from the drawing-room +window, and passing through a wall-door to the entrance front, came +across the grass. She kept well clear of the dining-room window, +but enough of its light fell on her to show, escaping from the dark-hooded +cloak that she wore, stray verges of the same light dress which had +figured but recently at the dinner-table. The hood was contracted +tight about her face with a drawing-string, making her countenance small +and baby-like, and lovelier even than before.</p> +<p>Without hesitation she brushed across the grass to the tree under +which the young man stood concealed. The moment she had reached +him he enclosed her form with his arm. The meeting and embrace, +though by no means formal, were yet not passionate; the whole proceeding +was that of persons who had repeated the act so often as to be unconscious +of its performance. She turned within his arm, and faced in the +same direction with himself, which was towards the window; and thus +they stood without speaking, the back of her head leaning against his +shoulder. For a while each seemed to be thinking his and her diverse +thoughts.</p> +<p>‘You have kept me waiting a long time, dear Christine,’ +he said at last. ‘I wanted to speak to you particularly, +or I should not have stayed. How came you to be dining at this +time o’ night?’</p> +<p>‘Father has been out all day, and dinner was put back till +six. I know I have kept you; but Nicholas, how can I help it sometimes, +if I am not to run any risk? My poor father insists upon my listening +to all he has to say; since my brother left he has had nobody else to +listen to him; and to-night he was particularly tedious on his usual +topics—draining, and tenant-farmers, and the village people. +I must take daddy to London; he gets so narrow always staying here.’</p> +<p>‘And what did you say to it all?’</p> +<p>‘Well, I took the part of the tenant-farmers, of course, as +the beloved of one should in duty do.’ There followed a +little break or gasp, implying a strangled sigh.</p> +<p>‘You are sorry you have encouraged that beloving one?’</p> +<p>‘O no, Nicholas . . . What is it you want to see me for particularly?’</p> +<p>‘I know you are sorry, as time goes on, and everything is at +a dead-lock, with no prospect of change, and your rural swain loses +his freshness! Only think, this secret understanding between us +has lasted near three year, ever since you was a little over sixteen.’</p> +<p>‘Yes; it has been a long time.’</p> +<p>‘And I an untamed, uncultivated man, who has never seen London, +and knows nothing about society at all.’</p> +<p>‘Not uncultivated, dear Nicholas. Untravelled, socially +unpractised, if you will,’ she said, smiling. ‘Well, +I did sigh; but not because I regret being your promised one. +What I do sometimes regret is that the scheme, which my meetings with +you are but a part of, has not been carried out completely. You +said, Nicholas, that if I consented to swear to keep faith with you, +you would go away and travel, and see nations, and peoples, and cities, +and take a professor with you, and study books and art, simultaneously +with your study of men and manners; and then come back at the end of +two years, when I should find that my father would by no means be indisposed +to accept you as a son-in-law. You said your reason for wishing +to get my promise before starting was that your mind would then be more +at rest when you were far away, and so could give itself more completely +to knowledge than if you went as my unaccepted lover only, fuming with +anxiety as to how I should be when you came back. I saw how reasonable +that was; and solemnly swore myself to you in consequence. But +instead of going to see the world you stay on and on here to see me.’</p> +<p>‘And you don’t want me to see you?’</p> +<p>‘Yes—no—it is not that. It is that I have +latterly felt frightened at what I am doing when not in your actual +presence. It seems so wicked not to tell my father that I have +a lover close at hand, within touch and view of both of us; whereas +if you were absent my conduct would not seem quite so treacherous. +The realities would not stare at one so. You would be a pleasant +dream to me, which I should be free to indulge in without reproach of +my conscience; I should live in hopeful expectation of your returning +fully qualified to boldly claim me of my father. There, I have +been terribly frank, I know.’</p> +<p>He in his turn had lapsed into gloomy breathings now. ‘I +did plan it as you state,’ he answered. ‘I did mean +to go away the moment I had your promise. But, dear Christine, +I did not foresee two or three things. I did not know what a lot +of pain it would cost to tear myself from you. And I did not know +that my stingy uncle—heaven forgive me calling him so!—would +so flatly refuse to advance me money for my purpose—the scheme +of travelling with a first-rate tutor costing a formidable sum o’ +money. You have no idea what it would cost!’</p> +<p>‘But I have said that I’ll find the money.’</p> +<p>‘Ah, there,’ he returned, ‘you have hit a sore +place. To speak truly, dear, I would rather stay unpolished a +hundred years than take your money.’</p> +<p>‘But why? Men continually use the money of the women +they marry.’</p> +<p>‘Yes; but not till afterwards. No man would like to touch +your money at present, and I should feel very mean if I were to do so +in present circumstances. That brings me to what I was going to +propose. But no—upon the whole I will not propose it now.’</p> +<p>‘Ah! I would guarantee expenses, and you won’t +let me! The money is my personal possession: it comes to me from +my late grandfather, and not from my father at all.’</p> +<p>He laughed forcedly and pressed her hand. ‘There are +more reasons why I cannot tear myself away,’ he added. ‘What +would become of my uncle’s farming? Six hundred acres in +this parish, and five hundred in the next—a constant traipsing +from one farm to the other; he can’t be in two places at once. +Still, that might be got over if it were not for the other matters. +Besides, dear, I still should be a little uneasy, even though I have +your promise, lest somebody should snap you up away from me.’</p> +<p>‘Ah, you should have thought of that before. Otherwise +I have committed myself for nothing.’</p> +<p>‘I should have thought of it,’ he answered gravely. +‘But I did not. There lies my fault, I admit it freely. +Ah, if you would only commit yourself a little more, I might at least +get over that difficulty! But I won’t ask you. You +have no idea how much you are to me still; you could not argue so coolly +if you had. What property belongs to you I hate the very sound +of; it is you I care for. I wish you hadn’t a farthing in +the world but what I could earn for you!’</p> +<p>‘I don’t altogether wish that,’ she murmured.</p> +<p>‘I wish it, because it would have made what I was going to +propose much easier to do than it is now. Indeed I will not propose +it, although I came on purpose, after what you have said in your frankness.’</p> +<p>‘Nonsense, Nic. Come, tell me. How can you be so +touchy?’</p> +<p>‘Look at this then, Christine dear.’ He drew from +his breast-pocket a sheet of paper and unfolded it, when it was observable +that a seal dangled from the bottom.</p> +<p>‘What is it?’ She held the paper sideways, so that +what there was of window-light fell on its surface. ‘I can +only read the Old English letters—why—our names! Surely +it is not a marriage-licence?’</p> +<p>‘It is.’</p> +<p>She trembled. ‘O Nic! how could you do this—and +without telling me!’</p> +<p>‘Why should I have thought I must tell you? You had not +spoken “frankly” then as you have now. We have been +all to each other more than these two years, and I thought I would propose +that we marry privately, and that I then leave you on the instant. +I would have taken my travelling-bag to church, and you would have gone +home alone. I should not have started on my adventures in the +brilliant manner of our original plan, but should have roughed it a +little at first; my great gain would have been that the absolute possession +of you would have enabled me to work with spirit and purpose, such as +nothing else could do. But I dare not ask you now—so frank +as you have been.’</p> +<p>She did not answer. The document he had produced gave such +unexpected substantiality to the venture with which she had so long +toyed as a vague dream merely, that she was, in truth, frightened a +little. ‘I—don’t know about it!’ she said.</p> +<p>‘Perhaps not. Ah, my little lady, you are wearying of +me!’</p> +<p>‘No, Nic,’ responded she, creeping closer. ‘I +am not. Upon my word, and truth, and honour, I am not, Nic.’</p> +<p>‘A mere tiller of the soil, as I should be called,’ he +continued, without heeding her. ‘And you—well, a daughter +of one of the—I won’t say oldest families, because that’s +absurd, all families are the same age—one of the longest chronicled +families about here, whose name is actually the name of the place.’</p> +<p>‘That’s not much, I am sorry to say! My poor brother—but +I won’t speak of that . . . Well,’ she murmured mischievously, +after a pause, ‘you certainly would not need to be uneasy if I +were to do this that you want me to do. You would have me safe +enough in your trap then; I couldn’t get away!’</p> +<p>‘That’s just it!’ he said vehemently. ‘It +<i>is</i> a trap—you feel it so, and that though you wouldn’t +be able to get away from me you might particularly wish to! Ah, +if I had asked you two years ago you would have agreed instantly. +But I thought I was bound to wait for the proposal to come from you +as the superior!’</p> +<p>‘Now you are angry, and take seriously what I meant purely +in fun. You don’t know me even yet! To show you that +you have not been mistaken in me, I do propose to carry out this licence. +I’ll marry you, dear Nicholas, to-morrow morning.’</p> +<p>‘Ah, Christine! I am afraid I have stung you on to this, +so that I cannot—’</p> +<p>‘No, no, no!’ she hastily rejoined; and there was something +in her tone which suggested that she had been put upon her mettle and +would not flinch. ‘Take me whilst I am in the humour. +What church is the licence for?’</p> +<p>‘That I’ve not looked to see—why our parish church +here, of course. Ah, then we cannot use it! We dare not +be married here.’</p> +<p>‘We do dare,’ said she. ‘And we will too, +if you’ll be there.’</p> +<p><i>‘If</i> I’ll be there!’</p> +<p>They speedily came to an agreement that he should be in the church-porch +at ten minutes to eight on the following morning, awaiting her; and +that, immediately after the conclusion of the service which would make +them one, Nicholas should set out on his long-deferred educational tour, +towards the cost of which she was resolving to bring a substantial subscription +with her to church. Then, slipping from him, she went indoors +by the way she had come, and Nicholas bent his steps homewards.</p> +<h3>CHAPTER II</h3> +<p>Instead of leaving the spot by the gate, he flung himself over the +fence, and pursued a direction towards the river under the trees. +And it was now, in his lonely progress, that he showed for the first +time outwardly that he was not altogether unworthy of her. He +wore long water-boots reaching above his knees, and, instead of making +a circuit to find a bridge by which he might cross the Froom—the +river aforesaid—he made straight for the point whence proceeded +the low roar that was at this hour the only evidence of the stream’s +existence. He speedily stood on the verge of the waterfall which +caused the noise, and stepping into the water at the top of the fall, +waded through with the sure tread of one who knew every inch of his +footing, even though the canopy of trees rendered the darkness almost +absolute, and a false step would have precipitated him into the pool +beneath. Soon reaching the boundary of the grounds, he continued +in the same direct line to traverse the alluvial valley, full of brooks +and tributaries to the main stream—in former times quite impassable, +and impassable in winter now. Sometimes he would cross a deep +gully on a plank not wider than the hand; at another time he ploughed +his way through beds of spear-grass, where at a few feet to the right +or left he might have been sucked down into a morass. At last +he reached firm land on the other side of this watery tract, and came +to his house on the rise behind—Elsenford—an ordinary farmstead, +from the back of which rose indistinct breathings, belchings, and snortings, +the rattle of halters, and other familiar features of an agriculturist’s +home.</p> +<p>While Nicholas Long was packing his bag in an upper room of this +dwelling, Miss Christine Everard sat at a desk in her own chamber at +Froom-Everard manor-house, looking with pale fixed countenance at the +candles.</p> +<p>‘I ought—I must now!’ she whispered to herself. +‘I should not have begun it if I had not meant to carry it through! +It runs in the blood of us, I suppose.’ She alluded to a +fact unknown to her lover, the clandestine marriage of an aunt under +circumstances somewhat similar to the present. In a few minutes +she had penned the following note:-</p> +<blockquote><p>October 13, 183-.</p> +<p>DEAR MR. BEALAND—Can you make it convenient to yourself to +meet me at the Church to-morrow morning at eight? I name the early +hour because it would suit me better than later on in the day. +You will find me in the chancel, if you can come. An answer yes +or no by the bearer of this will be sufficient.</p> +<p>CHRISTINE EVERARD.</p> +</blockquote> +<p>She sent the note to the rector immediately, waiting at a small side-door +of the house till she heard the servant’s footsteps returning +along the lane, when she went round and met him in the passage. +The rector had taken the trouble to write a line, and answered that +he would meet her with pleasure.</p> +<p>A dripping fog which ushered in the next morning was highly favourable +to the scheme of the pair. At that time of the century Froom-Everard +House had not been altered and enlarged; the public lane passed close +under its walls; and there was a door opening directly from one of the +old parlours—the south parlour, as it was called—into the +lane which led to the village. Christine came out this way, and +after following the lane for a short distance entered upon a path within +a belt of plantation, by which the church could be reached privately. +She even avoided the churchyard gate, walking along to a place where +the turf without the low wall rose into a mound, enabling her to mount +upon the coping and spring down inside. She crossed the wet graves, +and so glided round to the door. He was there, with his bag in +his hand. He kissed her with a sort of surprise, as if he had +expected that at the last moment her heart would fail her.</p> +<p>Though it had not failed her, there was, nevertheless, no great ardour +in Christine’s bearing—merely the momentum of an antecedent +impulse. They went up the aisle together, the bottle-green glass +of the old lead quarries admitting but little light at that hour, and +under such an atmosphere. They stood by the altar-rail in silence, +Christine’s skirt visibly quivering at each beat of her heart.</p> +<p>Presently a quick step ground upon the gravel, and Mr. Bealand came +round by the front. He was a quiet bachelor, courteous towards +Christine, and not at first recognizing in Nicholas a neighbouring yeoman +(for he lived aloofly in the next parish), advanced to her without revealing +any surprise at her unusual request. But in truth he was +surprised, the keen interest taken by many country young women at the +present day in church decoration and festivals being then unknown.</p> +<p>‘Good morning,’ he said; and repeated the same words +to Nicholas more mechanically.</p> +<p>‘Good morning,’ she replied gravely. ‘Mr. +Bealand, I have a serious reason for asking you to meet me—us, +I may say. We wish you to marry us.’</p> +<p>The rector’s gaze hardened to fixity, rather between than upon +either of them, and he neither moved nor replied for some time.</p> +<p>‘Ah!’ he said at last.</p> +<p>‘And we are quite ready.’</p> +<p>‘I had no idea—’</p> +<p>‘It has been kept rather private,’ she said calmly.</p> +<p>‘Where are your witnesses?’</p> +<p>‘They are outside in the meadow, sir. I can call them +in a moment,’ said Nicholas.</p> +<p>‘Oh—I see it is—Mr. Nicholas Long,’ said +Mr. Bealand, and turning again to Christine, ‘Does your father +know of this?’</p> +<p>‘Is it necessary that I should answer that question, Mr. Bealand?’</p> +<p>‘I am afraid it is—highly necessary.’</p> +<p>Christine began to look concerned.</p> +<p>‘Where is the licence?’ the rector asked; ‘since +there have been no banns.’</p> +<p>Nicholas produced it, Mr. Bealand read it, an operation which occupied +him several minutes—or at least he made it appear so; till Christine +said impatiently, ‘We are quite ready, Mr. Bealand. Will +you proceed? Mr. Long has to take a journey of a great many miles +to-day.’</p> +<p>‘And you?’</p> +<p>‘No. I remain.’</p> +<p>Mr. Bealand assumed firmness. ‘There is something wrong +in this,’ he said. ‘I cannot marry you without your +father’s presence.’</p> +<p>‘But have you a right to refuse us?’ interposed Nicholas. +‘I believe we are in a position to demand your fulfilment of our +request.’</p> +<p>‘No, you are not! Is Miss Everard of age? I think +not. I think she is months from being so. Eh, Miss Everard?’</p> +<p>‘Am I bound to tell that?’</p> +<p>‘Certainly. At any rate you are bound to write it. +Meanwhile I refuse to solemnize the service. And let me entreat +you two young people to do nothing so rash as this, even if by going +to some strange church, you may do so without discovery. The tragedy +of marriage—’</p> +<p>‘Tragedy?’</p> +<p>‘Certainly. It is full of crises and catastrophes, and +ends with the death of one of the actors. The tragedy of marriage, +as I was saying, is one I shall not be a party to your beginning with +such light hearts, and I shall feel bound to put your father on his +guard, Miss Everard. Think better of it, I entreat you! +Remember the proverb, “Marry in haste and repent at leisure.”’</p> +<p>Christine, spurred by opposition, almost stormed at him. Nicholas +implored; but nothing would turn that obstinate rector. She sat +down and reflected. By-and-by she confronted Mr. Bealand.</p> +<p>‘Our marriage is not to be this morning, I see,’ she +said. ‘Now grant me one favour, and in return I’ll +promise you to do nothing rashly. Do not tell my father a word +of what has happened here.’</p> +<p>‘I agree—if you undertake not to elope.’</p> +<p>She looked at Nicholas, and he looked at her. ‘Do you +wish me to elope, Nic?’ she asked.</p> +<p>‘No,’ he said.</p> +<p>So the compact was made, and they left the church singly, Nicholas +remaining till the last, and closing the door. On his way home, +carrying the well-packed bag which was just now to go no further, the +two men who were mending water-carriers in the meadows approached the +hedge, as if they had been on the alert all the time.</p> +<p>‘You said you mid want us for zummat, sir?’</p> +<p>‘All right—never mind,’ he answered through the +hedge. ‘I did not require you after all.’</p> +<h3>CHAPTER III</h3> +<p>At a manor not far away there lived a queer and primitive couple +who had lately been blessed with a son and heir. The christening +took place during the week under notice, and this had been followed +by a feast to the parishioners. Christine’s father, one +of the same generation and kind, had been asked to drive over and assist +in the entertainment, and Christine, as a matter of course, accompanied +him.</p> +<p>When they reached Athelhall, as the house was called, they found +the usually quiet nook a lively spectacle. Tables had been spread +in the apartment which lent its name to the whole building—the +hall proper—covered with a fine open-timbered roof, whose braces, +purlins, and rafters made a brown thicket of oak overhead. Here +tenantry of all ages sat with their wives and families, and the servants +were assisted in their ministrations by the sons and daughters of the +owner’s friends and neighbours. Christine lent a hand among +the rest.</p> +<p>She was holding a plate in each hand towards a huge brown platter +of baked rice-pudding, from which a footman was scooping a large spoonful, +when a voice reached her ear over her shoulder: ‘Allow me to hold +them for you.’</p> +<p>Christine turned, and recognized in the speaker the nephew of the +entertainer, a young man from London, whom she had already met on two +or three occasions.</p> +<p>She accepted the proffered help, and from that moment, whenever he +passed her in their marchings to and fro during the remainder of the +serving, he smiled acquaintance. When their work was done, he +improved the few words into a conversation. He plainly had been +attracted by her fairness.</p> +<p>Bellston was a self-assured young man, not particularly good-looking, +with more colour in his skin than even Nicholas had. He had flushed +a little in attracting her notice, though the flush had nothing of nervousness +in it—the air with which it was accompanied making it curiously +suggestive of a flush of anger; and even when he laughed it was difficult +to banish that fancy.</p> +<p>The late autumn sunlight streamed in through the window panes upon +the heads and shoulders of the venerable patriarchs of the hamlet, and +upon the middle-aged, and upon the young; upon men and women who had +played out, or were to play, tragedies or tragi-comedies in that nook +of civilization not less great, essentially, than those which, enacted +on more central arenas, fix the attention of the world. One of +the party was a cousin of Nicholas Long’s, who sat with her husband +and children.</p> +<p>To make himself as locally harmonious as possible, Mr. Bellston remarked +to his companion on the scene—‘It does one’s heart +good,’ he said, ‘to see these simple peasants enjoying themselves.’</p> +<p>‘O Mr. Bellston!’ exclaimed Christine; ‘don’t +be too sure about that word “simple”! You little think +what they see and meditate! Their reasonings and emotions are +as complicated as ours.’</p> +<p>She spoke with a vehemence which would have been hardly present in +her words but for her own relation to Nicholas. The sense of that +produced in her a nameless depression thenceforward. The young +man, however, still followed her up.</p> +<p>‘I am glad to hear you say it,’ he returned warmly. +‘I was merely attuning myself to your mood, as I thought. +The real truth is that I know more of the Parthians, and Medes, and +dwellers in Mesopotamia—almost of any people, indeed—than +of the English rustics. Travel and exploration are my profession, +not the study of the British peasantry.’</p> +<p>Travel. There was sufficient coincidence between his declaration +and the course she had urged upon her lover, to lend Bellston’s +account of himself a certain interest in Christine’s ears. +He might perhaps be able to tell her something that would be useful +to Nicholas, if their dream were carried out. A door opened from +the hall into the garden, and she somehow found herself outside, chatting +with Mr. Bellston on this topic, till she thought that upon the whole +she liked the young man. The garden being his uncle’s, he +took her round it with an air of proprietorship; and they went on amongst +the Michaelmas daisies and chrysanthemums, and through a door to the +fruit-garden. A green-house was open, and he went in and cut her +a bunch of grapes.</p> +<p>‘How daring of you! They are your uncle’s.’</p> +<p>‘O, he don’t mind—I do anything here. A rough +old buffer, isn’t he?’</p> +<p>She was thinking of her Nic, and felt that, by comparison with her +present acquaintance, the farmer more than held his own as a fine and +intelligent fellow; but the harmony with her own existence in little +things, which she found here, imparted an alien tinge to Nicholas just +now. The latter, idealized by moonlight, or a thousand miles of +distance, was altogether a more romantic object for a woman’s +dream than this smart new-lacquered man; but in the sun of afternoon, +and amid a surrounding company, Mr. Bellston was a very tolerable companion.</p> +<p>When they re-entered the hall, Bellston entreated her to come with +him up a spiral stair in the thickness of the wall, leading to a passage +and gallery whence they could look down upon the scene below. +The people had finished their feast, the newly-christened baby had been +exhibited, and a few words having been spoken to them they began, amid +a racketing of forms, to make for the greensward without, Nicholas’s +cousin and cousin’s wife and cousin’s children among the +rest. While they were filing out, a voice was heard calling—‘Hullo!—here, +Jim; where are you?’ said Bellston’s uncle. The young +man descended, Christine following at leisure.</p> +<p>‘Now will ye be a good fellow,’ the Squire continued, +‘and set them going outside in some dance or other that they know? +I’m dog-tired, and I want to have a yew words with Mr. Everard +before we join ’em—hey, Everard? They are shy till +somebody starts ’em; afterwards they’ll keep gwine brisk +enough.’</p> +<p>‘Ay, that they wool,’ said Squire Everard.</p> +<p>They followed to the lawn; and here it proved that James Bellston +was as shy, or rather as averse, as any of the tenantry themselves, +to acting the part of fugleman. Only the parish people had been +at the feast, but outlying neighbours had now strolled in for a dance.</p> +<p>‘They want “Speed the Plough,”’ said Bellston, +coming up breathless. ‘It must be a country dance, I suppose? +Now, Miss Everard, do have pity upon me. I am supposed to lead +off; but really I know no more about speeding the plough than a child +just born! Would you take one of the villagers?—just to +start them, my uncle says. Suppose you take that handsome young +farmer over there—I don’t know his name, but I dare say +you do—and I’ll come on with one of the dairyman’s +daughters as a second couple.’</p> +<p>Christine turned in the direction signified, and changed colour—though +in the shade nobody noticed it, ‘Oh, yes—I know him,’ +she said coolly. ‘He is from near our own place—Mr. +Nicholas Long.’</p> +<p>‘That’s capital—then you can easily make him stand +as first couple with you. Now I must pick up mine.’</p> +<p>‘I—I think I’ll dance with you, Mr. Bellston,’ +she said with some trepidation. ‘Because, you see,’ +she explained eagerly, ‘I know the figure and you don’t—so +that I can help you; while Nicholas Long, I know, is familiar with the +figure, and that will make two couples who know it—which is necessary, +at least.’</p> +<p>Bellston showed his gratification by one of his angry-pleasant flushes—he +had hardly dared to ask for what she proffered freely; and having requested +Nicholas to take the dairyman’s daughter, led Christine to her +place, Long promptly stepping up second with his charge. There +were grim silent depths in Nic’s character; a small deedy spark +in his eye, as it caught Christine’s, was all that showed his +consciousness of her. Then the fiddlers began—the celebrated +Mellstock fiddlers who, given free stripping, could play from sunset +to dawn without turning a hair. The couples wheeled and swung, +Nicholas taking Christine’s hand in the course of business with +the figure, when she waited for him to give it a little squeeze; but +he did not.</p> +<p>Christine had the greatest difficulty in steering her partner through +the maze, on account of his self-will, and when at last they reached +the bottom of the long line, she was breathless with her hard labour.. +Resting here, she watched Nic and his lady; and, though she had decidedly +cooled off in these later months, began to admire him anew. Nobody +knew these dances like him, after all, or could do anything of this +sort so well. His performance with the dairyman’s daughter +so won upon her, that when ‘Speed the Plough’ was over she +contrived to speak to him.</p> +<p>‘Nic, you are to dance with me next time.’</p> +<p>He said he would, and presently asked her in a formal public manner, +lifting his hat gallantly. She showed a little backwardness, which +he quite understood, and allowed him to lead her to the top, a row of +enormous length appearing below them as if by magic as soon as they +had taken their places. Truly the Squire was right when he said +that they only wanted starting.</p> +<p>‘What is it to be?’ whispered Nicholas.</p> +<p>She turned to the band. ‘The Honeymoon,’ she said.</p> +<p>And then they trod the delightful last-century measure of that name, +which if it had been ever danced better, was never danced with more +zest. The perfect responsiveness which their tender acquaintance +threw into the motions of Nicholas and his partner lent to their gyrations +the fine adjustment of two interacting parts of a single machine. +The excitement of the movement carried Christine back to the time—the +unreflecting passionate time, about two years before—when she +and Nic had been incipient lovers only; and it made her forget the carking +anxieties, the vision of social breakers ahead, that had begun to take +the gilding off her position now. Nicholas, on his part, had never +ceased to be a lover; no personal worries had as yet made him conscious +of any staleness, flatness, or unprofitableness in his admiration of +Christine.</p> +<p>‘Not quite so wildly, Nic,’ she whispered. ‘I +don’t object personally; but they’ll notice us. How +came you here?’</p> +<p>‘I heard that you had driven over; and I set out—on purpose +for this.’</p> +<p>‘What—you have walked?’</p> +<p>‘Yes. If I had waited for one of uncle’s horses +I should have been too late.’</p> +<p>‘Five miles here and five back—ten miles on foot—merely +to dance!’</p> +<p>‘With you. What made you think of this old “Honeymoon” +thing?’</p> +<p>‘O! it came into my head when I saw you, as what would have +been a reality with us if you had not been stupid about that licence, +and had got it for a distant church.’</p> +<p>‘Shall we try again?’</p> +<p>‘No—I don’t know. I’ll think it over.’</p> +<p>The villagers admired their grace and skill, as the dancers themselves +perceived; but they did not know what accompanied that admiration in +one spot, at least.</p> +<p>‘People who wonder they can foot it so featly together should +know what some others think,’ a waterman was saying to his neighbour. +‘Then their wonder would be less.’</p> +<p>His comrade asked for information.</p> +<p>‘Well—really I hardly believe it—but ’tis +said they be man and wife. Yes, sure—went to church and +did the job a’most afore ’twas light one morning. +But mind, not a word of this; for ’twould be the loss of a winter’s +work to me if I had spread such a report and it were not true.’</p> +<p>When the dance had ended she rejoined her own section of the company. +Her father and Mr. Bellston the elder had now come out from the house, +and were smoking in the background. Presently she found that her +father was at her elbow.</p> +<p>‘Christine, don’t dance too often with young Long—as +a mere matter of prudence, I mean, as volk might think it odd, he being +one of our own neighbouring farmers. I should not mention this +to ’ee if he were an ordinary young fellow; but being superior +to the rest it behoves you to be careful.’</p> +<p>‘Exactly, papa,’ said Christine.</p> +<p>But the revived sense that she was deceiving him threw a damp over +her spirits. ‘But, after all,’ she said to herself, +‘he is a young man of Elsenford, handsome, able, and the soul +of honour; and I am a young woman of the adjoining parish, who have +been constantly thrown into communication with him. Is it not, +by nature’s rule, the most proper thing in the world that I should +marry him, and is it not an absurd conventional regulation which says +that such a union would be wrong?’</p> +<p>It may be concluded that the strength of Christine’s large-minded +argument was rather an evidence of weakness than of strength in the +passion it concerned, which had required neither argument nor reasoning +of any kind for its maintenance when full and flush in its early days.</p> +<p>When driving home in the dark with her father she sank into pensive +silence. She was thinking of Nicholas having to trudge on foot +all those miles back after his exertions on the sward. Mr. Everard, +arousing himself from a nap, said suddenly, ‘I have something +to mention to ’ee, by George—so I have, Chris! You +probably know what it is?’</p> +<p>She expressed ignorance, wondering if her father had discovered anything +of her secret.</p> +<p>‘Well, according to <i>him</i> you know it. But I will +tell ’ee. Perhaps you noticed young Jim Bellston walking +me off down the lawn with him?—whether or no, we walked together +a good while; and he informed me that he wanted to pay his addresses +to ’ee. I naturally said that it depended upon yourself; +and he replied that you were willing enough; you had given him particular +encouragement—showing your preference for him by specially choosing +him for your partner—hey? “In that case,” says +I, “go on and conquer—settle it with her—I have no +objection.” The poor fellow was very grateful, and in short, +there we left the matter. He’ll propose to-morrow.’</p> +<p>She saw now to her dismay what James Bellston had read as encouragement. +‘He has mistaken me altogether,’ she said. ‘I +had no idea of such a thing.’</p> +<p>‘What, you won’t have him?’</p> +<p>‘Indeed, I cannot!’</p> +<p>‘Chrissy,’ said Mr. Everard with emphasis, ‘there’s +<i>noo</i>body whom I should so like you to marry as that young man. +He’s a thoroughly clever fellow, and fairly well provided for. +He’s travelled all over the temperate zone; but he says that directly +he marries he’s going to give up all that, and be a regular stay-at-home. +You would be nowhere safer than in his hands.’</p> +<p>‘It is true,’ she answered. ‘He <i>is</i> +a highly desirable match, and I <i>should</i> be well provided for, +and probably very safe in his hands.’</p> +<p>‘Then don’t be skittish, and stand-to.’</p> +<p>She had spoken from her conscience and understanding, and not to +please her father. As a reflecting woman she believed that such +a marriage would be a wise one. In great things Nicholas was closest +to her nature; in little things Bellston seemed immeasurably nearer +than Nic; and life was made up of little things.</p> +<p>Altogether the firmament looked black for Nicholas Long, notwithstanding +her half-hour’s ardour for him when she saw him dancing with the +dairyman’s daughter. Most great passions, movements, and +beliefs—individual and national—burst during their decline +into a temporary irradiation, which rivals their original splendour; +and then they speedily become extinct. Perhaps the dance had given +the last flare-up to Christine’s love. It seemed to have +improvidently consumed for its immediate purpose all her ardour forwards, +so that for the future there was nothing left but frigidity.</p> +<p>Nicholas had certainly been very foolish about that licence!</p> +<h3>CHAPTER IV</h3> +<p>This laxity of emotional tone was further increased by an incident, +when, two days later, she kept an appointment with Nicholas in the Sallows. +The Sallows was an extension of shrubberies and plantations along the +banks of the Froom, accessible from the lawn of Froom-Everard House +only, except by wading through the river at the waterfall or elsewhere. +Near the brink was a thicket of box in which a trunk lay prostrate; +this had been once or twice their trysting-place, though it was by no +means a safe one; and it was here she sat awaiting him now.</p> +<p>The noise of the stream muffled any sound of footsteps, and it was +before she was aware of his approach that she looked up and saw him +wading across at the top of the waterfall.</p> +<p>Noontide lights and dwarfed shadows always banished the romantic +aspect of her love for Nicholas. Moreover, something new had occurred +to disturb her; and if ever she had regretted giving way to a tenderness +for him—which perhaps she had not done with any distinctness—she +regretted it now. Yet in the bottom of their hearts those two +were excellently paired, the very twin halves of a perfect whole; and +their love was pure. But at this hour surfaces showed garishly, +and obscured the depths. Probably her regret appeared in her face.</p> +<p>He walked up to her without speaking, the water running from his +boots; and, taking one of her hands in each of his own, looked narrowly +into her eyes.</p> +<p>‘Have you thought it over?’</p> +<p>‘<i>What</i>?’</p> +<p>‘Whether we shall try again; you remember saying you would +at the dance?’</p> +<p>‘Oh, I had forgotten that!’</p> +<p>‘You are sorry we tried at all!’ he said accusingly.</p> +<p>‘I am not so sorry for the fact as for the rumours,’ +she said.</p> +<p>‘Ah! rumours?’</p> +<p>‘They say we are already married.’</p> +<p>‘Who?’</p> +<p>‘I cannot tell exactly. I heard some whispering to that +effect. Somebody in the village told one of the servants, I believe. +This man said that he was crossing the churchyard early on that unfortunate +foggy morning, and heard voices in the chancel, and peeped through the +window as well as the dim panes would let him; and there he saw you +and me and Mr. Bealand, and so on; but thinking his surmises would be +dangerous knowledge, he hastened on. And so the story got afloat. +Then your aunt, too—’</p> +<p>‘Good Lord!—what has she done?’</p> +<p>The story was, told her, and she said proudly, “O yes, it is +true enough. I have seen the licence. But it is not to be +known yet.”’</p> +<p>‘Seen the licence? How the—’</p> +<p>‘Accidentally, I believe, when your coat was hanging somewhere.’</p> +<p>The information, coupled with the infelicitous word ‘proudly,’ +caused Nicholas to flush with mortification. He knew that it was +in his aunt’s nature to make a brag of that sort; but worse than +the brag was the fact that this was the first occasion on which Christine +had deigned to show her consciousness that such a marriage would be +a source of pride to his relatives—the only two he had in the +world.</p> +<p>‘You are sorry, then, even to be thought my wife, much less +to be it.’ He dropped her hand, which fell lifelessly.</p> +<p>‘It is not sorry exactly, dear Nic. But I feel uncomfortable +and vexed, that after screwing up my courage, my fidelity, to the point +of going to church, you should have so muddled—managed the matter +that it has ended in neither one thing nor the other. How can +I meet acquaintances, when I don’t know what they are thinking +of me?’</p> +<p>‘Then, dear Christine, let us mend the muddle. I’ll +go away for a few days and get another licence, and you can come to +me.’</p> +<p>She shrank from this perceptibly. ‘I cannot screw myself +up to it a second time,’ she said. ‘I am sure I cannot! +Besides, I promised Mr. Bealand. And yet how can I continue to +see you after such a rumour? We shall be watched now, for certain.’</p> +<p>‘Then don’t see me.’</p> +<p>‘I fear I must not for the present. Altogether—’</p> +<p>‘What?’</p> +<p>‘I am very depressed.’</p> +<p>These views were not very inspiriting to Nicholas, as he construed +them. It may indeed have been possible that he construed them +wrongly, and should have insisted upon her making the rumour true. +Unfortunately, too, he had come to her in a hurry through brambles and +briars, water and weed, and the shaggy wildness which hung about his +appearance at this fine and correct time of day lent an impracticability +to the look of him.</p> +<p>‘You blame me—you repent your courses—you repent +that you ever, ever owned anything to me!’</p> +<p>‘No, Nicholas, I do not repent that,’ she returned gently, +though with firmness. ‘But I think that you ought not to +have got that licence without asking me first; and I also think that +you ought to have known how it would be if you lived on here in your +present position, and made no effort to better it. I can bear +whatever comes, for social ruin is not personal ruin or even personal +disgrace. But as a sensible, new-risen poet says, whom I have +been reading this morning:-</p> +<blockquote><p>The world and its ways have a certain worth:<br /> +And to press a point while these oppose<br /> +Were simple policy. Better wait.</p> +</blockquote> +<p>As soon as you had got my promise, Nic, you should have gone away—yes—and +made a name, and come back to claim me. That was my silly girlish +dream about my hero.’</p> +<p>‘Perhaps I can do as much yet! And would you have indeed +liked better to live away from me for family reasons, than to run a +risk in seeing me for affection’s sake? O what a cold heart +it has grown! If I had been a prince, and you a dairymaid, I’d +have stood by you in the face of the world!’</p> +<p>She shook her head. ‘Ah—you don’t know what +society is—you don’t know.’</p> +<p>‘Perhaps not. Who was that strange gentleman of about +seven-and-twenty I saw at Mr. Bellston’s christening feast?’</p> +<p>‘Oh—that was his nephew James. Now he is a man +who has seen an unusual extent of the world for his age. He is +a great traveller, you know.’</p> +<p>‘Indeed.’</p> +<p>‘In fact an explorer. He is very entertaining.’</p> +<p>‘No doubt.’</p> +<p>Nicholas received no shock of jealousy from her announcement. +He knew her so well that he could see she was not in the least in love +with Bellston. But he asked if Bellston were going to continue +his explorations.</p> +<p>‘Not if he settles in life. Otherwise he will, I suppose.’</p> +<p>‘Perhaps I could be a great explorer, too, if I tried.’</p> +<p>‘You could, I am sure.’</p> +<p>They sat apart, and not together; each looking afar off at vague +objects, and not in each other’s eyes. Thus the sad autumn +afternoon waned, while the waterfall hissed sarcastically of the inevitableness +of the unpleasant. Very different this from the time when they +had first met there.</p> +<p>The nook was most picturesque; but it looked horridly common and +stupid now. Their sentiment had set a colour hardly less visible +than a material one on surrounding objects, as sentiment must where +life is but thought. Nicholas was as devoted as ever to the fair +Christine; but unhappily he too had moods and humours, and the division +between them was not closed.</p> +<p>She had no sooner got indoors and sat down to her work-table than +her father entered the drawing-room.</p> +<p>She handed him his newspaper; he took it without a word, went and +stood on the hearthrug, and flung the paper on the floor.</p> +<p>‘Christine, what’s the meaning of this terrible story? +I was just on my way to look at the register.’</p> +<p>She looked at him without speech.</p> +<p>‘You have married—Nicholas Long?’</p> +<p>‘No, father.’</p> +<p>‘No? Can you say no in the face of such facts as I have +been put in possession of?’</p> +<p>‘Yes.’</p> +<p>‘But—the note you wrote to the rector—and the going +to church?’</p> +<p>She briefly explained that their attempt had failed.</p> +<p>‘Ah! Then this is what that dancing meant, was it? +By ---, it makes me ---. How long has this been going on, +may I ask?’</p> +<p>‘This what?’</p> +<p>‘What, indeed! Why, making him your beau. Now listen +to me. All’s well that ends well; from this day, madam, +this moment, he is to be nothing more to you. You are not to see +him. Cut him adrift instantly! I only wish his volk were +on my farm—out they should go, or I would know the reason why. +However, you are to write him a letter to this effect at once.’</p> +<p>‘How can I cut him adrift?’</p> +<p>‘Why not? You must, my good maid!’</p> +<p>‘Well, though I have not actually married him, I have solemnly +sworn to be his wife when he comes home from abroad to claim me. +It would be gross perjury not to fulfil my promise. Besides, no +woman can go to church with a man to deliberately solemnize matrimony, +and refuse him afterwards, if he does nothing wrong meanwhile.’</p> +<p>The uttered sound of her strong conviction seemed to kindle in Christine +a livelier perception of all its bearings than she had known while it +had lain unformulated in her mind. For when she had done speaking +she fell down on her knees before her father, covered her face, and +said, ‘Please, please forgive me, papa! How could I do it +without letting you know! I don’t know, I don’t know!’</p> +<p>When she looked up she found that, in the turmoil of his mind, her +father was moving about the room. ‘You are within an ace +of ruining yourself, ruining me, ruining us all!’ he said. +‘You are nearly as bad as your brother, begad!’</p> +<p>‘Perhaps I am—yes—perhaps I am!’</p> +<p>‘That I should father such a harum-scarum brood!’</p> +<p>‘It is very bad; but Nicholas—’</p> +<p>‘He’s a scoundrel!’</p> +<p>‘He is <i>not</i> a scoundrel!’ cried she, turning quickly. +‘He’s as good and worthy as you or I, or anybody bearing +our name, or any nobleman in the kingdom, if you come to that! +Only—only’—she could not continue the argument on +those lines. ‘Now, father, listen!’ she sobbed; ‘if +you taunt me I’ll go off and join him at his farm this very day, +and marry him to-morrow, that’s what I’ll do!’</p> +<p>‘I don’t taant ye!’</p> +<p>‘I wish to avoid unseemliness as much as you.’</p> +<p>She went away. When she came back a quarter of an hour later, +thinking to find the room empty, he was standing there as before, never +having apparently moved. His manner had quite changed. He +seemed to take a resigned and entirely different view of circumstances.</p> +<p>‘Christine, here’s a paragraph in the paper hinting at +a secret wedding, and I’m blazed if it don’t point to you. +Well, since this was to happen, I’ll bear it, and not complain. +All volk have crosses, and this is one of mine. Now, this is what +I’ve got to say—I feel that you must carry out this attempt +at marrying Nicholas Long. Faith, you must! The rumour will +become a scandal if you don’t—that’s my view. +I have tried to look at the brightest side of the case. Nicholas +Long is a young man superior to most of his class, and fairly presentable. +And he’s not poor—at least his uncle is not. I believe +the old muddler could buy me up any day. However, a farmer’s +wife you must be, as far as I can see. As you’ve made your +bed, so ye must lie. Parents propose, and ungrateful children +dispose. You shall marry him, and immediately.’</p> +<p>Christine hardly knew what to make of this. ‘He is quite +willing to wait, and so am I. We can wait for two or three years, +and then he will be as worthy as—’</p> +<p>‘You must marry him. And the sooner the better, if ’tis +to be done at all . . . And yet I did wish you could have been Jim Bellston’s +wife. I did wish it! But no.’</p> +<p>‘I, too, wished it and do still, in one sense,’ she returned +gently. His moderation had won her out of her defiant mood, and +she was willing to reason with him.</p> +<p>‘You do?’ he said surprised.</p> +<p>‘I see that in a worldly sense my conduct with Mr. Long may +be considered a mistake.’</p> +<p>‘H’m—I am glad to hear that—after my death +you may see it more clearly still; and you won’t have long to +wait, to my reckoning.’</p> +<p>She fell into bitter repentance, and kissed him in her anguish. +‘Don’t say that!’ she cried. ‘Tell me +what to do?’</p> +<p>‘If you’ll leave me for an hour or two I’ll think. +Drive to the market and back—the carriage is at the door—and +I’ll try to collect my senses. Dinner can be put back till +you return.’</p> +<p>In a few minutes she was dressed, and the carriage bore her up the +hill which divided the village and manor from the market-town.</p> +<h3>CHAPTER V</h3> +<p>A quarter of an hour brought her into the High Street, and for want +of a more important errand she called at the harness-maker’s for +a dog-collar that she required.</p> +<p>It happened to be market-day, and Nicholas, having postponed the +engagements which called him thither to keep the appointment with her +in the Sallows, rushed off at the end of the afternoon to attend to +them as well as he could. Arriving thus in a great hurry on account +of the lateness of the hour, he still retained the wild, amphibious +appearance which had marked him when he came up from the meadows to +her side—an exceptional condition of things which had scarcely +ever before occurred. When she crossed the pavement from the shop +door, the shopman bowing and escorting her to the carriage, Nicholas +chanced to be standing at the road-waggon office, talking to the master +of the waggons. There were a good many people about, and those +near paused and looked at her transit, in the full stroke of the level +October sun, which went under the brims of their hats, and pierced through +their button-holes. From the group she heard murmured the words: +‘Mrs. Nicholas Long.’</p> +<p>The unexpected remark, not without distinct satire in its tone, took +her so greatly by surprise that she was confounded. Nicholas was +by this time nearer, though coming against the sun he had not yet perceived +her. Influenced by her father’s lecture, she felt angry +with him for being there and causing this awkwardness. Her notice +of him was therefore slight, supercilious perhaps, slurred over; and +her vexation at his presence showed distinctly in her face as she sat +down in her seat. Instead of catching his waiting eye, she positively +turned her head away.</p> +<p>A moment after she was sorry she had treated him so; but he was gone.</p> +<p>Reaching home she found on her dressing-table a note from her father. +The statement was brief:</p> +<blockquote><p>I have considered and am of the same opinion. You +must marry him. He can leave home at once and travel as proposed. +I have written to him to this effect. I don’t want any victuals, +so don’t wait dinner for me.</p> +</blockquote> +<p>Nicholas was the wrong kind of man to be blind to his Christine’s +mortification, though he did not know its entire cause. He had +lately foreseen something of this sort as possible.</p> +<p>‘It serves me right,’ he thought, as he trotted homeward. +‘It was absurd—wicked of me to lead her on so. The +sacrifice would have been too great—too cruel!’ And +yet, though he thus took her part, he flushed with indignation every +time he said to himself, ‘She is ashamed of me!’</p> +<p>On the ridge which overlooked Froom-Everard he met a neighbour of +his—a stock-dealer—in his gig, and they drew rein and exchanged +a few words. A part of the dealer’s conversation had much +meaning for Nicholas.</p> +<p>‘I’ve had occasion to call on Squire Everard,’ +the former said; ‘but he couldn’t see me on account of being +quite knocked up at some bad news he has heard.’</p> +<p>Nicholas rode on past Froom-Everard to Elsenford Farm, pondering. +He had new and startling matter for thought as soon as he got there. +The Squire’s note had arrived. At first he could not credit +its import; then he saw further, took in the tone of the letter, saw +the writer’s contempt behind the words, and understood that the +letter was written as by a man hemmed into a corner. Christine +was defiantly—insultingly—hurled at his head. He was +accepted because he was so despised.</p> +<p>And yet with what respect he had treated her and hers! Now +he was reminded of what an agricultural friend had said years ago, seeing +the eyes of Nicholas fixed on Christine as on an angel when she passed: +‘Better a little fire to warm ’ee than a great one to burn +’ee. No good can come of throwing your heart there.’ +He went into the mead, sat down, and asked himself four questions:</p> +<p>1. How could she live near her acquaintance as his wife, even +in his absence, without suffering martyrdom from the stings of their +contempt?</p> +<p>2. Would not this entail total estrangement between Christine +and her family also, and her own consequent misery?</p> +<p>3. Must not such isolation extinguish her affection for him?</p> +<p>4. Supposing that her father rigged them out as colonists and +sent them off to America, was not the effect of such exile upon one +of her gentle nurture likely to be as the last?</p> +<p>In short, whatever they should embark in together would be cruelty +to her, and his death would be a relief. It would, indeed, in +one aspect be a relief to her now, if she were so ashamed of him as +she had appeared to be that day. Were he dead, this little episode +with him would fade away like a dream.</p> +<p>Mr. Everard was a good-hearted man at bottom, but to take his enraged +offer seriously was impossible. Obviously it was hotly made in +his first bitterness at what he had heard. The least thing that +he could do would be to go away and never trouble her more. To +travel and learn and come back in two years, as mapped out in their +first sanguine scheme, required a staunch heart on her side, if the +necessary expenditure of time and money were to be afterwards justified; +and it were folly to calculate on that when he had seen to-day that +her heart was failing her already. To travel and disappear and +not be heard of for many years would be a far more independent stroke, +and it would leave her entirely unfettered. Perhaps he might rival +in this kind the accomplished Mr. Bellston, of whose journeyings he +had heard so much.</p> +<p>He sat and sat, and the fog rose out of the river, enveloping him +like a fleece; first his feet and knees, then his arms and body, and +finally submerging his head. When he had come to a decision he +went up again into the homestead. He would be independent, if +he died for it, and he would free Christine. Exile was the only +course. The first step was to inform his uncle of his determination.</p> +<p>Two days later Nicholas was on the same spot in the mead, at almost +the same hour of eve. But there was no fog now; a blusterous autumn +wind had ousted the still, golden days and misty nights; and he was +going, full of purpose, in the opposite direction. When he had +last entered the mead he was an inhabitant of the Froom valley; in forty-eight +hours he had severed himself from that spot as completely as if he had +never belonged to it. All that appertained to him in the Froom +valley now was circumscribed by the portmanteau in his hand.</p> +<p>In making his preparations for departure he had unconsciously held +a faint, foolish hope that she would communicate with him and make up +their estrangement in some soft womanly way. But she had given +no signal, and it was too evident to him that her latest mood had grown +to be her fixed one, proving how well founded had been his impulse to +set her free.</p> +<p>He entered the Sallows, found his way in the dark to the garden-door +of the house, slipped under it a note to tell her of his departure, +and explaining its true reason to be a consciousness of her growing +feeling that he was an encumbrance and a humiliation. Of the direction +of his journey and of the date of his return he said nothing.</p> +<p>His course now took him into the high road, which he pursued for +some miles in a north-easterly direction, still spinning the thread +of sad inferences, and asking himself why he should ever return. +At daybreak he stood on the hill above Shottsford-Forum, and awaited +a coach which passed about this time along that highway towards Melchester +and London.</p> +<h3>CHAPTER VI</h3> +<p>Some fifteen years after the date of the foregoing incidents, a man +who had dwelt in far countries, and viewed many cities, arrived at Roy-Town, +a roadside hamlet on the old western turnpike road, not five miles from +Froom-Everard, and put up at the Buck’s Head, an isolated inn +at that spot. He was still barely of middle age, but it could +be seen that a haze of grey was settling upon the locks of his hair, +and that his face had lost colour and curve, as if by exposure to bleaching +climates and strange atmospheres, or from ailments incidental thereto. +He seemed to observe little around him, by reason of the intrusion of +his musings upon the scene. In truth Nicholas Long was just now +the creature of old hopes and fears consequent upon his arrival—this +man who once had not cared if his name were blotted out from that district. +The evening light showed wistful lines which he could not smooth away +by the worldling’s gloss of nonchalance that he had learnt to +fling over his face.</p> +<p>The Buck’s Head was a somewhat unusual place for a man of this +sort to choose as a house of sojourn in preference to some Casterbridge +inn four miles further on. Before he left home it had been a lively +old tavern at which High-flyers, and Heralds, and Tally-hoes had changed +horses on their stages up and down the country; but now the house was +rather cavernous and chilly, the stable-roofs were hollow-backed, the +landlord was asthmatic, and the traffic gone.</p> +<p>He arrived in the afternoon, and when he had sent back the fly and +was having a nondescript meal, he put a question to the waiting-maid +with a mien of indifference.</p> +<p>‘Squire Everard, of Froom-Everard Manor, has been dead some +years, I believe?’</p> +<p>She replied in the affirmative.</p> +<p>‘And are any of the family left there still?’</p> +<p>‘O no, bless you, sir! They sold the place years ago—Squire +Everard’s son did—and went away. I’ve never +heard where they went to. They came quite to nothing.’</p> +<p>‘Never heard anything of the young lady—the Squire’s +daughter?’</p> +<p>‘No. You see ’twas before I came to these parts.’</p> +<p>When the waitress left the room, Nicholas pushed aside his plate +and gazed out of the window. He was not going over into the Froom +Valley altogether on Christine’s account, but she had greatly +animated his motive in coming that way. Anyhow he would push on +there now that he was so near, and not ask questions here where he was +liable to be wrongly informed. The fundamental inquiry he had +not ventured to make—whether Christine had married before the +family went away. He had abstained because of an absurd dread +of extinguishing hopeful surmise. That the Everards had left their +old home was bad enough intelligence for one day.</p> +<p>Rising from the table he put on his hat and went out, ascending towards +the upland which divided this district from his native vale. The +first familiar feature that met his eye was a little spot on the distant +sky—a clump of trees standing on a barrow which surmounted a yet +more remote upland—a point where, in his childhood, he had believed +people could stand and see America. He reached the further verge +of the plateau on which he had entered. Ah, there was the valley—a +greenish-grey stretch of colour—still looking placid and serene, +as though it had not much missed him. If Christine was no longer +there, why should he pause over it this evening? His uncle and +aunt were dead, and to-morrow would be soon enough to inquire for remoter +relatives. Thus, disinclined to go further, he turned to retrace +his way to the inn.</p> +<p>In the backward path he now perceived the figure of a woman, who +had been walking at a distance behind him; and as she drew nearer he +began to be startled. Surely, despite the variations introduced +into that figure by changing years, its ground-lines were those of Christine?</p> +<p>Nicholas had been sentimental enough to write to Christine immediately +on landing at Southampton a day or two before this, addressing his letter +at a venture to the old house, and merely telling her that he planned +to reach the Roy-Town inn on the present afternoon. The news of +the scattering of the Everards had dissipated his hope of hearing of +her; but here she was.</p> +<p>So they met—there, alone, on the open down by a pond, just +as if the meeting had been carefully arranged.</p> +<p>She threw up her veil. She was still beautiful, though the +years had touched her; a little more matronly—much more homely. +Or was it only that he was much less homely now—a man of the world—the +sense of homeliness being relative? Her face had grown to be pre-eminently +of the sort that would be called interesting. Her habiliments +were of a demure and sober cast, though she was one who had used to +dress so airily and so gaily. Years had laid on a few shadows +too in this.</p> +<p>‘I received your letter,’ she said, when the momentary +embarrassment of their first approach had passed. ‘And I +thought I would walk across the hills to-day, as it was fine. +I have just called at the inn, and they told me you were out. +I was now on my way homeward.’</p> +<p>He hardly listened to this, though he intently gazed at her. +‘Christine,’ he said, ‘one word. Are you free?’</p> +<p>‘I—I am in a certain sense,’ she replied, colouring.</p> +<p>The announcement had a magical effect. The intervening time +between past and present closed up for him, and moved by an impulse +which he had combated for fifteen years, he seized her two hands and +drew her towards him.</p> +<p>She started back, and became almost a mere acquaintance. ‘I +have to tell you,’ she gasped, ‘that I have—been married.’</p> +<p>Nicholas’s rose-coloured dream was immediately toned down to +a greyish tinge.</p> +<p>‘I did not marry till many years after you had left,’ +she continued in the humble tones of one confessing to a crime. +‘Oh Nic,’ she cried reproachfully, ‘how could you +stay away so long?’</p> +<p>‘Whom did you marry?’</p> +<p>‘Mr. Bellston.’</p> +<p>‘I—ought to have expected it.’ He was going +to add, ‘And is he dead?’ but he checked himself. +Her dress unmistakably suggested widowhood; and she had said she was +free.</p> +<p>‘I must now hasten home,’ said she. ‘I felt +that, considering my shortcomings at our parting so many years ago, +I owed you the initiative now.’</p> +<p>‘There is some of your old generosity in that. I’ll +walk with you, if I may. Where are you living, Christine?’</p> +<p>‘In the same house, but not on the old conditions. I +have part of it on lease; the farmer now tenanting the premises found +the whole more than he wanted, and the owner allowed me to keep what +rooms I chose. I am poor now, you know, Nicholas, and almost friendless. +My brother sold the Froom-Everard estate when it came to him, and the +person who bought it turned our home into a farmhouse. Till my +father’s death my husband and I lived in the manor-house with +him, so that I have never lived away from the spot.’</p> +<p>She was poor. That, and the change of name, sufficiently accounted +for the inn-servant’s ignorance of her continued existence within +the walls of her old home.</p> +<p>It was growing dusk, and he still walked with her. A woman’s +head arose from the declivity before them, and as she drew nearer, Christine +asked him to go back.</p> +<p>‘This is the wife of the farmer who shares the house,’ +she said. ‘She is accustomed to come out and meet me whenever +I walk far and am benighted. I am obliged to walk everywhere now.’</p> +<p>The farmer’s wife, seeing that Christine was not alone, paused +in her advance, and Nicholas said, ‘Dear Christine, if you are +obliged to do these things, I am not, and what wealth I can command +you may command likewise. They say rolling stones gather no moss; +but they gather dross sometimes. I was one of the pioneers to +the gold-fields, you know, and made a sufficient fortune there for my +wants. What is more, I kept it. When I had done this I was +coming home, but hearing of my uncle’s death I changed my plan, +travelled, speculated, and increased my fortune. Now, before we +part: you remember you stood with me at the altar once, and therefore +I speak with less preparation than I should otherwise use. Before +we part then I ask, shall another again intrude between us? Or +shall we complete the union we began?’</p> +<p>She trembled—just as she had done at that very minute of standing +with him in the church, to which he had recalled her mind. ‘I +will not enter into that now, dear Nicholas,’ she replied. +‘There will be more to talk of and consider first—more to +explain, which it would have spoiled this meeting to have entered into +now.’</p> +<p>‘Yes, yes; but—’</p> +<p>‘Further than the brief answer I first gave, Nic, don’t +press me to-night. I still have the old affection for you, or +I should not have sought you. Let that suffice for the moment.’</p> +<p>‘Very well, dear one. And when shall I call to see you?’</p> +<p>‘I will write and fix an hour. I will tell you everything +of my history then.’</p> +<p>And thus they parted, Nicholas feeling that he had not come here +fruitlessly. When she and her companion were out of sight he retraced +his steps to Roy-Town, where he made himself as comfortable as he could +in the deserted old inn of his boyhood’s days. He missed +her companionship this evening more than he had done at any time during +the whole fifteen years; and it was as though instead of separation +there had been constant communion with her throughout that period. +The tones of her voice had stirred his heart in a nook which had lain +stagnant ever since he last heard them. They recalled the woman +to whom he had once lifted his eyes as to a goddess. Her announcement +that she had been another’s came as a little shock to him, and +he did not now lift his eyes to her in precisely the same way as he +had lifted them at first. But he forgave her for marrying Bellston; +what could he expect after fifteen years?</p> +<p>He slept at Roy-Town that night, and in the morning there was a short +note from her, repeating more emphatically her statement of the previous +evening—that she wished to inform him clearly of her circumstances, +and to calmly consider with him the position in which she was placed. +Would he call upon her on Sunday afternoon, when she was sure to be +alone?</p> +<p>‘Nic,’ she wrote on, ‘what a cosmopolite you are! +I expected to find my old yeoman still; but I was quite awed in the +presence of such a citizen of the world. Did I seem rusty and +unpractised? Ah—you seemed so once to me!’</p> +<p>Tender playful words; the old Christine was in them. She said +Sunday afternoon, and it was now only Saturday morning. He wished +she had said to-day; that short revival of her image had vitalized to +sudden heat feelings that had almost been stilled. Whatever she +might have to explain as to her position—and it was awkwardly +narrowed, no doubt—he could not give her up. Miss Everard +or Mrs. Bellston, what mattered it?—she was the same Christine.</p> +<p>He did not go outside the inn all Saturday. He had no wish +to see or do anything but to await the coming interview. So he +smoked, and read the local newspaper of the previous week, and stowed +himself in the chimney-corner. In the evening he felt that he +could remain indoors no longer, and the moon being near the full, he +started from the inn on foot in the same direction as that of yesterday, +with the view of contemplating the old village and its precincts, and +hovering round her house under the cloak of night.</p> +<p>With a stout stick in his hand he climbed over the five miles of +upland in a comparatively short space of time. Nicholas had seen +many strange lands and trodden many strange ways since he last walked +that path, but as he trudged he seemed wonderfully like his old self, +and had not the slightest difficulty in finding the way. In descending +to the meads the streams perplexed him a little, some of the old foot-bridges +having been removed; but he ultimately got across the larger water-courses, +and pushed on to the village, avoiding her residence for the moment, +lest she should encounter him, and think he had not respected the time +of her appointment.</p> +<p>He found his way to the churchyard, and first ascertained where lay +the two relations he had left alive at his departure; then he observed +the gravestones of other inhabitants with whom he had been well acquainted, +till by degrees he seemed to be in the society of all the elder Froom-Everard +population, as he had known the place. Side by side as they had +lived in his day here were they now. They had moved house in mass.</p> +<p>But no tomb of Mr. Bellston was visible, though, as he had lived +at the manor-house, it would have been natural to find it here. +In truth Nicholas was more anxious to discover that than anything, being +curious to know how long he had been dead. Seeing from the glimmer +of a light in the church that somebody was there cleaning for Sunday +he entered, and looked round upon the walls as well as he could. +But there was no monument to her husband, though one had been erected +to the Squire.</p> +<p>Nicholas addressed the young man who was sweeping. ‘I +don’t see any monument or tomb to the late Mr. Bellston?’</p> +<p>‘O no, sir; you won’t see that,’ said the young +man drily.</p> +<p>‘Why, pray?’</p> +<p>‘Because he’s not buried here. He’s not Christian-buried +anywhere, as far as we know. In short, perhaps he’s not +buried at all; and between ourselves, perhaps he’s alive.’</p> +<p>Nicholas sank an inch shorter. ‘Ah,’ he answered.</p> +<p>‘Then you don’t know the peculiar circumstances, sir?’</p> +<p>‘I am a stranger here—as to late years.’</p> +<p>‘Mr. Bellston was a traveller—an explorer—it was +his calling; you may have heard his name as such?’</p> +<p>‘I remember.’ Nicholas recalled the fact that this +very bent of Mr. Bellston’s was the incentive to his own roaming.</p> +<p>‘Well, when he married he came and lived here with his wife +and his wife’s father, and said he would travel no more. +But after a time he got weary of biding quiet here, and weary of her—he +was not a good husband to the young lady by any means—and he betook +himself again to his old trick of roving—with her money. +Away he went, quite out of the realm of human foot, into the bowels +of Asia, and never was heard of more. He was murdered, it is said, +but nobody knows; though as that was nine years ago he’s dead +enough in principle, if not in corporation. His widow lives quite +humble, for between her husband and her brother she’s left in +very lean pasturage.’</p> +<p>Nicholas went back to the Buck’s Head without hovering round +her dwelling. This then was the explanation which she had wanted +to make. Not dead, but missing. How could he have expected +that the first fair promise of happiness held out to him would remain +untarnished? She had said that she was free; and legally she was +free, no doubt. Moreover, from her tone and manner he felt himself +justified in concluding that she would be willing to run the risk of +a union with him, in the improbability of her husband’s existence. +Even if that husband lived, his return was not a likely event, to judge +from his character. A man who could spend her money on his own +personal adventures would not be anxious to disturb her poverty after +such a lapse of time.</p> +<p>Well, the prospect was not so unclouded as it had seemed. But +could he, even now, give up Christine?</p> +<h3>CHAPTER VII</h3> +<p>Two months more brought the year nearly to a close, and found Nicholas +Long tenant of a spacious house in the market-town nearest to Froom-Everard. +A man of means, genial character, and a bachelor, he was an object of +great interest to his neighbours, and to his neighbours’ wives +and daughters. But he took little note of this, and had made it +his business to go twice a week, no matter what the weather, to the +now farmhouse at Froom-Everard, a wing of which had been retained as +the refuge of Christine. He always walked, to give no trouble +in putting up a horse to a housekeeper whose staff was limited.</p> +<p>The two had put their heads together on the situation, had gone to +a solicitor, had balanced possibilities, and had resolved to make the +plunge of matrimony. ‘Nothing venture, nothing have,’ +Christine had said, with some of her old audacity.</p> +<p>With almost gratuitous honesty they had let their intentions be widely +known. Christine, it is true, had rather shrunk from publicity +at first; but Nicholas argued that their boldness in this respect would +have good results. With his friends he held that there was not +the slightest probability of her being other than a widow, and a challenge +to the missing man now, followed by no response, would stultify any +unpleasant remarks which might be thrown at her after their union. +To this end a paragraph was inserted in the Wessex papers, announcing +that their marriage was proposed to be celebrated on such and such a +day in December.</p> +<p>His periodic walks along the south side of the valley to visit her +were among the happiest experiences of his life. The yellow leaves +falling around him in the foreground, the well-watered meads on the +left hand, and the woman he loved awaiting him at the back of the scene, +promised a future of much serenity, as far as human judgment could foresee. +On arriving, he would sit with her in the ‘parlour’ of the +wing she retained, her general sitting-room, where the only relics of +her early surroundings were an old clock from the other end of the house, +and her own piano. Before it was quite dark they would stand, +hand in hand, looking out of the window across the flat turf to the +dark clump of trees which hid further view from their eyes.</p> +<p>‘Do you wish you were still mistress here, dear?’ he +once said.</p> +<p>‘Not at all,’ said she cheerfully. ‘I have +a good enough room, and a good enough fire, and a good enough friend. +Besides, my latter days as mistress of the house were not happy ones, +and they spoilt the place for me. It was a punishment for my faithlessness. +Nic, you do forgive me? Really you do?’</p> +<p>The twenty-third of December, the eve of the wedding-day, had arrived +at last in the train of such uneventful ones as these. Nicholas +had arranged to visit her that day a little later than usual, and see +that everything was ready with her for the morrow’s event and +her removal to his house; for he had begun to look after her domestic +affairs, and to lighten as much as possible the duties of her housekeeping.</p> +<p>He was to come to an early supper, which she had arranged to take +the place of a wedding-breakfast next day—the latter not being +feasible in her present situation. An hour or so after dark the +wife of the farmer who lived in the other part of the house entered +Christine’s parlour to lay the cloth.</p> +<p>‘What with getting the ham skinned, and the black-puddings +hotted up,’ she said, ‘it will take me all my time before +he’s here, if I begin this minute.’</p> +<p>‘I’ll lay the table myself,’ said Christine, jumping +up. ‘Do you attend to the cooking.’</p> +<p>‘Thank you, ma’am. And perhaps ’tis no matter, +seeing that it is the last night you’ll have to do such work. +I knew this sort of life wouldn’t last long for ’ee, being +born to better things.’</p> +<p>‘It has lasted rather long, Mrs. Wake. And if he had +not found me out it would have lasted all my days.’</p> +<p>‘But he did find you out.’</p> +<p>‘He did. And I’ll lay the cloth immediately.’</p> +<p>Mrs. Wake went back to the kitchen, and Christine began to bustle +about. She greatly enjoyed preparing this table for Nicholas and +herself with her own hands. She took artistic pleasure in adjusting +each article to its position, as if half an inch error were a point +of high importance. Finally she placed the two candles where they +were to stand, and sat down by the fire.</p> +<p>Mrs. Wake re-entered and regarded the effect. ‘Why not +have another candle or two, ma’am?’ she said. ‘’Twould +make it livelier. Say four.’</p> +<p>‘Very well,’ said Christine, and four candles were lighted. +‘Really,’ she added, surveying them, ‘I have been +now so long accustomed to little economies that they look quite extravagant.’</p> +<p>‘Ah, you’ll soon think nothing of forty in his grand +new house! Shall I bring in supper directly he comes, ma’am?’</p> +<p>‘No, not for half an hour; and, Mrs. Wake, you and Betsy are +busy in the kitchen, I know; so when he knocks don’t disturb yourselves; +I can let him in.’</p> +<p>She was again left alone, and, as it still wanted some time to Nicholas’s +appointment, she stood by the fire, looking at herself in the glass +over the mantel. Reflectively raising a lock of her hair just +above her temple she uncovered a small scar. That scar had a history. +The terrible temper of her late husband—those sudden moods of +irascibility which had made even his friendly excitements look like +anger—had once caused him to set that mark upon her with the bezel +of a ring he wore. He declared that the whole thing was an accident. +She was a woman, and kept her own opinion.</p> +<p>Christine then turned her back to the glass and scanned the table +and the candles, shining one at each corner like types of the four Evangelists, +and thought they looked too assuming—too confident. She +glanced up at the clock, which stood also in this room, there not being +space enough for it in the passage. It was nearly seven, and she +expected Nicholas at half-past. She liked the company of this +venerable article in her lonely life: its tickings and whizzings were +a sort of conversation. It now began to strike the hour. +At the end something grated slightly. Then, without any warning, +the clock slowly inclined forward and fell at full length upon the floor.</p> +<p>The crash brought the farmer’s wife rushing into the room. +Christine had well-nigh sprung out of her shoes. Mrs. Wake’s +enquiry what had happened was answered by the evidence of her own eyes.</p> +<p>‘How did it occur?’ she said.</p> +<p>‘I cannot say; it was not firmly fixed, I suppose. Dear +me, how sorry I am! My dear father’s hall-clock! And +now I suppose it is ruined.’</p> +<p>Assisted by Mrs. Wake, she lifted the clock. Every inch of +glass was, of course, shattered, but very little harm besides appeared +to be done. They propped it up temporarily, though it would not +go again.</p> +<p>Christine had soon recovered her composure, but she saw that Mrs. +Wake was gloomy. ‘What does it mean, Mrs. Wake?’ she +said. ‘Is it ominous?’</p> +<p>‘It is a sign of a violent death in the family.’</p> +<p>‘Don’t talk of it. I don’t believe such things; +and don’t mention it to Mr. Long when he comes. <i>He’s</i> +not in the family yet, you know.’</p> +<p>‘O no, it cannot refer to him,’ said Mrs. Wake musingly.</p> +<p>‘Some remote cousin, perhaps,’ observed Christine, no +less willing to humour her than to get rid of a shapeless dread which +the incident had caused in her own mind. ‘And—supper +is almost ready, Mrs. Wake?’</p> +<p>‘In three-quarters of an hour.’</p> +<p>Mrs. Wake left the room, and Christine sat on. Though it still +wanted fifteen minutes to the hour at which Nicholas had promised to +be there, she began to grow impatient. After the accustomed ticking +the dead silence was oppressive. But she had not to wait so long +as she had expected; steps were heard approaching the door, and there +was a knock.</p> +<p>Christine was already there to open it. The entrance had no +lamp, but it was not particularly dark out of doors. She could +see the outline of a man, and cried cheerfully, ‘You are early; +it is very good of you.’</p> +<p>‘I beg pardon. It is not Mr. Bellston himself—only +a messenger with his bag and great-coat. But he will be here soon.’</p> +<p>The voice was not the voice of Nicholas, and the intelligence was +strange. ‘I—I don’t understand. Mr. Bellston?’ +she faintly replied.</p> +<p>‘Yes, ma’am. A gentleman—a stranger to me—gave +me these things at Casterbridge station to bring on here, and told me +to say that Mr. Bellston had arrived there, and is detained for half-an-hour, +but will be here in the course of the evening.’</p> +<p>She sank into a chair. The porter put a small battered portmanteau +on the floor, the coat on a chair, and looking into the room at the +spread table said, ‘If you are disappointed, ma’am, that +your husband (as I s’pose he is) is not come, I can assure you +he’ll soon be here. He’s stopped to get a shave, to +my thinking, seeing he wanted it. What he said was that I could +tell you he had heard the news in Ireland, and would have come sooner, +his hand being forced; but was hindered crossing by the weather, having +took passage in a sailing vessel. What news he meant he didn’t +say.’</p> +<p>‘Ah, yes,’ she faltered. It was plain that the +man knew nothing of her intended re-marriage.</p> +<p>Mechanically rising and giving him a shilling, she answered to his +‘good-night,’ and he withdrew, the beat of his footsteps +lessening in the distance. She was alone; but in what a solitude.</p> +<p>Christine stood in the middle of the hall, just as the man had left +her, in the gloomy silence of the stopped clock within the adjoining +room, till she aroused herself, and turning to the portmanteau and great-coat +brought them to the light of the candles, and examined them. The +portmanteau bore painted upon it the initials ‘J. B.’ in +white letters—the well-known initials of her husband.</p> +<p>She examined the great-coat. In the breast-pocket was an empty +spirit flask, which she firmly fancied she recognized as the one she +had filled many times for him when he was living at home with her.</p> +<p>She turned desultorily hither and thither, until she heard another +tread without, and there came a second knocking at the door. She +did not respond to it; and Nicholas—for it was he—thinking +that he was not heard by reason of a concentration on to-morrow’s +proceedings, opened the door softly, and came on to the door of her +room, which stood unclosed, just as it had been left by the Casterbridge +porter.</p> +<p>Nicholas uttered a blithe greeting, cast his eye round the parlour, +which with its tall candles, blazing fire, snow-white cloth, and prettily-spread +table, formed a cheerful spectacle enough for a man who had been walking +in the dark for an hour.</p> +<p>‘My bride—almost, at last!’ he cried, encircling +her with his arms.</p> +<p>Instead of responding, her figure became limp, frigid, heavy; her +head fell back, and he found that she had fainted.</p> +<p>It was natural, he thought. She had had many little worrying +matters to attend to, and but slight assistance. He ought to have +seen more effectually to her affairs; the closeness of the event had +over-excited her. Nicholas kissed her unconscious face—more +than once, little thinking what news it was that had changed its aspect. +Loth to call Mrs. Wake, he carried Christine to a couch and laid her +down. This had the effect of reviving her. Nicholas bent +and whispered in her ear, ‘Lie quiet, dearest, no hurry; and dream, +dream, dream of happy days. It is only I. You will soon +be better.’ He held her by the hand.</p> +<p>‘No, no, no!’ she said, with a stare. ‘O, +how can this be?’</p> +<p>Nicholas was alarmed and perplexed, but the disclosure was not long +delayed. When she had sat up, and by degrees made the stunning +event known to him, he stood as if transfixed.</p> +<p>‘Ah—is it so?’ said he. Then, becoming quite +meek, ‘And why was he so cruel as to—delay his return till +now?’</p> +<p>She dutifully recited the explanation her husband had given her through +the messenger; but her mechanical manner of telling it showed how much +she doubted its truth. It was too unlikely that his arrival at +such a dramatic moment should not be a contrived surprise, quite of +a piece with his previous dealings towards her.</p> +<p>‘But perhaps it may be true—and he may have become kind +now—not as he used to be,’ she faltered. ‘Yes, +perhaps, Nicholas, he is an altered man—we’ll hope he is. +I suppose I ought not to have listened to my legal advisers, and assumed +his death so surely! Anyhow, I am roughly received back into—the +right way!’</p> +<p>Nicholas burst out bitterly: ‘O what too, too honest fools +we were!—to so court daylight upon our intention by putting that +announcement in the papers! Why could we not have married privately, +and gone away, so that he would never have known what had become of +you, even if he had returned? Christine, he has done it to . . +. But I’ll say no more. Of course we—might fly now.’</p> +<p>‘No, no; we might not,’ said she hastily.</p> +<p>‘Very well. But this is hard to bear! “When +I looked for good then evil came unto me, and when I waited for light +there came darkness.” So once said a sorely tried man in +the land of Uz, and so say I now! . . . I wonder if he is almost here +at this moment?’</p> +<p>She told him she supposed Bellston was approaching by the path across +the fields, having sent on his great-coat, which he would not want walking.</p> +<p>‘And is this meal laid for him, or for me?’</p> +<p>‘It was laid for you.’</p> +<p>‘And it will be eaten by him?’</p> +<p>‘Yes.’</p> +<p>‘Christine, are you <i>sure</i> that he is come, or have you +been sleeping over the fire and dreaming it?’</p> +<p>She pointed anew to the portmanteau with the initials ‘J. B.,’ +and to the coat beside it.</p> +<p>‘Well, good-bye—good-bye! Curse that parson for +not marrying us fifteen years ago!’</p> +<p>It is unnecessary to dwell further upon that parting. There +are scenes wherein the words spoken do not even approximate to the level +of the mental communion between the actors. Suffice it to say +that part they did, and quickly; and Nicholas, more dead than alive, +went out of the house homewards.</p> +<p>Why had he ever come back? During his absence he had not cared +for Christine as he cared now. If he had been younger he might +have felt tempted to descend into the meads instead of keeping along +their edge. The Froom was down there, and he knew of quiet pools +in that stream to which death would come easily. But he was too +old to put an end to himself for such a reason as love; and another +thought, too, kept him from seriously contemplating any desperate act. +His affection for her was strongly protective, and in the event of her +requiring a friend’s support in future troubles there was none +but himself left in the world to afford it. So he walked on.</p> +<p>Meanwhile Christine had resigned herself to circumstances. +A resolve to continue worthy of her history and of her family lent her +heroism and dignity. She called Mrs. Wake, and explained to that +worthy woman as much of what had occurred as she deemed necessary. +Mrs. Wake was too amazed to reply; she retreated slowly, her lips parted; +till at the door she said with a dry mouth, ‘And the beautiful +supper, ma’am?’</p> +<p>‘Serve it when he comes.’</p> +<p>‘When Mr. Bellston—yes, ma’am, I will.’ +She still stood gazing, as if she could hardly take in the order.</p> +<p>‘That will do, Mrs. Wake. I am much obliged to you for +all your kindness.’ And Christine was left alone again, +and then she wept.</p> +<p>She sat down and waited. That awful silence of the stopped +clock began anew, but she did not mind it now. She was listening +for a footfall in a state of mental tensity which almost took away from +her the power of motion. It seemed to her that the natural interval +for her husband’s journey thither must have expired; but she was +not sure, and waited on.</p> +<p>Mrs. Wake again came in. ‘You have not rung for supper—’</p> +<p>‘He is not yet come, Mrs. Wake. If you want to go to +bed, bring in the supper and set it on the table. It will be nearly +as good cold. Leave the door unbarred.’</p> +<p>Mrs. Wake did as was suggested, made up the fire, and went away. +Shortly afterwards Christine heard her retire to her chamber. +But Christine still sat on, and still her husband postponed his entry.</p> +<p>She aroused herself once or twice to freshen the fire, but was ignorant +how the night was going. Her watch was upstairs and she did not +make the effort to go up to consult it. In her seat she continued; +and still the supper waited, and still he did not come.</p> +<p>At length she was so nearly persuaded that the arrival of his things +must have been a dream after all, that she again went over to them, +felt them, and examined them. His they unquestionably were; and +their forwarding by the porter had been quite natural. She sighed +and sat down again.</p> +<p>Presently she fell into a doze, and when she again became conscious +she found that the four candles had burnt into their sockets and gone +out. The fire still emitted a feeble shine. Christine did +not take the trouble to get more candles, but stirred the fire and sat +on.</p> +<p>After a long period she heard a creaking of the chamber floor and +stairs at the other end of the house, and knew that the farmer’s +family were getting up. By-and-by Mrs. Wake entered the room, +candle in hand, bouncing open the door in her morning manner, obviously +without any expectation of finding a person there.</p> +<p>‘Lord-a-mercy! What, sitting here again, ma’am?’</p> +<p>‘Yes, I am sitting here still.’</p> +<p>‘You’ve been there ever since last night?’</p> +<p>‘Yes.’</p> +<p>‘Then—’</p> +<p>‘He’s not come.’</p> +<p>‘Well, he won’t come at this time o’ morning,’ +said the farmer’s wife. ‘Do ’ee get on to bed, +ma’am. You must be shrammed to death!’</p> +<p>It occurred to Christine now that possibly her husband had thought +better of obtruding himself upon her company within an hour of revealing +his existence to her, and had decided to pay a more formal visit next +day. She therefore adopted Mrs. Wake’s suggestion and retired.</p> +<h3>CHAPTER VIII</h3> +<p>Nicholas had gone straight home, neither speaking to nor seeing a +soul. From that hour a change seemed to come over him. He +had ever possessed a full share of self-consciousness; he had been readily +piqued, had shown an unusual dread of being personally obtrusive. +But now his sense of self, as an individual provoking opinion, appeared +to leave him. When, therefore, after a day or two of seclusion, +he came forth again, and the few acquaintances he had formed in the +town condoled with him on what had happened, and pitied his haggard +looks, he did not shrink from their regard as he would have done formerly, +but took their sympathy as it would have been accepted by a child.</p> +<p>It reached his ears that Bellston had not appeared on the evening +of his arrival at any hotel in the town or neighbourhood, or entered +his wife’s house at all. ‘That’s a part of his +cruelty,’ thought Nicholas. And when two or three days had +passed, and still no account came to him of Bellston having joined her, +he ventured to set out for Froom-Everard.</p> +<p>Christine was so shaken that she was obliged to receive him as she +lay on a sofa, beside the square table which was to have borne their +evening feast. She fixed her eyes wistfully upon him, and smiled +a sad smile.</p> +<p>‘He has not come?’ said Nicholas under his breath.</p> +<p>‘He has not.’</p> +<p>Then Nicholas sat beside her, and they talked on general topics merely +like saddened old friends. But they could not keep away the subject +of Bellston, their voices dropping as it forced its way in. Christine, +no less than Nicholas, knowing her husband’s character, inferred +that, having stopped her game, as he would have phrased it, he was taking +things leisurely, and, finding nothing very attractive in her limited +mode of living, was meaning to return to her only when he had nothing +better to do.</p> +<p>The bolt which laid low their hopes had struck so recently that they +could hardly look each other in the face when speaking that day. +But when a week or two had passed, and all the horizon still remained +as vacant of Bellston as before, Nicholas and she could talk of the +event with calm wonderment. Why had he come, to go again like +this?</p> +<p>And then there set in a period of resigned surmise, during which</p> +<blockquote><p>So like, so very like, was day to day,</p> +</blockquote> +<p>that to tell of one of them is to tell of all. Nicholas would +arrive between three and four in the afternoon, a faint trepidation +influencing his walk as he neared her door. He would knock; she +would always reply in person, having watched for him from the window. +Then he would whisper—‘He has not come?’</p> +<p>‘He has not,’ she would say.</p> +<p>Nicholas would enter then, and she being ready bonneted, they would +walk into the Sallows together as far as to the spot which they had +frequently made their place of appointment in their youthful days. +A plank bridge, which Bellston had caused to be thrown over the stream +during his residence with her in the manor-house, was now again removed, +and all was just the same as in Nicholas’s time, when he had been +accustomed to wade across on the edge of the cascade and come up to +her like a merman from the deep. Here on the felled trunk, which +still lay rotting in its old place, they would now sit, gazing at the +descending sheet of water, with its never-ending sarcastic hiss at their +baffled attempts to make themselves one flesh. Returning to the +house they would sit down together to tea, after which, and the confidential +chat that accompanied it, he walked home by the declining light. +This proceeding became as periodic as an astronomical recurrence. +Twice a week he came—all through that winter, all through the +spring following, through the summer, through the autumn, the next winter, +the next year, and the next, till an appreciable span of human life +had passed by. Bellston still tarried.</p> +<p>Years and years Nic walked that way, at this interval of three days, +from his house in the neighbouring town; and in every instance the aforesaid +order of things was customary; and still on his arrival the form of +words went on—‘He has not come?’</p> +<p>‘He has not.’</p> +<p>So they grew older. The dim shape of that third one stood continually +between them; they could not displace it; neither, on the other hand, +could it effectually part them. They were in close communion, +yet not indissolubly united; lovers, yet never growing cured of love. +By the time that the fifth year of Nic’s visiting had arrived, +on about the five-hundredth occasion of his presence at her tea-table, +he noticed that the bleaching process which had begun upon his own locks +was also spreading to hers. He told her so, and they laughed. +Yet she was in good health: a condition of suspense, which would have +half-killed a man, had been endured by her without complaint, and even +with composure.</p> +<p>One day, when these years of abeyance had numbered seven, they had +strolled as usual as far as the waterfall, whose faint roar formed a +sort of calling voice sufficient in the circumstances to direct their +listlessness. Pausing there, he looked up at her face and said, +‘Why should we not try again, Christine? We are legally +at liberty to do so now. Nothing venture nothing have.’</p> +<p>But she would not. Perhaps a little primness of idea was by +this time ousting the native daring of Christine. ‘What +he has done once he can do twice,’ she said. ‘He is +not dead, and if we were to marry he would say we had “forced +his hand,” as he said before, and duly reappear.’</p> +<p>Some years after, when Christine was about fifty, and Nicholas fifty-three, +a new trouble of a minor kind arrived. He found an inconvenience +in traversing the distance between their two houses, particularly in +damp weather, the years he had spent in trying climates abroad having +sown the seeds of rheumatism, which made a journey undesirable on inclement +days, even in a carriage. He told her of this new difficulty, +as he did of everything.</p> +<p>‘If you could live nearer,’ suggested she.</p> +<p>Unluckily there was no house near. But Nicholas, though not +a millionaire, was a man of means; he obtained a small piece of ground +on lease at the nearest spot to her home that it could be so obtained, +which was on the opposite brink of the Froom, this river forming the +boundary of the Froom-Everard manor; and here he built a cottage large +enough for his wants. This took time, and when he got into it +he found its situation a great comfort to him. He was not more +than five hundred yards from her now, and gained a new pleasure in feeling +that all sounds which greeted his ears, in the day or in the night, +also fell upon hers—the caw of a particular rook, the voice of +a neighbouring nightingale, the whistle of a local breeze, or the purl +of the fall in the meadows, whose rush was a material rendering of Time’s +ceaseless scour over themselves, wearing them away without uniting them.</p> +<p>Christine’s missing husband was taking shape as a myth among +the surrounding residents; but he was still believed in as corporeally +imminent by Christine herself, and also, in a milder degree, by Nicholas. +For a curious unconsciousness of the long lapse of time since his revelation +of himself seemed to affect the pair. There had been no passing +events to serve as chronological milestones, and the evening on which +she had kept supper waiting for him still loomed out with startling +nearness in their retrospects.</p> +<p>In the seventeenth pensive year of this their parallel march towards +the common bourne, a labourer came in a hurry one day to Nicholas’s +house and brought strange tidings. The present owner of Froom-Everard—a +non-resident—had been improving his property in sundry ways, and +one of these was by dredging the stream which, in the course of years, +had become choked with mud and weeds in its passage through the Sallows. +The process necessitated a reconstruction of the waterfall. When +the river had been pumped dry for this purpose, the skeleton of a man +had been found jammed among the piles supporting the edge of the fall. +Every particle of his flesh and clothing had been eaten by fishes or +abraded to nothing by the water, but the relics of a gold watch remained, +and on the inside of the case was engraved the name of the maker of +her husband’s watch, which she well remembered.</p> +<p>Nicholas, deeply agitated, hastened down to the place and examined +the remains attentively, afterwards going across to Christine, and breaking +the discovery to her. She would not come to view the skeleton, +which lay extended on the grass, not a finger or toe-bone missing, so +neatly had the aquatic operators done their work. Conjecture was +directed to the question how Bellston had got there; and conjecture +alone could give an explanation.</p> +<p>It was supposed that, on his way to call upon her, he had taken a +short cut through the grounds, with which he was naturally very familiar, +and coming to the fall under the trees had expected to find there the +plank which, during his occupancy of the premises with Christine and +her father, he had placed there for crossing into the meads on the other +side instead of wading across as Nicholas had done. Before discovering +its removal he had probably overbalanced himself, and was thus precipitated +into the cascade, the piles beneath the descending current wedging him +between them like the prongs of a pitchfork, and effectually preventing +the rising of his body, over which the weeds grew. Such was the +reasonable supposition concerning the discovery; but proof was never +forthcoming.</p> +<p>‘To think,’ said Nicholas, when the remains had been +decently interred, and he was again sitting with Christine—though +not beside the waterfall—‘to think how we visited him! +How we sat over him, hours and hours, gazing at him, bewailing our fate, +when all the time he was ironically hissing at us from the spot, in +an unknown tongue, that we could marry if we chose!’</p> +<p>She echoed the sentiment with a sigh.</p> +<p>‘I have strange fancies,’ she said. ‘I suppose +it <i>must</i> have been my husband who came back, and not some other +man.’</p> +<p>Nicholas felt that there was little doubt. ‘Besides—the +skeleton,’ he said.</p> +<p>‘Yes . . . If it could not have been another person’s—but +no, of course it was he.’</p> +<p>‘You might have married me on the day we had fixed, and there +would have been no impediment. You would now have been seventeen +years my wife, and we might have had tall sons and daughters.’</p> +<p>‘It might have been so,’ she murmured.</p> +<p>‘Well—is it still better late than never?’</p> +<p>The question was one which had become complicated by the increasing +years of each. Their wills were somewhat enfeebled now, their +hearts sickened of tender enterprise by hope too long deferred. +Having postponed the consideration of their course till a year after +the interment of Bellston, each seemed less disposed than formerly to +take it up again.</p> +<p>‘Is it worth while, after so many years?’ she said to +him. ‘We are fairly happy as we are—perhaps happier +than we should be in any other relation, seeing what old people we have +grown. The weight is gone from our lives; the shadow no longer +divides us: then let us be joyful together as we are, dearest Nic, in +the days of our vanity; and</p> +<blockquote><p>With mirth and laughter let old wrinkles come.’</p> +</blockquote> +<p>He fell in with these views of hers to some extent. But occasionally +he ventured to urge her to reconsider the case, though he spoke not +with the fervour of his earlier years.</p> +<p><i>Autumn</i>, 1887.</p> +<h2>ALICIA’S DIARY</h2> +<h3>CHAPTER I.—SHE MISSES HER SISTER</h3> +<p><i>July</i> 7.—I wander about the house in a mood of unutterable +sadness, for my dear sister Caroline has left home to-day with my mother, +and I shall not see them again for several weeks. They have accepted +a long-standing invitation to visit some old friends of ours, the Marlets, +who live at Versailles for cheapness—my mother thinking that it +will be for the good of Caroline to see a little of France and Paris. +But I don’t quite like her going. I fear she may lose some +of that childlike simplicity and gentleness which so characterize her, +and have been nourished by the seclusion of our life here. Her +solicitude about her pony before starting was quite touching, and she +made me promise to visit it daily, and see that it came to no harm.</p> +<p>Caroline gone abroad, and I left here! It is the reverse of +an ordinary situation, for good or ill-luck has mostly ordained that +I should be the absent one. Mother will be quite tired out by +the young enthusiasm of Caroline. She will demand to be taken +everywhere—to Paris continually, of course; to all the stock shrines +of history’s devotees; to palaces and prisons; to kings’ +tombs and queens’ tombs; to cemeteries and picture-galleries, +and royal hunting forests. My poor mother, having gone over most +of this ground many times before, will perhaps not find the perambulation +so exhilarating as will Caroline herself. I wish I could have +gone with them. I would not have minded having my legs walked +off to please Caroline. But this regret is absurd: I could not, +of course, leave my father with not a soul in the house to attend to +the calls of the parishioners or to pour out his tea.</p> +<p><i>July</i> 15.—A letter from Caroline to-day. It is +very strange that she tells me nothing which I expected her to tell—only +trivial details. She seems dazzled by the brilliancy of Paris—which +no doubt appears still more brilliant to her from the fact of her only +being able to obtain occasional glimpses of it. She would see +that Paris, too, has a seamy side if you live there. I was not +aware that the Marlets knew so many people. If, as mother has +said, they went to reside at Versailles for reasons of economy, they +will not effect much in that direction while they make a practice of +entertaining all the acquaintances who happen to be in their neighbourhood. +They do not confine their hospitalities to English people, either. +I wonder who this M. de la Feste is, in whom Caroline says my mother +is so much interested.</p> +<p><i>July</i> 18.—Another letter from Caroline. I have +learnt from this epistle, that M. Charles de la Feste is ‘only +one of the many friends of the Marlets’; that though a Frenchman +by birth, and now again temporarily at Versailles, he has lived in England +many many years; that he is a talented landscape and marine painter, +and has exhibited at the <i>Salon</i>, and I think in London. +His style and subjects are considered somewhat peculiar in Paris—rather +English than Continental. I have not as yet learnt his age, or +his condition, married or single. From the tone and nature of +her remarks about him he sometimes seems to be a middle-aged family +man, sometimes quite the reverse. From his nomadic habits I should +say the latter is the most likely. He has travelled and seen a +great deal, she tells me, and knows more about English literature than +she knows herself.</p> +<p><i>July</i> 21.—Letter from Caroline. Query: Is ‘a +friend of ours and the Marlets,’ of whom she now anonymously and +mysteriously speaks, the same personage as the ‘M. de la Feste’ +of her former letters? He must be the same, I think, from his +pursuits. If so, whence this sudden change of tone? . . . I have +been lost in thought for at least a quarter of an hour since writing +the preceding sentence. Suppose my dear sister is falling in love +with this young man—there is no longer any doubt about his age; +what a very awkward, risky thing for her! I do hope that my mother +has an eye on these proceedings. But, then, poor mother never +sees the drift of anything: she is in truth less of a mother to Caroline +than I am. If I were there, how jealously I would watch him, and +ascertain his designs!</p> +<p>I am of a stronger nature than Caroline. How I have supported +her in the past through her little troubles and great griefs! +Is she agitated at the presence of this, to her, new and strange feeling? +But I am assuming her to be desperately in love, when I have no proof +of anything of the kind. He may be merely a casual friend, of +whom I shall hear no more.</p> +<p><i>July</i> 24.—Then he <i>is</i> a bachelor, as I suspected. +‘If M. de la Feste ever marries he will,’ etc. So +she writes. They are getting into close quarters, obviously. +Also, ‘Something to keep my hair smooth, which M. de la Feste +told me he had found useful for the tips of his moustache.’ +Very naively related this; and with how much unconsciousness of the +intimacy between them that the remark reveals! But my mother—what +can she be doing? Does she know of this? And if so, why +does she not allude to it in her letters to my father? . . . I have +been to look at Caroline’s pony, in obedience to her reiterated +request that I would not miss a day in seeing that she was well cared +for. Anxious as Caroline was about this pony of hers before starting, +she now never mentioned the poor animal once in her letters. The +image of her pet suffers from displacement.</p> +<p><i>August</i> 3.—Caroline’s forgetfulness of her pony +has naturally enough extended to me, her sister. It is ten days +since she last wrote, and but for a note from my mother I should not +know if she were dead or alive.</p> +<h3>CHAPTER II.—NEWS INTERESTING AND SERIOUS</h3> +<p><i>August</i> 5.—A cloud of letters. A letter from Caroline, +another from mother; also one from each to my father.</p> +<p>The probability to which all the intelligence from my sister has +pointed of late turns out to be a fact. There is an engagement, +or almost an engagement, announced between my dear Caroline and M. de +la Feste—to Caroline’s sublime happiness, and my mother’s +entire satisfaction; as well as to that of the Marlets. They and +my mother seem to know all about the young man—which is more than +I do, though a little extended information about him, considering that +I am Caroline’s elder sister, would not have been amiss. +I half feel with my father, who is much surprised, and, I am sure, not +altogether satisfied, that he should not have been consulted at all +before matters reached such a definite stage, though he is too amiable +to say so openly. I don’t quite say that a good thing should +have been hindered for the sake of our opinion, if it is a good thing; +but the announcement comes very suddenly. It must have been foreseen +by my mother for some time that this upshot was probable, and Caroline +might have told me more distinctly that M. de la Feste was her lover, +instead of alluding so mysteriously to him as only a friend of the Marlets, +and lately dropping his name altogether. My father, without exactly +objecting to him as a Frenchman, ‘wishes he were of English or +some other reasonable nationality for one’s son-in-law,’ +but I tell him that the demarcations of races, kingdoms, and creeds, +are wearing down every day, that patriotism is a sort of vice, and that +the character of the individual is all we need think about in this case. +I wonder if, in the event of their marriage, he will continue to live +at Versailles, or if he will come to England.</p> +<p><i>August</i> 7.—A supplemental letter from Caroline, answering, +by anticipation, some of the aforesaid queries. She tells me that +‘Charles,’ though he makes Versailles his present home, +is by no means bound by his profession to continue there; that he will +live just where she wishes, provided it be not too far from some centre +of thought, art, and civilization. My mother and herself both +think that the marriage should not take place till next year. +He exhibits landscapes and canal scenery every year, she says; so I +suppose he is popular, and that his income is sufficient to keep them +in comfort. If not, I do not see why my father could not settle +something more on them than he had intended, and diminish by a little +what he had proposed for me, whilst it was imagined that I should be +the first to stand in need of such.</p> +<p>‘Of engaging manner, attractive appearance, and virtuous character,’ +is the reply I receive from her in answer to my request for a personal +description. That is vague enough, and I would rather have had +one definite fact of complexion, voice, deed, or opinion. But +of course she has no eye now for material qualities; she cannot see +him as he is. She sees him irradiated with glories such as never +appertained and never will appertain to any man, foreign, English, or +Colonial. To think that Caroline, two years my junior, and so +childlike as to be five years my junior in nature, should be engaged +to be married before me. But that is what happens in families +more often than we are apt to remember.</p> +<p><i>August</i> 16.—Interesting news to-day. Charles, she +says, has pleaded that their marriage may just as well be this year +as next; and he seems to have nearly converted my mother to the same +way of thinking. I do not myself see any reason for delay, beyond +the standing one of my father having as yet had no opportunity of forming +an opinion upon the man, the time, or anything. However, he takes +his lot very quietly, and they are coming home to talk the question +over with us; Caroline having decided not to make any positive arrangements +for this change of state till she has seen me. Subject to my own +and my father’s approval, she says, they are inclined to settle +the date of the wedding for November, three months from the present +time, that it shall take place here in the village, that I, of course, +shall be bridesmaid, and many other particulars. She draws an +artless picture of the probable effect upon the minds of the villagers +of this romantic performance in the chancel of our old church, in which +she is to be chief actor—the foreign gentleman dropping down like +a god from the skies, picking her up, and triumphantly carrying her +off. Her only grief will be separation from me, but this is to +be assuaged by my going and staying with her for long months at a time. +This simple prattle is very sweet to me, my dear sister, but I cannot +help feeling sad at the occasion of it. In the nature of things +it is obvious that I shall never be to you again what I hitherto have +been: your guide, counsellor, and most familiar friend.</p> +<p>M. de la Feste does certainly seem to be all that one could desire +as protector to a sensitive fragile child like Caroline, and for that +I am thankful. Still, I must remember that I see him as yet only +through her eyes. For her sake I am intensely anxious to meet +him, and scrutinise him through and through, and learn what the man +is really made of who is to have such a treasure in his keeping. +The engagement has certainly been formed a little precipitately; I quite +agree with my father in that: still, good and happy marriages have been +made in a hurry before now, and mother seems well satisfied.</p> +<p><i>August</i> 20.—A terrible announcement came this morning; +and we are in deep trouble. I have been quite unable to steady +my thoughts on anything to-day till now—half-past eleven at night—and +I only attempt writing these notes because I am too restless to remain +idle, and there is nothing but waiting and waiting left for me to do. +Mother has been taken dangerously ill at Versailles: they were within +a day or two of starting; but all thought of leaving must now be postponed, +for she cannot possibly be moved in her present state. I don’t +like the sound of haemorrhage at all in a woman of her full habit, and +Caroline and the Marlets have not exaggerated their accounts I am certain. +On the receipt of the letter my father instantly decided to go to her, +and I have been occupied all day in getting him off, for as he calculates +on being absent several days, there have been many matters for him to +arrange before setting out—the chief being to find some one who +will do duty for him next Sunday—a quest of no small difficulty +at such short notice; but at last poor old feeble Mr. Dugdale has agreed +to attempt it, with Mr. Highman, the Scripture reader, to assist him +in the lessons.</p> +<p>I fain would have gone with my father to escape the irksome anxiety +of awaiting her; but somebody had to stay, and I could best be spared. +George has driven him to the station to meet the last train by which +he will catch the midnight boat, and reach Havre some time in the morning. +He hates the sea, and a night passage in particular. I hope he +will get there without mishap of any kind; but I feel anxious for him, +stay-at-home as he is, and unable to cope with any difficulty. +Such an errand, too; the journey will be sad enough at best. I +almost think I ought to have been the one to go to her.</p> +<p><i>August</i> 21.—I nearly fell asleep of heaviness of spirit +last night over my writing. My father must have reached Paris +by this time; and now here comes a letter . . .</p> +<p><i>Later.—</i>The letter was to express an earnest hope that +my father had set out. My poor mother is sinking, they fear. +What will become of Caroline? O, how I wish I could see mother; +why could not both have gone?</p> +<p><i>Later</i>.—I get up from my chair, and walk from window +to window, and then come and write a line. I cannot even divine +how poor Caroline’s marriage is to be carried out if mother dies. +I pray that father may have got there in time to talk to her and receive +some directions from her about Caroline and M. de la Feste—a man +whom neither my father nor I have seen. I, who might be useful +in this emergency, am doomed to stay here, waiting in suspense.</p> +<p><i>August</i> 23.—A letter from my father containing the sad +news that my mother’s spirit has flown. Poor little Caroline +is heart-broken—she was always more my mother’s pet than +I was. It is some comfort to know that my father arrived in time +to hear from her own lips her strongly expressed wish that Caroline’s +marriage should be solemnized as soon as possible. M. de la Feste +seems to have been a great favourite of my dear mother’s; and +I suppose it now becomes almost a sacred duty of my father to accept +him as a son-in-law without criticism.</p> +<h3>CHAPTER III.—HER GLOOM LIGHTENS A LITTLE</h3> +<p><i>September</i> 10.—I have inserted nothing in my diary for +more than a fortnight. Events have been altogether too sad for +me to have the spirit to put them on paper. And yet there comes +a time when the act of recording one’s trouble is recognized as +a welcome method of dwelling upon it . . .</p> +<p>My dear mother has been brought home and buried here in the parish. +It was not so much her own wish that this should be done as my father’s, +who particularly desired that she should lie in the family vault beside +his first wife. I saw them side by side before the vault was closed—two +women beloved by one man. As I stood, and Caroline by my side, +I fell into a sort of dream, and had an odd fancy that Caroline and +I might be also beloved of one, and lie like these together—an +impossibility, of course, being sisters. When I awoke from my +reverie Caroline took my hand and said it was time to leave.</p> +<p><i>September</i> 14.—The wedding is indefinitely postponed. +Caroline is like a girl awakening in the middle of a somnambulistic +experience, and does not realize where she is, or how she stands. +She walks about silently, and I cannot tell her thoughts, as I used +to do. It was her own doing to write to M. de la Feste and tell +him that the wedding could not possibly take place this autumn as originally +planned. There is something depressing in this long postponement +if she is to marry him at all; and yet I do not see how it could be +avoided.</p> +<p><i>October</i> 20.—I have had so much to occupy me in consoling +Caroline that I have been continually overlooking my diary. Her +life was much nearer to my mother’s than mine was. She has +never, as I, lived away from home long enough to become self-dependent, +and hence in her first loss, and all that it involved, she drooped like +a rain-beaten lily. But she is of a nature whose wounds soon heal, +even though they may be deep, and the supreme poignancy of her sorrow +has already passed.</p> +<p>My father is of opinion that the wedding should not be delayed too +long. While at Versailles he made the acquaintance of M. de la +Feste, and though they had but a short and hurried communion with each +other, he was much impressed by M. de la Feste’s disposition and +conduct, and is strongly in favour of his suit. It is odd that +Caroline’s betrothed should influence in his favour all who come +near him. His portrait, which dear Caroline has shown me, exhibits +him to be of a physique that partly accounts for this: but there must +be something more than mere appearance, and it is probably some sort +of glamour or fascinating power—the quality which prevented Caroline +from describing him to me with any accuracy of detail. At the +same time, I see from the photograph that his face and head are remarkably +well formed; and though the contours of his mouth are hidden by his +moustache, his arched brows show well the romantic disposition of a +true lover and painter of Nature. I think that the owner of such +a face as this must be tender and sympathetic and true.</p> +<p>October 30.—As my sister’s grief for her mother becomes +more and more calmed, her love for M. de la Feste begins to reassume +its former absorbing command of her. She thinks of him incessantly, +and writes whole treatises to him by way of letters. Her blank +disappointment at his announcement of his inability to pay us a visit +quite so soon as he had promised, was quite tragic. I, too, am +disappointed, for I wanted to see and estimate him. But having +arranged to go to Holland to seize some aerial effects for his pictures, +which are only to be obtained at this time of the autumn, he is obliged +to postpone his journey this way, which is now to be made early in the +new year. I think myself that he ought to have come at all sacrifices, +considering Caroline’s recent loss, the sad postponement of what +she was looking forward to, and her single-minded affection for him. +Still, who knows; his professional success is important. Moreover, +she is cheerful, and hopeful, and the delay will soon be overpast.</p> +<h3>CHAPTER IV.—SHE BEHOLDS THE ATTRACTIVE STRANGER</h3> +<p><i>February</i> 16.—We have had such a dull life here all the +winter that I have found nothing important enough to set down, and broke +off my journal accordingly. I resume it now to make an entry on +the subject of dear Caroline’s future. It seems that she +was too grieved, immediately after the loss of our mother, to answer +definitely the question of M. de la Feste how long the postponement +was to be; then, afterwards, it was agreed that the matter should be +discussed on his autumn visit; but as he did not come, it has remained +in abeyance till this week, when Caroline, with the greatest simplicity +and confidence, has written to him without any further pressure on his +part, and told him that she is quite ready to fix the time, and will +do so as soon as he arrives to see her. She is a little frightened +now, lest it should seem forward in her to have revived the subject +of her own accord; but she may assume that his question has been waiting +on for an answer ever since, and that she has, therefore, acted only +within her promise. In truth, the secret at the bottom of it all +is that she is somewhat saddened because he has not latterly reminded +her of the pause in their affairs—that, in short, his original +impatience to possess her is not now found to animate him so obviously. +I suppose that he loves her as much as ever; indeed, I am sure he must +do so, seeing how lovable she is. It is mostly thus with all men +when women are out of their sight; they grow negligent. Caroline +must have patience, and remember that a man of his genius has many and +important calls upon his time. In justice to her I must add that +she does remember it fairly well, and has as much patience as any girl +ever had in the circumstances. He hopes to come at the beginning +of April at latest. Well, when he comes we shall see him.</p> +<p><i>April 5.—</i>I think that what M. de la Feste writes is +reasonable enough, though Caroline looks heart-sick about it. +It is hardly worth while for him to cross all the way to England and +back just now, while the sea is so turbulent, seeing that he will be +obliged, in any event, to come in May, when he has to be in London for +professional purposes, at which time he can take us easily on his way +both coming and going. When Caroline becomes his wife she will +be more practical, no doubt; but she is such a child as yet that there +is no contenting her with reasons. However, the time will pass +quickly, there being so much to do in preparing a trousseau for her, +which must now be put in hand in order that we may have plenty of leisure +to get it ready. On no account must Caroline be married in half-mourning; +I am sure that mother, could she know, would not wish it, and it is +odd that Caroline should be so intractably persistent on this point, +when she is usually so yielding.</p> +<p><i>April</i> 30.—This month has flown on swallow’s wings. +We are in a great state of excitement—I as much as she—I +cannot quite tell why. He is really coming in ten days, he says.</p> +<p><i>May</i> 9. <i>Four p.m</i>.—I am so agitated I can +scarcely write, and yet am particularly impelled to do so before leaving +my room. It is the unexpected shape of an expected event which +has caused my absurd excitement, which proves me almost as much a school-girl +as Caroline.</p> +<p>M. de la Feste was not, as we understood, to have come till to-morrow; +but he is here—just arrived. All household directions have +devolved upon me, for my father, not thinking M. de la Feste would appear +before us for another four-and-twenty hours, left home before post time +to attend a distant consecration; and hence Caroline and I were in no +small excitement when Charles’s letter was opened, and we read +that he had been unexpectedly favoured in the dispatch of his studio +work, and would follow his letter in a few hours. We sent the +covered carriage to meet the train indicated, and waited like two newly +strung harps for the first sound of the returning wheels. At last +we heard them on the gravel; and the question arose who was to receive +him. It was, strictly speaking, my duty; but I felt timid; I could +not help shirking it, and insisted that Caroline should go down. +She did not, however, go near the door as she usually does when anybody +is expected, but waited palpitating in the drawing-room. He little +thought when he saw the silent hall, and the apparently deserted house, +how that house was at the very same moment alive and throbbing with +interest under the surface. I stood at the back of the upper landing, +where nobody could see me from downstairs, and heard him walk across +the hall—a lighter step than my father’s—and heard +him then go into the drawing-room, and the servant shut the door behind +him and go away.</p> +<p>What a pretty lover’s meeting they must have had in there all +to themselves! Caroline’s sweet face looking up from her +black gown—how it must have touched him. I know she wept +very much, for I heard her; and her eyes will be red afterwards, and +no wonder, poor dear, though she is no doubt happy. I can imagine +what she is telling him while I write this—her fears lest anything +should have happened to prevent his coming after all—gentle, smiling +reproaches for his long delay; and things of that sort. His two +portmanteaus are at this moment crossing the landing on the way to his +room. I wonder if I ought to go down.</p> +<p><i>A little later</i>.—I have seen him! It was not at +all in the way that I intended to encounter him, and I am vexed. +Just after his portmanteaus were brought up I went out from my room +to descend, when, at the moment of stepping towards the first stair, +my eyes were caught by an object in the hall below, and I paused for +an instant, till I saw that it was a bundle of canvas and sticks, composing +a sketching tent and easel. At the same nick of time the drawing-room +door opened and the affianced pair came out. They were saying +they would go into the garden; and he waited a moment while she put +on her hat. My idea was to let them pass on without seeing me, +since they seemed not to want my company, but I had got too far on the +landing to retreat; he looked up, and stood staring at me—engrossed +to a dream-like fixity. Thereupon I, too, instead of advancing +as I ought to have done, stood moonstruck and awkward, and before I +could gather my weak senses sufficiently to descend, she had called +him, and they went out by the garden door together. I then thought +of following them, but have changed my mind, and come here to jot down +these few lines. It is all I am fit for . . .</p> +<p>He is even more handsome than I expected. I was right in feeling +he must have an attraction beyond that of form: it appeared even in +that momentary glance. How happy Caroline ought to be. But +I must, of course, go down to be ready with tea in the drawing-room +by the time they come indoors.</p> +<p>11 p.m.—I have made the acquaintance of M. de la Feste; and +I seem to be another woman from the effect of it. I cannot describe +why this should be so, but conversation with him seems to expand the +view, and open the heart, and raise one as upon stilts to wider prospects. +He has a good intellectual forehead, perfect eyebrows, dark hair and +eyes, an animated manner, and a persuasive voice. His voice is +soft in quality—too soft for a man, perhaps; and yet on second +thoughts I would not have it less so. We have been talking of +his art: I had no notion that art demanded such sacrifices or such tender +devotion; or that there were two roads for choice within its precincts, +the road of vulgar money-making, and the road of high aims and consequent +inappreciation for many long years by the public. That he has +adopted the latter need not be said to those who understand him. +It is a blessing for Caroline that she has been chosen by such a man, +and she ought not to lament at postponements and delays, since they +have arisen unavoidably. Whether he finds hers a sufficiently +rich nature, intellectually and emotionally, for his own, I know not, +but he seems occasionally to be disappointed at her simple views of +things. Does he really feel such love for her at this moment as +he no doubt believes himself to be feeling, and as he no doubt hopes +to feel for the remainder of his life towards her?</p> +<p>It was a curious thing he told me when we were left for a few minutes +alone; that Caroline had alluded so slightly to me in her conversation +and letters that he had not realized my presence in the house here at +all. But, of course, it was only natural that she should write +and talk most about herself. I suppose it was on account of the +fact of his being taken in some measure unawares, that I caught him +on two or three occasions regarding me fixedly in a way that disquieted +me somewhat, having been lately in so little society; till my glance +aroused him from his reverie, and he looked elsewhere in some confusion. +It was fortunate that he did so, and thus failed to notice my own. +It shows that he, too, is not particularly a society person.</p> +<p><i>May</i> 10.—Have had another interesting conversation with +M. de la Feste on schools of landscape painting in the drawing-room +after dinner this evening—my father having fallen asleep, and +left nobody but Caroline and myself for Charles to talk to. I +did not mean to say so much to him, and had taken a volume of <i>Modern +Painters</i> from the bookcase to occupy myself with, while leaving +the two lovers to themselves; but he would include me in his audience, +and I was obliged to lay the book aside. However, I insisted on +keeping Caroline in the conversation, though her views on pictorial +art were only too charmingly crude and primitive.</p> +<p>To-morrow, if fine, we are all three going to Wherryborne Wood, where +Charles will give us practical illustrations of the principles of coloring +that he has enumerated to-night. I am determined not to occupy +his attention to the exclusion of Caroline, and my plan is that when +we are in the dense part of the wood I will lag behind, and slip away, +and leave them to return by themselves. I suppose the reason of +his attentiveness to me lies in his simply wishing to win the good opinion +of one who is so closely united to Caroline, and so likely to influence +her good opinion of him.</p> +<p><i>May</i> 11. <i>Late.—</i>I cannot sleep, and in desperation +have lit my candle and taken up my pen. My restlessness is occasioned +by what has occurred to-day, which at first I did not mean to write +down, or trust to any heart but my own. We went to Wherryborne +Wood—Caroline, Charles and I, as we had intended—and walked +all three along the green track through the midst, Charles in the middle +between Caroline and myself. Presently I found that, as usual, +he and I were the only talkers, Caroline amusing herself by observing +birds and squirrels as she walked docilely alongside her betrothed. +Having noticed this I dropped behind at the first opportunity and slipped +among the trees, in a direction in which I knew I should find another +path that would take me home. Upon this track I by and by emerged, +and walked along it in silent thought till, at a bend, I suddenly encountered +M. de la Feste standing stock still and smiling thoughtfully at me.</p> +<p>‘Where is Caroline?’ said I.</p> +<p>‘Only a little way off,’ says he. ‘When we +missed you from behind us we thought you might have mistaken the direction +we had followed, so she has gone one way to find you and I have come +this way.’</p> +<p>We then went back to find Caroline, but could not discover her anywhere, +and the upshot was that he and I were wandering about the woods alone +for more than an hour. On reaching home we found she had given +us up after searching a little while, and arrived there some time before. +I should not be so disturbed by the incident if I had not perceived +that, during her absence from us, he did not make any earnest effort +to rediscover her; and in answer to my repeated expressions of wonder +as to whither she could have wandered he only said, ‘Oh, she’s +quite safe; she told me she knew the way home from any part of this +wood. Let us go on with our talk. I assure you I value this +privilege of being with one I so much admire more than you imagine;’ +and other things of that kind. I was so foolish as to show a little +perturbation—I cannot tell why I did not control myself; and I +think he noticed that I was not cool. Caroline has, with her simple +good faith, thought nothing of the occurrence; yet altogether I am not +satisfied.</p> +<h3>CHAPTER V.—HER SITUATION IS A TRYING ONE</h3> +<p><i>May 15</i>.—The more I think of it day after day, the more +convinced I am that my suspicions are true. He is too interested +in me—well, in plain words, loves me; or, not to degrade that +phrase, has a wild passion for me; and his affection for Caroline is +that towards a sister only. That is the distressing truth; how +it has come about I cannot tell, and it wears upon me.</p> +<p>A hundred little circumstances have revealed this to me, and the +longer I dwell upon it the more agitating does the consideration become. +Heaven only can help me out of the terrible difficulty in which this +places me. I have done nothing to encourage him to be faithless +to her. I have studiously kept out of his way; have persistently +refused to be a third in their interviews. Yet all to no purpose. +Some fatality has seemed to rule, ever since he came to the house, that +this disastrous inversion of things should arise. If I had only +foreseen the possibility of it before he arrived, how gladly would I +have departed on some visit or other to the meanest friend to hinder +such an apparent treachery. But I blindly welcomed him—indeed, +made myself particularly agreeable to him for her sake.</p> +<p>There is no possibility of my suspicions being wrong; not until they +have reached absolute certainty have I dared even to admit the truth +to myself. His conduct to-day would have proved them true had +I entertained no previous apprehensions. Some photographs of myself +came for me by post, and they were handed round at the breakfast table +and criticised. I put them temporarily on a side table, and did +not remember them until an hour afterwards when I was in my own room. +On going to fetch them I discovered him standing at the table with his +back towards the door bending over the photographs, one of which he +raised to his lips.</p> +<p>The witnessing this act so frightened me that I crept away to escape +observation. It was the climax to a series of slight and significant +actions all tending to the same conclusion. The question for me +now is, what am I to do? To go away is what first occurs to me, +but what reason can I give Caroline and my father for such a step; besides, +it might precipitate some sort of catastrophe by driving Charles to +desperation. For the present, therefore, I have decided that I +can only wait, though his contiguity is strangely disturbing to me now, +and I hardly retain strength of mind to encounter him. How will +the distressing complication end?</p> +<p><i>May</i> 19.—And so it has come! My mere avoidance +of him has precipitated the worst issue—a declaration. I +had occasion to go into the kitchen garden to gather some of the double +ragged-robins which grew in a corner there. Almost as soon as +I had entered I heard footsteps without. The door opened and shut, +and I turned to behold him just inside it. As the garden is closed +by four walls and the gardener was absent, the spot ensured absolute +privacy. He came along the path by the asparagus-bed, and overtook +me.</p> +<p>‘You know why I come, Alicia?’ said he, in a tremulous +voice.</p> +<p>I said nothing, and hung my head, for by his tone I did know.</p> +<p>‘Yes,’ he went on, ‘it is you I love; my sentiment +towards your sister is one of affection too, but protective, tutelary +affection—no more. Say what you will I cannot help it. +I mistook my feeling for her, and I know how much I am to blame for +my want of self-knowledge. I have fought against this discovery +night and day; but it cannot be concealed. Why did I ever see +you, since I could not see you till I had committed myself? At +the moment my eyes beheld you on that day of my arrival, I said, “This +is the woman for whom my manhood has waited.” Ever since +an unaccountable fascination has riveted my heart to you. Answer +one word!’</p> +<p>‘O, M. de la Feste!’ I burst out. What I said more +I cannot remember, but I suppose that the misery I was in showed pretty +plainly, for he said, ‘Something must be done to let her know; +perhaps I have mistaken her affection, too; but all depends upon what +you feel.’</p> +<p>‘I cannot tell what I feel,’ said I, ‘except that +this seems terrible treachery; and every moment that I stay with you +here makes it worse! . . . Try to keep faith with +her—her young heart is tender; believe me there is no mistake +in the quality of her love for you. Would there were! This +would kill her if she knew it!’</p> +<p>He sighed heavily. ‘She ought never to be my wife,’ +he said. ‘Leaving my own happiness out of the question, +it would be a cruelty to her to unite her to me.’</p> +<p>I said I could not hear such words from him, and begged him in tears +to go away; he obeyed, and I heard the garden door shut behind him. +What is to be the end of the announcement, and the fate of Caroline?</p> +<p><i>May</i> 20.—I put a good deal on paper yesterday, and yet +not all. I was, in truth, hoping against hope, against conviction, +against too conscious self-judgment. I scarcely dare own the truth +now, yet it relieves my aching heart to set it down. Yes, I love +him—that is the dreadful fact, and I can no longer parry, evade, +or deny it to myself though to the rest of the world it can never be +owned. I love Caroline’s betrothed, and he loves me. +It is no yesterday’s passion, cultivated by our converse; it came +at first sight, independently of my will; and my talk with him yesterday +made rather against it than for it, but, alas, did not quench it. +God forgive us both for this terrible treachery.</p> +<p><i>May</i> 25.—All is vague; our courses shapeless. He +comes and goes, being occupied, ostensibly at least, with sketching +in his tent in the wood. Whether he and she see each other privately +I cannot tell, but I rather think they do not; that she sadly awaits +him, and he does not appear. Not a sign from him that my repulse +has done him any good, or that he will endeavour to keep faith with +her. O, if I only had the compulsion of a god, and the self-sacrifice +of a martyr!</p> +<p><i>May</i> 31.—It has all ended—or rather this act of +the sad drama has ended—in nothing. He has left us. +No day for the fulfilment of the engagement with Caroline is named, +my father not being the man to press any one on such a matter, or, indeed, +to interfere in any way. We two girls are, in fact, quite defenceless +in a case of this kind; lovers may come when they choose, and desert +when they choose; poor father is too urbane to utter a word of remonstrance +or inquiry. Moreover, as the approved of my dead mother, M. de +la Feste has a sort of autocratic power with my father, who holds it +unkind to her memory to have an opinion about him. I, feeling +it my duty, asked M. de la Feste at the last moment about the engagement, +in a voice I could not keep firm.</p> +<p>‘Since the death of your mother all has been indefinite—all!’ +he said gloomily. That was the whole. Possibly, Wherryborne +Rectory may see him no more.</p> +<p><i>June</i> 7 .—M. de la Feste has written—one letter +to her, one to me. Hers could not have been very warm, for she +did not brighten on reading it. Mine was an ordinary note of friendship, +filling an ordinary sheet of paper, which I handed over to Caroline +when I had finished looking it through. But there was a scrap +of paper in the bottom of the envelope, which I dared not show any one. +This scrap is his real letter: I scanned it alone in my room, trembling, +hot and cold by turns. He tells me he is very wretched; that he +deplores what has happened, but was helpless. Why did I let him +see me, if only to make him faithless. Alas, alas!</p> +<p><i>June</i> 21 .—My dear Caroline has lost appetite, spirits, +health. Hope deferred maketh the heart sick. His letters +to her grow colder—if indeed he has written more than one. +He has refrained from writing again to me—he knows it is no use. +Altogether the situation that he and she and I are in is melancholy +in the extreme. Why are human hearts so perverse?</p> +<h3>CHAPTER VI.—HER INGENUITY INSTIGATES HER</h3> +<p><i>September</i> 19.—Three months of anxious care—till +at length I have taken the extreme step of writing to him. Our +chief distress has been caused by the state of poor Caroline, who, after +sinking by degrees into such extreme weakness as to make it doubtful +if she can ever recover full vigour, has to-day been taken much worse. +Her position is very critical. The doctor says plainly that she +is dying of a broken heart—and that even the removal of the cause +may not now restore her. Ought I to have written to Charles sooner? +But how could I when she forbade me? It was her pride only which +instigated her, and I should not have obeyed.</p> +<p><i>Sept</i>. 26.—Charles has arrived and has seen her. +He is shocked, conscience-stricken, remorseful. I have told him +that he can do no good beyond cheering her by his presence. I +do not know what he thinks of proposing to her if she gets better, but +he says little to her at present: indeed he dares not: his words agitate +her dangerously.</p> +<p><i>Sept</i>. 28.—After a struggle between duty and selfishness, +such as I pray to Heaven I may never have to undergo again, I have asked +him for pity’s sake to make her his wife, here and now, as she +lies. I said to him that the poor child would not trouble him +long; and such a solemnization would soothe her last hours as nothing +else could do. He said that he would willingly do so, and had +thought of it himself; but for one forbidding reason: in the event of +her death as his wife he can never marry me, her sister, according to +our laws. I started at his words. He went on: ‘On +the other hand, if I were sure that immediate marriage with me would +save her life, I would not refuse, for possibly I might after a while, +and out of sight of you, make myself fairly content with one of so sweet +a disposition as hers; but if, as is probable, neither my marrying her +nor any other act can avail to save her life, by so doing I lose both +her and you.’ I could not answer him.</p> +<p><i>Sept. 29.—</i>He continued firm in his reasons for refusal +till this morning, and then I became possessed with an idea, which I +at once propounded to him. It was that he should at least consent +to a <i>form</i> of marriage with Caroline, in consideration of her +love; a form which need not be a legal union, but one which would satisfy +her sick and enfeebled soul. Such things have been done, and the +sentiment of feeling herself his would inexpressibly comfort her mind, +I am sure. Then, if she is taken from us, I should not have lost +the power of becoming his lawful wife at some future day, if it indeed +should be deemed expedient; if, on the other hand, she lives, he can +on her recovery inform her of the incompleteness of their marriage contract, +the ceremony can be repeated, and I can, and I am sure willingly would, +avoid troubling them with my presence till grey hairs and wrinkles make +his unfortunate passion for me a thing of the past. I put all +this before him; but he demurred.</p> +<p><i>Sept</i>. 30.—I have urged him again. He says he will +consider. It is no time to mince matters, and as a further inducement +I have offered to enter into a solemn engagement to marry him myself +a year after her death.</p> +<p><i>Sept</i>. 30. <i>Later</i>.—An agitating interview. +He says he will agree to whatever I propose, the three possibilities +and our contingent acts being recorded as follows: First, in the event +of dear Caroline being taken from us, I marry him on the expiration +of a year: Second, in the forlorn chance of her recovery I take upon +myself the responsibility of explaining to Caroline the true nature +of the ceremony he has gone through with her, that it was done at my +suggestion to make her happy at once, before a special licence could +be obtained, and that a public ceremony at church is awaiting her: Third, +in the unlikely event of her cooling, and refusing to repeat the ceremony +with him, I leave England, join him abroad, and there wed him, agreeing +not to live in England again till Caroline has either married another +or regards her attachment to Charles as a bygone matter. I have +thought over these conditions, and have agreed to them all as they stand.</p> +<p>11 <i>p.m</i>.—I do not much like this scheme, after all. +For one thing, I have just sounded my father on it before parting with +him for the night, my impression having been that he would see no objection. +But he says he could on no account countenance any such unreal proceeding; +however good our intentions, and even though the poor girl were dying, +it would not be right. So I sadly seek my pillow.</p> +<p><i>October</i> 1.—I am sure my father is wrong in his view. +Why is it not right, if it would be balm to Caroline’s wounded +soul, and if a real ceremony is absolutely refused by Charles—moreover +is hardly practicable in the difficulty of getting a special licence, +if he were agreed? My father does not know, or will not believe, +that Caroline’s attachment has been the cause of her hopeless +condition. But that it is so, and that the form of words would +give her inexpressible happiness, I know well; for I whispered tentatively +in her ear on such marriages, and the effect was great. Henceforth +my father cannot be taken into confidence on the subject of Caroline. +He does not understand her.</p> +<p>12 <i>o’clock noon</i>.—I have taken advantage of my +father’s absence to-day to confide my secret notion to a thoughtful +young man, who called here this morning to speak to my father. +He is the Mr. Theophilus Higham, of whom I have already had occasion +to speak—a Scripture reader in the next town, and is soon going +to be ordained. I told him the pitiable case, and my remedy. +He says ardently that he will assist me—would do anything for +me (he is, in truth, an admirer of mine); he sees no wrong in such an +act of charity. He is coming again to the house this afternoon +before my father returns, to carry out the idea. I have spoken +to Charles, who promises to be ready. I must now break the news +to Caroline.</p> +<p>11 o’clock p.m.—I have been in too much excitement till +now to set down the result. We have accomplished our plan; and +though I feel like a guilty sinner, I am glad. My father, of course, +is not to be informed as yet. Caroline has had a seraphic expression +upon her wasted, transparent face ever since. I should hardly +be surprised if it really saved her life even now, and rendered a legitimate +union necessary between them. In that case my father can be informed +of the whole proceeding, and in the face of such wonderful success cannot +disapprove. Meanwhile poor Charles has not lost the possibility +of taking unworthy me to fill her place should she—. But +I cannot contemplate that alternative unmoved, and will not write it. +Charles left for the South of Europe immediately after the ceremony. +He was in a high-strung, throbbing, almost wild state of mind at first, +but grew calmer under my exhortations. I had to pay the penalty +of receiving a farewell kiss from him, which I much regret, considering +its meaning; but he took me so unexpectedly, and in a moment was gone.</p> +<p><i>Oct</i>. 6.—She certainly is better, and even when she found +that Charles had been suddenly obliged to leave, she received the news +quite cheerfully. The doctor says that her apparent improvement +may be delusive; but I think our impressing upon her the necessity of +keeping what has occurred a secret from papa, and everybody, helps to +give her a zest for life.</p> +<p><i>Oct</i>. 8.—She is still mending. I am glad to have +saved her—my only sister—if I have done so; though I shall +now never become Charles’s wife.</p> +<h3>CHAPTER VII.—A SURPRISE AWAITS HER</h3> +<p><i>Feb</i>. 5.—Writing has been absolutely impossible for a +long while; but I now reach a stage at which it seems possible to jot +down a line. Caroline’s recovery, extending over four months, +has been very engrossing; at first slow, latterly rapid. But a +fearful complication of affairs attends it!</p> +<blockquote><p>O what a tangled web we weave<br /> +When first we practise to deceive!</p> +</blockquote> +<p>Charles has written reproachfully to me from Venice, where he is. +He says how can he fulfil in the real what he has enacted in the counterfeit, +while he still loves me? Yet how, on the other hand, can he leave +it unfulfilled? All this time I have not told her, and up to this +minute she believes that he has indeed taken her for better, for worse, +till death them do part. It is a harassing position for me, and +all three. In the awful approach of death, one’s judgment +loses its balance, and we do anything to meet the exigencies of the +moment, with a single eye to the one who excites our sympathy, and from +whom we seem on the brink of being separated for ever.</p> +<p>Had he really married her at that time all would be settled now. +But he took too much thought; she might have died, and then he had his +reason. If indeed it had turned out so, I should now be perhaps +a sad woman; but not a tempest-tossed one . . . The possibility of his +claiming me after all is what lies at the root of my agitation. +Everything hangs by a thread. Suppose I tell her the marriage +was a mockery; suppose she is indignant with me and with him for the +deception—and then? Otherwise, suppose she is not indignant +but forgives all; he is bound to marry her; and honour constrains me +to urge him thereto, in spite of what he protests, and to smooth the +way to this issue by my method of informing her. I have meant +to tell her the last month—ever since she has been strong enough +to bear such tidings; but I have been without the power—the moral +force. Surely I must write, and get him to come and assist me.</p> +<p><i>March</i> 14.—She continually wonders why he does not come, +the five months of his enforced absence having expired; and still more +she wonders why he does not write oftener. His last letter was +cold, she says, and she fears he regrets his marriage, which he may +only have celebrated with her for pity’s sake, thinking she was +sure to die. It makes one’s heart bleed to hear her hovering +thus so near the truth, and yet never discerning its actual shape.</p> +<p>A minor trouble besets me, too, in the person of the young Scripture +reader, whose conscience pricks him for the part he played. Surely +I am punished, if ever woman were, for a too ingenious perversion of +her better judgment!</p> +<p><i>April</i> 2.—She is practically well. The faint pink +revives in her cheek, though it is not quite so full as heretofore. +But she still wonders what she can have done to offend ‘her dear +husband,’ and I have been obliged to tell the smallest part of +the truth—an unimportant fragment of the whole, in fact, I said +that I feared for the moment he might regret the precipitancy of the +act, which her illness caused, his affairs not having been quite sufficiently +advanced for marriage just then, though he will doubtless come to her +as soon as he has a home ready. Meanwhile I have written to him, +peremptorily, to come and relieve me in this awful dilemma. He +will find no note of love in that.</p> +<p><i>April</i> 10.—To my alarm the letter I lately addressed +to him at Venice, where he is staying, as well as the last one she sent +him, have received no reply. She thinks he is ill. I do +not quite think that, but I wish we could hear from him. Perhaps +the peremptoriness of my words had offended him; it grieves me to think +it possible. <i>I</i> offend him! But too much of this. +I <i>must</i> tell her the truth, or she may in her ignorance commit +herself to some course or other that may be ruinously compromising. +She said plaintively just now that if he could see her, and know how +occupied with him and him alone is her every waking hour, she is sure +he would forgive her the wicked presumption of becoming his wife. +Very sweet all that, and touching. I could not conceal my tears.</p> +<p><i>April</i> 15.—The house is in confusion; my father is angry +and distressed, and I am distracted. Caroline has disappeared—gone +away secretly. I cannot help thinking that I know where she is +gone to. How guilty I seem, and how innocent she! O that +I had told her before now!</p> +<p>1 <i>o’clock</i>.—No trace of her as yet. We find +also that the little waiting-maid we have here in training has disappeared +with Caroline, and there is not much doubt that Caroline, fearing to +travel alone, has induced this girl to go with her as companion. +I am almost sure she has started in desperation to find him, and that +Venice is her goal. Why should she run away, if not to join her +husband, as she thinks him? Now that I consider, there have been +indications of this wish in her for days, as in birds of passage there +lurk signs of their incipient intention; and yet I did not think she +would have taken such an extreme step, unaided, and without consulting +me. I can only jot down the bare facts—I have no time for +reflections. But fancy Caroline travelling across the continent +of Europe with a chit of a girl, who will be more of a charge than an +assistance! They will be a mark for every marauder who encounters +them.</p> +<p><i>Evening</i>: 8 <i>o’clock</i>.—Yes, it is as I surmised. +She has gone to join him. A note posted by her in Budmouth Regis +at daybreak has reached me this afternoon—thanks to the fortunate +chance of one of the servants calling for letters in town to-day, or +I should not have got it until to-morrow. She merely asserts her +determination of going to him, and has started privately, that nothing +may hinder her; stating nothing about her route. That such a gentle +thing should suddenly become so calmly resolute quite surprises me. +Alas, he may have left Venice—she may not find him for weeks—may +not at all.</p> +<p>My father, on learning the facts, bade me at once have everything +ready by nine this evening, in time to drive to the train that meets +the night steam-boat. This I have done, and there being an hour +to spare before we start, I relieve the suspense of waiting by taking +up my pen. He says overtake her we must, and calls Charles the +hardest of names. He believes, of course, that she is merely an +infatuated girl rushing off to meet her lover; and how can the wretched +I tell him that she is more, and in a sense better than that—yet +not sufficiently more and better to make this flight to Charles anything +but a still greater danger to her than a mere lover’s impulse. +We shall go by way of Paris, and we think we may overtake her there. +I hear my father walking restlessly up and down the hall, and can write +no more.</p> +<h3>CHAPTER VIII.—SHE TRAVELS IN PURSUIT</h3> +<p><i>April</i> 16. <i>Evening, Paris, Hôtel</i> ---.—There +is no overtaking her at this place; but she has been here, as I thought, +no other hotel in Paris being known to her. We go on to-morrow +morning.</p> +<p><i>April</i> 18. <i>Venice.—</i>A morning of adventures +and emotions which leave me sick and weary, and yet unable to sleep, +though I have lain down on the sofa of my room for more than an hour +in the attempt. I therefore make up my diary to date in a hurried +fashion, for the sake of the riddance it affords to ideas which otherwise +remain suspended hotly in the brain.</p> +<p>We arrived here this morning in broad sunlight, which lit up the +sea-girt buildings as we approached so that they seemed like a city +of cork floating raft-like on the smooth, blue deep. But I only +glanced from the carriage window at the lovely scene, and we were soon +across the intervening water and inside the railway station. When +we got to the front steps the row of black gondolas and the shouts of +the gondoliers so bewildered my father that he was understood to require +two gondolas instead of one with two oars, and so I found him in one +and myself in another. We got this righted after a while, and +were rowed at once to the hotel on the Riva degli Schiavoni where M. +de la Feste had been staying when we last heard from him, the way being +down the Grand Canal for some distance, under the Rialto, and then by +narrow canals which eventually brought us under the Bridge of Sighs—harmonious +to our moods!—and out again into open water. The scene was +purity itself as to colour, but it was cruel that I should behold it +for the first time under such circumstances.</p> +<p>As soon as I entered the hotel, which is an old-fashioned place, +like most places here, where people are taken <i>en pension</i> as well +as the ordinary way, I rushed to the framed list of visitors hanging +in the hall, and in a moment I saw Charles’s name upon it among +the rest. But she was our chief thought. I turned to the +hall porter, and—knowing that she would have travelled as ‘Madame +de la Feste’—I asked for her under that name, without my +father hearing. (He, poor soul, was making confused inquiries +outside the door about ‘an English lady,’ as if there were +not a score of English ladies at hand.)</p> +<p>‘She has just come,’ said the porter. ‘Madame +came by the very early train this morning, when Monsieur was asleep, +and she requested us not to disturb him. She is now in her room.’</p> +<p>Whether Caroline had seen us from the window, or overheard me, I +do not know, but at that moment I heard footsteps on the bare marble +stairs, and she appeared in person descending.</p> +<p>‘Caroline!’ I exclaimed, ‘why have you done this?’ +and rushed up to her.</p> +<p>She did not answer; but looked down to hide her emotion, which she +conquered after the lapse of a few seconds, putting on a practical tone +that belied her.</p> +<p>‘I am just going to my husband,’ she said. ‘I +have not yet seen him. I have not been here long.’ +She condescended to give no further reason for her movements, and made +as if to move on. I implored her to come into a private room where +I could speak to her in confidence, but she objected. However, +the dining-room, close at hand, was quite empty at this hour, and I +got her inside and closed the door. I do not know how I began +my explanation, or how I ended it, but I told her briefly and brokenly +enough that the marriage was not real.</p> +<p>‘Not real?’ she said vacantly.</p> +<p>‘It is not,’ said I. ‘You will find that +it is all as I say.’</p> +<p>She could not believe my meaning even then. ‘Not his +wife?’ she cried. ‘It is impossible. What am +I, then?’</p> +<p>I added more details, and reiterated the reason for my conduct as +well as I could; but Heaven knows how very difficult I found it to feel +a jot more justification for it in my own mind than she did in hers.</p> +<p>The revulsion of feeling, as soon as she really comprehended all, +was most distressing. After her grief had in some measure spent +itself she turned against both him and me.</p> +<p>‘Why should have I been deceived like this?’ she demanded, +with a bitter haughtiness of which I had not deemed such a tractable +creature capable. ‘Do you suppose that <i>anything</i> could +justify such an imposition? What, O what a snare you have spread +for me!’</p> +<p>I murmured, ‘Your life seemed to require it,’ but she +did not hear me. She sank down in a chair, covered her face, and +then my father came in. ‘O, here you are!’ he said. +‘I could not find you. And Caroline!’</p> +<p>‘And were <i>you</i>, papa, a party to this strange deed of +kindness?’</p> +<p>‘To what?’ said he.</p> +<p>Then out it all came, and for the first time he was made acquainted +with the fact that the scheme for soothing her illness, which I had +sounded him upon, had been really carried out. In a moment he +sided with Caroline. My repeated assurance that my motive was +good availed less than nothing. In a minute or two Caroline arose +and went abruptly out of the room, and my father followed her, leaving +me alone to my reflections.</p> +<p>I was so bent upon finding Charles immediately that I did not notice +whither they went. The servants told me that M. de la Feste was +just outside smoking, and one of them went to look for him, I following; +but before we had gone many steps he came out of the hotel behind me. +I expected him to be amazed; but he showed no surprise at seeing me, +though he showed another kind of feeling to an extent which dismayed +me. I may have revealed something similar; but I struggled hard +against all emotion, and as soon as I could I told him she had come. +He simply said ‘Yes’ in a low voice.</p> +<p>‘You know it, Charles?’ said I.</p> +<p>‘I have just learnt it,’ he said.</p> +<p>‘O, Charles,’ I went on, ‘having delayed completing +your marriage with her till now, I fear—it has become a serious +position for us. Why did you not reply to our letters?’</p> +<p>‘I was purposing to reply in person: I did not know how to +address her on the point—how to address you. But what has +become of her?’</p> +<p>‘She has gone off with my father,’ said I; ‘indignant +with you, and scorning me.’</p> +<p>He was silent: and I suggested that we should follow them, pointing +out the direction which I fancied their gondola had taken. As +the one we got into was doubly manned we soon came in view of their +two figures ahead of us, while they were not likely to observe us, our +boat having the ‘felze’ on, while theirs was uncovered. +They shot into a narrow canal just beyond the Giardino Reale, and by +the time we were floating up between its slimy walls we saw them getting +out of their gondola at the steps which lead up near the end of the +Via 22 Marzo. When we reached the same spot they were walking +up and down the Via in consultation. Getting out he stood on the +lower steps watching them. I watched him. He seemed to fall +into a reverie.</p> +<p>‘Will you not go and speak to her?’ said I at length.</p> +<p>He assented, and went forward. Still he did not hasten to join +them, but, screened by a projecting window, observed their musing converse. +At last he looked back at me; whereupon I pointed forward, and he in +obedience stepped out, and met them face to face. Caroline flushed +hot, bowed haughtily to him, turned away, and taking my father’s +arm violently, led him off before he had had time to use his own judgment. +They disappeared into a narrow <i>calle</i>, or alley, leading to the +back of the buildings on the Grand Canal.</p> +<p>M. de la Feste came slowly back; as he stepped in beside me I realized +my position so vividly that my heart might almost have been heard to +beat. The third condition had arisen—the least expected +by either of us. She had refused him; he was free to claim me.</p> +<p>We returned in the boat together. He seemed quite absorbed +till we had turned the angle into the Grand Canal, when he broke the +silence. ‘She spoke very bitterly to you in the <i>salle-à-manger</i>,’ +he said. ‘I do not think she was quite warranted in speaking +so to you, who had nursed her so tenderly.’</p> +<p>‘O, but I think she was,’ I answered. ‘It +was there I told her what had been done; she did not know till then.’</p> +<p>‘She was very dignified—very striking,’ he murmured. +‘You were more.’</p> +<p>‘But how do you know what passed between us,’ said I. +He then told me that he had seen and heard all. The dining-room +was divided by folding-doors from an inner portion, and he had been +sitting in the latter part when we entered the outer, so that our words +were distinctly audible.</p> +<p>‘But, dear Alicia,’ he went on, ‘I was more impressed +by the affection of your apology to her than by anything else. +And do you know that now the conditions have arisen which give me liberty +to consider you my affianced?’ I had been expecting this, +but yet was not prepared. I stammered out that we would not discuss +it then.</p> +<p>‘Why not?’ said he. ‘Do you know that we +may marry here and now? She has cast off both you and me.’</p> +<p>‘It cannot be,’ said I, firmly. ‘She has +not been fairly asked to be your wife in fact—to repeat the service +lawfully; and until that has been done it would be grievous sin in me +to accept you.’</p> +<p>I had not noticed where the gondoliers were rowing us. I suppose +he had given them some direction unheard by me, for as I resigned myself +in despairing indolence to the motion of the gondola, I perceived that +it was taking us up the Canal, and, turning into a side opening near +the Palazzo Grimani, drew up at some steps near the end of a large church.</p> +<p>‘Where are we?’ said I.</p> +<p>‘It is the Church of the Frari,’ he replied. ‘We +might be married there. At any rate, let us go inside, and grow +calm, and decide what to do.’</p> +<p>When we had entered I found that whether a place to marry in or not, +it was one to depress. The word which Venice speaks most constantly—decay—was +in a sense accentuated here. The whole large fabric itself seemed +sinking into an earth which was not solid enough to bear it. Cobwebbed +cracks zigzagged the walls, and similar webs clouded the window-panes. +A sickly-sweet smell pervaded the aisles. After walking about +with him a little while in embarrassing silences, divided only by his +cursory explanations of the monuments and other objects, and almost +fearing he might produce a marriage licence, I went to a door in the +south transept which opened into the sacristy.</p> +<p>I glanced through it, towards the small altar at the upper end. +The place was empty save of one figure; and she was kneeling here in +front of the beautiful altarpiece by Bellini. Beautiful though +it was she seemed not to see it. She was weeping and praying as +though her heart was broken. She was my sister Caroline. +I beckoned to Charles, and he came to my side, and looked through the +door with me.</p> +<p>‘Speak to her,’ said I. ‘She will forgive +you.’</p> +<p>I gently pushed him through the doorway, and went back into the transept, +down the nave, and onward to the west door. There I saw my father, +to whom I spoke. He answered severely that, having first obtained +comfortable quarters in a pension on the Grand Canal, he had gone back +to the hotel on the Riva degli Schiavoni to find me; but that I was +not there. He was now waiting for Caroline, to accompany her back +to the <i>pension</i>, at which she had requested to be left to herself +as much as possible till she could regain some composure.</p> +<p>I told him that it was useless to dwell on what was past, that I +no doubt had erred, that the remedy lay in the future and their marriage. +In this he quite agreed with me, and on my informing him that M. de +la Feste was at that moment with Caroline in the sacristy, he assented +to my proposal that we should leave them to themselves, and return together +to await them at the <i>pension</i>, where he had also engaged a room +for me. This we did, and going up to the chamber he had chosen +for me, which overlooked the Canal, I leant from the window to watch +for the gondola that should contain Charles and my sister.</p> +<p>They were not long in coming. I recognized them by the colour +of her sunshade as soon as they turned the bend on my right hand. +They were side by side of necessity, but there was no conversation between +them, and I thought that she looked flushed and he pale. When +they were rowed in to the steps of our house he handed her up. +I fancied she might have refused his assistance, but she did not. +Soon I heard her pass my door, and wishing to know the result of their +interview I went downstairs, seeing that the gondola had not put off +with him. He was turning from the door, but not towards the water, +intending apparently to walk home by way of the <i>calle</i> which led +into the Via 22 Marzo.</p> +<p>‘Has she forgiven you?’ said I.</p> +<p>‘I have not asked her,’ he said.</p> +<p>‘But you are bound to do so,’ I told him.</p> +<p>He paused, and then said, ‘Alicia, let us understand each other. +Do you mean to tell me, once for all, that if your sister is willing +to become my wife you absolutely make way for her, and will not entertain +any thought of what I suggested to you any more?’</p> +<p>‘I do tell you so,’ said I with dry lips. ‘You +belong to her—how can I do otherwise?’</p> +<p>‘Yes; it is so; it is purely a question of honour,’ he +returned. ‘Very well then, honour shall be my word, and +not my love. I will put the question to her frankly; if she says +yes, the marriage shall be. But not here. It shall be at +your own house in England.’</p> +<p>‘When?’ said I.</p> +<p>‘I will accompany her there,’ he replied, ‘and +it shall be within a week of her return. I have nothing to gain +by delay. But I will not answer for the consequences.’</p> +<p>‘What do you mean?’ said I. He made no reply, went +away, and I came back to my room.</p> +<h3>CHAPTER IX.—SHE WITNESSES THE END</h3> +<p><i>April</i> 20. <i>Milan</i>, 10.30 <i>p.m</i>.—We are +thus far on our way homeward. I, being decidedly <i>de trop</i>, +travel apart from the rest as much as I can. Having dined at the +hotel here, I went out by myself; regardless of the proprieties, for +I could not stay in. I walked at a leisurely pace along the Via +Allesandro Manzoni till my eye was caught by the grand Galleria Vittorio +Emanuele, and I entered under the high glass arcades till I reached +the central octagon, where I sat down on one of a group of chairs placed +there. Becoming accustomed to the stream of promenaders, I soon +observed, seated on the chairs opposite, Caroline and Charles. +This was the first occasion on which I had seen them <i>en tête-à-tête</i> +since my conversation with him. She soon caught sight of me; averted +her eyes; then, apparently abandoning herself to an impulse, she jumped +up from her seat and came across to me. We had not spoken to each +other since the meeting in Venice.</p> +<p>‘Alicia,’ she said, sitting down by my side, ‘Charles +asks me to forgive you, and I do forgive you.’</p> +<p>I pressed her hand, with tears in my eyes, and said, ‘And do +you forgive him?’</p> +<p>‘Yes,’ said she, shyly.</p> +<p>‘And what’s the result?’ said I.</p> +<p>‘We are to be married directly we reach home.’</p> +<p>This was almost the whole of our conversation; she walked home with +me, Charles following a little way behind, though she kept turning her +head, as if anxious that he should overtake us. ‘Honour +and not love’ seemed to ring in my ears. So matters stand. +Caroline is again happy.</p> +<p><i>April</i> 25.—We have reached home, Charles with us. +Events are now moving in silent speed, almost with velocity, indeed; +and I sometimes feel oppressed by the strange and preternatural ease +which seems to accompany their flow. Charles is staying at the +neighbouring town; he is only waiting for the marriage licence; when +obtained he is to come here, be quietly married to her, and carry her +off. It is rather resignation than content which sits on his face; +but he has not spoken a word more to me on the burning subject, or deviated +one hair’s breadth from the course he laid down. They may +be happy in time to come: I hope so. But I cannot shake off depression.</p> +<p><i>May</i> 6.—Eve of the wedding. Caroline is serenely +happy, though not blithe. But there is nothing to excite anxiety +about her. I wish I could say the same of him. He comes +and goes like a ghost, and yet nobody seems to observe this strangeness +in his mien.</p> +<p>I could not help being here for the ceremony; but my absence would +have resulted in less disquiet on his part, I believe. However, +I may be wrong in attributing causes: my father simply says that Charles +and Caroline have as good a chance of being happy as other people. +Well, to-morrow settles all.</p> +<p><i>May</i> 7.—They are married: we have just returned from +church. Charles looked so pale this morning that my father asked +him if he was ill. He said, ‘No: only a slight headache;’ +and we started for the church.</p> +<p>There was no hitch or hindrance; and the thing is done.</p> +<p>4 p.m.—They ought to have set out on their journey by this +time; but there is an unaccountable delay. Charles went out half-an-hour +ago, and has not yet returned. Caroline is waiting in the hall; +but I am dreadfully afraid they will miss the train. I suppose +the trifling hindrance is of no account; and yet I am full of misgivings +. . .</p> +<p><i>Sept</i>. 14.—Four months have passed; <i>only</i> four +months! It seems like years. Can it be that only seventeen +weeks ago I set on this paper the fact of their marriage? I am +now an aged woman by comparison!</p> +<p>On that never to be forgotten day we waited and waited, and Charles +did not return. At six o’clock, when poor little Caroline +had gone back to her room in a state of suspense impossible to describe, +a man who worked in the water-meadows came to the house and asked for +my father. He had an interview with him in the study. My +father then rang his bell, and sent for me. I went down; and I +then learnt the fatal news. Charles was no more. The waterman +had been going to shut down the hatches of a weir in the meads when +he saw a hat on the edge of the pool below, floating round and round +in the eddy, and looking into the pool saw something strange at the +bottom. He knew what it meant, and lowering the hatches so that +the water was still, could distinctly see the body. It is needless +to write particulars that were in the newspapers at the time. +Charles was brought to the house, but he was dead.</p> +<p>We all feared for Caroline; and she suffered much; but strange to +say, her suffering was purely of the nature of deep grief which found +relief in sobbing and tears. It came out at the inquest that Charles +had been accustomed to cross the meads to give an occasional half-crown +to an old man who lived on the opposite hill, who had once been a landscape +painter in an humble way till he lost his eyesight; and it was assumed +that he had gone thither for the same purpose to-day, and to bid him +farewell. On this information the coroner’s jury found that +his death had been caused by misadventure; and everybody believes to +this hour that he was drowned while crossing the weir to relieve the +old man. Except one: she believes in no accident. After +the stunning effect of the first news, I thought it strange that he +should have chosen to go on such an errand at the last moment, and to +go personally, when there was so little time to spare, since any gift +could have been so easily sent by another hand. Further reflection +has convinced me that this step out of life was as much a part of the +day’s plan as was the wedding in the church hard by. +They were the two halves of his complete intention when he gave me on +the Grand Canal that assurance which I shall never forget: ‘Very +well, then; honour shall be my word, not love. If she says “Yes,” +the marriage shall be.’</p> +<p>I do not know why I should have made this entry at this particular +time; but it has occurred to me to do it—to complete, in a measure, +that part of my desultory chronicle which relates to the love-story +of my sister and Charles. She lives on meekly in her grief; and +will probably outlive it; while I—but never mind me.</p> +<h3>CHAPTER X.—SHE ADDS A NOTE LONG AFTER</h3> +<p><i>Five-years later.—</i>I have lighted upon this old diary, +which it has interested me to look over, containing, as it does, records +of the time when life shone more warmly in my eye than it does now. +I am impelled to add one sentence to round off its record of the past. +About a year ago my sister Caroline, after a persistent wooing, accepted +the hand and heart of Theophilus Higham, once the blushing young Scripture +reader who assisted at the substitute for a marriage I planned, and +now the fully-ordained curate of the next parish. His penitence +for the part he played ended in love. We have all now made atonement +for our sins against her: may she be deceived no more.</p> +<p>1887.</p> +<h2>THE GRAVE BY THE HANDPOST</h2> +<p>I never pass through Chalk-Newton without turning to regard the neighbouring +upland, at a point where a lane crosses the lone straight highway dividing +this from the next parish; a sight which does not fail to recall the +event that once happened there; and, though it may seem superfluous, +at this date, to disinter more memories of village history, the whispers +of that spot may claim to be preserved.</p> +<p>It was on a dark, yet mild and exceptionally dry evening at Christmas-time +(according to the testimony of William Dewy of Mellstock, Michael Mail, +and others), that the choir of Chalk-Newton—a large parish situate +about half-way between the towns of Ivel and Casterbridge, and now a +railway station—left their homes just before midnight to repeat +their annual harmonies under the windows of the local population. +The band of instrumentalists and singers was one of the largest in the +county; and, unlike the smaller and finer Mellstock string-band, which +eschewed all but the catgut, it included brass and reed performers at +full Sunday services, and reached all across the west gallery.</p> +<p>On this night there were two or three violins, two ‘cellos, +a tenor viol, double bass, hautboy, clarionets, serpent, and seven singers. +It was, however, not the choir’s labours, but what its members +chanced to witness, that particularly marked the occasion.</p> +<p>They had pursued their rounds for many years without meeting with +any incident of an unusual kind, but to-night, according to the assertions +of several, there prevailed, to begin with, an exceptionally solemn +and thoughtful mood among two or three of the oldest in the band, as +if they were thinking they might be joined by the phantoms of dead friends +who had been of their number in earlier years, and now were mute in +the churchyard under flattening mounds—friends who had shown greater +zest for melody in their time than was shown in this; or that some past +voice of a semi-transparent figure might quaver from some bedroom-window +its acknowledgment of their nocturnal greeting, instead of a familiar +living neighbour. Whether this were fact or fancy, the younger +members of the choir met together with their customary thoughtlessness +and buoyancy. When they had gathered by the stone stump of the +cross in the middle of the village, near the White Horse Inn, which +they made their starting point, some one observed that they were full +early, that it was not yet twelve o’clock. The local waits +of those days mostly refrained from sounding a note before Christmas +morning had astronomically arrived, and not caring to return to their +beer, they decided to begin with some outlying cottages in Sidlinch +Lane, where the people had no clocks, and would not know whether it +were night or morning. In that direction they accordingly went; +and as they ascended to higher ground their attention was attracted +by a light beyond the houses, quite at the top of the lane.</p> +<p>The road from Chalk-Newton to Broad Sidlinch is about two miles long +and in the middle of its course, where it passes over the ridge dividing +the two villages, it crosses at right angles, as has been stated, the +lonely monotonous old highway known as Long Ash Lane, which runs, straight +as a surveyor’s line, many miles north and south of this spot, +on the foundation of a Roman road, and has often been mentioned in these +narratives. Though now quite deserted and grass-grown, at the +beginning of the century it was well kept and frequented by traffic. +The glimmering light appeared to come from the precise point where the +roads intersected.</p> +<p>‘I think I know what that mid mean!’ one of the group +remarked.</p> +<p>They stood a few moments, discussing the probability of the light +having origin in an event of which rumours had reached them, and resolved +to go up the hill.</p> +<p>Approaching the high land their conjectures were strengthened. +Long Ash Lane cut athwart them, right and left; and they saw that at +the junction of the four ways, under the hand-post, a grave was dug, +into which, as the choir drew nigh, a corpse had just been thrown by +the four Sidlinch men employed for the purpose. The cart and horse +which had brought the body thither stood silently by.</p> +<p>The singers and musicians from Chalk-Newton halted, and looked on +while the gravediggers shovelled in and trod down the earth, till, the +hole being filled, the latter threw their spades into the cart, and +prepared to depart.</p> +<p>‘Who mid ye be a-burying there?’ asked Lot Swanhills +in a raised voice. ‘Not the sergeant?’</p> +<p>The Sidlinch men had been so deeply engrossed in their task that +they had not noticed the lanterns of the Chalk-Newton choir till now.</p> +<p>‘What—be you the Newton carol-singers?’ returned +the representatives of Sidlinch.</p> +<p>‘Ay, sure. Can it be that it is old Sergeant Holway you’ve +a-buried there?’</p> +<p>‘’Tis so. You’ve heard about it, then?’</p> +<p>The choir knew no particulars—only that he had shot himself +in his apple-closet on the previous Sunday. ‘Nobody seem’th +to know what ‘a did it for, ‘a b’lieve? Leastwise, +we don’t know at Chalk-Newton,’ continued Lot.</p> +<p>‘O yes. It all came out at the inquest.’</p> +<p>The singers drew close, and the Sidlinch men, pausing to rest after +their labours, told the story. ‘It was all owing to that +son of his, poor old man. It broke his heart.’</p> +<p>‘But the son is a soldier, surely; now with his regiment in +the East Indies?’</p> +<p>‘Ay. And it have been rough with the army over there +lately. ’Twas a pity his father persuaded him to go. +But Luke shouldn’t have twyted the sergeant o’t, since ‘a +did it for the best.’</p> +<p>The circumstances, in brief, were these: The sergeant who had come +to this lamentable end, father of the young soldier who had gone with +his regiment to the East, had been singularly comfortable in his military +experiences, these having ended long before the outbreak of the great +war with France. On his discharge, after duly serving his time, +he had returned to his native village, and married, and taken kindly +to domestic life. But the war in which England next involved herself +had cost him many frettings that age and infirmity prevented him from +being ever again an active unit of the army. When his only son +grew to young manhood, and the question arose of his going out in life, +the lad expressed his wish to be a mechanic. But his father advised +enthusiastically for the army.</p> +<p>‘Trade is coming to nothing in these days,’ he said. +‘And if the war with the French lasts, as it will, trade will +be still worse. The army, Luke—that’s the thing for +’ee. ’Twas the making of me, and ’twill be the +making of you. I hadn’t half such a chance as you’ll +have in these splendid hotter times.’</p> +<p>Luke demurred, for he was a home-keeping, peace-loving youth. +But, putting respectful trust in his father’s judgment, he at +length gave way, and enlisted in the ---d Foot. In the course +of a few weeks he was sent out to India to his regiment, which had distinguished +itself in the East under General Wellesley.</p> +<p>But Luke was unlucky. News came home indirectly that he lay +sick out there; and then on one recent day when his father was out walking, +the old man had received tidings that a letter awaited him at Casterbridge. +The sergeant sent a special messenger the whole nine miles, and the +letter was paid for and brought home; but though, as he had guessed, +it came from Luke, its contents were of an unexpected tenor.</p> +<p>The letter had been written during a time of deep depression. +Luke said that his life was a burden and a slavery, and bitterly reproached +his father for advising him to embark on a career for which he felt +unsuited. He found himself suffering fatigues and illnesses without +gaining glory, and engaged in a cause which he did not understand or +appreciate. If it had not been for his father’s bad advice +he, Luke, would now have been working comfortably at a trade in the +village that he had never wished to leave.</p> +<p>After reading the letter the sergeant advanced a few steps till he +was quite out of sight of everybody, and then sat down on the bank by +the wayside.</p> +<p>When he arose half-an-hour later he looked withered and broken, and +from that day his natural spirits left him. Wounded to the quick +by his son’s sarcastic stings, he indulged in liquor more and +more frequently. His wife had died some years before this date, +and the sergeant lived alone in the house which had been hers. +One morning in the December under notice the report of a gun had been +heard on his premises, and on entering the neighbours found him in a +dying state. He had shot himself with an old firelock that he +used for scaring birds; and from what he had said the day before, and +the arrangements he had made for his decease, there was no doubt that +his end had been deliberately planned, as a consequence of the despondency +into which he had been thrown by his son’s letter. The coroner’s +jury returned a verdict of <i>felo de se.</i></p> +<p>‘Here’s his son’s letter,’ said one of the +Sidlinch men. ‘’Twas found in his father’s pocket. +You can see by the state o’t how many times he read it over. +Howsomever, the Lord’s will be done, since it must, whether or +no.’</p> +<p>The grave was filled up and levelled, no mound being shaped over +it. The Sidlinch men then bade the Chalk-Newton choir good-night, +and departed with the cart in which they had brought the sergeant’s +body to the hill. When their tread had died away from the ear, +and the wind swept over the isolated grave with its customary siffle +of indifference, Lot Swanhills turned and spoke to old Richard Toller, +the hautboy player.</p> +<p>‘’Tis hard upon a man, and he a wold sojer, to serve +en so, Richard. Not that the sergeant was ever in a battle bigger +than would go into a half-acre paddock, that’s true. Still, +his soul ought to hae as good a chance as another man’s, all the +same, hey?’</p> +<p>Richard replied that he was quite of the same opinion. ‘What +d’ye say to lifting up a carrel over his grave, as ’tis +Christmas, and no hurry to begin down in parish, and ’twouldn’t +take up ten minutes, and not a soul up here to say us nay, or know anything +about it?’</p> +<p>Lot nodded assent. ‘The man ought to hae his chances,’ +he repeated.</p> +<p>‘Ye may as well spet upon his grave, for all the good we shall +do en by what we lift up, now he’s got so far,’ said Notton, +the clarionet man and professed sceptic of the choir. ‘But +I’m agreed if the rest be.’</p> +<p>They thereupon placed themselves in a semicircle by the newly stirred +earth, and roused the dull air with the well-known Number Sixteen of +their collection, which Lot gave out as being the one he thought best +suited to the occasion and the mood</p> +<blockquote><p>He comes’ the pri’-soners to’ re-lease’,<br /> +In Sa’-tan’s bon’-dage held’.</p> +</blockquote> +<p>‘Jown it—we’ve never played to a dead man afore,’ +said Ezra Cattstock, when, having concluded the last verse, they stood +reflecting for a breath or two. ‘But it do seem more merciful +than to go away and leave en, as they t’other fellers have done.’</p> +<p>‘Now backalong to Newton, and by the time we get overright +the pa’son’s ’twill be half after twelve,’ said +the leader.</p> +<p>They had not, however, done more than gather up their instruments +when the wind brought to their notice the noise of a vehicle rapidly +driven up the same lane from Sidlinch which the gravediggers had lately +retraced. To avoid being run over when moving on, they waited +till the benighted traveller, whoever he might be, should pass them +where they stood in the wider area of the Cross.</p> +<p>In half a minute the light of the lanterns fell upon a hired fly, +drawn by a steaming and jaded horse. It reached the hand-post, +when a voice from the inside cried, ‘Stop here!’ The +driver pulled rein. The carriage door was opened from within, +and there leapt out a private soldier in the uniform of some line regiment. +He looked around, and was apparently surprised to see the musicians +standing there.</p> +<p>‘Have you buried a man here?’ he asked.</p> +<p>‘No. We bain’t Sidlinch folk, thank God; we be +Newton choir. Though a man is just buried here, that’s true; +and we’ve raised a carrel over the poor mortal’s natomy. +What—do my eyes see before me young Luke Holway, that went wi’ +his regiment to the East Indies, or do I see his spirit straight from +the battlefield? Be you the son that wrote the letter—’</p> +<p>‘Don’t—don’t ask me. The funeral is +over, then?’</p> +<p>‘There wer no funeral, in a Christen manner of speaking. +But’s buried, sure enough. You must have met the men going +back in the empty cart.’</p> +<p>‘Like a dog in a ditch, and all through me!’</p> +<p>He remained silent, looking at the grave, and they could not help +pitying him. ‘My friends,’ he said, ‘I understand +better now. You have, I suppose, in neighbourly charity, sung +peace to his soul? I thank you, from my heart, for your kind pity. +Yes; I am Sergeant Holway’s miserable son—I’m the +son who has brought about his father’s death, as truly as if I +had done it with my own hand!’</p> +<p>‘No, no. Don’t ye take on so, young man. +He’d been naturally low for a good while, off and on, so we hear.’</p> +<p>‘We were out in the East when I wrote to him. Everything +had seemed to go wrong with me. Just after my letter had gone +we were ordered home. That’s how it is you see me here. +As soon as we got into barracks at Casterbridge I heard o’ this +. . . Damn me! I’ll dare to follow my father, and make away +with myself, too. It is the only thing left to do!’</p> +<p>‘Don’t ye be rash, Luke Holway, I say again; but try +to make amends by your future life. And maybe your father will +smile a smile down from heaven upon ’ee for ‘t.’</p> +<p>He shook his head. ‘I don’t know about that!’ +he answered bitterly.</p> +<p>‘Try and be worthy of your father at his best. ’Tis +not too late.’</p> +<p>‘D’ye think not? I fancy it is! . . . Well, I’ll +turn it over. Thank you for your good counsel. I’ll +live for one thing, at any rate. I’ll move father’s +body to a decent Christian churchyard, if I do it with my own hands. +I can’t save his life, but I can give him an honourable grave. +He shan’t lie in this accursed place!’</p> +<p>‘Ay, as our pa’son says, ’tis a barbarous custom +they keep up at Sidlinch, and ought to be done away wi’. +The man a’ old soldier, too. You see, our pa’son is +not like yours at Sidlinch.’</p> +<p>‘He says it is barbarous, does he? So it is!’ cried +the soldier. ‘Now hearken, my friends.’ Then +he proceeded to inquire if they would increase his indebtedness to them +by undertaking the removal, privately, of the body of the suicide to +the churchyard, not of Sidlinch, a parish he now hated, but of Chalk-Newton. +He would give them all he possessed to do it.</p> +<p>Lot asked Ezra Cattstock what he thought of it.</p> +<p>Cattstock, the ‘cello player, who was also the sexton, demurred, +and advised the young soldier to sound the rector about it first. +‘Mid be he would object, and yet ‘a mid’nt. +The pa’son o’ Sidlinch is a hard man, I own ye, and ‘a +said if folk will kill theirselves in hot blood they must take the consequences. +But ours don’t think like that at all, and might allow it.’</p> +<p>‘What’s his name?’</p> +<p>‘The honourable and reverent Mr. Oldham, brother to Lord Wessex. +But you needn’t be afeard o’ en on that account. He’ll +talk to ’ee like a common man, if so be you haven’t had +enough drink to gie ’ee bad breath.’</p> +<p>‘O, the same as formerly. I’ll ask him. Thank +you. And that duty done—’</p> +<p>‘What then?’</p> +<p>‘There’s war in Spain. I hear our next move is +there. I’ll try to show myself to be what my father wished +me. I don’t suppose I shall—but I’ll try in +my feeble way. That much I swear—here over his body. +So help me God.’</p> +<p>Luke smacked his palm against the white hand-post with such force +that it shook. ‘Yes, there’s war in Spain; and another +chance for me to be worthy of father.’</p> +<p>So the matter ended that night. That the private acted in one +thing as he had vowed to do soon became apparent, for during the Christmas +week the rector came into the churchyard when Cattstock was there, and +asked him to find a spot that would be suitable for the purpose of such +an interment, adding that he had slightly known the late sergeant, and +was not aware of any law which forbade him to assent to the removal, +the letter of the rule having been observed. But as he did not +wish to seem moved by opposition to his neighbour at Sidlinch, he had +stipulated that the act of charity should be carried out at night, and +as privately as possible, and that the grave should be in an obscure +part of the enclosure. ‘You had better see the young man +about it at once,’ added the rector.</p> +<p>But before Ezra had done anything Luke came down to his house. +His furlough had been cut short, owing to new developments of the war +in the Peninsula, and being obliged to go back to his regiment immediately, +he was compelled to leave the exhumation and reinterment to his friends. +Everything was paid for, and he implored them all to see it carried +out forthwith.</p> +<p>With this the soldier left. The next day Ezra, on thinking +the matter over, again went across to the rectory, struck with sudden +misgiving. He had remembered that the sergeant had been buried +without a coffin, and he was not sure that a stake had not been driven +through him. The business would be more troublesome than they +had at first supposed.</p> +<p>‘Yes, indeed!’ murmured the rector. ‘I am +afraid it is not feasible after all.’</p> +<p>The next event was the arrival of a headstone by carrier from the +nearest town; to be left at Mr. Ezra Cattstock’s; all expenses +paid. The sexton and the carrier deposited the stone in the former’s +outhouse; and Ezra, left alone, put on his spectacles and read the brief +and simple inscription:-</p> +<blockquote><p>HERE LYETH THE BODY OF SAMUEL HOLWAY, LATE SERGEANT IN +HIS MAJESTY’S ---D REGIMENT OF FOOT, WHO DEPARTED THIS LIFE DECEMBER +THE 20TH, 180-. ERECTED BY L. H.<br /> +‘I AM NOT WORTHY TO BE CALLED THY SON.’</p> +</blockquote> +<p>Ezra again called at the riverside rectory. ‘The stone +is come, sir. But I’m afeard we can’t do it nohow.’</p> +<p>‘I should like to oblige him,’ said the gentlemanly old +incumbent. ‘And I would forego all fees willingly. +Still, if you and the others don’t think you can carry it out, +I am in doubt what to say.’</p> +<p>Well, sir; I’ve made inquiry of a Sidlinch woman as to his +burial, and what I thought seems true. They buried en wi’ +a new six-foot hurdle-saul drough’s body, from the sheep-pen up +in North Ewelease though they won’t own to it now. And the +question is, Is the moving worth while, considering the awkwardness?’</p> +<p>‘Have you heard anything more of the young man?’</p> +<p>Ezra had only heard that he had embarked that week for Spain with +the rest of the regiment. ‘And if he’s as desperate +as ‘a seemed, we shall never see him here in England again.’</p> +<p>‘It is an awkward case,’ said the rector.</p> +<p>Ezra talked it over with the choir; one of whom suggested that the +stone might be erected at the crossroads. This was regarded as +impracticable. Another said that it might be set up in the churchyard +without removing the body; but this was seen to be dishonest. +So nothing was done.</p> +<p>The headstone remained in Ezra’s outhouse till, growing tired +of seeing it there, he put it away among the bushes at the bottom of +his garden. The subject was sometimes revived among them, but +it always ended with: ‘Considering how ‘a was buried, we +can hardly make a job o’t.’</p> +<p>There was always the consciousness that Luke would never come back, +an impression strengthened by the disasters which were rumoured to have +befallen the army in Spain. This tended to make their inertness +permanent. The headstone grew green as it lay on its back under +Ezra’s bushes; then a tree by the river was blown down, and, falling +across the stone, cracked it in three pieces. Ultimately the pieces +became buried in the leaves and mould.</p> +<p>Luke had not been born a Chalk-Newton man, and he had no relations +left in Sidlinch, so that no tidings of him reached either village throughout +the war. But after Waterloo and the fall of Napoleon there arrived +at Sidlinch one day an English sergeant-major covered with stripes and, +as it turned out, rich in glory. Foreign service had so totally +changed Luke Holway that it was not until he told his name that the +inhabitants recognized him as the sergeant’s only son.</p> +<p>He had served with unswerving effectiveness through the Peninsular +campaigns under Wellington; had fought at Busaco, Fuentes d’Onore, +Ciudad Rodrigo, Badajoz, Salamanca, Vittoria, Quatre Bras, and Waterloo; +and had now returned to enjoy a more than earned pension and repose +in his native district.</p> +<p>He hardly stayed in Sidlinch longer than to take a meal on his arrival. +The same evening he started on foot over the hill to Chalk-Newton, passing +the hand-post, and saying as he glanced at the spot, ‘Thank God: +he’s not there!’ Nightfall was approaching when he +reached the latter village; but he made straight for the churchyard. +On his entering it there remained light enough to discern the headstones +by, and these he narrowly scanned. But though he searched the +front part by the road, and the back part by the river, what he sought +he could not find—the grave of Sergeant Holway, and a memorial +bearing the inscription: ‘I AM NOT WORTHY TO BE CALLED THY SON.’</p> +<p>He left the churchyard and made inquiries. The honourable and +reverend old rector was dead, and so were many of the choir; but by +degrees the sergeant-major learnt that his father still lay at the cross-roads +in Long Ash Lane.</p> +<p>Luke pursued his way moodily homewards, to do which, in the natural +course, he would be compelled to repass the spot, there being no other +road between the two villages. But he could not now go by that +place, vociferous with reproaches in his father’s tones; and he +got over the hedge and wandered deviously through the ploughed fields +to avoid the scene. Through many a fight and fatigue Luke had +been sustained by the thought that he was restoring the family honour +and making noble amends. Yet his father lay still in degradation. +It was rather a sentiment than a fact that his father’s body had +been made to suffer for his own misdeeds; but to his super-sensitiveness +it seemed that his efforts to retrieve his character and to propitiate +the shade of the insulted one had ended in failure.</p> +<p>He endeavoured, however, to shake off his lethargy, and, not liking +the associations of Sidlinch, hired a small cottage at Chalk-Newton +which had long been empty. Here he lived alone, becoming quite +a hermit, and allowing no woman to enter the house.</p> +<p>The Christmas after taking up his abode herein he was sitting in +the chimney corner by himself, when he heard faint notes in the distance, +and soon a melody burst forth immediately outside his own window, it +came from the carol-singers, as usual; and though many of the old hands, +Ezra and Lot included, had gone to their rest, the same old carols were +still played out of the same old books. There resounded through +the sergeant-major’s window-shutters the familiar lines that the +deceased choir had rendered over his father’s grave:-</p> +<blockquote><p>He comes’ the pri’-soners to’ re-lease’,<br /> +In Sa’-tan’s bon’-dage held’.</p> +</blockquote> +<p>When they had finished they went on to another house, leaving him +to silence and loneliness as before.</p> +<p>The candle wanted snuffing, but he did not snuff it, and he sat on +till it had burnt down into the socket and made waves of shadow on the +ceiling.</p> +<p>The Christmas cheerfulness of next morning was broken at breakfast-time +by tragic intelligence which went down the village like wind. +Sergeant-Major Holway had been found shot through the head by his own +hand at the cross-roads in Long Ash Lane where his father lay buried.</p> +<p>On the table in the cottage he had left a piece of paper, on which +he had written his wish that he might be buried at the Cross beside +his father. But the paper was accidentally swept to the floor, +and overlooked till after his funeral, which took place in the ordinary +way in the churchyard.</p> +<p>Christmas 1897.</p> +<h2>ENTER A DRAGOON</h2> +<p>I lately had a melancholy experience (said the gentleman who is answerable +for the truth of this story). It was that of going over a doomed +house with whose outside aspect I had long been familiar—a house, +that is, which by reason of age and dilapidation was to be pulled down +during the following week. Some of the thatch, brown and rotten +as the gills of old mushrooms, had, indeed, been removed before I walked +over the building. Seeing that it was only a very small house—which +is usually called a ‘cottage-residence’—situated in +a remote hamlet, and that it was not more than a hundred years old, +if so much, I was led to think in my progress through the hollow rooms, +with their cracked walls and sloping floors, what an exceptional number +of abrupt family incidents had taken place therein—to reckon only +those which had come to my own knowledge. And no doubt there were +many more of which I had never heard.</p> +<p>It stood at the top of a garden stretching down to the lane or street +that ran through a hermit-group of dwellings in Mellstock parish. +From a green gate at the lower entrance, over which the thorn hedge +had been shaped to an arch by constant clippings, a gravel path ascended +between the box edges of once trim raspberry, strawberry, and vegetable +plots, towards the front door. This was in colour an ancient and +bleached green that could be rubbed off with the finger, and it bore +a small long-featured brass knocker covered with verdigris in its crevices. +For some years before this eve of demolition the homestead had degenerated, +and been divided into two tenements to serve as cottages for farm labourers; +but in its prime it had indisputable claim to be considered neat, pretty, +and genteel.</p> +<p>The variety of incidents above alluded to was mainly owing to the +nature of the tenure, whereby the place had been occupied by families +not quite of the kind customary in such spots—people whose circumstances, +position, or antecedents were more or less of a critical happy-go-lucky +cast. And of these residents the family whose term comprised the +story I wish to relate was that of Mr. Jacob Paddock the market-gardener, +who dwelt there for some years with his wife and grown-up daughter.</p> +<h3>I</h3> +<p>An evident commotion was agitating the premises, which jerked busy +sounds across the front plot, resembling those of a disturbed hive. +If a member of the household appeared at the door it was with a countenance +of abstraction and concern.</p> +<p>Evening began to bend over the scene; and the other inhabitants of +the hamlet came out to draw water, their common well being in the public +road opposite the garden and house of the Paddocks. Having wound +up their bucketsfull respectively they lingered, and spoke significantly +together. From their words any casual listener might have gathered +information of what had occurred.</p> +<p>The woodman who lived nearest the site of the story told most of +the tale. Selina, the daughter of the Paddocks opposite, had been +surprised that afternoon by receiving a letter from her once intended +husband, then a corporal, but now a sergeant-major of dragoons, whom +she had hitherto supposed to be one of the slain in the Battle of the +Alma two or three years before.</p> +<p>‘She picked up wi’en against her father’s wish, +as we know, and before he got his stripes,’ their informant continued. +‘Not but that the man was as hearty a feller as you’d meet +this side o’ London. But Jacob, you see, wished her to do +better, and one can understand it. However, she was determined +to stick to him at that time; and for what happened she was not much +to blame, so near as they were to matrimony when the war broke out and +spoiled all.’</p> +<p>‘Even the very pig had been killed for the wedding,’ +said a woman, ‘and the barrel o’ beer ordered in. +O, the man meant honourable enough. But to be off in two days +to fight in a foreign country—’twas natural of her father +to say they should wait till he got back.’</p> +<p>‘And he never came,’ murmured one in the shade.</p> +<p>‘The war ended but her man never turned up again. She +was not sure he was killed, but was too proud, or too timid, to go and +hunt for him.’</p> +<p>‘One reason why her father forgave her when he found out how +matters stood was, as he said plain at the time, that he liked the man, +and could see that he meant to act straight. So the old folks +made the best of what they couldn’t mend, and kept her there with +’em, when some wouldn’t. Time has proved seemingly +that he did mean to act straight, now that he has writ to her that he’s +coming. She’d have stuck to him all through the time, ’tis +my belief; if t’other hadn’t come along.’</p> +<p>‘At the time of the courtship,’ resumed the woodman, +‘the regiment was quartered in Casterbridge Barracks, and he and +she got acquainted by his calling to buy a penn’orth of rathe-ripes +off that tree yonder in her father’s orchard—though ’twas +said he seed <i>her</i> over hedge as well as the apples. He declared +’twas a kind of apple he much fancied; and he called for a penn’orth +every day till the tree was cleared. It ended in his calling for +her.’</p> +<p>‘’Twas a thousand pities they didn’t jine up at +once and ha’ done wi’ it.</p> +<p>‘Well; better late than never, if so be he’ll have her +now. But, Lord, she’d that faith in ‘en that she’d +no more belief that he was alive, when a’ didn’t come, than +that the undermost man in our churchyard was alive. She’d +never have thought of another but for that—O no!’</p> +<p>‘’Tis awkward, altogether, for her now.’</p> +<p>‘Still she hadn’t married wi’ the new man. +Though to be sure she would have committed it next week, even the licence +being got, they say, for she’d have no banns this time, the first +being so unfortunate.’</p> +<p>‘Perhaps the sergeant-major will think he’s released, +and go as he came.’</p> +<p>‘O, not as I reckon. Soldiers bain’t particular, +and she’s a tidy piece o’ furniture still. What will +happen is that she’ll have her soldier, and break off with the +master-wheelwright, licence or no—daze me if she won’t.’</p> +<p>In the progress of these desultory conjectures the form of another +neighbour arose in the gloom. She nodded to the people at the +well, who replied ‘G’d night, Mrs. Stone,’ as she +passed through Mr. Paddock’s gate towards his door. She +was an intimate friend of the latter’s household, and the group +followed her with their eyes up the path and past the windows, which +were now lighted up by candles inside.</p> +<h3>II</h3> +<p>Mrs. Stone paused at the door, knocked, and was admitted by Selina’s +mother, who took her visitor at once into the parlour on the left hand, +where a table was partly spread for supper. On the ‘beaufet’ +against the wall stood probably the only object which would have attracted +the eye of a local stranger in an otherwise ordinarily furnished room, +a great plum-cake guarded as if it were a curiosity by a glass shade +of the kind seen in museums—square, with a wooden back like those +enclosing stuffed specimens of rare feather or fur. This was the +mummy of the cake intended in earlier days for the wedding-feast of +Selina and the soldier, which had been religiously and lovingly preserved +by the former as a testimony to her intentional respectability in spite +of an untoward subsequent circumstance, which will be mentioned. +This relic was now as dry as a brick, and seemed to belong to a pre-existent +civilization. Till quite recently, Selina had been in the habit +of pausing before it daily, and recalling the accident whose consequences +had thrown a shadow over her life ever since—that of which the +water-drawers had spoken—the sudden news one morning that the +Route had come for the ---th Dragoons, two days only being the interval +before departure; the hurried consultation as to what should be done, +the second time of asking being past but not the third; and the decision +that it would be unwise to solemnize matrimony in such haphazard circumstances, +even if it were possible, which was doubtful.</p> +<p>Before the fire the young woman in question was now seated on a low +stool, in the stillness of reverie, and a toddling boy played about +the floor around her.</p> +<p>‘Ah, Mrs. Stone!’ said Selina, rising slowly. ‘How +kind of you to come in. You’ll bide to supper? Mother +has told you the strange news, of course?’</p> +<p>‘No. But I heard it outside, that is, that you’d +had a letter from Mr. Clark—Sergeant-Major Clark, as they say +he is now—and that he’s coming to make it up with ’ee.’</p> +<p>‘Yes; coming to-night—all the way from the north of England +where he’s quartered. I don’t know whether I’m +happy or—frightened at it. Of course I always believed that +if he was alive he’d come and keep his solemn vow to me. +But when it is printed that a man is killed—what can you think?’</p> +<p>‘It <i>was</i> printed?’</p> +<p>‘Why, yes. After the Battle of the Alma the book of the +names of the killed and wounded was nailed up against Casterbridge Town +Hall door. ’Twas on a Saturday, and I walked there o’ +purpose to read and see for myself; for I’d heard that his name +was down. There was a crowd of people round the book, looking +for the names of relations; and I can mind that when they saw me they +made way for me—knowing that we’d been just going to be +married—and that, as you may say, I belonged to him. Well, +I reached up my arm, and turned over the farrels of the book, and under +the “killed” I read his surname, but instead of “John” +they’d printed “James,” and I thought ’twas +a mistake, and that it must be he. Who could have guessed there +were two nearly of one name in one regiment.’</p> +<p>‘Well—he’s coming to finish the wedding of ’ee +as may be said; so never mind, my dear. All’s well that +ends well.’</p> +<p>‘That’s what he seems to say. But then he has not +heard yet about Mr. Miller; and that’s what rather terrifies me. +Luckily my marriage with him next week was to have been by licence, +and not banns, as in John’s case; and it was not so well known +on that account. Still, I don’t know what to think.’</p> +<p>‘Everything seems to come just ’twixt cup and lip with +’ee, don’t it now, Miss Paddock. Two weddings broke +off—’tis odd! How came you to accept Mr. Miller, my +dear?’</p> +<p>‘He’s been so good and faithful! Not minding about +the child at all; for he knew the rights of the story. He’s +dearly fond o’ Johnny, you know—just as if ’twere +his own—isn’t he, my duck? Do Mr. Miller love you +or don’t he?’</p> +<p>‘Iss! An’ I love Mr. Miller,’ said the toddler.</p> +<p>‘Well, you see, Mrs. Stone, he said he’d make me a comfortable +home; and thinking ’twould be a good thing for Johnny, Mr. Miller +being so much better off than me, I agreed at last, just as a widow +might—which is what I have always felt myself; ever since I saw +what I thought was John’s name printed there. I hope John +will forgive me!’</p> +<p>‘So he will forgive ’ee, since ’twas no manner +of wrong to him. He ought to have sent ’ee a line, saying +’twas another man.’</p> +<p>Selina’s mother entered. ‘We’ve not known +of this an hour, Mrs. Stone,’ she said. ‘The letter +was brought up from Lower Mellstock Post-office by one of the school +children, only this afternoon. Mr. Miller was coming here this +very night to settle about the wedding doings. Hark! Is +that your father? Or is it Mr. Miller already come?’</p> +<p>The footsteps entered the porch; there was a brushing on the mat, +and the door of the room sprung back to disclose a rubicund man about +thirty years of age, of thriving master-mechanic appearance and obviously +comfortable temper. On seeing the child, and before taking any +notice whatever of the elders, the comer made a noise like the crowing +of a cock and flapped his arms as if they were wings, a method of entry +which had the unqualified admiration of Johnny.</p> +<p>‘Yes—it is he,’ said Selina constrainedly advancing.</p> +<p>‘What—were you all talking about me, my dear?’ +said the genial young man when he had finished his crowing and resumed +human manners. ‘Why what’s the matter,’ he went +on. ‘You look struck all of a heap.’ Mr. Miller +spread an aspect of concern over his own face, and drew a chair up to +the fire.</p> +<p>‘O mother, would you tell Mr. Miller, if he don’t know?’</p> +<p><i>‘Mister</i> Miller! and going to be married in six days!’ +he interposed.</p> +<p>‘Ah—he don’t know it yet!’ murmured Mrs. +Paddock.</p> +<p>‘Know what?’</p> +<p>‘Well—John Clark—now Sergeant-Major Clark—wasn’t +shot at Alma after all. ’Twas another of almost the same +name.’</p> +<p>‘Now that’s interesting! There were several cases +like that.’</p> +<p>‘And he’s home again; and he’s coming here to-night +to see her.’</p> +<p>‘Whatever shall I say, that he may not be offended with what +I’ve done?’ interposed Selina.</p> +<p>‘But why should it matter if he be?’</p> +<p>‘O! I must agree to be his wife if he forgives me—of +course I must.’</p> +<p>‘Must! But why not say nay, Selina, even if he do forgive +’ee?’</p> +<p>‘O no! How can I without being wicked? You were +very very kind, Mr. Miller, to ask me to have you; no other man would +have done it after what had happened; and I agreed, even though I did +not feel half so warm as I ought. Yet it was entirely owing to +my believing him in the grave, as I knew that if he were not he would +carry out his promise; and this shows that I was right in trusting him.’</p> +<p>‘Yes . . . He must be a goodish sort of fellow,’ said +Mr. Miller, for a moment so impressed with the excellently faithful +conduct of the sergeant-major of dragoons that he disregarded its effect +upon his own position. He sighed slowly and added, ‘Well, +Selina, ’tis for you to say. I love you, and I love the +boy; and there’s my chimney-corner and sticks o’ furniture +ready for ’ee both.’</p> +<p>‘Yes, I know! But I mustn’t hear it any more now,’ +murmured Selina quickly. ‘John will be here soon. +I hope he’ll see how it all was when I tell him. If so be +I could have written it to him it would have been better.’</p> +<p>‘You think he doesn’t know a single word about our having +been on the brink o’t. But perhaps it’s the other +way—he’s heard of it and that may have brought him.</p> +<p>‘Ah—perhaps he has!’ she said brightening. +‘And already forgives me.’</p> +<p>‘If not, speak out straight and fair, and tell him exactly +how it fell out. If he’s a man he’ll see it.’</p> +<p>‘O he’s a man true enough. But I really do think +I shan’t have to tell him at all, since you’ve put it to +me that way!’</p> +<p>As it was now Johnny’s bedtime he was carried upstairs, and +when Selina came down again her mother observed with some anxiety, ‘I +fancy Mr. Clark must be here soon if he’s coming; and that being +so, perhaps Mr. Miller wouldn’t mind—wishing us good-night! +since you are so determined to stick to your sergeant-major.’ +A little bitterness bubbled amid the closing words. ‘It +would be less awkward, Mr. Miller not being here—if he will allow +me to say it.’</p> +<p>‘To be sure; to be sure,’ the master-wheelwright exclaimed +with instant conviction, rising alertly from his chair. ‘Lord +bless my soul,’ he said, taking up his hat and stick, ‘and +we to have been married in six days! But Selina—you’re +right. You do belong to the child’s father since he’s +alive. I’ll try to make the best of it.’</p> +<p>Before the generous Miller had got further there came a knock to +the door accompanied by the noise of wheels.</p> +<p>‘I thought I heard something driving up!’ said Mrs Paddock.</p> +<p>They heard Mr. Paddock, who had been smoking in the room opposite, +rise and go to the door, and in a moment a voice familiar enough to +Selina was audibly saying, ‘At last I am here again—not +without many interruptions! How is it with ’ee, Mr. Paddock? +And how is she? Thought never to see me again, I suppose?’</p> +<p>A step with a clink of spurs in it struck upon the entry floor.</p> +<p>‘Danged if I bain’t catched!’ murmured Mr. Miller, +forgetting company-speech. ‘Never mind—I may as well +meet him here as elsewhere; and I should like to see the chap, and make +friends with en, as he seems one o’ the right sort.’ +He returned to the fireplace just as the sergeant-major was ushered +in.</p> +<h3>III</h3> +<p>He was a good specimen of the long-service soldier of those days; +a not unhandsome man, with a certain undemonstrative dignity, which +some might have said to be partly owing to the stiffness of his uniform +about his neck, the high stock being still worn. He was much stouter +than when Selina had parted from him. Although she had not meant +to be demonstrative she ran across to him directly she saw him, and +he held her in his arms and kissed her.</p> +<p>Then in much agitation she whispered something to him, at which he +seemed to be much surprised.</p> +<p>‘He’s just put to bed,’ she continued. ‘You +can go up and see him. I knew you’d come if you were alive! +But I had quite gi’d you up for dead. You’ve been +home in England ever since the war ended?’</p> +<p>‘Yes, dear.’</p> +<p>‘Why didn’t you come sooner?’</p> +<p>‘That’s just what I ask myself! Why was I such +a sappy as not to hurry here the first day I set foot on shore! +Well, who’d have thought it—you are as pretty as ever!’</p> +<p>He relinquished her to peep upstairs a little way, where, by looking +through the ballusters, he could see Johnny’s cot just within +an open door. On his stepping down again Mr. Miller was preparing +to depart.</p> +<p>‘Now, what’s this? I am sorry to see anybody going +the moment I’ve come,’ expostulated the sergeant-major. +‘I thought we might make an evening of it. There’s +a nine gallon cask o’ “Phoenix” beer outside in the +trap, and a ham, and half a rawmil’ cheese; for I thought you +might be short o’ forage in a lonely place like this; and it struck +me we might like to ask in a neighbour or two. But perhaps it +would be taking a liberty?’</p> +<p>‘O no, not at all,’ said Mr. Paddock, who was now in +the room, in a judicial measured manner. ‘Very thoughtful +of ’ee, only ’twas not necessary, for we had just laid in +an extry stock of eatables and drinkables in preparation for the coming +event.’</p> +<p>‘’Twas very kind, upon my heart,’ said the soldier, +‘to think me worth such a jocund preparation, since you could +only have got my letter this morning.’</p> +<p>Selina gazed at her father to stop him, and exchanged embarrassed +glances with Miller. Contrary to her hopes Sergeant-Major Clark +plainly did not know that the preparations referred to were for something +quite other than his own visit.</p> +<p>The movement of the horse outside, and the impatient tapping of a +whip-handle upon the vehicle reminded them that Clark’s driver +was still in waiting. The provisions were brought into the house, +and the cart dismissed. Miller, with very little pressure indeed, +accepted an invitation to supper, and a few neighbours were induced +to come in to make up a cheerful party.</p> +<p>During the laying of the meal, and throughout its continuance, Selina, +who sat beside her first intended husband, tried frequently to break +the news to him of her engagement to the other—now terminated +so suddenly, and so happily for her heart, and her sense of womanly +virtue. But the talk ran entirely upon the late war; and though +fortified by half a horn of the strong ale brought by the sergeant-major +she decided that she might have a better opportunity when supper was +over of revealing the situation to him in private.</p> +<p>Having supped, Clark leaned back at ease in his chair and looked +around. ‘We used sometimes to have a dance in that other +room after supper, Selina dear, I recollect. We used to clear +out all the furniture into this room before beginning. Have you +kept up such goings on?’</p> +<p>‘No, not at all!’ said his sweetheart, sadly.</p> +<p>‘We were not unlikely to revive it in a few days,’ said +Mr. Paddock. ‘But, howsomever, there’s seemingly many +a slip, as the saying is.’</p> +<p>‘Yes, I’ll tell John all about that by and by!’ +interposed Selina; at which, perceiving that the secret which he did +not like keeping was to be kept even yet, her father held his tongue +with some show of testiness.</p> +<p>The subject of a dance having been broached, to put the thought in +practice was the feeling of all. Soon after the tables and chairs +were borne from the opposite room to this by zealous hands, and two +of the villagers sent home for a fiddle and tambourine, when the majority +began to tread a measure well known in that secluded vale. Selina +naturally danced with the sergeant-major, not altogether to her father’s +satisfaction, and to the real uneasiness of her mother, both of whom +would have preferred a postponement of festivities till the rashly anticipated +relationship between their daughter and Clark in the past had been made +fact by the church’s ordinances. They did not, however, +express a positive objection, Mr. Paddock remembering, with self-reproach, +that it was owing to his original strongly expressed disapproval of +Selina’s being a soldier’s wife that the wedding had been +delayed, and finally hindered—with worse consequences than were +expected; and ever since the misadventure brought about by his government +he had allowed events to steer their own courses.</p> +<p>‘My tails will surely catch in your spurs, John!’ murmured +the daughter of the house, as she whirled around upon his arm with the +rapt soul and look of a somnambulist. ‘I didn’t know +we should dance, or I would have put on my other frock.’</p> +<p>‘I’ll take care, my love. We’ve danced here +before. Do you think your father objects to me now? I’ve +risen in rank. I fancy he’s still a little against me.’</p> +<p>‘He has repented, times enough.’</p> +<p>‘And so have I! If I had married you then ’twould +have saved many a misfortune. I have sometimes thought it might +have been possible to rush the ceremony through somehow before I left; +though we were only in the second asking, were we? And even if +I had come back straight here when we returned from the Crimea, and +married you then, how much happier I should have been!’</p> +<p>‘Dear John, to say that! Why didn’t you?’</p> +<p>‘O—dilatoriness and want of thought, and a fear of facing +your father after so long. I was in hospital a great while, you +know. But how familiar the place seems again! What’s +that I saw on the beaufet in the other room? It never used to +be there. A sort of withered corpse of a cake—not an old +bride-cake surely?’</p> +<p>‘Yes, John, ours. ’Tis the very one that was made +for our wedding three years ago.’</p> +<p>‘Sakes alive! Why, time shuts up together, and all between +then and now seems not to have been! What became of that wedding-gown +that they were making in this room, I remember—a bluish, whitish, +frothy thing?’</p> +<p>‘I have that too.’</p> +<p>‘Really! . . . Why, Selina—’</p> +<p>‘Yes!’</p> +<p>‘Why not put it on now?’</p> +<p>‘Wouldn’t it seem—. And yet, O how I should +like to! It would remind them all, if we told them what it was, +how we really meant to be married on that bygone day!’ Her +eyes were again laden with wet.</p> +<p>‘Yes . . . The pity that we didn’t—the pity!’ +Moody mournfulness seemed to hold silent awhile one not naturally taciturn. +‘Well—will you?’ he said.</p> +<p>‘I will—the next dance, if mother don’t mind.’</p> +<p>Accordingly, just before the next figure was formed, Selina disappeared, +and speedily came downstairs in a creased and box-worn, but still airy +and pretty, muslin gown, which was indeed the very one that had been +meant to grace her as a bride three years before.</p> +<p>‘It is dreadfully old-fashioned,’ she apologized.</p> +<p>‘Not at all. What a grand thought of mine! Now, +let’s to’t again.’</p> +<p>She explained to some of them, as he led her to the second dance, +what the frock had been meant for, and that she had put it on at his +request. And again athwart and around the room they went.</p> +<p>‘You seem the bride!’ he said.</p> +<p>‘But I couldn’t wear this gown to be married in now!’ +she replied, ecstatically, ‘or I shouldn’t have put it on +and made it dusty. It is really too old-fashioned, and so folded +and fretted out, you can’t think. That was with my taking +it out so many times to look at. I have never put it on—never—till +now!’</p> +<p>‘Selina, I am thinking of giving up the army. Will you +emigrate with me to New Zealand? I’ve an uncle out there +doing well, and he’d soon help me to making a larger income. +The English army is glorious, but it ain’t altogether enriching.’</p> +<p>‘Of course, anywhere that you decide upon. Is it healthy +there for Johnny?’</p> +<p>‘A lovely climate. And I shall never be happy in England +. . . Aha!’ he concluded again, with a bitterness of unexpected +strength, ‘would to Heaven I had come straight back here!’</p> +<p>As the dance brought round one neighbour after another the re-united +pair were thrown into juxtaposition with Bob Heartall among the rest +who had been called in; one whose chronic expression was that he carried +inside him a joke on the point of bursting with its own vastness. +He took occasion now to let out a little of its quality, shaking his +head at Selina as he addressed her in an undertone—</p> +<p>‘This is a bit of a topper to the bridegroom, ho ho! +’Twill teach en the liberty you’ll expect when you’ve +married en!’</p> +<p>‘What does he mean by a “topper,”’ the sergeant-major +asked, who, not being of local extraction, despised the venerable local +language, and also seemed to suppose ‘bridegroom’ to be +an anticipatory name for himself. ‘I only hope I shall never +be worse treated than you’ve treated me to-night!’</p> +<p>Selina looked frightened. ‘He didn’t mean you, +dear,’ she said as they moved on. ‘We thought perhaps +you knew what had happened, owing to your coming just at this time. +Had you—heard anything about—what I intended?’</p> +<p>‘Not a breath—how should I—away up in Yorkshire? +It was by the merest accident that I came just at this date to make +peace with you for my delay.’</p> +<p>‘I was engaged to be married to Mr. Bartholomew Miller. +That’s what it is! I would have let ’ee know by letter, +but there was no time, only hearing from ’ee this afternoon . +. . You won’t desert me for it, will you, John? Because, +as you know, I quite supposed you dead, and—and—’ +Her eyes were full of tears of trepidation, and he might have felt a +sob heaving within her.</p> +<h3>IV</h3> +<p>The soldier was silent during two or three double bars of the tune. +‘When were you to have been married to the said Mr. Bartholomew +Miller?’ he inquired.</p> +<p>‘Quite soon.’</p> +<p>‘How soon?’</p> +<p>‘Next week—O yes—just the same as it was with you +and me. There’s a strange fate of interruption hanging over +me, I sometimes think! He had bought the licence, which I preferred +so that it mightn’t be like—ours. But it made no difference +to the fate of it.’</p> +<p>‘Had bought the licence! The devil!’</p> +<p>‘Don’t be angry, dear John. I didn’t know!’</p> +<p>‘No, no, I’m not angry.’</p> +<p>‘It was so kind of him, considering!’</p> +<p>‘Yes . . . I see, of course, how natural your action was—never +thinking of seeing me any more! Is it the Mr. Miller who is in +this dance?’</p> +<p>‘Yes.’</p> +<p>Clark glanced round upon Bartholomew and was silent again, for some +little while, and she stole a look at him, to find that he seemed changed. +‘John, you look ill!’ she almost sobbed. ‘’Tisn’t +me, is it?’</p> +<p>‘O dear, no. Though I hadn’t, somehow, expected +it. I can’t find fault with you for a moment—and I +don’t . . . This is a deuce of a long dance, don’t you think? +We’ve been at it twenty minutes if a second, and the figure doesn’t +allow one much rest. I’m quite out of breath.’</p> +<p>‘They like them so dreadfully long here. Shall we drop +out? Or I’ll stop the fiddler.’</p> +<p>‘O no, no, I think I can finish. But although I look +healthy enough I have never been so strong as I formerly was, since +that long illness I had in the hospital at Scutari.’</p> +<p>‘And I knew nothing about it!’</p> +<p>‘You couldn’t, dear, as I didn’t write. What +a fool I have been altogether!’ He gave a twitch, as of +one in pain. ‘I won’t dance again when this one is +over. The fact is I have travelled a long way to-day, and it seems +to have knocked me up a bit.’</p> +<p>There could be no doubt that the sergeant-major was unwell, and Selina +made herself miserable by still believing that her story was the cause +of his ailment. Suddenly he said in a changed voice, and she perceived +that he was paler than ever: ‘I must sit down.’</p> +<p>Letting go her waist he went quickly to the other room. She +followed, and found him in the nearest chair, his face bent down upon +his hands and arms, which were resting on the table.</p> +<p>‘What’s the matter?’ said her father, who sat there +dozing by the fire.</p> +<p>‘John isn’t well . . . We are going to New Zealand when +we are married, father. A lovely country! John, would you +like something to drink?’</p> +<p>‘A drop o’ that Schiedam of old Owlett’s, that’s +under stairs, perhaps,’ suggested her father. ‘Not +that nowadays ’tis much better than licensed liquor.’</p> +<p>‘John,’ she said, putting her face close to his and pressing +his arm. ‘Will you have a drop of spirits or something?’</p> +<p>He did not reply, and Selina observed that his ear and the side of +his face were quite white. Convinced that his illness was serious, +a growing dismay seized hold of her. The dance ended; her mother +came in, and learning what had happened, looked narrowly at the sergeant-major.</p> +<p>‘We must not let him lie like that, lift him up,’ she +said. ‘Let him rest in the window-bench on some cushions.’</p> +<p>They unfolded his arms and hands as they lay clasped upon the table, +and on lifting his head found his features to bear the very impress +of death itself. Bartholomew Miller, who had now come in, assisted +Mr. Paddock to make a comfortable couch in the window-seat, where they +stretched out Clark upon his back.</p> +<p>Still he seemed unconscious. ‘We must get a doctor,’ +said Selina. ‘O, my dear John, how is it you be taken like +this?’</p> +<p>‘My impression is that he’s dead!’ murmured Mr. +Paddock. ‘He don’t breathe enough to move a tomtit’s +feather.’</p> +<p>There were plenty to volunteer to go for a doctor, but as it would +be at least an hour before he could get there the case seemed somewhat +hopeless. The dancing-party ended as unceremoniously as it had +begun; but the guests lingered round the premises till the doctor should +arrive. When he did come the sergeant-major’s extremities +were already cold, and there was no doubt that death had overtaken him +almost at the moment that he had sat down.</p> +<p>The medical practitioner quite refused to accept the unhappy Selina’s +theory that her revelation had in any way induced Clark’s sudden +collapse. Both he and the coroner afterwards, who found the immediate +cause to be heart-failure, held that such a supposition was unwarranted +by facts. They asserted that a long day’s journey, a hurried +drive, and then an exhausting dance, were sufficient for such a result +upon a heart enfeebled by fatty degeneration after the privations of +a Crimean winter and other trying experiences, the coincidence of the +sad event with any disclosure of hers being a pure accident.</p> +<p>This conclusion, however, did not dislodge Selina’s opinion +that the shock of her statement had been the immediate stroke which +had felled a constitution so undermined.</p> +<h3>V</h3> +<p>At this date the Casterbridge Barracks were cavalry quarters, their +adaptation to artillery having been effected some years later. +It had been owing to the fact that the ---th Dragoons, in which John +Clark had served, happened to be lying there that Selina made his acquaintance. +At the time of his death the barracks were occupied by the Scots Greys, +but when the pathetic circumstances of the sergeant-major’s end +became known in the town the officers of the Greys offered the services +of their fine reed and brass band, that he might have a funeral marked +by due military honours. His body was accordingly removed to the +barracks, and carried thence to the churchyard in the Durnover quarter +on the following afternoon, one of the Greys’ most ancient and +docile chargers being blacked up to represent Clark’s horse on +the occasion.</p> +<p>Everybody pitied Selina, whose story was well known. She followed +the corpse as the only mourner, Clark having been without relations +in this part of the country, and a communication with his regiment having +brought none from a distance. She sat in a little shabby brown-black +mourning carriage, squeezing herself up in a corner to be as much as +possible out of sight during the slow and dramatic march through the +town to the tune from <i>Saul</i>. When the interment had taken +place, the volleys been fired, and the return journey begun, it was +with something like a shock that she found the military escort to be +moving at a quick march to the lively strains of ‘Off she goes!’ +as if all care for the sergeant-major was expected to be ended with +the late discharge of the carbines. It was, by chance, the very +tune to which they had been footing when he died, and unable to bear +its notes, she hastily told her driver to drop behind. The band +and military party diminished up the High Street, and Selina turned +over Swan bridge and homeward to Mellstock.</p> +<p>Then recommenced for her a life whose incidents were precisely of +a suit with those which had preceded the soldier’s return; but +how different in her appreciation of them! Her narrow miss of +the recovered respectability they had hoped for from that tardy event +worked upon her parents as an irritant, and after the first week or +two of her mourning her life with them grew almost insupportable. +She had impulsively taken to herself the weeds of a widow, for such +she seemed to herself to be, and clothed little Johnny in sables likewise. +This assumption of a moral relationship to the deceased, which she asserted +to be only not a legal one by two most unexpected accidents, led the +old people to indulge in sarcasm at her expense whenever they beheld +her attire, though all the while it cost them more pain to utter than +it gave her to hear it. Having become accustomed by her residence +at home to the business carried on by her father, she surprised them +one day by going off with the child to Chalk-Newton, in the direction +of the town of Ivell, and opening a miniature fruit and vegetable shop, +attending Ivell market with her produce. Her business grew somewhat +larger, and it was soon sufficient to enable her to support herself +and the boy in comfort. She called herself ‘Mrs. John Clark’ +from the day of leaving home, and painted the name on her signboard—no +man forbidding her.</p> +<p>By degrees the pain of her state was forgotten in her new circumstances, +and getting to be generally accepted as the widow of a sergeant-major +of dragoons—an assumption which her modest and mournful demeanour +seemed to substantiate—her life became a placid one, her mind +being nourished by the melancholy luxury of dreaming what might have +been her future in New Zealand with John, if he had only lived to take +her there. Her only travels now were a journey to Ivell on market-days, +and once a fortnight to the churchyard in which Clark lay, there to +tend, with Johnny’s assistance, as widows are wont to do, the +flowers she had planted upon his grave.</p> +<p>On a day about eighteen months after his unexpected decease, Selina +was surprised in her lodging over her little shop by a visit from Bartholomew +Miller. He had called on her once or twice before, on which occasions +he had used without a word of comment the name by which she was known.</p> +<p>‘I’ve come this time,’ he said, ‘less because +I was in this direction than to ask you, Mrs. Clark, what you mid well +guess. I’ve come o’ purpose, in short.’</p> +<p>She smiled.</p> +<p>‘’Tis to ask me again to marry you?’</p> +<p>‘Yes, of course. You see, his coming back for ’ee +proved what I always believed of ’ee, though others didn’t. +There’s nobody but would be glad to welcome you to our parish +again, now you’ve showed your independence and acted up to your +trust in his promise. Well, my dear, will you come?’</p> +<p>‘I’d rather bide as Mrs. Clark, I think,’ she answered. +‘I am not ashamed of my position at all; for I am John’s +widow in the eyes of Heaven.’</p> +<p>‘I quite agree—that’s why I’ve come. +Still, you won’t like to be always straining at this shop-keeping +and market-standing; and ’twould be better for Johnny if you had +nothing to do but tend him.’</p> +<p>He here touched the only weak spot in Selina’s resistance to +his proposal—the good of the boy. To promote that there +were other men she might have married offhand without loving them if +they had asked her to; but though she had known the worthy speaker from +her youth, she could not for the moment fancy herself happy as Mrs. +Miller.</p> +<p>He paused awhile. ‘I ought to tell ’ee, Mrs. Clark,’ +he said by and by, ‘that marrying is getting to be a pressing +question with me. Not on my own account at all. The truth +is, that mother is growing old, and I am away from home a good deal, +so that it is almost necessary there should be another person in the +house with her besides me. That’s the practical consideration +which forces me to think of taking a wife, apart from my wish to take +you; and you know there’s nobody in the world I care for so much.’</p> +<p>She said something about there being far better women than she, and +other natural commonplaces; but assured him she was most grateful to +him for feeling what he felt, as indeed she sincerely was. However, +Selina would not consent to be the useful third person in his comfortable +home—at any rate just then. He went away, after taking tea +with her, without discerning much hope for him in her good-bye.</p> +<h3>VI</h3> +<p>After that evening she saw and heard nothing of him for a great while. +Her fortnightly journeys to the sergeant-major’s grave were continued, +whenever weather did not hinder them; and Mr. Miller must have known, +she thought, of this custom of hers. But though the churchyard +was not nearly so far from his homestead as was her shop at Chalk-Newton, +he never appeared in the accidental way that lovers use.</p> +<p>An explanation was forthcoming in the shape of a letter from her +mother, who casually mentioned that Mr. Bartholomew Miller had gone +away to the other side of Shottsford-Forum to be married to a thriving +dairyman’s daughter that he knew there. His chief motive, +it was reported, had been less one of love than a wish to provide a +companion for his aged mother.</p> +<p>Selina was practical enough to know that she had lost a good and +possibly the only opportunity of settling in life after what had happened, +and for a moment she regretted her independence. But she became +calm on reflection, and to fortify herself in her course started that +afternoon to tend the sergeant-major’s grave, in which she took +the same sober pleasure as at first.</p> +<p>On reaching the churchyard and turning the corner towards the spot +as usual, she was surprised to perceive another woman, also apparently +a respectable widow, and with a tiny boy by her side, bending over Clark’s +turf, and spudding up with the point of her umbrella some ivy-roots +that Selina had reverently planted there to form an evergreen mantle +over the mound.</p> +<p>‘What are you digging up my ivy for!’ cried Selina, rushing +forward so excitedly that Johnny tumbled over a grave with the force +of the tug she gave his hand in her sudden start.</p> +<p>‘Your ivy?’ said the respectable woman.</p> +<p>‘Why yes! I planted it there—on my husband’s +grave.’</p> +<p>‘<i>Your</i> husband’s!’</p> +<p>‘Yes. The late Sergeant-Major Clark. Anyhow, as +good as my husband, for he was just going to be.’</p> +<p>‘Indeed. But who may be my husband, if not he? +I am the only Mrs. John Clark, widow of the late Sergeant-Major of Dragoons, +and this is his only son and heir.’</p> +<p>‘How can that be?’ faltered Selina, her throat seeming +to stick together as she just began to perceive its possibility. +‘He had been—going to marry me twice—and we were going +to New Zealand.’</p> +<p>‘Ah!—I remember about you,’ returned the legitimate +widow calmly and not unkindly. ‘You must be Selina; he spoke +of you now and then, and said that his relations with you would always +be a weight on his conscience. Well; the history of my life with +him is soon told. When he came back from the Crimea he became +acquainted with me at my home in the north, and we were married within +a month of first knowing each other. Unfortunately, after living +together a few months, we could not agree; and after a particularly +sharp quarrel, in which, perhaps, I was most in the wrong—as I +don’t mind owning here by his graveside—he went away from +me, declaring he would buy his discharge and emigrate to New Zealand, +and never come back to me any more. The next thing I heard was +that he had died suddenly at Mellstock at some low carouse; and as he +had left me in such anger to live no more with me, I wouldn’t +come down to his funeral, or do anything in relation to him. ’Twas +temper, I know, but that was the fact. Even if we had parted friends +it would have been a serious expense to travel three hundred miles to +get there, for one who wasn’t left so very well off . . . I am +sorry I pulled up your ivy-roots; but that common sort of ivy is considered +a weed in my part of the country.’</p> +<p><i>December</i> 1899.</p> +<h2>A TRYST AT AN ANCIENT EARTH WORK</h2> +<p>At one’s every step forward it rises higher against the south +sky, with an obtrusive personality that compels the senses to regard +it and consider. The eyes may bend in another direction, but never +without the consciousness of its heavy, high-shouldered presence at +its point of vantage. Across the intervening levels the gale races +in a straight line from the fort, as if breathed out of it hitherward. +With the shifting of the clouds the faces of the steeps vary in colour +and in shade, broad lights appearing where mist and vagueness had prevailed, +dissolving in their turn into melancholy gray, which spreads over and +eclipses the luminous bluffs. In this so-thought immutable spectacle +all is change.</p> +<p>Out of the invisible marine region on the other side birds soar suddenly +into the air, and hang over the summits of the heights with the indifference +of long familiarity. Their forms are white against the tawny concave +of cloud, and the curves they exhibit in their floating signify that +they are sea-gulls which have journeyed inland from expected stress +of weather. As the birds rise behind the fort, so do the clouds +rise behind the birds, almost as it seems, stroking with their bagging +bosoms the uppermost flyers.</p> +<p>The profile of the whole stupendous ruin, as seen at a distance of +a mile eastward, is cleanly cut as that of a marble inlay. It +is varied with protuberances, which from hereabouts have the animal +aspect of warts, wens, knuckles, and hips. It may indeed be likened +to an enormous many-limbed organism of an antediluvian time—partaking +of the cephalopod in shape—lying lifeless, and covered with a +thin green cloth, which hides its substance, while revealing its contour. +This dull green mantle of herbage stretches down towards the levels, +where the ploughs have essayed for centuries to creep up near and yet +nearer to the base of the castle, but have always stopped short before +reaching it. The furrows of these environing attempts show themselves +distinctly, bending to the incline as they trench upon it; mounting +in steeper curves, till the steepness baffles them, and their parallel +threads show like the striae of waves pausing on the curl. The +peculiar place of which these are some of the features is ‘Mai-Dun,’ +‘The Castle of the Great Hill,’ said to be the Dunium of +Ptolemy, the capital of the Durotriges, which eventually came into Roman +occupation, and was finally deserted on their withdrawal from the island.</p> +<p>* * * * *</p> +<p>The evening is followed by a night on which an invisible moon bestows +a subdued, yet pervasive light—without radiance, as without blackness. +From the spot whereon I am ensconced in a cottage, a mile away, the +fort has now ceased to be visible; yet, as by day, to anybody whose +thoughts have been engaged with it and its barbarous grandeurs of past +time the form asserts its existence behind the night gauzes as persistently +as if it had a voice. Moreover, the south-west wind continues +to feed the intervening arable flats with vapours brought directly from +its sides.</p> +<p>The midnight hour for which there has been occasion to wait at length +arrives, and I journey towards the stronghold in obedience to a request +urged earlier in the day. It concerns an appointment, which I +rather regret my decision to keep now that night is come. The +route thither is hedgeless and treeless—I need not add deserted. +The moonlight is sufficient to disclose the pale riband-like surface +of the way as it trails along between the expanses of darker fallow. +Though the road passes near the fortress it does not conduct directly +to its fronts. As the place is without an inhabitant, so it is +without a trackway. So presently leaving the macadamized road +to pursue its course elsewhither, I step off upon the fallow, and plod +stumblingly across it. The castle looms out off the shade by degrees, +like a thing waking up and asking what I want there. It is now +so enlarged by nearness that its whole shape cannot be taken in at one +view. The ploughed ground ends as the rise sharpens, the sloping +basement of grass begins, and I climb upward to invade Mai-Dun.</p> +<p>Impressive by day as this largest Ancient-British work in the kingdom +undoubtedly is, its impressiveness is increased now. After standing +still and spending a few minutes in adding its age to its size, and +its size to its solitude, it becomes appallingly mournful in its growing +closeness. A squally wind blows in the face with an impact which +proclaims that the vapours of the air sail low to-night. The slope +that I so laboriously clamber up the wind skips sportively down. +Its track can be discerned even in this light by the undulations of +the withered grass-bents—the only produce of this upland summit +except moss. Four minutes of ascent, and a vantage-ground of some +sort is gained. It is only the crest of the outer rampart. +Immediately within this a chasm gapes; its bottom is imperceptible, +but the counterscarp slopes not too steeply to admit of a sliding descent +if cautiously performed. The shady bottom, dank and chilly, is +thus gained, and reveals itself as a kind of winding lane, wide enough +for a waggon to pass along, floored with rank herbage, and trending +away, right and left, into obscurity, between the concentric walls of +earth. The towering closeness of these on each hand, their impenetrability, +and their ponderousness, are felt as a physical pressure. The +way is now up the second of them, which stands steeper and higher than +the first. To turn aside, as did Christian’s companion, +from such a Hill Difficulty, is the more natural tendency; but the way +to the interior is upward. There is, of course, an entrance to +the fortress; but that lies far off on the other side. It might +possibly have been the wiser course to seek for easier ingress there.</p> +<p>However, being here, I ascend the second acclivity. The grass +stems—the grey beard of the hill—sway in a mass close to +my stooping face. The dead heads of these various grasses—fescues, +fox-tails, and ryes—bob and twitch as if pulled by a string underground. +From a few thistles a whistling proceeds; and even the moss speaks, +in its humble way, under the stress of the blast.</p> +<p>That the summit of the second line of defence has been gained is +suddenly made known by a contrasting wind from a new quarter, coming +over with the curve of a cascade. These novel gusts raise a sound +from the whole camp or castle, playing upon it bodily as upon a harp. +It is with some difficulty that a foothold can be preserved under their +sweep. Looking aloft for a moment I perceive that the sky is much +more overcast than it has been hitherto, and in a few instants a dead +lull in what is now a gale ensues with almost preternatural abruptness. +I take advantage of this to sidle down the second counterscarp, but +by the time the ditch is reached the lull reveals itself to be but the +precursor of a storm. It begins with a heave of the whole atmosphere, +like the sigh of a weary strong man on turning to re-commence unusual +exertion, just as I stand here in the second fosse. That which +now radiates from the sky upon the scene is not so much light as vaporous +phosphorescence.</p> +<p>The wind, quickening, abandons the natural direction it has pursued +on the open upland, and takes the course of the gorge’s length, +rushing along therein helter-skelter, and carrying thick rain upon its +back. The rain is followed by hailstones which fly through the +defile in battalions—rolling, hopping, ricochetting, snapping, +clattering down the shelving banks in an undefinable haze of confusion. +The earthen sides of the fosse seem to quiver under the drenching onset, +though it is practically no more to them than the blows of Thor upon +the giant of Jotun-land. It is impossible to proceed further till +the storm somewhat abates, and I draw up behind a spur of the inner +scarp, where possibly a barricade stood two thousand years ago; and +thus await events.</p> +<p>* * * * *</p> +<p>The roar of the storm can be heard travelling the complete circuit +of the castle—a measured mile—coming round at intervals +like a circumambulating column of infantry. Doubtless such a column +has passed this way in its time, but the only columns which enter in +these latter days are the columns of sheep and oxen that are sometimes +seen here now; while the only semblance of heroic voices heard are the +utterances of such, and of the many winds which make their passage through +the ravines.</p> +<p>The expected lightning radiates round, and a rumbling as from its +subterranean vaults—if there are any—fills the castle. +The lightning repeats itself, and, coming after the aforesaid thoughts +of martial men, it bears a fanciful resemblance to swords moving in +combat. It has the very brassy hue of the ancient weapons that +here were used. The so sudden entry upon the scene of this metallic +flame is as the entry of a presiding exhibitor who unrolls the maps, +uncurtains the pictures, unlocks the cabinets, and effects a transformation +by merely exposing the materials of his science, unintelligibly cloaked +till then. The abrupt configuration of the bluffs and mounds is +now for the first time clearly revealed—mounds whereon, doubtless, +spears and shields have frequently lain while their owners loosened +their sandals and yawned and stretched their arms in the sun. +For the first time, too, a glimpse is obtainable of the true entrance +used by its occupants of old, some way ahead.</p> +<p>There, where all passage has seemed to be inviolably barred by an +almost vertical façade, the ramparts are found to overlap each +other like loosely clasped fingers, between which a zigzag path may +be followed—a cunning construction that puzzles the uninformed +eye. But its cunning, even where not obscured by dilapidation, +is now wasted on the solitary forms of a few wild badgers, rabbits, +and hares. Men must have often gone out by those gates in the +morning to battle with the Roman legions under Vespasian; some to return +no more, others to come back at evening, bringing with them the noise +of their heroic deeds. But not a page, not a stone, has preserved +their fame.</p> +<p>* * * * *</p> +<p>Acoustic perceptions multiply to-night. We can almost hear +the stream of years that have borne those deeds away from us. +Strange articulations seem to float on the air from that point, the +gateway, where the animation in past times must frequently have concentrated +itself at hours of coming and going, and general excitement. There +arises an ineradicable fancy that they are human voices; if so, they +must be the lingering air-borne vibrations of conversations uttered +at least fifteen hundred years ago. The attention is attracted +from mere nebulous imaginings about yonder spot by a real moving of +something close at hand.</p> +<p>I recognize by the now moderate flashes of lightning, which are sheet-like +and nearly continuous, that it is the gradual elevation of a small mound +of earth. At first no larger than a man’s fist it reaches +the dimensions of a hat, then sinks a little and is still. It +is but the heaving of a mole who chooses such weather as this to work +in from some instinct that there will be nobody abroad to molest him. +As the fine earth lifts and lifts and falls loosely aside fragments +of burnt clay roll out of it—clay that once formed part of cups +or other vessels used by the inhabitants of the fortress.</p> +<p>The violence of the storm has been counterbalanced by its transitoriness. +From being immersed in well-nigh solid media of cloud and hail shot +with lightning, I find myself uncovered of the humid investiture and +left bare to the mild gaze of the moon, which sparkles now on every +wet grass-blade and frond of moss.</p> +<p>But I am not yet inside the fort, and the delayed ascent of the third +and last escarpment is now made. It is steeper than either. +The first was a surface to walk up, the second to stagger up, the third +can only be ascended on the hands and toes. On the summit obtrudes +the first evidence which has been met with in these precincts that the +time is really the nineteenth century; it is in the form of a white +notice-board on a post, and the wording can just be discerned by the +rays of the setting moon:</p> +<p>CAUTION.—Any Person found removing Relics, Skeletons, Stones, +Pottery, Tiles, or other Material from this Earthwork, or cutting up +the Ground, will be Prosecuted as the Law directs.</p> +<p>Here one observes a difference underfoot from what has gone before: +scraps of Roman tile and stone chippings protrude through the grass +in meagre quantity, but sufficient to suggest that masonry stood on +the spot. Before the eye stretches under the moonlight the interior +of the fort. So open and so large is it as to be practically an +upland plateau, and yet its area lies wholly within the walls of what +may be designated as one building. It is a long-violated retreat; +all its corner-stones, plinths, and architraves were carried away to +build neighbouring villages even before mediaeval or modern history +began. Many a block which once may have helped to form a bastion +here rests now in broken and diminished shape as part of the chimney-corner +of some shepherd’s cottage within the distant horizon, and the +corner-stones of this heathen altar may form the base-course of some +adjoining village church.</p> +<p>Yet the very bareness of these inner courts and wards, their condition +of mere pasturage, protects what remains of them as no defences could +do. Nothing is left visible that the hands can seize on or the +weather overturn, and a permanence of general outline at least results, +which no other condition could ensure.</p> +<p>The position of the castle on this isolated hill bespeaks deliberate +and strategic choice exercised by some remote mind capable of prospective +reasoning to a far extent. The natural configuration of the surrounding +country and its bearing upon such a stronghold were obviously long considered +and viewed mentally before its extensive design was carried into execution. +Who was the man that said, ‘Let it be built here!’—not +on that hill yonder, or on that ridge behind, but on this best spot +of all? Whether he were some great one of the Belgae, or of the +Durotriges, or the travelling engineer of Britain’s united tribes, +must for ever remain time’s secret; his form cannot be realized, +nor his countenance, nor the tongue that he spoke, when he set down +his foot with a thud and said, ‘Let it be here!’</p> +<p>Within the innermost enclosure, though it is so wide that at a superficial +glance the beholder has only a sense of standing on a breezy down, the +solitude is rendered yet more solitary by the knowledge that between +the benighted sojourner herein and all kindred humanity are those three +concentric walls of earth which no being would think of scaling on such +a night as this, even were he to hear the most pathetic cries issuing +hence that could be uttered by a spectre-chased soul. I reach +a central mound or platform—the crown and axis of the whole structure. +The view from here by day must be of almost limitless extent. +On this raised floor, dais, or rostrum, harps have probably twanged +more or less tuneful notes in celebration of daring, strength, or cruelty; +of worship, superstition, love, birth, and death; of simple loving-kindness +perhaps never. Many a time must the king or leader have directed +his keen eyes hence across the open lands towards the ancient road, +the Icening Way, still visible in the distance, on the watch for armed +companies approaching either to succour or to attack.</p> +<p>I am startled by a voice pronouncing my name. Past and present +have become so confusedly mingled under the associations of the spot +that for a time it has escaped my memory that this mound was the place +agreed on for the aforesaid appointment. I turn and behold my +friend. He stands with a dark lantern in his hand and a spade +and light pickaxe over his shoulder. He expresses both delight +and surprise that I have come. I tell him I had set out before +the bad weather began.</p> +<p>He, to whom neither weather, darkness, nor difficulty seems to have +any relation or significance, so entirely is his soul wrapped up in +his own deep intentions, asks me to take the lantern and accompany him. +I take it and walk by his side. He is a man about sixty, small +in figure, with grey old-fashioned whiskers cut to the shape of a pair +of crumb-brushes. He is entirely in black broadcloth—or +rather, at present, black and brown, for he is bespattered with mud +from his heels to the crown of his low hat. He has no consciousness +of this—no sense of anything but his purpose, his ardour for which +causes his eyes to shine like those of a lynx, and gives his motions, +all the elasticity of an athlete’s.</p> +<p>‘Nobody to interrupt us at this time of night!’ he chuckles +with fierce enjoyment.</p> +<p>We retreat a little way and find a sort of angle, an elevation in +the sod, a suggested squareness amid the mass of irregularities around. +Here, he tells me, if anywhere, the king’s house stood. +Three months of measurement and calculation have confirmed him in this +conclusion.</p> +<p>He requests me now to open the lantern, which I do, and the light +streams out upon the wet sod. At last divining his proceedings +I say that I had no idea, in keeping the tryst, that he was going to +do more at such an unusual time than meet me for a meditative ramble +through the stronghold. I ask him why, having a practicable object, +he should have minded interruptions and not have chosen the day? +He informs me, quietly pointing to his spade, that it was because his +purpose is to dig, then signifying with a grim nod the gaunt notice-post +against the sky beyond. I inquire why, as a professed and well-known +antiquary with capital letters at the tail of his name, he did not obtain +the necessary authority, considering the stringent penalties for this +sort of thing; and he chuckles fiercely again with suppressed delight, +and says, ‘Because they wouldn’t have given it!’</p> +<p>He at once begins cutting up the sod, and, as he takes the pickaxe +to follow on with, assures me that, penalty or no penalty, honest men +or marauders, he is sure of one thing, that we shall not be disturbed +at our work till after dawn.</p> +<p>I remember to have heard of men who, in their enthusiasm for some +special science, art, or hobby, have quite lost the moral sense which +would restrain them from indulging it illegitimately; and I conjecture +that here, at last, is an instance of such an one. He probably +guesses the way my thoughts travel, for he stands up and solemnly asserts +that he has a distinctly justifiable intention in this matter; namely, +to uncover, to search, to verify a theory or displace it, and to cover +up again. He means to take away nothing—not a grain of sand. +In this he says he sees no such monstrous sin. I inquire if this +is really a promise to me? He repeats that it is a promise, and +resumes digging. My contribution to the labour is that of directing +the light constantly upon the hole. When he has reached something +more than a foot deep he digs more cautiously, saying that, be it much +or little there, it will not lie far below the surface; such things +never are deep. A few minutes later the point of the pickaxe clicks +upon a stony substance. He draws the implement out as feelingly +as if it had entered a man’s body. Taking up the spade he +shovels with care, and a surface, level as an altar, is presently disclosed. +His eyes flash anew; he pulls handfuls of grass and mops the surface +clean, finally rubbing it with his handkerchief. Grasping the +lantern from my hand he holds it close to the ground, when the rays +reveal a complete mosaic—a pavement of minute tesserae of many +colours, of intricate pattern, a work of much art, of much time, and +of much industry. He exclaims in a shout that he knew it always—that +it is not a Celtic stronghold exclusively, but also a Roman; the former +people having probably contributed little more than the original framework +which the latter took and adapted till it became the present imposing +structure.</p> +<p>I ask, What if it is Roman?</p> +<p>A great deal, according to him. That it proves all the world +to be wrong in this great argument, and himself alone to be right! +Can I wait while he digs further?</p> +<p>I agree—reluctantly; but he does not notice my reluctance. +At an adjoining spot he begins flourishing the tools anew with the skill +of a navvy, this venerable scholar with letters after his name. +Sometimes he falls on his knees, burrowing with his hands in the manner +of a hare, and where his old-fashioned broadcloth touches the sides +of the hole it gets plastered with the damp earth. He continually +murmurs to himself how important, how very important, this discovery +is! He draws out an object; we wash it in the same primitive way +by rubbing it with the wet grass, and it proves to be a semi-transparent +bottle of iridescent beauty, the sight of which draws groans of luxurious +sensibility from the digger. Further and further search brings +out a piece of a weapon. It is strange indeed that by merely peeling +off a wrapper of modern accumulations we have lowered ourselves into +an ancient world. Finally a skeleton is uncovered, fairly perfect. +He lays it out on the grass, bone to its bone.</p> +<p>My friend says the man must have fallen fighting here, as this is +no place of burial. He turns again to the trench, scrapes, feels, +till from a corner he draws out a heavy lump—a small image four +or five inches high. We clean it as before. It is a statuette, +apparently of gold, or, more probably, of bronze-gilt—a figure +of Mercury, obviously, its head being surmounted with the petasus or +winged hat, the usual accessory of that deity. Further inspection +reveals the workmanship to be of good finish and detail, and, preserved +by the limy earth, to be as fresh in every line as on the day it left +the hands of its artificer.</p> +<p>We seem to be standing in the Roman Forum and not on a hill in Wessex. +Intent upon this truly valuable relic of the old empire of which even +this remote spot was a component part, we do not notice what is going +on in the present world till reminded of it by the sudden renewal of +the storm. Looking up I perceive that the wide extinguisher of +cloud has again settled down upon the fortress-town, as if resting upon +the edge of the inner rampart, and shutting out the moon. I turn +my back to the tempest, still directing the light across the hole. +My companion digs on unconcernedly; he is living two thousand years +ago, and despises things of the moment as dreams. But at last +he is fairly beaten, and standing up beside me looks round on what he +has done. The rays of the lantern pass over the trench to the +tall skeleton stretched upon the grass on the other side. The +beating rain has washed the bones clean and smooth, and the forehead, +cheek-bones, and two-and-thirty teeth of the skull glisten in the candle-shine +as they lie.</p> +<p>This storm, like the first, is of the nature of a squall, and it +ends as abruptly as the other. We dig no further. My friend +says that it is enough—he has proved his point. He turns +to replace the bones in the trench and covers them. But they fall +to pieces under his touch: the air has disintegrated them, and he can +only sweep in the fragments. The next act of his plan is more +than difficult, but is carried out. The treasures are inhumed +again in their respective holes: they are not ours. Each deposition +seems to cost him a twinge; and at one moment I fancied I saw him slip +his hand into his coat pocket.</p> +<p>‘We must re-bury them <i>all</i>,’ say I.</p> +<p>‘O yes,’ he answers with integrity. ‘I was +wiping my hand.’</p> +<p>The beauties of the tesselated floor of the governor’s house +are once again consigned to darkness; the trench is filled up; the sod +laid smoothly down; he wipes the perspiration from his forehead with +the same handkerchief he had used to mop the skeleton and tesserae clean; +and we make for the eastern gate of the fortress.</p> +<p>Dawn bursts upon us suddenly as we reach the opening. It comes +by the lifting and thinning of the clouds that way till we are bathed +in a pink light. The direction of his homeward journey is not +the same as mine, and we part under the outer slope.</p> +<p>Walking along quickly to restore warmth I muse upon my eccentric +friend, and cannot help asking myself this question: Did he really replace +the gilded image of the god Mercurius with the rest of the treasures? +He seemed to do so; and yet I could not testify to the fact. Probably, +however, he was as good as his word.</p> +<p>* * *</p> +<p>It was thus I spoke to myself, and so the adventure ended. +But one thing remains to be told, and that is concerned with seven years +after. Among the effects of my friend, at that time just deceased, +was found, carefully preserved, a gilt statuette representing Mercury, +labelled ‘Debased Roman.’ No record was attached to +explain how it came into his possession. The figure was bequeathed +to the Casterbridge Museum.</p> +<p>Detroit Post,</p> +<p>March 1885.</p> +<h2>WHAT THE SHEPHERD SAW: A TALE OF FOUR MOONLIGHT NIGHTS</h2> +<p>The genial Justice of the Peace—now, alas, no more—who +made himself responsible for the facts of this story, used to begin +in the good old-fashioned way with a bright moonlight night and a mysterious +figure, an excellent stroke for an opening, even to this day, if well +followed up.</p> +<p>The Christmas moon (he would say) was showing her cold face to the +upland, the upland reflecting the radiance in frost-sparkles so minute +as only to be discernible by an eye near at hand. This eye, he +said, was the eye of a shepherd lad, young for his occupation, who stood +within a wheeled hut of the kind commonly in use among sheep-keepers +during the early lambing season, and was abstractedly looking through +the loophole at the scene without.</p> +<p>The spot was called Lambing Corner, and it was a sheltered portion +of that wide expanse of rough pastureland known as the Marlbury Downs, +which you directly traverse when following the turnpike-road across +Mid-Wessex from London, through Aldbrickham, in the direction of Bath +and Bristol. Here, where the hut stood, the land was high and +dry, open, except to the north, and commanding an undulating view for +miles. On the north side grew a tall belt of coarse furze, with +enormous stalks, a clump of the same standing detached in front of the +general mass. The clump was hollow, and the interior had been +ingeniously taken advantage of as a position for the before-mentioned +hut, which was thus completely screened from winds, and almost invisible, +except through the narrow approach. But the furze twigs had been +cut away from the two little windows of the hut, that the occupier might +keep his eye on his sheep.</p> +<p>In the rear, the shelter afforded by the belt of furze bushes was +artificially improved by an inclosure of upright stakes, interwoven +with boughs of the same prickly vegetation, and within the inclosure +lay a renowned Marlbury-Down breeding flock of eight hundred ewes.</p> +<p>To the south, in the direction of the young shepherd’s idle +gaze, there rose one conspicuous object above the uniform moonlit plateau, +and only one. It was a Druidical trilithon, consisting of three +oblong stones in the form of a doorway, two on end, and one across as +a lintel. Each stone had been worn, scratched, washed, nibbled, +split, and otherwise attacked by ten thousand different weathers; but +now the blocks looked shapely and little the worse for wear, so beautifully +were they silvered over by the light of the moon. The ruin was +locally called the Devil’s Door.</p> +<p>An old shepherd presently entered the hut from the direction of the +ewes, and looked around in the gloom. ‘Be ye sleepy?’ +he asked in cross accents of the boy.</p> +<p>The lad replied rather timidly in the negative.</p> +<p>‘Then,’ said the shepherd, ‘I’ll get me home-along, +and rest for a few hours. There’s nothing to be done here +now as I can see. The ewes can want no more tending till daybreak—’tis +beyond the bounds of reason that they can. But as the order is +that one of us must bide, I’ll leave ’ee, d’ye hear. +You can sleep by day, and I can’t. And you can be down to +my house in ten minutes if anything should happen. I can’t +afford ’ee candle; but, as ’tis Christmas week, and the +time that folks have hollerdays, you can enjoy yerself by falling asleep +a bit in the chair instead of biding awake all the time. But mind, +not longer at once than while the shade of the Devil’s Door moves +a couple of spans, for you must keep an eye upon the ewes.’</p> +<p>The boy made no definite reply, and the old man, stirring the fire +in the stove with his crook-stem, closed the door upon his companion +and vanished.</p> +<p>As this had been more or less the course of events every night since +the season’s lambing had set in, the boy was not at all surprised +at the charge, and amused himself for some time by lighting straws at +the stove. He then went out to the ewes and new-born lambs, re-entered, +sat down, and finally fell asleep. This was his customary manner +of performing his watch, for though special permission for naps had +this week been accorded, he had, as a matter of fact, done the same +thing on every preceding night, sleeping often till awakened by a smack +on the shoulder at three or four in the morning from the crook-stem +of the old man.</p> +<p>It might have been about eleven o’clock when he awoke. +He was so surprised at awaking without, apparently, being called or +struck, that on second thoughts he assumed that somebody must have called +him in spite of appearances, and looked out of the hut window towards +the sheep. They all lay as quiet as when he had visited them, +very little bleating being audible, and no human soul disturbing the +scene. He next looked from the opposite window, and here the case +was different. The frost-facets glistened under the moon as before; +an occasional furze bush showed as a dark spot on the same; and in the +foreground stood the ghostly form of the trilithon. But in front +of the trilithon stood a man.</p> +<p>That he was not the shepherd or any one of the farm labourers was +apparent in a moment’s observation,—his dress being a dark +suit, and his figure of slender build and graceful carriage. He +walked backwards and forwards in front of the trilithon.</p> +<p>The shepherd lad had hardly done speculating on the strangeness of +the unknown’s presence here at such an hour, when he saw a second +figure crossing the open sward towards the locality of the trilithon +and furze-clump that screened the hut. This second personage was +a woman; and immediately on sight of her the male stranger hastened +forward, meeting her just in front of the hut window. Before she +seemed to be aware of his intention he clasped her in his arms.</p> +<p>The lady released herself and drew back with some dignity.</p> +<p>‘You have come, Harriet—bless you for it!’ he exclaimed, +fervently.</p> +<p>‘But not for this,’ she answered, in offended accents. +And then, more good-naturedly, ‘I have come, Fred, because you +entreated me so! What can have been the object of your writing +such a letter? I feared I might be doing you grievous ill by staying +away. How did you come here?’</p> +<p>‘I walked all the way from my father’s.’</p> +<p>‘Well, what is it? How have you lived since we last met?’</p> +<p>‘But roughly; you might have known that without asking. +I have seen many lands and many faces since I last walked these downs, +but I have only thought of you.’</p> +<p>‘Is it only to tell me this that you have summoned me so strangely?’</p> +<p>A passing breeze blew away the murmur of the reply and several succeeding +sentences, till the man’s voice again became audible in the words, +‘Harriet—truth between us two! I have heard that the +Duke does not treat you too well.’</p> +<p>‘He is warm-tempered, but he is a good husband.’</p> +<p>‘He speaks roughly to you, and sometimes even threatens to +lock you out of doors.’</p> +<p>‘Only once, Fred! On my honour, only once. The +Duke is a fairly good husband, I repeat. But you deserve punishment +for this night’s trick of drawing me out. What does it mean?’</p> +<p>‘Harriet, dearest, is this fair or honest? Is it not +notorious that your life with him is a sad one—that, in spite +of the sweetness of your temper, the sourness of his embitters your +days. I have come to know if I can help you. You are a Duchess, +and I am Fred Ogbourne; but it is not impossible that I may be able +to help you . . . By God! the sweetness of that tongue ought to keep +him civil, especially when there is added to it the sweetness of that +face!’</p> +<p>‘Captain Ogbourne!’ she exclaimed, with an emphasis of +playful fear. ‘How can such a comrade of my youth behave +to me as you do? Don’t speak so, and stare at me so! +Is this really all you have to say? I see I ought not to have +come. ’Twas thoughtlessly done.’</p> +<p>Another breeze broke the thread of discourse for a time.</p> +<p>‘Very well. I perceive you are dead and lost to me,’ +he could next be heard to say, ‘“Captain Ogbourne” +proves that. As I once loved you I love you now, Harriet, without +one jot of abatement; but you are not the woman you were—you once +were honest towards me; and now you conceal your heart in made-up speeches. +Let it be: I can never see you again.’</p> +<p>‘You need not say that in such a tragedy tone, you silly. +You may see me in an ordinary way—why should you not? But, +of course, not in such a way as this. I should not have come now, +if it had not happened that the Duke is away from home, so that there +is nobody to check my erratic impulses.’</p> +<p>‘When does he return?’</p> +<p>‘The day after to-morrow, or the day after that.’</p> +<p>‘Then meet me again to-morrow night.’</p> +<p>‘No, Fred, I cannot.’</p> +<p>‘If you cannot to-morrow night, you can the night after; one +of the two before he comes please bestow on me. Now, your hand +upon it! To-morrow or next night you will see me to bid me farewell!’ +He seized the Duchess’s hand.</p> +<p>‘No, but Fred—let go my hand! What do you mean +by holding me so? If it be love to forget all respect to a woman’s +present position in thinking of her past, then yours may be so, Frederick. +It is not kind and gentle of you to induce me to come to this place +for pity of you, and then to hold me tight here.’</p> +<p>‘But see me once more! I have come two thousand miles +to ask it.’</p> +<p>‘O, I must not! There will be slanders—Heaven knows +what! I cannot meet you. For the sake of old times don’t +ask it.’</p> +<p>‘Then own two things to me; that you did love me once, and +that your husband is unkind to you often enough now to make you think +of the time when you cared for me.’</p> +<p>‘Yes—I own them both,’ she answered faintly. +‘But owning such as that tells against me; and I swear the inference +is not true.’</p> +<p>‘Don’t say that; for you have come—let me think +the reason of your coming what I like to think it. It can do you +no harm. Come once more!’</p> +<p>He still held her hand and waist. ‘Very well, then,’ +she said. ‘Thus far you shall persuade me. I will +meet you to-morrow night or the night after. Now, let me go.’</p> +<p>He released her, and they parted. The Duchess ran rapidly down +the hill towards the outlying mansion of Shakeforest Towers, and when +he had watched her out of sight, he turned and strode off in the opposite +direction. All then was silent and empty as before.</p> +<p>Yet it was only for a moment. When they had quite departed, +another shape appeared upon the scene. He came from behind the +trilithon. He was a man of stouter build than the first, and wore +the boots and spurs of a horseman. Two things were at once obvious +from this phenomenon: that he had watched the interview between the +Captain and the Duchess; and that, though he probably had seen every +movement of the couple, including the embrace, he had been too remote +to hear the reluctant words of the lady’s conversation—or, +indeed, any words at all—so that the meeting must have exhibited +itself to his eye as the assignation of a pair of well-agreed lovers. +But it was necessary that several years should elapse before the shepherd-boy +was old enough to reason out this.</p> +<p>The third individual stood still for a moment, as if deep in meditation. +He crossed over to where the lady and gentleman had stood, and looked +at the ground; then he too turned and went away in a third direction, +as widely divergent as possible from those taken by the two interlocutors. +His course was towards the highway; and a few minutes afterwards the +trot of a horse might have been heard upon its frosty surface, lessening +till it died away upon the ear.</p> +<p>The boy remained in the hut, confronting the trilithon as if he expected +yet more actors on the scene, but nobody else appeared. How long +he stood with his little face against the loophole he hardly knew; but +he was rudely awakened from his reverie by a punch in his back, and +in the feel of it he familiarly recognized the stem of the old shepherd’s +crook.</p> +<p>‘Blame thy young eyes and limbs, Bill Mills—now you have +let the fire out, and you know I want it kept in! I thought something +would go wrong with ’ee up here, and I couldn’t bide in +bed no more than thistledown on the wind, that I could not! Well, +what’s happened, fie upon ’ee?’</p> +<p>‘Nothing.’</p> +<p>‘Ewes all as I left ’em?’</p> +<p>‘Yes.’</p> +<p>‘Any lambs want bringing in?’</p> +<p>‘No.’</p> +<p>The shepherd relit the fire, and went out among the sheep with a +lantern, for the moon was getting low. Soon he came in again.</p> +<p>‘Blame it all—thou’st say that nothing have happened; +when one ewe have twinned and is like to go off, and another is dying +for want of half an eye of looking to! I told ’ee, Bill +Mills, if anything went wrong to come down and call me; and this is +how you have done it.’</p> +<p>‘You said I could go to sleep for a hollerday, and I did.’</p> +<p>‘Don’t you speak to your betters like that, young man, +or you’ll come to the gallows-tree! You didn’t sleep +all the time, or you wouldn’t have been peeping out of that there +hole! Now you can go home, and be up here again by breakfast-time. +I be an old man, and there’s old men that deserve well of the +world; but no I—must rest how I can!’</p> +<p>The elder shepherd then lay down inside the hut, and the boy went +down the hill to the hamlet where he dwelt.</p> +<h3>SECOND NIGHT</h3> +<p>When the next night drew on the actions of the boy were almost enough +to show that he was thinking of the meeting he had witnessed, and of +the promise wrung from the lady that she would come there again. +As far as the sheep-tending arrangements were concerned, to-night was +but a repetition of the foregoing one. Between ten and eleven +o’clock the old shepherd withdrew as usual for what sleep at home +he might chance to get without interruption, making up the other necessary +hours of rest at some time during the day; the boy was left alone.</p> +<p>The frost was the same as on the night before, except perhaps that +it was a little more severe. The moon shone as usual, except that +it was three-quarters of an hour later in its course; and the boy’s +condition was much the same, except that he felt no sleepiness whatever. +He felt, too, rather afraid; but upon the whole he preferred witnessing +an assignation of strangers to running the risk of being discovered +absent by the old shepherd.</p> +<p>It was before the distant clock of Shakeforest Towers had struck +eleven that he observed the opening of the second act of this midnight +drama. It consisted in the appearance of neither lover nor Duchess, +but of the third figure—the stout man, booted and spurred—who +came up from the easterly direction in which he had retreated the night +before. He walked once round the trilithon, and next advanced +towards the clump concealing the hut, the moonlight shining full upon +his face and revealing him to be the Duke. Fear seized upon the +shepherd-boy: the Duke was Jove himself to the rural population, whom +to offend was starvation, homelessness, and death, and whom to look +at was to be mentally scathed and dumbfoundered. He closed the +stove, so that not a spark of light appeared, and hastily buried himself +in the straw that lay in a corner.</p> +<p>The Duke came close to the clump of furze and stood by the spot where +his wife and the Captain had held their dialogue; he examined the furze +as if searching for a hiding-place, and in doing so discovered the hut. +The latter he walked round and then looked inside; finding it to all +seeming empty, he entered, closing the door behind him and taking his +place at the little circular window against which the boy’s face +had been pressed just before.</p> +<p>The Duke had not adopted his measures too rapidly, if his object +were concealment. Almost as soon as he had stationed himself there +eleven o’clock struck, and the slender young man who had previously +graced the scene promptly reappeared from the north quarter of the down. +The spot of assignation having, by the accident of his running forward +on the foregoing night, removed itself from the Devil’s Door to +the clump of furze, he instinctively came thither, and waited for the +Duchess where he had met her before.</p> +<p>But a fearful surprise was in store for him to-night, as well as +for the trembling juvenile. At his appearance the Duke breathed +more and more quickly, his breathings being distinctly audible to the +crouching boy. The young man had hardly paused when the alert +nobleman softly opened the door of the hut, and, stepping round the +furze, came full upon Captain Fred.</p> +<p>‘You have dishonoured her, and you shall die the death you +deserve!’ came to the shepherd’s ears, in a harsh, hollow +whisper through the boarding of the hut.</p> +<p>The apathetic and taciturn boy was excited enough to run the risk +of rising and looking from the window, but he could see nothing for +the intervening furze boughs, both the men having gone round to the +side. What took place in the few following moments he never exactly +knew. He discerned portion of a shadow in quick muscular movement; +then there was the fall of something on the grass; then there was stillness.</p> +<p>Two or three minutes later the Duke became visible round the corner +of the hut, dragging by the collar the now inert body of the second +man. The Duke dragged him across the open space towards the trilithon. +Behind this ruin was a hollow, irregular spot, overgrown with furze +and stunted thorns, and riddled by the old holes of badgers, its former +inhabitants, who had now died out or departed. The Duke vanished +into this depression with his burden, reappearing after the lapse of +a few seconds. When he came forth he dragged nothing behind him.</p> +<p>He returned to the side of the hut, cleansed something on the grass, +and again put himself on the watch, though not as before, inside the +hut, but without, on the shady side. ‘Now for the second!’ +he said.</p> +<p>It was plain, even to the unsophisticated boy, that he now awaited +the other person of the appointment—his wife, the Duchess—for +what purpose it was terrible to think. He seemed to be a man of +such determined temper that he would scarcely hesitate in carrying out +a course of revenge to the bitter end. Moreover—though it +was what the shepherd did not perceive—this was all the more probable, +in that the moody Duke was labouring under the exaggerated impression +which the sight of the meeting in dumb show had conveyed.</p> +<p>The jealous watcher waited long, but he waited in vain. From +within the hut the boy could hear his occasional exclamations of surprise, +as if he were almost disappointed at the failure of his assumption that +his guilty Duchess would surely keep the tryst. Sometimes he stepped +from the shade of the furze into the moonlight, and held up his watch +to learn the time.</p> +<p>About half-past eleven he seemed to give up expecting her. +He then went a second time to the hollow behind the trilithon, remaining +there nearly a quarter of an hour. From this place he proceeded +quickly over a shoulder of the declivity, a little to the left, presently +returning on horseback, which proved that his horse had been tethered +in some secret place down there. Crossing anew the down between +the hut and the trilithon, and scanning the precincts as if finally +to assure himself that she had not come, he rode slowly downwards in +the direction of Shakeforest Towers.</p> +<p>The juvenile shepherd thought of what lay in the hollow yonder; and +no fear of the crook-stem of his superior officer was potent enough +to detain him longer on that hill alone. Any live company, even +the most terrible, was better than the company of the dead; so, running +with the speed of a hare in the direction pursued by the horseman, he +overtook the revengeful Duke at the second descent (where the great +western road crossed before you came to the old park entrance on that +side—now closed up and the lodge cleared away, though at the time +it was wondered why, being considered the most convenient gate of all).</p> +<p>Once within the sound of the horse’s footsteps, Bill Mills +felt comparatively comfortable; for, though in awe of the Duke because +of his position, he had no moral repugnance to his companionship on +account of the grisly deed he had committed, considering that powerful +nobleman to have a right to do what he chose on his own lands. +The Duke rode steadily on beneath his ancestral trees, the hoofs of +his horse sending up a smart sound now that he had reached the hard +road of the drive, and soon drew near the front door of his house, surmounted +by parapets with square-cut battlements that cast a notched shade upon +the gravelled terrace. These outlines were quite familiar to little +Bill Mills, though nothing within their boundary had ever been seen +by him.</p> +<p>When the rider approached the mansion a small turret door was quickly +opened and a woman came out. As soon as she saw the horseman’s +outlines she ran forward into the moonlight to meet him.</p> +<p>‘Ah dear—and are you come?’ she said. ‘I +heard Hero’s tread just when you rode over the hill, and I knew +it in a moment. I would have come further if I had been aware—’</p> +<p>‘Glad to see me, eh?’</p> +<p>‘How can you ask that?’</p> +<p>‘Well; it is a lovely night for meetings.’</p> +<p>‘Yes, it is a lovely night.’</p> +<p>The Duke dismounted and stood by her side. ‘Why should +you have been listening at this time of night, and yet not expecting +me?’ he asked.</p> +<p>‘Why, indeed! There is a strange story attached to that, +which I must tell you at once. But why did you come a night sooner +than you said you would come? I am rather sorry—I really +am!’ (shaking her head playfully) ‘for as a surprise to +you I had ordered a bonfire to be built, which was to be lighted on +your arrival to-morrow; and now it is wasted. You can see the +outline of it just out there.’</p> +<p>The Duke looked across to a spot of rising glade, and saw the faggots +in a heap. He then bent his eyes with a bland and puzzled air +on the ground, ‘What is this strange story you have to tell me +that kept you awake?’ he murmured.</p> +<p>‘It is this—and it is really rather serious. My +cousin Fred Ogbourne—Captain Ogbourne as he is now—was in +his boyhood a great admirer of mine, as I think I have told you, though +I was six years his senior. In strict truth, he was absurdly fond +of me.’</p> +<p>‘You have never told me of that before.’</p> +<p>‘Then it was your sister I told—yes, it was. Well, +you know I have not seen him for many years, and naturally I had quite +forgotten his admiration of me in old times. But guess my surprise +when the day before yesterday, I received a mysterious note bearing +no address, and found on opening it that it came from him. The +contents frightened me out of my wits. He had returned from Canada +to his father’s house, and conjured me by all he could think of +to meet him at once. But I think I can repeat the exact words, +though I will show it to you when we get indoors.</p> +<blockquote><p>“MY DEAR COUSIN HARRIET,” the note said, +“After this long absence you will be surprised at my sudden reappearance, +and more by what I am going to ask. But if my life and future +are of any concern to you at all, I beg that you will grant my request. +What I require of you, is, dear Harriet, that you meet me about eleven +to-night by the Druid stones on Marlbury Downs, about a mile or more +from your house. I cannot say more, except to entreat you to come. +I will explain all when you are there. The one thing is, I want +to see you. Come alone. Believe me, I would not ask this +if my happiness did not hang upon it—God knows how entirely! +I am too agitated to say more—Yours. FRED.”</p> +</blockquote> +<p>‘That was all of it. Now, of course I ought have gone, +as it turned out, but that I did not think of then. I remembered +his impetuous temper, and feared that something grievous was impending +over his head, while he had not a friend in the world to help him, or +any one except myself to whom he would care to make his trouble known. +So I wrapped myself up and went to Marlbury Downs at the time he had +named. Don’t you think I was courageous?’</p> +<p>‘Very.’</p> +<p>‘When I got there—but shall we not walk on; it is getting +cold?’ The Duke, however, did not move. ‘When +I got there he came, of course, as a full grown man and officer, and +not as the lad that I had known him. When I saw him I was sorry +I had come. I can hardly tell you how he behaved. What he +wanted I don’t know even now; it seemed to be no more than the +mere meeting with me. He held me by the hand and waist—O +so tight—and would not let me go till I had promised to meet him +again. His manner was so strange and passionate that I was afraid +of him in such a lonely place, and I promised to come. Then I +escaped—then I ran home—and that’s all. When +the time drew on this evening for the appointment—which, of course, +I never intended to keep, I felt uneasy, lest when he found I meant +to disappoint him he would come on to the house; and that’s why +I could not sleep. But you are so silent!’</p> +<p>‘I have had a long journey.’</p> +<p>‘Then let us get into the house. Why did you come alone +and unattended like this?’</p> +<p>‘It was my humour.’</p> +<p>After a moment’s silence, during which they moved on, she said, +‘I have thought of something which I hardly like to suggest to +you. He said that if I failed to come to-night he would wait again +to-morrow night. Now, shall we to-morrow night go to the hill +together—just to see if he is there; and if he is, read him a +lesson on his foolishness in nourishing this old passion, and sending +for me so oddly, instead of coming to the house?’</p> +<p>‘Why should we see if he’s there?’ said her husband +moodily.</p> +<p>‘Because I think we ought to do something in it. Poor +Fred! He would listen to you if you reasoned with him, and set +our positions in their true light before him. It would be no more +than Christian kindness to a man who unquestionably is very miserable +from some cause or other. His head seems quite turned.’</p> +<p>By this time they had reached the door, rung the bell, and waited. +All the house seemed to be asleep; but soon a man came to them, the +horse was taken away, and the Duke and Duchess went in.</p> +<h3>THIRD NIGHT</h3> +<p>There was no help for it. Bill Mills was obliged to stay on +duty, in the old shepherd’s absence, this evening as before, or +give up his post and living. He thought as bravely as he could +of what lay behind the Devil’s Door, but with no great success, +and was therefore in a measure relieved, even if awe-stricken, when +he saw the forms of the Duke and Duchess strolling across the frosted +greensward. The Duchess was a few yards in front of her husband +and tripped on lightly.</p> +<p>‘I tell you he has not thought it worth while to come again!’ +the Duke insisted, as he stood still, reluctant to walk further.</p> +<p>‘He is more likely to come and wait all night; and it would +be harsh treatment to let him do it a second time.’</p> +<p>‘He is not here; so turn and come home.’</p> +<p>‘He seems not to be here, certainly; I wonder if anything has +happened to him. If it has, I shall never forgive myself!’</p> +<p>The Duke, uneasily, ‘O, no. He has some other engagement.’</p> +<p>‘That is very unlikely.’</p> +<p>‘Or perhaps he has found the distance too far.’</p> +<p>‘Nor is that probable.’</p> +<p>‘Then he may have thought better of it.’</p> +<p>‘Yes, he may have thought better of it; if, indeed, he is not +here all the time—somewhere in the hollow behind the Devil’s +Door. Let us go and see; it will serve him right to surprise him.’</p> +<p>‘O, he’s not there.’</p> +<p>‘He may be lying very quiet because of you,’ she said +archly.</p> +<p>‘O, no—not because of me!’</p> +<p>‘Come, then. I declare, dearest, you lag like an unwilling +schoolboy to-night, and there’s no responsiveness in you! +You are jealous of that poor lad, and it is quite absurd of you.’</p> +<p>‘I’ll come! I’ll come! Say no more, +Harriet!’ And they crossed over the green.</p> +<p>Wondering what they would do, the young shepherd left the hut, and +doubled behind the belt of furze, intending to stand near the trilithon +unperceived. But, in crossing the few yards of open ground he +was for a moment exposed to view.</p> +<p>‘Ah, I see him at last!’ said the Duchess.</p> +<p>‘See him!’ said the Duke. ‘Where?’</p> +<p>‘By the Devil’s Door; don’t you notice a figure +there? Ah, my poor lover-cousin, won’t you catch it now?’ +And she laughed half-pityingly. ‘But what’s the matter?’ +she asked, turning to her husband.</p> +<p>‘It is not he!’ said the Duke hoarsely. ‘It +can’t be he!’</p> +<p>‘No, it is not he. It is too small for him. It +is a boy.’</p> +<p>‘Ah, I thought so! Boy, come here.’</p> +<p>The youthful shepherd advanced with apprehension.</p> +<p>‘What are you doing here?’</p> +<p>‘Keeping sheep, your Grace.’</p> +<p>‘Ah, you know me! Do you keep sheep here every night?’</p> +<p>‘Off and on, my Lord Duke.’</p> +<p>‘And what have you seen here to-night or last night?’ +inquired the Duchess. ‘Any person waiting or walking about?’</p> +<p>The boy was silent.</p> +<p>‘He has seen nothing,’ interrupted her husband, his eyes +so forbiddingly fixed on the boy that they seemed to shine like points +of fire. ‘Come, let us go. The air is too keen to +stand in long.’</p> +<p>When they were gone the boy retreated to the hut and sheep, less +fearful now than at first—familiarity with the situation having +gradually overpowered his thoughts of the buried man. But he was +not to be left alone long. When an interval had elapsed of about +sufficient length for walking to and from Shakeforest Towers, there +appeared from that direction the heavy form of the Duke. He now +came alone.</p> +<p>The nobleman, on his part, seemed to have eyes no less sharp than +the boy’s, for he instantly recognized the latter among the ewes, +and came straight towards him.</p> +<p>‘Are you the shepherd lad I spoke to a short time ago?’</p> +<p>‘I be, my Lord Duke.’</p> +<p>‘Now listen to me. Her Grace asked you what you had seen +this last night or two up here, and you made no reply. I now ask +the same thing, and you need not be afraid to answer. Have you +seen anything strange these nights you have been watching here?’</p> +<p>‘My Lord Duke, I be a poor heedless boy, and what I see I don’t +bear in mind.’</p> +<p>‘I ask you again,’ said the Duke, coming nearer, ‘have +you seen anything strange these nights you have been watching here?’</p> +<p>‘O, my Lord Duke! I be but the under-shepherd boy, and +my father he was but your humble Grace’s hedger, and my mother +only the cinder-woman in the back-yard! I fall asleep when left +alone, and I see nothing at all!’</p> +<p>The Duke grasped the boy by the shoulder, and, directly impending +over him, stared down into his face, ‘Did you see anything strange +done here last night, I say?’</p> +<p>‘O, my Lord Duke, have mercy, and don’t stab me!’ +cried the shepherd, falling on his knees. ‘I have never +seen you walking here, or riding here, or lying-in-wait for a man, or +dragging a heavy load!’</p> +<p>‘H’m!’ said his interrogator, grimly, relaxing +his hold. ‘It is well to know that you have never seen those +things. Now, which would you rather—<i>see me do those things +now</i>, or keep a secret all your life?’</p> +<p>‘Keep a secret, my Lord Duke!’</p> +<p>‘Sure you are able?’</p> +<p>‘O, your Grace, try me!’</p> +<p>‘Very well. And now, how do you like sheep-keeping?’</p> +<p>‘Not at all. ’Tis lonely work for them that think +of spirits, and I’m badly used.’</p> +<p>‘I believe you. You are too young for it. I must +do something to make you more comfortable. You shall change this +smock-frock for a real cloth jacket, and your thick boots for polished +shoes. And you shall be taught what you have never yet heard of; +and be put to school, and have bats and balls for the holidays, and +be made a man of. But you must never say you have been a shepherd +boy, and watched on the hills at night, for shepherd boys are not liked +in good company.</p> +<p>‘Trust me, my Lord Duke.’</p> +<p>‘The very moment you forget yourself, and speak of your shepherd +days—this year, next year, in school, out of school, or riding +in your carriage twenty years hence—at that moment my help will +be withdrawn, and smash down you come to shepherding forthwith. +You have parents, I think you say?’</p> +<p>‘A widowed mother only, my Lord Duke.’</p> +<p>‘I’ll provide for her, and make a comfortable woman of +her, until you speak of—what?’</p> +<p>‘Of my shepherd days, and what I saw here.’</p> +<p>‘Good. If you do speak of it?’</p> +<p>‘Smash down she comes to widowing forthwith!’</p> +<p>‘That’s well—very well. But it’s not +enough. Come here.’ He took the boy across to the +trilithon, and made him kneel down.</p> +<p>‘Now, this was once a holy place,’ resumed the Duke. +‘An altar stood here, erected to a venerable family of gods, who +were known and talked of long before the God we know now. So that +an oath sworn here is doubly an oath. Say this after me: “May +all the host above—angels and archangels, and principalities and +powers—punish me; may I be tormented wherever I am—in the +house or in the garden, in the fields or in the roads, in church or +in chapel, at home or abroad, on land or at sea; may I be afflicted +in eating and in drinking, in growing up and in growing old, in living +and dying, inwardly and outwardly, and for always, if I ever speak of +my life as a shepherd boy, or of what I have seen done on this Marlbury +Down. So be it, and so let it be. Amen and amen.” +Now kiss the stone.’</p> +<p>The trembling boy repeated the words, and kissed the stone, as desired.</p> +<p>The Duke led him off by the hand. That night the junior shepherd +slept in Shakeforest Towers, and the next day he was sent away for tuition +to a remote village. Thence he went to a preparatory establishment, +and in due course to a public school.</p> +<h3>FOURTH NIGHT</h3> +<p>On a winter evening many years subsequent to the above-mentioned +occurrences, the <i>ci-devant</i> shepherd sat in a well-furnished office +in the north wing of Shakeforest Towers in the guise of an ordinary +educated man of business. He appeared at this time as a person +of thirty-eight or forty, though actually he was several years younger. +A worn and restless glance of the eye now and then, when he lifted his +head to search for some letter or paper which had been mislaid, seemed +to denote that his was not a mind so thoroughly at ease as his surroundings +might have led an observer to expect.</p> +<p>His pallor, too, was remarkable for a countryman. He was professedly +engaged in writing, but he shaped not word. He had sat there only +a few minutes, when, laying down his pen and pushing back his chair, +he rested a hand uneasily on each of the chair-arms and looked on the +floor.</p> +<p>Soon he arose and left the room. His course was along a passage +which ended in a central octagonal hall; crossing this he knocked at +a door. A faint, though deep, voice told him to come in. +The room he entered was the library, and it was tenanted by a single +person only—his patron the Duke.</p> +<p>During this long interval of years the Duke had lost all his heaviness +of build. He was, indeed, almost a skeleton; his white hair was +thin, and his hands were nearly transparent. ‘Oh—Mills?’ +he murmured. ‘Sit down. What is it?’</p> +<p>‘Nothing new, your Grace. Nobody to speak of has written, +and nobody has called.’</p> +<p>‘Ah—what then? You look concerned.’</p> +<p>‘Old times have come to life, owing to something waking them.’</p> +<p>‘Old times be cursed—which old times are they?’</p> +<p>‘That Christmas week twenty-two years ago, when the late Duchess’s +cousin Frederick implored her to meet him on Marlbury Downs. I +saw the meeting—it was just such a night as this—and I, +as you know, saw more. She met him once, but not the second time.’</p> +<p>‘Mills, shall I recall some words to you—the words of +an oath taken on that hill by a shepherd-boy?’</p> +<p>‘It is unnecessary. He has strenuously kept that oath +and promise. Since that night no sound of his shepherd life has +crossed his lips—even to yourself. But do you wish to hear +more, or do you not, your Grace?’</p> +<p>‘I wish to hear no more,’ said the Duke sullenly.</p> +<p>‘Very well; let it be so. But a time seems coming—may +be quite near at hand—when, in spite of my lips, that episode +will allow itself to go undivulged no longer.’</p> +<p>‘I wish to hear no more!’ repeated the Duke.</p> +<p>‘You need be under no fear of treachery from me,’ said +the steward, somewhat bitterly. ‘I am a man to whom you +have been kind—no patron could have been kinder. You have +clothed and educated me; have installed me here; and I am not unmindful. +But what of it—has your Grace gained much by my stanchness? +I think not. There was great excitement about Captain Ogbourne’s +disappearance, but I spoke not a word. And his body has never +been found. For twenty-two years I have wondered what you did +with him. Now I know. A circumstance that occurred this +afternoon recalled the time to me most forcibly. To make it certain +to myself that all was not a dream, I went up there with a spade; I +searched, and saw enough to know that something decays there in a closed +badger’s hole.’</p> +<p>‘Mills, do you think the Duchess guessed?’</p> +<p>‘She never did, I am sure, to the day of her death.’</p> +<p>‘Did you leave all as you found it on the hill?’</p> +<p>‘I did.’</p> +<p>‘What made you think of going up there this particular afternoon?’</p> +<p>‘What your Grace says you don’t wish to be told.’</p> +<p>The Duke was silent; and the stillness of the evening was so marked +that there reached their ears from the outer air the sound of a tolling +bell.</p> +<p>‘What is that bell tolling for?’ asked the nobleman.</p> +<p>‘For what I came to tell you of, your Grace.’</p> +<p>‘You torment me it is your way!’ said the Duke querulously. +‘Who’s dead in the village?’</p> +<p>‘The oldest man—the old shepherd.’</p> +<p>‘Dead at last—how old is he?’</p> +<p>‘Ninety-four.’</p> +<p>‘And I am only seventy. I have four-and-twenty years +to the good!’</p> +<p>‘I served under that old man when I kept sheep on Marlbury +Downs. And he was on the hill that second night, when I first +exchanged words with your Grace. He was on the hill all the time; +but I did not know he was there—nor did you.’</p> +<p>‘Ah!’ said the Duke, starting up. ‘Go on—I +yield the point—you may tell!’</p> +<p>‘I heard this afternoon that he was at the point of death. +It was that which set me thinking of that past time—and induced +me to search on the hill for what I have told you. Coming back +I heard that he wished to see the Vicar to confess to him a secret he +had kept for more than twenty years—“out of respect to my +Lord the Duke”—something that he had seen committed on Marlbury +Downs when returning to the flock on a December night twenty-two years +ago. I have thought it over. He had left me in charge that +evening; but he was in the habit of coming back suddenly, lest I should +have fallen asleep. That night I saw nothing of him, though he +had promised to return. He must have returned, and—found +reason to keep in hiding. It is all plain. The next thing +is that the Vicar went to him two hours ago. Further than that +I have not heard.’</p> +<p>‘It is quite enough. I will see the Vicar at daybreak +to-morrow.’</p> +<p>‘What to do?’</p> +<p>‘Stop his tongue for four-and-twenty years—till I am +dead at ninety-four, like the shepherd.’</p> +<p>‘Your Grace—while you impose silence on me, I will not +speak, even though nay neck should pay the penalty. I promised +to be yours, and I am yours. But is this persistence of any avail?’</p> +<p>‘I’ll stop his tongue, I say!’ cried the Duke with +some of his old rugged force. ‘Now, you go home to bed, +Mills, and leave me to manage him.’</p> +<p>The interview ended, and the steward withdrew. The night, as +he had said, was just such an one as the night of twenty-two years before, +and the events of the evening destroyed in him all regard for the season +as one of cheerfulness and goodwill. He went off to his own house +on the further verge of the park, where he led a lonely life, scarcely +calling any man friend. At eleven he prepared to retire to bed—but +did not retire. He sat down and reflected. Twelve o’clock +struck; he looked out at the colourless moon, and, prompted by he knew +not what, put on his hat and emerged into the air. Here William +Mills strolled on and on, till he reached the top of Marlbury Downs, +a spot he had not visited at this hour of the night during the whole +score-and-odd years.</p> +<p>He placed himself, as nearly as he could guess, on the spot where +the shepherd’s hut had stood. No lambing was in progress +there now, and the old shepherd who had used him so roughly had ceased +from his labours that very day. But the trilithon stood up white +as ever; and, crossing the intervening sward, the steward fancifully +placed his mouth against the stone. Restless and self-reproachful +as he was, he could not resist a smile as he thought of the terrifying +oath of compact, sealed by a kiss upon the stones of a Pagan temple. +But he had kept his word, rather as a promise than as a formal vow, +with much worldly advantage to himself, though not much happiness; till +increase of years had bred reactionary feelings which led him to receive +the news of to-night with emotions akin to relief.</p> +<p>While leaning against the Devil’s Door and thinking on these +things, he became conscious that he was not the only inhabitant of the +down. A figure in white was moving across his front with long, +noiseless strides. Mills stood motionless, and when the form drew +quite near he perceived it to be that of the Duke himself in his nightshirt—apparently +walking in his sleep. Not to alarm the old man, Mills clung close +to the shadow of the stone. The Duke went straight on into the +hollow. There he knelt down, and began scratching the earth with +his hands like a badger. After a few minutes he arose, sighed +heavily, and retraced his steps as he had come.</p> +<p>Fearing that he might harm himself, yet unwilling to arouse him, +the steward followed noiselessly. The Duke kept on his path unerringly, +entered the park, and made for the house, where he let himself in by +a window that stood open—the one probably by which he had come +out. Mills softly closed the window behind his patron, and then +retired homeward to await the revelations of the morning, deeming it +unnecessary to alarm the house.</p> +<p>However, he felt uneasy during the remainder of the night, no less +on account of the Duke’s personal condition than because of that +which was imminent next day. Early in the morning he called at +Shakeforest Towers. The blinds were down, and there was something +singular upon the porter’s face when he opened the door. +The steward inquired for the Duke.</p> +<p>The man’s voice was subdued as he replied: ‘Sir, I am +sorry to say that his Grace is dead! He left his room some time +in the night, and wandered about nobody knows where. On returning +to the upper floor he lost his balance and fell downstairs.’</p> +<p>The steward told the tale of the Down before the Vicar had spoken. +Mills had always intended to do so after the death of the Duke. +The consequences to himself he underwent cheerfully; but his life was +not prolonged. He died, a farmer at the Cape, when still somewhat +under forty-nine years of age.</p> +<p>The splendid Marlbury breeding flock is as renowned as ever, and, +to the eye, seems the same in every particular that it was in earlier +times; but the animals which composed it on the occasion of the events +gathered from the Justice are divided by many ovine generations from +its members now. Lambing Corner has long since ceased to be used +for lambing purposes, though the name still lingers on as the appellation +of the spot. This abandonment of site may be partly owing to the +removal of the high furze bushes which lent such convenient shelter +at that date. Partly, too, it may be due to another circumstance. +For it is said by present shepherds in that district that during the +nights of Christmas week flitting shapes are seen in the open space +around the trilithon, together with the gleam of a weapon, and the shadow +of a man dragging a burden into the hollow. But of these things +there is no certain testimony.</p> +<p><i>Christmas</i> 1881.</p> +<h2>A COMMITTEE-MAN OF ‘THE TERROR’</h2> +<p>We had been talking of the Georgian glories of our old-fashioned +watering-place, which now, with its substantial russet-red and dun brick +buildings in the style of the year eighteen hundred, looks like one +side of a Soho or Bloomsbury Street transported to the shore, and draws +a smile from the modern tourist who has no eye for solidity of build. +The writer, quite a youth, was present merely as a listener. The +conversation proceeded from general subjects to particular, until old +Mrs. H--, whose memory was as perfect at eighty as it had ever been +in her life, interested us all by the obvious fidelity with which she +repeated a story many times related to her by her mother when our aged +friend was a girl—a domestic drama much affecting the life of +an acquaintance of her said parent, one Mademoiselle V--, a teacher +of French. The incidents occurred in the town during the heyday +of its fortunes, at the time of our brief peace with France in 1802-3.</p> +<p>‘I wrote it down in the shape of a story some years ago, just +after my mother’s death,’ said Mrs. H--. ‘It +is locked up in my desk there now.’</p> +<p>‘Read it!’ said we.</p> +<p>‘No,’ said she; ‘the light is bad, and I can remember +it well enough, word for word, flourishes and all.’ We could +not be choosers in the circumstances, and she began.</p> +<p>* * * * *</p> +<p>‘There are two in it, of course, the man and the woman, and +it was on an evening in September that she first got to know him. +There had not been such a grand gathering on the Esplanade all the season. +His Majesty King George the Third was present, with all the princesses +and royal dukes, while upwards of three hundred of the general nobility +and other persons of distinction were also in the town at the time. +Carriages and other conveyances were arriving every minute from London +and elsewhere; and when among the rest a shabby stage-coach came in +by a by-route along the coast from Havenpool, and drew up at a second-rate +tavern, it attracted comparatively little notice.</p> +<p>‘From this dusty vehicle a man alighted, left his small quantity +of luggage temporarily at the office, and walked along the street as +if to look for lodgings.</p> +<p>‘He was about forty-five—possibly fifty—and wore +a long coat of faded superfine cloth, with a heavy collar, and a hunched-up +neckcloth. He seemed to desire obscurity.</p> +<p>‘But the display appeared presently to strike him, and he asked +of a rustic he met in the street what was going on; his accent being +that of one to whom English pronunciation was difficult.</p> +<p>‘The countryman looked at him with a slight surprise, and said, +“King Jarge is here and his royal Cwort.”</p> +<p>‘The stranger inquired if they were going to stay long.</p> +<p>‘“Don’t know, Sir. Same as they always do, +I suppose.”</p> +<p>‘“How long is that?”</p> +<p>‘“Till some time in October. They’ve come +here every summer since eighty-nine.”</p> +<p>‘The stranger moved onward down St. Thomas Street, and approached +the bridge over the harbour backwater, that then, as now, connected +the old town with the more modern portion. The spot was swept +with the rays of a low sun, which lit up the harbour lengthwise, and +shone under the brim of the man’s hat and into his eyes as he +looked westward. Against the radiance figures were crossing in +the opposite direction to his own; among them this lady of my mother’s +later acquaintance, Mademoiselle V--. She was the daughter of +a good old French family, and at that date a pale woman, twenty-eight +or thirty years of age, tall and elegant in figure, but plainly dressed +and wearing that evening (she said) a small muslin shawl crossed over +the bosom in the fashion of the time, and tied behind.</p> +<p>‘At sight of his face, which, as she used to tell us, was unusually +distinct in the peering sunlight, she could not help giving a little +shriek of horror, for a terrible reason connected with her history, +and after walking a few steps further, she sank down against the parapet +of the bridge in a fainting fit.</p> +<p>‘In his preoccupation the foreign gentleman had hardly noticed +her, but her strange collapse immediately attracted his attention. +He quickly crossed the carriageway, picked her up, and carried her into +the first shop adjoining the bridge, explaining that she was a lady +who had been taken ill outside.</p> +<p>‘She soon revived; but, clearly much puzzled, her helper perceived +that she still had a dread of him which was sufficient to hinder her +complete recovery of self-command. She spoke in a quick and nervous +way to the shopkeeper, asking him to call a coach.</p> +<p>‘This the shopkeeper did, Mademoiselle V--- and the stranger +remaining in constrained silence while he was gone. The coach +came up, and giving the man the address, she entered it and drove away.</p> +<p>‘“Who is that lady?” said the newly arrived gentleman.</p> +<p>‘“She’s of your nation, as I should make bold to +suppose,” said the shopkeeper. And he told the other that +she was Mademoiselle V--, governess at General Newbold’s, in the +same town.</p> +<p>‘“You have many foreigners here?” the stranger +inquired.</p> +<p>‘“Yes, though mostly Hanoverians. But since the +peace they are learning French a good deal in genteel society, and French +instructors are rather in demand.”</p> +<p>‘“Yes, I teach it,” said the visitor. “I +am looking for a tutorship in an academy.”</p> +<p>‘The information given by the burgess to the Frenchman seemed +to explain to the latter nothing of his countrywoman’s conduct—which, +indeed, was the case—and he left the shop, taking his course again +over the bridge and along the south quay to the Old Rooms Inn, where +he engaged a bedchamber.</p> +<p>‘Thoughts of the woman who had betrayed such agitation at sight +of him lingered naturally enough with the newcomer. Though, as +I stated, not much less than thirty years of age, Mademoiselle V--, +one of his own nation, and of highly refined and delicate appearance, +had kindled a singular interest in the middle-aged gentleman’s +breast, and her large dark eyes, as they had opened and shrunk from +him, exhibited a pathetic beauty to which hardly any man could have +been insensible.</p> +<p>‘The next day, having written some letters, he went out and +made known at the office of the town “Guide” and of the +newspaper, that a teacher of French and calligraphy had arrived, leaving +a card at the bookseller’s to the same effect. He then walked +on aimlessly, but at length inquired the way to General Newbold’s. +At the door, without giving his name, he asked to see Mademoiselle V--, +and was shown into a little back parlour, where she came to him with +a gaze of surprise.</p> +<p>‘“My God! Why do you intrude here, Monsieur?” +she gasped in French as soon as she saw his face.</p> +<p>‘“You were taken ill yesterday. I helped you. +You might have been run over if I had not picked you up. It was +an act of simple humanity certainly; but I thought I might come to ask +if you had recovered?”</p> +<p>‘She had turned aside, and had scarcely heard a word of his +speech. “I hate you, infamous man!” she said. +“I cannot bear your helping me. Go away!”</p> +<p>‘“But you are a stranger to me.”</p> +<p>‘“I know you too well!”</p> +<p>‘“You have the advantage then, Mademoiselle. I +am a newcomer here. I never have seen you before to my knowledge; +and I certainly do not, could not, hate you.”</p> +<p>‘“Are you not Monsieur B--?”</p> +<p>‘He flinched. “I am—in Paris,” he said. +“But here I am Monsieur G--.”</p> +<p>‘“That is trivial. You are the man I say you are.”</p> +<p>‘“How did you know my real name, Mademoiselle?”</p> +<p>‘“I saw you in years gone by, when you did not see me. +You were formerly Member of the Committee of Public Safety, under the +Convention.”</p> +<p>“I was.”</p> +<p>‘“You guillotined my father, my brother, my uncle—all +my family, nearly, and broke my mother’s heart. They had +done nothing but keep silence. Their sentiments were only guessed. +Their headless corpses were thrown indiscriminately into the ditch of +the Mousseaux Cemetery, and destroyed with lime.”</p> +<p>‘He nodded.</p> +<p>‘“You left me without a friend, and here I am now, alone +in a foreign land.”</p> +<p>‘“I am sorry for you,” said be. “Sorry +for the consequence, not for the intent. What I did was a matter +of conscience, and, from a point of view indiscernible by you, I did +right. I profited not a farthing. But I shall not argue +this. You have the satisfaction of seeing me here an exile also, +in poverty, betrayed by comrades, as friendless as yourself.”</p> +<p>‘“It is no satisfaction to me, Monsieur.”</p> +<p>‘“Well, things done cannot be altered. Now the +question: are you quite recovered?”</p> +<p>‘“Not from dislike and dread of you—otherwise, +yes.”</p> +<p>‘“Good morning, Mademoiselle.”</p> +<p>‘“Good morning.”</p> +<p>‘They did not meet again till one evening at the theatre (which +my mother’s friend was with great difficulty induced to frequent, +to perfect herself in English pronunciation, the idea she entertained +at that time being to become a teacher of English in her own country +later on). She found him sitting next to her, and it made her +pale and restless.</p> +<p>‘“You are still afraid of me?”</p> +<p>‘“I am. O cannot you understand!”</p> +<p>‘He signified the affirmative.</p> +<p>‘“I follow the play with difficulty,” he said, +presently.</p> +<p>‘“So do I—<i>now</i>,” said she.</p> +<p>‘He regarded her long, and she was conscious of his look; and +while she kept her eyes on the stage they filled with tears. Still +she would not move, and the tears ran visibly down her cheek, though +the play was a merry one, being no other than Mr. Sheridan’s comedy +of “The Rivals,” with Mr. S. Kemble as Captain Absolute. +He saw her distress, and that her mind was elsewhere; and abruptly rising +from his seat at candle-snuffing time he left the theatre.</p> +<p>‘Though he lived in the old town, and she in the new, they +frequently saw each other at a distance. One of these occasions +was when she was on the north side of the harbour, by the ferry, waiting +for the boat to take her across. He was standing by Cove Row, +on the quay opposite. Instead of entering the boat when it arrived +she stepped back from the quay; but looking to see if he remained she +beheld him pointing with his finger to the ferry-boat.</p> +<p>‘“Enter!” he said, in a voice loud enough to reach +her.</p> +<p>‘Mademoiselle V--- stood still.</p> +<p>‘“Enter!” he said, and, as she did not move, he +repeated the word a third time.</p> +<p>‘She had really been going to cross, and now approached and +stepped down into the boat. Though she did not raise her eyes +she knew that he was watching her over. At the landing steps she +saw from under the brim of her hat a hand stretched down. The +steps were steep and slippery.</p> +<p>‘“No, Monsieur,” she said. “Unless, +indeed, you believe in God, and repent of your evil past!”</p> +<p>‘“I am sorry you were made to suffer. But I only +believe in the god called Reason, and I do not repent. I was the +instrument of a national principle. Your friends were not sacrificed +for any ends of mine.”</p> +<p>‘She thereupon withheld her hand, and clambered up unassisted. +He went on, ascending the Look-out Hill, and disappearing over the brow. +Her way was in the same direction, her errand being to bring home the +two young girls under her charge, who had gone to the cliff for an airing. +When she joined them at the top she saw his solitary figure at the further +edge, standing motionless against the sea. All the while that +she remained with her pupils he stood without turning, as if looking +at the frigates in the roadstead, but more probably in meditation, unconscious +where he was. In leaving the spot one of the children threw away +half a sponge-biscuit that she had been eating. Passing near it +he stooped, picked it up carefully, and put it in his pocket.</p> +<p>‘Mademoiselle V--- came homeward, asking herself, “Can +he be starving?”</p> +<p>‘From that day he was invisible for so long a time that she +thought he had gone away altogether. But one evening a note came +to her, and she opened it trembling.</p> +<blockquote><p>‘“I am here ill,” it said, “and, +as you know, alone. There are one or two little things I want +done, in case my death should occur,—and I should prefer not to +ask the people here, if it could be avoided. Have you enough of +the gift of charity to come and carry out my wishes before it is too +late?”</p> +</blockquote> +<p>‘Now so it was that, since seeing him possess himself of the +broken cake, she had insensibly begun to feel something that was more +than curiosity, though perhaps less than anxiety, about this fellow-countryman +of hers; and it was not in her nervous and sensitive heart to resist +his appeal. She found his lodging (to which he had removed from +the Old Rooms inn for economy) to be a room over a shop, half-way up +the steep and narrow street of the old town, to which the fashionable +visitors seldom penetrated. With some misgiving she entered the +house, and was admitted to the chamber where he lay.</p> +<p>‘“You are too good, too good,” he murmured. +And presently, “You need not shut the door. You will feel +safer, and they will not understand what we say.”</p> +<p>‘“Are you in want, Monsieur? Can I give you—”</p> +<p>‘“No, no. I merely want you to do a trifling thing +or two that I have not strength enough to do myself. Nobody in +the town but you knows who I really am—unless you have told?”</p> +<p>‘“I have not told . . . I thought you <i>might</i> have +acted from principle in those sad days, even—”</p> +<p>‘“You are kind to concede that much. However, to +the present. I was able to destroy my few papers before I became +so weak . . . But in the drawer there you will find some pieces of linen +clothing—only two or three—marked with initials that may +be recognized. Will you rip them out with a penknife?”</p> +<p>‘She searched as bidden, found the garments, cut out the stitches +of the lettering, and replaced the linen as before. A promise +to post, in the event of his death, a letter he put in her hand, completed +all that he required of her.</p> +<p>‘He thanked her. “I think you seem sorry for me,” +he murmured. “And I am surprised. You are sorry?”</p> +<p>‘She evaded the question. “Do you repent and believe?” +she asked.</p> +<p>‘”No.”</p> +<p>‘Contrary to her expectations and his own he recovered, though +very slowly; and her manner grew more distant thenceforward, though +his influence upon her was deeper than she knew. Weeks passed +away, and the month of May arrived. One day at this time she met +him walking slowly along the beach to the northward.</p> +<p>‘“You know the news?” he said.</p> +<p>‘“You mean of the rupture between France and England +again?”</p> +<p>‘“Yes; and the feeling of antagonism is stronger than +it was in the last war, owing to Bonaparte’s high-handed arrest +of the innocent English who were travelling in our country for pleasure. +I feel that the war will be long and bitter; and that my wish to live +unknown in England will be frustrated. See here.”</p> +<p>‘He took from his pocket a piece of the single newspaper which +circulated in the county in those days, and she read—</p> +<blockquote><p>“The magistrates acting under the Alien Act have +been requested to direct a very scrutinizing eye to the Academies in +our towns and other places, in which French tutors are employed, and +to all of that nationality who profess to be teachers in this country. +Many of them are known to be inveterate Enemies and Traitors to the +nation among whose people they have found a livelihood and a home.”</p> +</blockquote> +<p>‘He continued: “I have observed since the declaration +of war a marked difference in the conduct of the rougher class of people +here towards me. If a great battle were to occur—as it soon +will, no doubt—feeling would grow to a pitch that would make it +impossible for me, a disguised man of no known occupation, to stay here. +With you, whose duties and antecedents are known, it may be less difficult, +but still unpleasant. Now I propose this. You have probably +seen how my deep sympathy with you has quickened to a warm feeling; +and what I say is, will you agree to give me a title to protect you +by honouring me with your hand? I am older than you, it is true, +but as husband and wife we can leave England together, and make the +whole world our country. Though I would propose Quebec, in Canada, +as the place which offers the best promise of a home.”</p> +<p>‘“My God! You surprise me!” said she.</p> +<p>‘“But you accept my proposal?”</p> +<p>‘“No, no!”</p> +<p>‘“And yet I think you will, Mademoiselle, some day!”</p> +<p>‘“I think not.”</p> +<p>‘“I won’t distress you further now.”</p> +<p>‘“Much thanks . . . I am glad to see you looking better, +Monsieur; I mean you are looking better.”</p> +<p>‘“Ah, yes. I am improving. I walk in the +sun every day.”</p> +<p>‘And almost every day she saw him—sometimes nodding stiffly +only, sometimes exchanging formal civilities. “You are not +gone yet,” she said on one of these occasions.</p> +<p>‘“No. At present I don’t think of going without +you.”</p> +<p>‘“But you find it uncomfortable here?”</p> +<p>‘“Somewhat. So when will you have pity on me?”</p> +<p>‘She shook her head and went on her way. Yet she was +a little moved. “He did it on principle,” she would +murmur. “He had no animosity towards them, and profited +nothing!”</p> +<p>‘She wondered how he lived. It was evident that he could +not be so poor as she had thought; his pretended poverty might be to +escape notice. She could not tell, but she knew that she was dangerously +interested in him.</p> +<p>‘And he still mended, till his thin, pale face became more +full and firm. As he mended she had to meet that request of his, +advanced with even stronger insistency.</p> +<p>‘The arrival of the King and Court for the season as usual +brought matters to a climax for these two lonely exiles and fellow country-people. +The King’s awkward preference for a part of the coast in such +dangerous proximity to France made it necessary that a strict military +vigilance should be exercised to guard the royal residents. Half-a-dozen +frigates were every night posted in a line across the bay, and two lines +of sentinels, one at the water’s edge and another behind the Esplanade, +occupied the whole sea-front after eight every night. The watering-place +was growing an inconvenient residence even for Mademoiselle V--- herself, +her friendship for this strange French tutor and writing-master who +never had any pupils having been observed by many who slightly knew +her. The General’s wife, whose dependent she was, repeatedly +warned her against the acquaintance; while the Hanoverian and other +soldiers of the Foreign Legion, who had discovered the nationality of +her friend, were more aggressive than the English military gallants +who made it their business to notice her.</p> +<p>‘In this tense state of affairs her answers became more agitated. +“O Heaven, how can I marry you!” she would say.</p> +<p>‘“You will; surely you will!” he answered again. +“I don’t leave without you. And I shall soon be interrogated +before the magistrates if I stay here; probably imprisoned. You +will come?”</p> +<p>‘She felt her defences breaking down. Contrary to all +reason and sense of family honour she was, by some abnormal craving, +inclining to a tenderness for him that was founded on its opposite. +Sometimes her warm sentiments burnt lower than at others, and then the +enormity of her conduct showed itself in more staring hues.</p> +<p>‘Shortly after this he came with a resigned look on his face. +“It is as I expected,” he said. “I have received +a hint to go. In good sooth, I am no Bonapartist—I am no +enemy to England; but the presence of the King made it impossible for +a foreigner with no visible occupation, and who may be a spy, to remain +at large in the town. The authorities are civil, but firm. +They are no more than reasonable. Good. I must go. +You must come also.”</p> +<p>‘She did not speak. But she nodded assent, her eyes drooping.</p> +<p>‘On her way back to the house on the Esplanade she said to +herself, “I am glad, I am glad! I could not do otherwise. +It is rendering good for evil!” But she knew how she mocked +herself in this, and that the moral principle had not operated one jot +in her acceptance of him. In truth she had not realized till now +the full presence of the emotion which had unconsciously grown up in +her for this lonely and severe man, who, in her tradition, was vengeance +and irreligion personified. He seemed to absorb her whole nature, +and, absorbing, to control it.</p> +<p>‘A day or two before the one fixed for the wedding there chanced +to come to her a letter from the only acquaintance of her own sex and +country she possessed in England, one to whom she had sent intelligence +of her approaching marriage, without mentioning with whom. This +friend’s misfortunes had been somewhat similar to her own, which +fact had been one cause of their intimacy; her friend’s sister, +a nun of the Abbey of Montmartre, having perished on the scaffold at +the hands of the same Comité de Salut Public which had numbered +Mademoiselle V--’s affianced among its members. The writer +had felt her position much again of late, since the renewal of the war, +she said; and the letter wound up with a fresh denunciation of the authors +of their mutual bereavement and subsequent troubles.</p> +<p>‘Coming just then, its contents produced upon Mademoiselle +V--- the effect of a pail of water upon a somnambulist. What had +she been doing in betrothing herself to this man! Was she not +making herself a parricide after the event? At this crisis in +her feelings her lover called. He beheld her trembling, and, in +reply to his question, she told him of her scruples with impulsive candour.</p> +<p>‘She had not intended to do this, but his attitude of tender +command coerced her into frankness. Thereupon he exhibited an +agitation never before apparent in him. He said, “But all +that is past. You are the symbol of Charity, and we are pledged +to let bygones be.”</p> +<p>‘His words soothed her for the moment, but she was sadly silent, +and he went away.</p> +<p>‘That night she saw (as she firmly believed to the end of her +life) a divinely sent vision. A procession of her lost relatives—father, +brother, uncle, cousin—seemed to cross her chamber between her +bed and the window, and when she endeavoured to trace their features +she perceived them to be headless, and that she had recognized them +by their familiar clothes only. In the morning she could not shake +off the effects of this appearance on her nerves. All that day +she saw nothing of her wooer, he being occupied in making arrangements +for their departure. It grew towards evening—the marriage +eve; but, in spite of his re-assuring visit, her sense of family duty +waxed stronger now that she was left alone. Yet, she asked herself, +how could she, alone and unprotected, go at this eleventh hour and reassert +to an affianced husband that she could not and would not marry him while +admitting at the same time that she loved him? The situation dismayed +her. She had relinquished her post as governess, and was staying +temporarily in a room near the coach-office, where she expected him +to call in the morning to carry out the business of their union and +departure.</p> +<p>‘Wisely or foolishly, Mademoiselle V--- came to a resolution: +that her only safety lay in flight. His contiguity influenced +her too sensibly; she could not reason. So packing up her few +possessions and placing on the table the small sum she owed, she went +out privately, secured a last available seat in the London coach, and, +almost before she had fully weighed her action, she was rolling out +of the town in the dusk of the September evening.</p> +<p>‘Having taken this startling step she began to reflect upon +her reasons. He had been one of that tragic Committee the sound +of whose name was a horror to the civilized world; yet he had been only +one of several members, and, it seemed, not the most active. He +had marked down names on principle, had felt no personal enmity against +his victims, and had enriched himself not a sou out of the office he +had held. Nothing could change the past. Meanwhile he loved +her, and her heart inclined to as much of him as she could detach from +that past. Why not, as he had suggested, bury memories, and inaugurate +a new era by this union? In other words, why not indulge her tenderness, +since its nullification could do no good.</p> +<p>‘Thus she held self-communion in her seat in the coach, passing +through Casterbridge, and Shottsford, and on to the White Hart at Melchester, +at which place the whole fabric of her recent intentions crumbled down. +Better be staunch having got so far; let things take their course, and +marry boldly the man who had so impressed her. How great he was; +how small was she! And she had presumed to judge him! Abandoning +her place in the coach with the precipitancy that had characterized +her taking it, she waited till the vehicle had driven off, something +in the departing shapes of the outside passengers against the starlit +sky giving her a start, as she afterwards remembered. Presently +the down coach, “The Morning Herald,” entered the city, +and she hastily obtained a place on the top.</p> +<p>‘“I’ll be firm—I’ll be his—if +it cost me my immortal soul!” she said. And with troubled +breathings she journeyed back over the road she had just traced.</p> +<p>‘She reached our royal watering-place by the time the day broke, +and her first aim was to get back to the hired room in which her last +few days had been spent. When the landlady appeared at the door +in response to Mademoiselle V--’s nervous summons, she explained +her sudden departure and return as best she could; and no objection +being offered to her re-engagement of the room for one day longer she +ascended to the chamber and sat down panting. She was back once +more, and her wild tergiversations were a secret from him whom alone +they concerned.</p> +<p>‘A sealed letter was on the mantelpiece. “Yes, +it is directed to you, Mademoiselle,” said the woman who had followed +her. “But we were wondering what to do with it. A +town messenger brought it after you had gone last night.”</p> +<p>‘When the landlady had left, Mademoiselle V--- opened the letter +and read—</p> +<blockquote><p>“MY DEAR AND HONOURED FRIEND.—You have been +throughout our acquaintance absolutely candid concerning your misgivings. +But I have been reserved concerning mine. That is the difference +between us. You probably have not guessed that every qualm you +have felt on the subject of our marriage has been paralleled in my heart +to the full. Thus it happened that your involuntary outburst of +remorse yesterday, though mechanically deprecated by me in your presence, +was a last item in my own doubts on the wisdom of our union, giving +them a force that I could no longer withstand. I came home; and, +on reflection, much as I honour and adore you, I decide to set you free.</p> +<p>“As one whose life has been devoted, and I may say sacrificed, +to the cause of Liberty, I cannot allow your judgment (probably a permanent +one) to be fettered beyond release by a feeling which may be transient +only.</p> +<p>“It would be no less than excruciating to both that I should +announce this decision to you by word of mouth. I have therefore +taken the less painful course of writing. Before you receive this +I shall have left the town by the evening coach for London, on reaching +which city my movements will be revealed to none.</p> +<p>“Regard me, Mademoiselle, as dead, and accept my renewed assurances +of respect, remembrance, and affection.”</p> +</blockquote> +<p>‘When she had recovered from her shock of surprise and grief, +she remembered that at the starting of the coach out of Melchester before +dawn, the shape of a figure among the outside passengers against the +starlit sky had caused her a momentary start, from its resemblance to +that of her friend. Knowing nothing of each other’s intentions, +and screened from each other by the darkness, they had left the town +by the same conveyance. “He, the greater, persevered; I, +the smaller, returned!” she said.</p> +<p>‘Recovering from her stupor, Mademoiselle V--- bethought herself +again of her employer, Mrs. Newbold, whom recent events had estranged. +To that lady she went with a full heart, and explained everything. +Mrs. Newbold kept to herself her opinion of the episode, and reinstalled +the deserted bride in her old position as governess to the family.</p> +<p>‘A governess she remained to the end of her days. After +the final peace with France she became acquainted with my mother, to +whom by degrees she imparted these experiences of hers. As her +hair grew white, and her features pinched, Mademoiselle V--- would wonder +what nook of the world contained her lover, if he lived, and if by any +chance she might see him again. But when, some time in the ’twenties, +death came to her, at no great age, that outline against the stars of +the morning remained as the last glimpse she ever obtained of her family’s +foe and her once affianced husband.’</p> +<p>1895.</p> +<h2>MASTER JOHN HORSELEIGH, KNIGHT</h2> +<p>In the earliest and mustiest volume of the Havenpool marriage registers +(said the thin-faced gentleman) this entry may still be read by any +one curious enough to decipher the crabbed handwriting of the date. +I took a copy of it when I was last there; and it runs thus (he had +opened his pocket-book, and now read aloud the extract; afterwards handing +round the book to us, wherein we saw transcribed the following)—</p> +<blockquote><p>Mastr John Horseleigh, Knyght, of the p’ysshe of +Clyffton was maryd to Edith the wyffe late off John Stocker, m’chawnte +of Havenpool the xiiij daje of December be p’vylegge gevyn by +our sup’me hedd of the chyrche of Ingelonde Kynge Henry the viii +th 1539.</p> +</blockquote> +<p>Now, if you turn to the long and elaborate pedigree of the ancient +family of the Horseleighs of Clyfton Horseleigh, you will find no mention +whatever of this alliance, notwithstanding the privilege given by the +Sovereign and head of the Church; the said Sir John being therein chronicled +as marrying, at a date apparently earlier than the above, the daughter +and heiress of Richard Phelipson, of Montislope, in Nether Wessex, a +lady who outlived him, of which marriage there were issue two daughters +and a son, who succeeded him in his estates. How are we to account +for these, as it would seem, contemporaneous wives? A strange +local tradition only can help us, and this can be briefly told.</p> +<p>One evening in the autumn of the year 1540 or 1541, a young sailor, +whose Christian name was Roger, but whose surname is not known, landed +at his native place of Havenpool, on the South Wessex coast, after a +voyage in the Newfoundland trade, then newly sprung into existence. +He returned in the ship <i>Primrose</i> with a cargo of ‘trayne +oyle brought home from the New Founde Lande,’ to quote from the +town records of the date. During his absence of two summers and +a winter, which made up the term of a Newfoundland ‘spell,’ +many unlooked-for changes had occurred within the quiet little seaport, +some of which closely affected Roger the sailor. At the time of +his departure his only sister Edith had become the bride of one Stocker, +a respectable townsman, and part owner of the brig in which Roger had +sailed; and it was to the house of this couple, his only relatives, +that the young man directed his steps. On trying the door in Quay +Street he found it locked, and then observed that the windows were boarded +up. Inquiring of a bystander, he learnt for the first time of +the death of his brother-in-law, though that event had taken place nearly +eighteen months before.</p> +<p>‘And my sister Edith?’ asked Roger.</p> +<p>‘She’s married again—as they do say, and hath been +so these twelve months. I don’t vouch for the truth o’t, +though if she isn’t she ought to be.’</p> +<p>Roger’s face grew dark. He was a man with a considerable +reserve of strong passion, and he asked his informant what he meant +by speaking thus.</p> +<p>The man explained that shortly after the young woman’s bereavement +a stranger had come to the port. He had seen her moping on the +quay, had been attracted by her youth and loneliness, and in an extraordinarily +brief wooing had completely fascinated her—had carried her off, +and, as was reported, had married her. Though he had come by water, +he was supposed to live no very great distance off by land. They +were last heard of at Oozewood, in Upper Wessex, at the house of one +Wall, a timber-merchant, where, he believed, she still had a lodging, +though her husband, if he were lawfully that much, was but an occasional +visitor to the place.</p> +<p>‘The stranger?’ asked Roger. ‘Did you see +him? What manner of man was he?’</p> +<p>‘I liked him not,’ said the other. ‘He seemed +of that kind that hath something to conceal, and as he walked with her +he ever and anon turned his head and gazed behind him, as if he much +feared an unwelcome pursuer. But, faith,’ continued he, +‘it may have been the man’s anxiety only. Yet did +I not like him.’</p> +<p>‘Was he older than my sister?’ Roger asked.</p> +<p>‘Ay—much older; from a dozen to a score of years older. +A man of some position, maybe, playing an amorous game for the pleasure +of the hour. Who knoweth but that he have a wife already? +Many have done the thing hereabouts of late.’</p> +<p>Having paid a visit to the graves of his relatives, the sailor next +day went along the straight road which, then a lane, now a highway, +conducted to the curious little inland town named by the Havenpool man. +It is unnecessary to describe Oozewood on the South-Avon. It has +a railway at the present day; but thirty years of steam traffic past +its precincts have hardly modified its original features. Surrounded +by a sort of fresh-water lagoon, dividing it from meadows and coppice, +its ancient thatch and timber houses have barely made way even in the +front street for the ubiquitous modern brick and slate. It neither +increases nor diminishes in size; it is difficult to say what the inhabitants +find to do, for, though trades in woodware are still carried on, there +cannot be enough of this class of work nowadays to maintain all the +householders, the forests around having been so greatly thinned and +curtailed. At the time of this tradition the forests were dense, +artificers in wood abounded, and the timber trade was brisk. Every +house in the town, without exception, was of oak framework, filled in +with plaster, and covered with thatch, the chimney being the only brick +portion of the structure. Inquiry soon brought Roger the sailor +to the door of Wall, the timber-dealer referred to, but it was some +time before he was able to gain admission to the lodging of his sister, +the people having plainly received directions not to welcome strangers.</p> +<p>She was sitting in an upper room on one of the lath-backed, willow-bottomed +‘shepherd’s’ chairs, made on the spot then as to this +day, and as they were probably made there in the days of the Heptarchy. +In her lap was an infant, which she had been suckling, though now it +had fallen asleep; so had the young mother herself for a few minutes, +under the drowsing effects of solitude. Hearing footsteps on the +stairs, she awoke, started up with a glad cry, and ran to the door, +opening which she met her brother on the threshold.</p> +<p>‘O, this is merry; I didn’t expect ’ee!’ +she said. ‘Ah, Roger—I thought it was John.’ +Her tones fell to disappointment.</p> +<p>The sailor kissed her, looked at her sternly for a few moments, and +pointing to the infant, said, ‘You mean the father of this?’</p> +<p>‘Yes, my husband,’ said Edith.</p> +<p>‘I hope so,’ he answered.</p> +<p>‘Why, Roger, I’m married—of a truth am I!’ +she cried.</p> +<p>‘Shame upon ’ee, if true! If not true, worse. +Master Stocker was an honest man, and ye should have respected his memory +longer. Where is thy husband?’</p> +<p>‘He comes often. I thought it was he now. Our marriage +has to be kept secret for a while—it was done privily for certain +reasons; but we was married at church like honest folk—afore God +we were, Roger, six months after poor Stocker’s death.’</p> +<p>‘’Twas too soon,’ said Roger.</p> +<p>‘I was living in a house alone; I had nowhere to go to. +You were far over sea in the New Found Land, and John took me and brought +me here.’</p> +<p>‘How often doth he come?’ says Roger again.</p> +<p>‘Once or twice weekly,’ says she.</p> +<p>‘I wish th’ ‘dst waited till I returned, dear Edy,’ +he said. ‘It mid be you are a wife—I hope so. +But, if so, why this mystery? Why this mean and cramped lodging +in this lonely copse-circled town? Of what standing is your husband, +and of where?’</p> +<p>‘He is of gentle breeding—his name is John. I am +not free to tell his family-name. He is said to be of London, +for safety’ sake; but he really lives in the county next adjoining +this.’</p> +<p>‘Where in the next county?’</p> +<p>‘I do not know. He has preferred not to tell me, that +I may not have the secret forced from me, to his and my hurt, by bringing +the marriage to the ears of his kinsfolk and friends.’</p> +<p>Her brother’s face flushed. ‘Our people have been +honest townsmen, well-reputed for long; why should you readily take +such humbling from a sojourner of whom th’ ‘st know nothing?’</p> +<p>They remained in constrained converse till her quick ear caught a +sound, for which she might have been waiting—a horse’s footfall. +‘It is John!’ said she. ‘This is his night—Saturday.’</p> +<p>‘Don’t be frightened lest he should find me here!’ +said Roger. ‘I am on the point of leaving. I wish +not to be a third party. Say nothing at all about my visit, if +it will incommode you so to do. I will see thee before I go afloat +again.’</p> +<p>Speaking thus he left the room, and descending the staircase let +himself out by the front door, thinking he might obtain a glimpse of +the approaching horseman. But that traveller had in the meantime +gone stealthily round to the back of the homestead, and peering along +the pinion-end of the house Roger discerned him unbridling and haltering +his horse with his own hands in the shed there.</p> +<p>Roger retired to the neighbouring inn called the Black Lamb, and +meditated. This mysterious method of approach determined him, +after all, not to leave the place till he had ascertained more definite +facts of his sister’s position—whether she were the deluded +victim of the stranger or the wife she obviously believed herself to +be. Having eaten some supper, he left the inn, it being now about +eleven o’clock. He first looked into the shed, and, finding +the horse still standing there, waited irresolutely near the door of +his sister’s lodging. Half an hour elapsed, and, while thinking +he would climb into a loft hard by for a night’s rest, there seemed +to be a movement within the shutters of the sitting-room that his sister +occupied. Roger hid himself behind a faggot-stack near the back +door, rightly divining that his sister’s visitor would emerge +by the way he had entered. The door opened, and the candle she +held in her hand lighted for a moment the stranger’s form, showing +it to be that of a tall and handsome personage, about forty years of +age, and apparently of a superior position in life. Edith was +assisting him to cloak himself, which being done he took leave of her +with a kiss and left the house. From the door she watched him +bridle and saddle his horse, and having mounted and waved an adieu to +her as she stood candle in hand, he turned out of the yard and rode +away.</p> +<p>The horse which bore him was, or seemed to be, a little lame, and +Roger fancied from this that the rider’s journey was not likely +to be a long one. Being light of foot he followed apace, having +no great difficulty on such a still night in keeping within earshot +some few miles, the horseman pausing more than once. In this pursuit +Roger discovered the rider to choose bridle-tracks and open commons +in preference to any high road. The distance soon began to prove +a more trying one than he had bargained for; and when out of breath +and in some despair of being able to ascertain the man’s identity, +he perceived an ass standing in the starlight under a hayrick, from +which the animal was helping itself to periodic mouthfuls.</p> +<p>The story goes that Roger caught the ass, mounted, and again resumed +the trail of the unconscious horseman, which feat may have been possible +to a nautical young fellow, though one can hardly understand how a sailor +would ride such an animal without bridle or saddle, and strange to his +hands, unless the creature were extraordinarily docile. This question, +however, is immaterial. Suffice it to say that at dawn the following +morning Roger beheld his sister’s lover or husband entering the +gates of a large and well-timbered park on the south-western verge of +the White Hart Forest (as it was then called), now known to everybody +as the Vale of Blackmoor. Thereupon the sailor discarded his steed, +and finding for himself an obscurer entrance to the same park a little +further on, he crossed the grass to reconnoitre.</p> +<p>He presently perceived amid the trees before him a mansion which, +new to himself, was one of the best known in the county at that time. +Of this fine manorial residence hardly a trace now remains; but a manuscript +dated some years later than the events we are regarding describes it +in terms from which the imagination may construct a singularly clear +and vivid picture. This record presents it as consisting of ‘a +faire yellow freestone building, partly two and partly three storeys; +a faire halle and parlour, both waynscotted; a faire dyning roome and +withdrawing roome, and many good lodgings; a kitchen adjoyninge backwarde +to one end of the dwelling-house, with a faire passage from it into +the halle, parlour, and dyninge roome, and sellars adjoyninge.</p> +<p>‘In the front of the house a square greene court, and a curious +gatehouse with lodgings in it, standing with the front of the house +to the south; in a large outer court three stables, a coach-house, a +large barne, and a stable for oxen and kyne, and all houses necessary.</p> +<p>‘Without the gatehouse, paled in, a large square greene, in +which standeth a faire chappell; of the south-east side of the greene +court, towards the river, a large garden.</p> +<p>‘Of the south-west side of the greene court is a large bowling +greene, with fower mounted walks about it, all walled about with a batteled +wall, and sett with all sorts of fruit; and out of it into the feildes +there are large walks under many tall elmes orderly planted.’</p> +<p>Then follows a description of the orchards and gardens; the servants’ +offices, brewhouse, bakehouse, dairy, pigeon-houses, and corn-mill; +the river and its abundance of fish; the warren, the coppices, the walks; +ending thus—</p> +<p>‘And all the country north of the house, open champaign, sandy +feildes, very dry and pleasant for all kindes of recreation, huntinge, +and hawkinge, and profitble for tillage . . . The house hath a large +prospect east, south, and west, over a very large and pleasant vale +. . . is seated from the good markett towns of Sherton Abbas three miles, +and Ivel a mile, that plentifully yield all manner of provision; and +within twelve miles of the south sea.’</p> +<p>It was on the grass before this seductive and picturesque structure +that the sailor stood at gaze under the elms in the dim dawn of Sunday +morning, and saw to his surprise his sister’s lover and horse +vanish within the court of the building.</p> +<p>Perplexed and weary, Roger slowly retreated, more than ever convinced +that something was wrong in his sister’s position. He crossed +the bowling green to the avenue of elms, and, bent on further research, +was about to climb into one of these, when, looking below, he saw a +heap of hay apparently for horses or deer. Into this he crept, +and, having eaten a crust of bread which he had hastily thrust into +his pocket at the inn, he curled up and fell asleep, the hay forming +a comfortable bed, and quite covering him over.</p> +<p>He slept soundly and long, and was awakened by the sound of a bell. +On peering from the hay he found the time had advanced to full day; +the sun was shining brightly. The bell was that of the ‘faire +chappell’ on the green outside the gatehouse, and it was calling +to matins. Presently the priest crossed the green to a little +side-door in the chancel, and then from the gateway of the mansion emerged +the household, the tall man whom Roger had seen with his sister on the +previous night, on his arm being a portly dame, and, running beside +the pair, two little girls and a boy. These all entered the chapel, +and the bell having ceased and the environs become clear, the sailor +crept out from his hiding.</p> +<p>He sauntered towards the chapel, the opening words of the service +being audible within. While standing by the porch he saw a belated +servitor approaching from the kitchen-court to attend the service also. +Roger carelessly accosted him, and asked, as an idle wanderer, the name +of the family he had just seen cross over from the mansion.</p> +<p>‘Od zounds! if ye modden be a stranger here in very truth, +goodman. That wer Sir John and his dame, and his children Elizabeth, +Mary, and John.’</p> +<p>‘I be from foreign parts. Sir John what d’ye call’n?’</p> +<p>‘Master John Horseleigh, Knight, who had a’most as much +lond by inheritance of his mother as ‘a had by his father, and +likewise some by his wife. Why, bain’t his arms dree goolden +horses’ heads, and idden his lady the daughter of Master Richard +Phelipson, of Montislope, in Nether Wessex, known to us all?’</p> +<p>‘It mid be so, and yet it mid not. However, th’ +‘lt miss thy prayers for such an honest knight’s welfare, +and I have to traipse seaward many miles.’</p> +<p>He went onward, and as he walked continued saying to himself, ‘Now +to that poor wronged fool Edy. The fond thing! I thought +it; ’twas too quick—she was ever amorous. What’s +to become of her! God wot! How be I going to face her with +the news, and how be I to hold it from her? To bring this disgrace +on my father’s honoured name, a double-tongued knave!’ +He turned and shook his fist at the chapel and all in it, and resumed +his way.</p> +<p>Perhaps it was owing to the perplexity of his mind that, instead +of returning by the direct road towards his sister’s obscure lodging +in the next county, he followed the highway to Casterbridge, some fifteen +miles off, where he remained drinking hard all that afternoon and evening, +and where he lay that and two or three succeeding nights, wandering +thence along the Anglebury road to some village that way, and lying +the Friday night after at his native place of Havenpool. The sight +of the familiar objects there seems to have stirred him anew to action, +and the next morning he was observed pursuing the way to Oozewood that +he had followed on the Saturday previous, reckoning, no doubt, that +Saturday night would, as before, be a time for finding Sir John with +his sister again.</p> +<p>He delayed to reach the place till just before sunset. His +sister was walking in the meadows at the foot of the garden, with a +nursemaid who carried the baby, and she looked up pensively when he +approached. Anxiety as to her position had already told upon her +once rosy cheeks and lucid eyes. But concern for herself and child +was displaced for the moment by her regard of Roger’s worn and +haggard face.</p> +<p>‘Why—you are sick, Roger—you are tired! Where +have you been these many days? Why not keep me company a bit—my +husband is much away? And we have hardly spoke at all of dear +father and of your voyage to the New Land. Why did you go away +so suddenly? There is a spare chamber at my lodging.’</p> +<p>‘Come indoors,’ he said. ‘We’ll talk +now—talk a good deal. As for him [nodding to the child], +better heave him into the river; better for him and you!’</p> +<p>She forced a laugh, as if she tried to see a good joke in the remark, +and they went silently indoors.</p> +<p>‘A miserable hole!’ said Roger, looking round the room.</p> +<p>‘Nay, but ’tis very pretty!’</p> +<p>‘Not after what I’ve seen. Did he marry ’ee +at church in orderly fashion?’</p> +<p>‘He did sure—at our church at Havenpool.’</p> +<p>‘But in a privy way?’</p> +<p>‘Ay—because of his friends—it was at night-time.’</p> +<p>‘Ede, ye fond one—for all that he’s not thy husband! +Th’ ‘rt not his wife; and the child is a bastard. +He hath a wife and children of his own rank, and bearing his name; and +that’s Sir John Horseleigh, of Clyfton Horseleigh, and not plain +Jack, as you think him, and your lawful husband. The sacrament +of marriage is no safeguard nowadays. The King’s new-made +headship of the Church hath led men to practise these tricks lightly.’</p> +<p>She had turned white. ‘That’s not true, Roger!’ +she said. ‘You are in liquor, my brother, and you know not +what you say! Your seafaring years have taught ’ee bad things!’</p> +<p>‘Edith—I’ve seen them; wife and family—all. +How canst—’</p> +<p>They were sitting in the gathered darkness, and at that moment steps +were heard without. ‘Go out this way,’ she said. +‘It is my husband. He must not see thee in this mood. +Get away till to-morrow, Roger, as you care for me.’</p> +<p>She pushed her brother through a door leading to the back stairs, +and almost as soon as it was closed her visitor entered. Roger, +however, did not retreat down the stairs; he stood and looked through +the bobbin-hole. If the visitor turned out to be Sir John, he +had determined to confront him.</p> +<p>It was the knight. She had struck a light on his entry, and +he kissed the child, and took Edith tenderly by the shoulders, looking +into her face.</p> +<p>‘Something’s gone awry wi’ my dear!’ he said. +‘What is it? What’s the matter?’</p> +<p>‘O, Jack!’ she cried. ‘I have heard such +a fearsome rumour—what doth it mean? He who told me is my +best friend. He must be deceived! But who deceived him, +and why? Jack, I was just told that you had a wife living when +you married me, and have her still!’</p> +<p>‘A wife?—H’m.’</p> +<p>‘Yes, and children. Say no, say no!’</p> +<p>‘By God! I have no lawful wife but you; and as for children, +many or few, they are all bastards, save this one alone!’</p> +<p>‘And that you be Sir John Horseleigh of Clyfton?’</p> +<p>‘I mid be. I have never said so to ’ee.’</p> +<p>‘But Sir John is known to have a lady, and issue of her!’</p> +<p>The knight looked down. ‘How did thy mind get filled +with such as this?’ he asked.</p> +<p>‘One of my kindred came.’</p> +<p>‘A traitor! Why should he mar our life? Ah! you +said you had a brother at sea—where is he now?’</p> +<p>‘Here!’ came from close behind him. And flinging +open the door, Roger faced the intruder. ‘Liar!’ he +said, ‘to call thyself her husband!’</p> +<p>Sir John fired up, and made a rush at the sailor, who seized him +by the collar, and in the wrestle they both fell, Roger under. +But in a few seconds he contrived to extricate his right arm, and drawing +from his belt a knife which he wore attached to a cord round his neck +he opened it with his teeth, and struck it into the breast of Sir John +stretched above him. Edith had during these moments run into the +next room to place the child in safety, and when she came back the knight +was relaxing his hold on Roger’s throat. He rolled over +upon his back and groaned.</p> +<p>The only witness of the scene save the three concerned was the nursemaid, +who had brought in the child on its father’s arrival. She +stated afterwards that nobody suspected Sir John had received his death +wound; yet it was so, though he did not die for a long while, meaning +thereby an hour or two; that Mistress Edith continually endeavoured +to staunch the blood, calling her brother Roger a wretch, and ordering +him to get himself gone; on which order he acted, after a gloomy pause, +by opening the window, and letting himself down by the sill to the ground.</p> +<p>It was then that Sir John, in difficult accents, made his dying declaration +to the nurse and Edith, and, later, the apothecary; which was to this +purport, that the Dame Horseleigh who passed as his wife at Clyfton, +and who had borne him three children, was in truth and deed, though +unconsciously, the wife of another man. Sir John had married her +several years before, in the face of the whole county, as the widow +of one Decimus Strong, who had disappeared shortly after her union with +him, having adventured to the North to join the revolt of the Nobles, +and on that revolt being quelled retreated across the sea. Two +years ago, having discovered this man to be still living in France, +and not wishing to disturb the mind and happiness of her who believed +herself his wife, yet wishing for legitimate issue, Sir John had informed +the King of the facts, who had encouraged him to wed honestly, though +secretly, the young merchant’s widow at Havenpool; she being, +therefore, his lawful wife, and she only. That to avoid all scandal +and hubbub he had purposed to let things remain as they were till fair +opportunity should arise of making the true case known with least pain +to all parties concerned, but that, having been thus suspected and attacked +by his own brother-in-law, his zest for such schemes and for all things +had died out in him, and he only wished to commend his soul to God.</p> +<p>That night, while the owls were hooting from the forest that encircled +the sleeping townlet, and the South-Avon was gurgling through the wooden +piles of the bridge, Sir John died there in the arms of his wife. +She concealed nothing of the cause of her husband’s death save +the subject of the quarrel, which she felt it would be premature to +announce just then, and until proof of her status should be forthcoming. +But before a month had passed, it happened, to her inexpressible sorrow, +that the child of this clandestine union fell sick and died. From +that hour all interest in the name and fame of the Horseleighs forsook +the younger of the twain who called themselves wives of Sir John, and, +being careless about her own fame, she took no steps to assert her claims, +her legal position having, indeed, grown hateful to her in her horror +at the tragedy. And Sir William Byrt, the curate who had married +her to her husband, being an old man and feeble, was not disinclined +to leave the embers unstirred of such a fiery matter as this, and to +assist her in letting established things stand. Therefore, Edith +retired with the nurse, her only companion and friend, to her native +town, where she lived in absolute obscurity till her death in middle +age. Her brother was never seen again in England.</p> +<p>A strangely corroborative sequel to the story remains to be told. +Shortly after the death of Sir John Horseleigh, a soldier of fortune +returned from the Continent, called on Dame Horseleigh the fictitious, +living in widowed state at Clyfton Horseleigh, and, after a singularly +brief courtship, married her. The tradition at Havenpool and elsewhere +has ever been that this man was already her husband, Decimus Strong, +who remarried her for appearance’ sake only.</p> +<p>The illegitimate son of this lady by Sir John succeeded to the estates +and honours, and his son after him, there being nobody on the alert +to investigate their pretensions. Little difference would it have +made to the present generation, however, had there been such a one, +for the family in all its branches, lawful and unlawful, has been extinct +these many score years, the last representative but one being killed +at the siege of Sherton Castle, while attacking in the service of the +Parliament, and the other being outlawed later in the same century for +a debt of ten pounds, and dying in the county jail. The mansion +house and its appurtenances were, as I have previously stated, destroyed, +excepting one small wing, which now forms part of a farmhouse, and is +visible as you pass along the railway from Casterbridge to Ivel. +The outline of the old bowling-green is also distinctly to be seen.</p> +<p>This, then, is the reason why the only lawful marriage of Sir John, +as recorded in the obscure register at Havenpool, does not appear in +the pedigree of the house of Horseleigh.</p> +<p><i>Spring</i> 1893.</p> +<h2>THE DUKE’S REAPPEARANCE—A FAMILY TRADITION</h2> +<p>According to the kinsman who told me the story, Christopher Swetman’s +house, on the outskirts of King’s-Hintock village, was in those +days larger and better kept than when, many years later, it was sold +to the lord of the manor adjoining; after having been in the Swetman +family, as one may say, since the Conquest.</p> +<p>Some people would have it to be that the thing happened at the house +opposite, belonging to one Childs, with whose family the Swetmans afterwards +intermarried. But that it was at the original homestead of the +Swetmans can be shown in various ways; chiefly by the unbroken traditions +of the family, and indirectly by the evidence of the walls themselves, +which are the only ones thereabout with windows mullioned in the Elizabethan +manner, and plainly of a date anterior to the event; while those of +the other house might well have been erected fifty or eighty years later, +and probably were; since the choice of Swetman’s house by the +fugitive was doubtless dictated by no other circumstance than its then +suitable loneliness.</p> +<p>It was a cloudy July morning just before dawn, the hour of two having +been struck by Swetman’s one-handed clock on the stairs, that +is still preserved in the family. Christopher heard the strokes +from his chamber, immediately at the top of the staircase, and overlooking +the front of the house. He did not wonder that he was sleepless. +The rumours and excitements which had latterly stirred the neighbourhood, +to the effect that the rightful King of England had landed from Holland, +at a port only eighteen miles to the south-west of Swetman’s house, +were enough to make wakeful and anxious even a contented yeoman like +him. Some of the villagers, intoxicated by the news, had thrown +down their scythes, and rushed to the ranks of the invader. Christopher +Swetman had weighed both sides of the question, and had remained at +home.</p> +<p>Now as he lay thinking of these and other things he fancied that +he could hear the footfall of a man on the road leading up to his house—a +byway, which led scarce anywhere else; and therefore a tread was at +any time more apt to startle the inmates of the homestead than if it +had stood in a thoroughfare. The footfall came opposite the gate, +and stopped there. One minute, two minutes passed, and the pedestrian +did not proceed. Christopher Swetman got out of bed, and opened +the casement. ‘Hoi! who’s there?’ cries he.</p> +<p>‘A friend,’ came from the darkness.</p> +<p>‘And what mid ye want at this time o’ night?’ says +Swetman.</p> +<p>‘Shelter. I’ve lost my way.’</p> +<p>‘What’s thy name?’</p> +<p>There came no answer.</p> +<p>‘Be ye one of King Monmouth’s men?’</p> +<p>‘He that asks no questions will hear no lies from me. +I am a stranger; and I am spent, and hungered. Can you let me +lie with you to-night?’</p> +<p>Swetman was generous to people in trouble, and his house was roomy. +‘Wait a bit,’ he said, ‘and I’ll come down and +have a look at thee, anyhow.’</p> +<p>He struck a light, put on his clothes, and descended, taking his +horn-lantern from a nail in the passage, and lighting it before opening +the door. The rays fell on the form of a tall, dark man in cavalry +accoutrements and wearing a sword. He was pale with fatigue and +covered with mud, though the weather was dry.</p> +<p>‘Prithee take no heed of my appearance,’ said the stranger. +‘But let me in.’</p> +<p>That his visitor was in sore distress admitted of no doubt, and the +yeoman’s natural humanity assisted the other’s sad importunity +and gentle voice. Swetman took him in, not without a suspicion +that this man represented in some way Monmouth’s cause, to which +he was not unfriendly in his secret heart. At his earnest request +the new-comer was given a suit of the yeoman’s old clothes in +exchange for his own, which, with his sword, were hidden in a closet +in Swetman’s chamber; food was then put before him and a lodging +provided for him in a room at the back.</p> +<p>Here he slept till quite late in the morning, which was Sunday, the +sixth of July, and when he came down in the garments that he had borrowed +he met the household with a melancholy smile. Besides Swetman +himself, there were only his two daughters, Grace and Leonard (the latter +was, oddly enough, a woman’s name here), and both had been enjoined +to secrecy. They asked no questions and received no information; +though the stranger regarded their fair countenances with an interest +almost too deep. Having partaken of their usual breakfast of ham +and cider he professed weariness and retired to the chamber whence he +had come.</p> +<p>In a couple of hours or thereabout he came down again, the two young +women having now gone off to morning service. Seeing Christopher +bustling about the house without assistance, he asked if he could do +anything to aid his host.</p> +<p>As he seemed anxious to hide all differences and appear as one of +themselves, Swetman set him to get vegetables from the garden and fetch +water from Buttock’s Spring in the dip near the house (though +the spring was not called by that name till years after, by the way).</p> +<p>‘And what can I do next?’ says the stranger when these +services had been performed.</p> +<p>His meekness and docility struck Christopher much, and won upon him. +‘Since you be minded to,’ says the latter, ‘you can +take down the dishes and spread the table for dinner. Take a pewter +plate for thyself, but the trenchers will do for we.’</p> +<p>But the other would not, and took a trencher likewise, in doing which +he spoke of the two girls and remarked how comely they were.</p> +<p>This quietude was put an end to by a stir out of doors, which was +sufficient to draw Swetman’s attention to it, and he went out. +Farm hands who had gone off and joined the Duke on his arrival had begun +to come in with news that a midnight battle had been fought on the moors +to the north, the Duke’s men, who had attacked, being entirely +worsted; the Duke himself, with one or two lords and other friends, +had fled, no one knew whither.</p> +<p>‘There has been a battle,’ says Swetman, on coming indoors +after these tidings, and looking earnestly at the stranger.</p> +<p>‘May the victory be to the rightful in the end, whatever the +issue now,’ says the other, with a sorrowful sigh.</p> +<p>‘Dost really know nothing about it?’ said Christopher. +‘I could have sworn you was one from that very battle!’</p> +<p>‘I was here before three o’ the clock this morning; and +these men have only arrived now.’</p> +<p>‘True,’ said the yeoman. ‘But still, I think—’</p> +<p>‘Do not press your question,’ the stranger urged. +‘I am in a strait, and can refuse a helper nothing; such inquiry +is, therefore, unfair.’</p> +<p>‘True again,’ said Swetman, and held his tongue.</p> +<p>The daughters of the house returned from church, where the service +had been hurried by reason of the excitement. To their father’s +questioning if they had spoken of him who sojourned there they replied +that they had said never a word; which, indeed, was true, as events +proved.</p> +<p>He bade them serve the dinner; and, as the visitor had withdrawn +since the news of the battle, prepared to take a platter to him upstairs. +But he preferred to come down and dine with the family.</p> +<p>During the afternoon more fugitives passed through the village, but +Christopher Swetman, his visitor, and his family kept indoors. +In the evening, however, Swetman came out from his gate, and, harkening +in silence to these tidings and more, wondered what might be in store +for him for his last night’s work.</p> +<p>He returned homeward by a path across the mead that skirted his own +orchard. Passing here, he heard the voice of his daughter Leonard +expostulating inside the hedge, her words being: ‘Don’t +ye, sir; don’t! I prithee let me go!’</p> +<p>‘Why, sweetheart?’</p> +<p>‘Because I’ve a-promised another!’</p> +<p>Peeping through, as he could not help doing, he saw the girl struggling +in the arms of the stranger, who was attempting to kiss her; but finding +her resistance to be genuine, and her distress unfeigned, he reluctantly +let her go.</p> +<p>Swetman’s face grew dark, for his girls were more to him than +himself. He hastened on, meditating moodily all the way. +He entered the gate, and made straight for the orchard. When he +reached it his daughter had disappeared, but the stranger was still +standing there.</p> +<p>‘Sir!’ said the yeoman, his anger having in no wise abated, +‘I’ve seen what has happened! I have taken ’ee +into my house, at some jeopardy to myself; and, whoever you be, the +least I expected of ’ee was to treat the maidens with a seemly +respect. You have not done it, and I no longer trust you. +I am the more watchful over them in that they are motherless; and I +must ask ’ee to go after dark this night!’</p> +<p>The stranger seemed dazed at discovering what his impulse had brought +down upon his head, and his pale face grew paler. He did not reply +for a time. When he did speak his soft voice was thick with feeling.</p> +<p>‘Sir,’ says he, ‘I own that I am in the wrong, +if you take the matter gravely. We do not what we would but what +we must. Though I have not injured your daughter as a woman, I +have been treacherous to her as a hostess and friend in need. +I’ll go, as you say; I can do no less. I shall doubtless +find a refuge elsewhere.’</p> +<p>They walked towards the house in silence, where Swetman insisted +that his guest should have supper before departing. By the time +this was eaten it was dusk and the stranger announced that he was ready.</p> +<p>They went upstairs to where the garments and sword lay hidden, till +the departing one said that on further thought he would ask another +favour: that he should be allowed to retain the clothes he wore, and +that his host would keep the others and the sword till he, the speaker, +should come or send for them.</p> +<p>‘As you will,’ said Swetman. ‘The gain is +on my side; for those clouts were but kept to dress a scarecrow next +fall.’</p> +<p>‘They suit my case,’ said the stranger sadly. ‘However +much they may misfit me, they do not misfit my sorry fortune now!’</p> +<p>‘Nay, then,’ said Christopher relenting, ‘I was +too hasty. Sh’lt bide!’</p> +<p>But the other would not, saying that it was better that things should +take their course. Notwithstanding that Swetman importuned him, +he only added, ‘If I never come again, do with my belongings as +you list. In the pocket you will find a gold snuff-box, and in +the snuff-box fifty gold pieces.’</p> +<p>‘But keep ’em for thy use, man!’ said the yeoman.</p> +<p>‘No,’ says the parting guest; ‘they are foreign +pieces and would harm me if I were taken. Do as I bid thee. +Put away these things again and take especial charge of the sword. +It belonged to my father’s father and I value it much. But +something more common becomes me now.’</p> +<p>Saying which, he took, as he went downstairs, one of the ash sticks +used by Swetman himself for walking with. The yeoman lighted him +out to the garden hatch, where he disappeared through Clammers Gate +by the road that crosses King’s-Hintock Park to Evershead.</p> +<p>Christopher returned to the upstairs chamber, and sat down on his +bed reflecting. Then he examined the things left behind, and surely +enough in one of the pockets the gold snuff-box was revealed, containing +the fifty gold pieces as stated by the fugitive. The yeoman next +looked at the sword which its owner had stated to have belonged to his +grandfather. It was two-edged, so that he almost feared to handle +it. On the blade was inscribed the words ‘ANDREA FERARA,’ +and among the many fine chasings were a rose and crown, the plume of +the Prince of Wales, and two portraits; portraits of a man and a woman, +the man’s having the face of the first King Charles, and the woman’s, +apparently, that of his Queen.</p> +<p>Swetman, much awed and surprised, returned the articles to the closet, +and went downstairs pondering. Of his surmise he said nothing +to his daughters, merely declaring to them that the gentleman was gone; +and never revealing that he had been an eye-witness of the unpleasant +scene in the orchard that was the immediate cause of the departure.</p> +<p>Nothing occurred in Hintock during the week that followed, beyond +the fitful arrival of more decided tidings concerning the utter defeat +of the Duke’s army and his own disappearance at an early stage +of the battle. Then it was told that Monmouth was taken, not in +his own clothes but in the disguise of a countryman. He had been +sent to London, and was confined in the Tower.</p> +<p>The possibility that his guest had been no other than the Duke made +Swetman unspeakably sorry now; his heart smote him at the thought that, +acting so harshly for such a small breach of good faith, he might have +been the means of forwarding the unhappy fugitive’s capture. +On the girls coming up to him he said, ‘Get away with ye, wenches: +I fear you have been the ruin of an unfortunate man!’</p> +<p>On the Tuesday night following, when the yeoman was sleeping as usual +in his chamber, he was, he said, conscious of the entry of some one. +Opening his eyes, he beheld by the light of the moon, which shone upon +the front of his house, the figure of a man who seemed to be the stranger +moving from the door towards the closet. He was dressed somewhat +differently now, but the face was quite that of his late guest in its +tragical pensiveness, as was also the tallness of his figure. +He neared the closet; and, feeling his visitor to be within his rights, +Christopher refrained from stirring. The personage turned his +large haggard eyes upon the bed where Swetman lay, and then withdrew +from their hiding the articles that belonged to him, again giving a +hard gaze at Christopher as he went noiselessly out of the chamber with +his properties on his arm. His retreat down the stairs was just +audible, and also his departure by the side door, through which entrance +or exit was easy to those who knew the place.</p> +<p>Nothing further happened, and towards morning Swetman slept. +To avoid all risk he said not a word to the girls of the visit of the +night, and certainly not to any one outside the house; for it was dangerous +at that time to avow anything.</p> +<p>Among the killed in opposing the recent rising had been a younger +brother of the lord of the manor, who lived at King’s-Hintock +Court hard by. Seeing the latter ride past in mourning clothes +next day, Swetman ventured to condole with him.</p> +<p>‘He’d no business there!’ answered the other. +His words and manner showed the bitterness that was mingled with his +regret. ‘But say no more of him. You know what has +happened since, I suppose?’</p> +<p>‘I know that they say Monmouth is taken, Sir Thomas, but I +can’t think it true,’ answered Swetman.</p> +<p>‘O zounds! ’tis true enough,’ cried the knight, +‘and that’s not all. The Duke was executed on Tower +Hill two days ago.’</p> +<p>‘D’ye say it verily?’ says Swetman.</p> +<p>‘And a very hard death he had, worse luck for ‘n,’ +said Sir Thomas. ‘Well, ’tis over for him and over +for my brother. But not for the rest. There’ll be +searchings and siftings down here anon; and happy is the man who has +had nothing to do with this matter!’</p> +<p>Now Swetman had hardly heard the latter words, so much was he confounded +by the strangeness of the tidings that the Duke had come to his death +on the previous Tuesday. For it had been only the night before +this present day of Friday that he had seen his former guest, whom he +had ceased to doubt could be other than the Duke, come into his chamber +and fetch away his accoutrements as he had promised.</p> +<p>‘It couldn’t have been a vision,’ said Christopher +to himself when the knight had ridden on. ‘But I’ll +go straight and see if the things be in the closet still; and thus I +shall surely learn if ’twere a vision or no.’</p> +<p>To the closet he went, which he had not looked into since the stranger’s +departure. And searching behind the articles placed to conceal +the things hidden, he found that, as he had never doubted, they were +gone.</p> +<p>When the rumour spread abroad in the West that the man beheaded in +the Tower was not indeed the Duke, but one of his officers taken after +the battle, and that the Duke had been assisted to escape out of the +country, Swetman found in it an explanation of what so deeply mystified +him. That his visitor might have been a friend of the Duke’s, +whom the Duke had asked to fetch the things in a last request, Swetman +would never admit. His belief in the rumour that Monmouth lived, +like that of thousands of others, continued to the end of his days.</p> +<p>* * * * *</p> +<p>Such, briefly, concluded my kinsman, is the tradition which has been +handed down in Christopher Swetman’s family for the last two hundred +years.</p> +<h2>A MERE INTERLUDE</h2> +<h3>CHAPTER I</h3> +<p>The traveller in school-books, who vouched in dryest tones for the +fidelity to fact of the following narrative, used to add a ring of truth +to it by opening with a nicety of criticism on the heroine’s personality. +People were wrong, he declared, when they surmised that Baptista Trewthen +was a young woman with scarcely emotions or character. There was +nothing in her to love, and nothing to hate—so ran the general +opinion. That she showed few positive qualities was true. +The colours and tones which changing events paint on the faces of active +womankind were looked for in vain upon hers. But still waters +run deep; and no crisis had come in the years of her early maidenhood +to demonstrate what lay hidden within her, like metal in a mine.</p> +<p>She was the daughter of a small farmer in St. Maria’s, one +of the Isles of Lyonesse beyond Off-Wessex, who had spent a large sum, +as there understood, on her education, by sending her to the mainland +for two years. At nineteen she was entered at the Training College +for Teachers, and at twenty-one nominated to a school in the country, +near Tor-upon-Sea, whither she proceeded after the Christmas examination +and holidays.</p> +<p>The months passed by from winter to spring and summer, and Baptista +applied herself to her new duties as best she could, till an uneventful +year had elapsed. Then an air of abstraction pervaded her bearing +as she walked to and fro, twice a day, and she showed the traits of +a person who had something on her mind. A widow, by name Mrs. +Wace, in whose house Baptista Trewthen had been provided with a sitting-room +and bedroom till the school-house should be built, noticed this change +in her youthful tenant’s manner, and at last ventured to press +her with a few questions.</p> +<p>‘It has nothing to do with the place, nor with you,’ +said Miss Trewthen.</p> +<p>‘Then it is the salary?’</p> +<p>‘No, nor the salary.’</p> +<p>‘Then it is something you have heard from home, my dear.’</p> +<p>Baptista was silent for a few moments. ‘It is Mr. Heddegan,’ +she murmured. ‘Him they used to call David Heddegan before +he got his money.’</p> +<p>‘And who is the Mr. Heddegan they used to call David?’</p> +<p>‘An old bachelor at Giant’s Town, St. Maria’s, +with no relations whatever, who lives about a stone’s throw from +father’s. When I was a child he used to take me on his knee +and say he’d marry me some day. Now I am a woman the jest +has turned earnest, and he is anxious to do it. And father and +mother says I can’t do better than have him.’</p> +<p>‘He’s well off?’</p> +<p>‘Yes—he’s the richest man we know—as a friend +and neighbour.’</p> +<p>‘How much older did you say he was than yourself?’</p> +<p>‘I didn’t say. Twenty years at least.’</p> +<p>‘And an unpleasant man in the bargain perhaps?’</p> +<p>‘No—he’s not unpleasant.’</p> +<p>‘Well, child, all I can say is that I’d resist any such +engagement if it’s not palatable to ’ee. You are comfortable +here, in my little house, I hope. All the parish like ’ee: +and I’ve never been so cheerful, since my poor husband left me +to wear his wings, as I’ve been with ’ee as my lodger.’</p> +<p>The schoolmistress assured her landlady that she could return the +sentiment. ‘But here comes my perplexity,’ she said. +‘I don’t like keeping school. Ah, you are surprised—you +didn’t suspect it. That’s because I’ve concealed +my feeling. Well, I simply hate school. I don’t care +for children—they are unpleasant, troublesome little things, whom +nothing would delight so much as to hear that you had fallen down dead. +Yet I would even put up with them if it was not for the inspector. +For three months before his visit I didn’t sleep soundly. +And the Committee of Council are always changing the Code, so that you +don’t know what to teach, and what to leave untaught. I +think father and mother are right. They say I shall never excel +as a schoolmistress if I dislike the work so, and that therefore I ought +to get settled by marrying Mr. Heddegan. Between us two, I like +him better than school; but I don’t like him quite so much as +to wish to marry him.’</p> +<p>These conversations, once begun, were continued from day to day; +till at length the young girl’s elderly friend and landlady threw +in her opinion on the side of Miss Trewthen’s parents. All +things considered, she declared, the uncertainty of the school, the +labour, Baptista’s natural dislike for teaching, it would be as +well to take what fate offered, and make the best of matters by wedding +her father’s old neighbour and prosperous friend.</p> +<p>The Easter holidays came round, and Baptista went to spend them as +usual in her native isle, going by train into Off-Wessex and crossing +by packet from Pen-zephyr. When she returned in the middle of +April her face wore a more settled aspect.</p> +<p>‘Well?’ said the expectant Mrs. Wace.</p> +<p>‘I have agreed to have him as my husband,’ said Baptista, +in an off-hand way. ‘Heaven knows if it will be for the +best or not. But I have agreed to do it, and so the matter is +settled.’</p> +<p>Mrs. Wace commended her; but Baptista did not care to dwell on the +subject; so that allusion to it was very infrequent between them. +Nevertheless, among other things, she repeated to the widow from time +to time in monosyllabic remarks that the wedding was really impending; +that it was arranged for the summer, and that she had given notice of +leaving the school at the August holidays. Later on she announced +more specifically that her marriage was to take place immediately after +her return home at the beginning of the month aforesaid.</p> +<p>She now corresponded regularly with Mr. Heddegan. Her letters +from him were seen, at least on the outside, and in part within, by +Mrs. Wace. Had she read more of their interiors than the occasional +sentences shown her by Baptista she would have perceived that the scratchy, +rusty handwriting of Miss Trewthen’s betrothed conveyed little +more matter than details of their future housekeeping, and his preparations +for the same, with innumerable ‘my dears’ sprinkled in disconnectedly, +to show the depth of his affection without the inconveniences of syntax.</p> +<h3>CHAPTER II</h3> +<p>It was the end of July—dry, too dry, even for the season, the +delicate green herbs and vegetables that grew in this favoured end of +the kingdom tasting rather of the watering-pot than of the pure fresh +moisture from the skies. Baptista’s boxes were packed, and +one Saturday morning she departed by a waggonette to the station, and +thence by train to Pen-zephyr, from which port she was, as usual, to +cross the water immediately to her home, and become Mr. Heddegan’s +wife on the Wednesday of the week following.</p> +<p>She might have returned a week sooner. But though the wedding +day had loomed so near, and the banns were out, she delayed her departure +till this last moment, saying it was not necessary for her to be at +home long beforehand. As Mr. Heddegan was older than herself, +she said, she was to be married in her ordinary summer bonnet and grey +silk frock, and there were no preparations to make that had not been +amply made by her parents and intended husband.</p> +<p>In due time, after a hot and tedious journey, she reached Pen-zephyr. +She here obtained some refreshment, and then went towards the pier, +where she learnt to her surprise that the little steamboat plying between +the town and the islands had left at eleven o’clock; the usual +hour of departure in the afternoon having been forestalled in consequence +of the fogs which had for a few days prevailed towards evening, making +twilight navigation dangerous.</p> +<p>This being Saturday, there was now no other boat till Tuesday, and +it became obvious that here she would have to remain for the three days, +unless her friends should think fit to rig out one of the island’ +sailing-boats and come to fetch her—a not very likely contingency, +the sea distance being nearly forty miles.</p> +<p>Baptista, however, had been detained in Pen-zephyr on more than one +occasion before, either on account of bad weather or some such reason +as the present, and she was therefore not in any personal alarm. +But, as she was to be married on the following Wednesday, the delay +was certainly inconvenient to a more than ordinary degree, since it +would leave less than a day’s interval between her arrival and +the wedding ceremony.</p> +<p>Apart from this awkwardness she did not much mind the accident. +It was indeed curious to see how little she minded. Perhaps it +would not be too much to say that, although she was going to do the +critical deed of her life quite willingly, she experienced an indefinable +relief at the postponement of her meeting with Heddegan. But her +manner after making discovery of the hindrance was quiet and subdued, +even to passivity itself; as was instanced by her having, at the moment +of receiving information that the steamer had sailed, replied ‘Oh,’ +so coolly to the porter with her luggage, that he was almost disappointed +at her lack of disappointment.</p> +<p>The question now was, should she return again to Mrs. Wace, in the +village of Lower Wessex, or wait in the town at which she had arrived. +She would have preferred to go back, but the distance was too great; +moreover, having left the place for good, and somewhat dramatically, +to become a bride, a return, even for so short a space, would have been +a trifle humiliating.</p> +<p>Leaving, then, her boxes at the station, her next anxiety was to +secure a respectable, or rather genteel, lodging in the popular seaside +resort confronting her. To this end she looked about the town, +in which, though she had passed through it half-a-dozen times, she was +practically a stranger.</p> +<p>Baptista found a room to suit her over a fruiterer’s shop; +where she made herself at home, and set herself in order after her journey. +An early cup of tea having revived her spirits she walked out to reconnoitre.</p> +<p>Being a schoolmistress she avoided looking at the schools, and having +a sort of trade connection with books, she avoided looking at the booksellers; +but wearying of the other shops she inspected the churches; not that +for her own part she cared much about ecclesiastical edifices; but tourists +looked at them, and so would she—a proceeding for which no one +would have credited her with any great originality, such, for instance, +as that she subsequently showed herself to possess. The churches +soon oppressed her. She tried the Museum, but came out because +it seemed lonely and tedious.</p> +<p>Yet the town and the walks in this land of strawberries, these headquarters +of early English flowers and fruit, were then, as always, attractive. +From the more picturesque streets she went to the town gardens, and +the Pier, and the Harbour, and looked at the men at work there, loading +and unloading as in the time of the Phoenicians.</p> +<p>‘Not Baptista? Yes, Baptista it is!’</p> +<p>The words were uttered behind her. Turning round she gave a +start, and became confused, even agitated, for a moment. Then +she said in her usual undemonstrative manner, ‘O—is it really +you, Charles?’</p> +<p>Without speaking again at once, and with a half-smile, the new-comer +glanced her over. There was much criticism, and some resentment—even +temper—in his eye.</p> +<p>‘I am going home,’ continued she. ‘But I +have missed the boat.’</p> +<p>He scarcely seemed to take in the meaning of this explanation, in +the intensity of his critical survey. ‘Teaching still? +What a fine schoolmistress you make, Baptista, I warrant!’ he +said with a slight flavour of sarcasm, which was not lost upon her.</p> +<p>‘I know I am nothing to brag of,’ she replied. +‘That’s why I have given up.’</p> +<p>‘O—given up? You astonish me.’</p> +<p>‘I hate the profession.’</p> +<p>‘Perhaps that’s because I am in it.’</p> +<p>‘O no, it isn’t. But I am going to enter on another +life altogether. I am going to be married next week to Mr. David +Heddegan.’</p> +<p>The young man—fortified as he was by a natural cynical pride +and passionateness—winced at this unexpected reply, notwithstanding.</p> +<p>‘Who is Mr. David Heddegan?’ he asked, as indifferently +as lay in his power.</p> +<p>She informed him the bearer of the name was a general merchant of +Giant’s Town, St. Maria’s island—her father’s +nearest neighbour and oldest friend.</p> +<p>‘Then we shan’t see anything more of you on the mainland?’ +inquired the schoolmaster.</p> +<p>‘O, I don’t know about that,’ said Miss Trewthen.</p> +<p>‘Here endeth the career of the belle of the boarding-school +your father was foolish enough to send you to. A “general +merchant’s” wife in the Lyonesse Isles. Will you sell +pounds of soap and pennyworths of tin tacks, or whole bars of saponaceous +matter, and great tenpenny nails?’</p> +<p>‘He’s not in such a small way as that!’ she almost +pleaded. ‘He owns ships, though they are rather little ones!’</p> +<p>‘O, well, it is much the same. Come, let us walk on; +it is tedious to stand still. I thought you would be a failure +in education,’ he continued, when she obeyed him and strolled +ahead. ‘You never showed power that way. You remind +me much of some of those women who think they are sure to be great actresses +if they go on the stage, because they have a pretty face, and forget +that what we require is acting. But you found your mistake, didn’t +you?’</p> +<p>‘Don’t taunt me, Charles.’ It was noticeable +that the young schoolmaster’s tone caused her no anger or retaliatory +passion; far otherwise: there was a tear in her eye. ‘How +is it you are at Pen-zephyr?’ she inquired.</p> +<p>‘I don’t taunt you. I speak the truth, purely in +a friendly way, as I should to any one I wished well. Though for +that matter I might have some excuse even for taunting you. Such +a terrible hurry as you’ve been in. I hate a woman who is +in such a hurry.’</p> +<p>‘How do you mean that?’</p> +<p>‘Why—to be somebody’s wife or other—anything’s +wife rather than nobody’s. You couldn’t wait for me, +O, no. Well, thank God, I’m cured of all that!’</p> +<p>‘How merciless you are!’ she said bitterly. ‘Wait +for you? What does that mean, Charley? You never showed—anything +to wait for—anything special towards me.’</p> +<p>‘O come, Baptista dear; come!’</p> +<p>‘What I mean is, nothing definite,’ she expostulated. +‘I suppose you liked me a little; but it seemed to me to be only +a pastime on your part, and that you never meant to make an honourable +engagement of it.’</p> +<p>‘There, that’s just it! You girls expect a man +to mean business at the first look. No man when he first becomes +interested in a woman has any definite scheme of engagement to marry +her in his mind, unless he is meaning a vulgar mercenary marriage. +However, I <i>did</i> at last mean an honourable engagement, as you +call it, come to that.’</p> +<p>‘But you never said so, and an indefinite courtship soon injures +a woman’s position and credit, sooner than you think.’</p> +<p>‘Baptista, I solemnly declare that in six months I should have +asked you to marry me.’</p> +<p>She walked along in silence, looking on the ground, and appearing +very uncomfortable. Presently he said, ‘Would you have waited +for me if you had known?’ To this she whispered in a sorrowful +whisper, ‘Yes!’</p> +<p>They went still farther in silence—passing along one of the +beautiful walks on the outskirts of the town, yet not observant of scene +or situation. Her shoulder and his were close together, and he +clasped his fingers round the small of her arm—quite lightly, +and without any attempt at impetus; yet the act seemed to say, ‘Now +I hold you, and my will must be yours.’</p> +<p>Recurring to a previous question of hers he said, ‘I have merely +run down here for a day or two from school near Trufal, before going +off to the north for the rest of my holiday. I have seen my relations +at Redrutin quite lately, so I am not going there this time. How +little I thought of meeting you! How very different the circumstances +would have been if, instead of parting again as we must in half-an-hour +or so, possibly for ever, you had been now just going off with me, as +my wife, on our honeymoon trip. Ha—ha—well—so +humorous is life!’</p> +<p>She stopped suddenly. ‘I must go back now—this +is altogether too painful, Charley! It is not at all a kind mood +you are in to-day.’</p> +<p>‘I don’t want to pain you—you know I do not,’ +he said more gently. ‘Only it just exasperates me—this +you are going to do. I wish you would not.’</p> +<p>‘What?’</p> +<p>‘Marry him. There, now I have showed you my true sentiments.’</p> +<p>‘I must do it now,’ said she.</p> +<p>‘Why?’ he asked, dropping the off-hand masterful tone +he had hitherto spoken in, and becoming earnest; still holding her arm, +however, as if she were his chattel to be taken up or put down at will. +‘It is never too late to break off a marriage that’s distasteful +to you. Now I’ll say one thing; and it is truth: I wish +you would marry me instead of him, even now, at the last moment, though +you have served me so badly.’</p> +<p>‘O, it is not possible to think of that!’ she answered +hastily, shaking her head. ‘When I get home all will be +prepared—it is ready even now—the things for the party, +the furniture, Mr. Heddegan’s new suit, and everything. +I should require the courage of a tropical lion to go home there and +say I wouldn’t carry out my promise!’</p> +<p>‘Then go, in Heaven’s name! But there would be +no necessity for you to go home and face them in that way. If +we were to marry, it would have to be at once, instantly; or not at +all. I should think your affection not worth the having unless +you agreed to come back with me to Trufal this evening, where we could +be married by licence on Monday morning. And then no Mr. David +Heddegan or anybody else could get you away from me.’</p> +<p>‘I must go home by the Tuesday boat,’ she faltered. +‘What would they think if I did not come?’</p> +<p>‘You could go home by that boat just the same. All the +difference would be that I should go with you. You could leave +me on the quay, where I’d have a smoke, while you went and saw +your father and mother privately; you could then tell them what you +had done, and that I was waiting not far off; that I was a school-master +in a fairly good position, and a young man you had known when you were +at the Training College. Then I would come boldly forward; and +they would see that it could not be altered, and so you wouldn’t +suffer a lifelong misery by being the wife of a wretched old gaffer +you don’t like at all. Now, honestly; you do like me best, +don’t you, Baptista?’</p> +<p>‘Yes.’</p> +<p>‘Then we will do as I say.’</p> +<p>She did not pronounce a clear affirmative. But that she consented +to the novel proposition at some moment or other of that walk was apparent +by what occurred a little later.</p> +<h3>CHAPTER III</h3> +<p>An enterprise of such pith required, indeed, less talking than consideration. +The first thing they did in carrying it out was to return to the railway +station, where Baptista took from her luggage a small trunk of immediate +necessaries which she would in any case have required after missing +the boat. That same afternoon they travelled up the line to Trufal.</p> +<p>Charles Stow (as his name was), despite his disdainful indifference +to things, was very careful of appearances, and made the journey independently +of her though in the same train. He told her where she could get +board and lodgings in the city; and with merely a distant nod to her +of a provisional kind, went off to his own quarters, and to see about +the licence.</p> +<p>On Sunday she saw him in the morning across the nave of the pro-cathedral. +In the afternoon they walked together in the fields, where he told her +that the licence would be ready next day, and would be available the +day after, when the ceremony could be performed as early after eight +o’clock as they should choose.</p> +<p>His courtship, thus renewed after an interval of two years, was as +impetuous, violent even, as it was short. The next day came and +passed, and the final arrangements were made. Their agreement +was to get the ceremony over as soon as they possibly could the next +morning, so as to go on to Pen-zephyr at once, and reach that place +in time for the boat’s departure the same day. It was in +obedience to Baptista’s earnest request that Stow consented thus +to make the whole journey to Lyonesse by land and water at one heat, +and not break it at Pen-zephyr; she seemed to be oppressed with a dread +of lingering anywhere, this great first act of disobedience to her parents +once accomplished, with the weight on her mind that her home had to +be convulsed by the disclosure of it. To face her difficulties +over the water immediately she had created them was, however, a course +more desired by Baptista than by her lover; though for once he gave +way.</p> +<p>The next morning was bright and warm as those which had preceded +it. By six o’clock it seemed nearly noon, as is often the +case in that part of England in the summer season. By nine they +were husband and wife. They packed up and departed by the earliest +train after the service; and on the way discussed at length what she +should say on meeting her parents, Charley dictating the turn of each +phrase. In her anxiety they had travelled so early that when they +reached Pen-zephyr they found there were nearly two hours on their hands +before the steamer’s time of sailing.</p> +<p>Baptista was extremely reluctant to be seen promenading the streets +of the watering-place with her husband till, as above stated, the household +at Giant’s Town should know the unexpected course of events from +her own lips; and it was just possible, if not likely, that some Lyonessian +might be prowling about there, or even have come across the sea to look +for her. To meet any one to whom she was known, and to have to +reply to awkward questions about the strange young man at her side before +her well-framed announcement had been delivered at proper time and place, +was a thing she could not contemplate with equanimity. So, instead +of looking at the shops and harbour, they went along the coast a little +way.</p> +<p>The heat of the morning was by this time intense. They clambered +up on some cliffs, and while sitting there, looking around at St. Michael’s +Mount and other objects, Charles said to her that he thought he would +run down to the beach at their feet, and take just one plunge into the +sea.</p> +<p>Baptista did not much like the idea of being left alone; it was gloomy, +she said. But he assured her he would not be gone more than a +quarter of an hour at the outside, and she passively assented.</p> +<p>Down he went, disappeared, appeared again, and looked back. +Then he again proceeded, and vanished, till, as a small waxen object, +she saw him emerge from the nook that had screened him, cross the white +fringe of foam, and walk into the undulating mass of blue. Once +in the water he seemed less inclined to hurry than before; he remained +a long time; and, unable either to appreciate his skill or criticize +his want of it at that distance, she withdrew her eyes from the spot, +and gazed at the still outline of St. Michael’s—now beautifully +toned in grey.</p> +<p>Her anxiety for the hour of departure, and to cope at once with the +approaching incidents that she would have to manipulate as best she +could, sent her into a reverie. It was now Tuesday; she would +reach home in the evening—a very late time they would say; but, +as the delay was a pure accident, they would deem her marriage to Mr. +Heddegan to-morrow still practicable. Then Charles would have +to be produced from the background. It was a terrible undertaking +to think of, and she almost regretted her temerity in wedding so hastily +that morning. The rage of her father would be so crushing; the +reproaches of her mother so bitter; and perhaps Charles would answer +hotly, and perhaps cause estrangement till death. There had obviously +been no alarm about her at St. Maria’s, or somebody would have +sailed across to inquire for her. She had, in a letter written +at the beginning of the week, spoken of the hour at which she intended +to leave her country schoolhouse; and from this her friends had probably +perceived that by such timing she would run a risk of losing the Saturday +boat. She had missed it, and as a consequence sat here on the +shore as Mrs. Charles Stow.</p> +<p>This brought her to the present, and she turned from the outline +of St. Michael’s Mount to look about for her husband’s form. +He was, as far as she could discover, no longer in the sea. Then +he was dressing. By moving a few steps she could see where his +clothes lay. But Charles was not beside them.</p> +<p>Baptista looked back again at the water in bewilderment, as if her +senses were the victim of some sleight of hand. Not a speck or +spot resembling a man’s head or face showed anywhere. By +this time she was alarmed, and her alarm intensified when she perceived +a little beyond the scene of her husband’s bathing a small area +of water, the quality of whose surface differed from that of the surrounding +expanse as the coarse vegetation of some foul patch in a mead differs +from the fine green of the remainder. Elsewhere it looked flexuous, +here it looked vermiculated and lumpy, and her marine experiences suggested +to her in a moment that two currents met and caused a turmoil at this +place.</p> +<p>She descended as hastily as her trembling limbs would allow. +The way down was terribly long, and before reaching the heap of clothes +it occurred to her that, after all, it would be best to run first for +help. Hastening along in a lateral direction she proceeded inland +till she met a man, and soon afterwards two others. To them she +exclaimed, ‘I think a gentleman who was bathing is in some danger. +I cannot see him as I could. Will you please run and help him, +at once, if you will be so kind?’</p> +<p>She did not think of turning to show them the exact spot, indicating +it vaguely by the direction of her hand, and still going on her way +with the idea of gaining more assistance. When she deemed, in +her faintness, that she had carried the alarm far enough, she faced +about and dragged herself back again. Before reaching the now +dreaded spot she met one of the men.</p> +<p>‘We can see nothing at all, Miss,’ he declared.</p> +<p>Having gained the beach, she found the tide in, and no sign of Charley’s +clothes. The other men whom she had besought to come had disappeared, +it must have been in some other direction, for she had not met them +going away. They, finding nothing, had probably thought her alarm +a mere conjecture, and given up the quest.</p> +<p>Baptista sank down upon the stones near at hand. Where Charley +had undressed was now sea. There could not be the least doubt +that he was drowned, and his body sucked under by the current; while +his clothes, lying within high-water mark, had probably been carried +away by the rising tide.</p> +<p>She remained in a stupor for some minutes, till a strange sensation +succeeded the aforesaid perceptions, mystifying her intelligence, and +leaving her physically almost inert. With his personal disappearance, +the last three days of her life with him seemed to be swallowed up, +also his image, in her mind’s eye, waned curiously, receded far +away, grew stranger and stranger, less and less real. Their meeting +and marriage had been so sudden, unpremeditated, adventurous, that she +could hardly believe that she had played her part in such a reckless +drama. Of all the few hours of her life with Charles, the portion +that most insisted in coming back to memory was their fortuitous encounter +on the previous Saturday, and those bitter reprimands with which he +had begun the attack, as it might be called, which had piqued her to +an unexpected consummation.</p> +<p>A sort of cruelty, an imperiousness, even in his warmth, had characterized +Charles Stow. As a lover he had ever been a bit of a tyrant; and +it might pretty truly have been said that he had stung her into marriage +with him at last. Still more alien from her life did these reflections +operate to make him; and then they would be chased away by an interval +of passionate weeping and mad regret. Finally, there returned +upon the confused mind of the young wife the recollection that she was +on her way homeward, and that the packet would sail in three-quarters +of an hour.</p> +<p>Except the parasol in her hand, all she possessed was at the station +awaiting her onward journey.</p> +<p>She looked in that direction; and, entering one of those undemonstrative +phases so common with her, walked quietly on.</p> +<p>At first she made straight for the railway; but suddenly turning +she went to a shop and wrote an anonymous line announcing his death +by drowning to the only person she had ever heard Charles mention as +a relative. Posting this stealthily, and with a fearful look around +her, she seemed to acquire a terror of the late events, pursuing her +way to the station as if followed by a spectre.</p> +<p>When she got to the office she asked for the luggage that she had +left there on the Saturday as well as the trunk left on the morning +just lapsed. All were put in the boat, and she herself followed. +Quickly as these things had been done, the whole proceeding, nevertheless, +had been almost automatic on Baptista’s part, ere she had come +to any definite conclusion on her course.</p> +<p>Just before the bell rang she heard a conversation on the pier, which +removed the last shade of doubt from her mind, if any had existed, that +she was Charles Stow’s widow. The sentences were but fragmentary, +but she could easily piece them out.</p> +<p>‘A man drowned—swam out too far—was a stranger +to the place—people in boat—saw him go down—couldn’t +get there in time.’</p> +<p>The news was little more definite than this as yet; though it may +as well be stated once for all that the statement was true. Charley, +with the over-confidence of his nature, had ventured out too far for +his strength, and succumbed in the absence of assistance, his lifeless +body being at that moment suspended in the transparent mid-depths of +the bay. His clothes, however, had merely been gently lifted by +the rising tide, and floated into a nook hard by, where they lay out +of sight of the passers-by till a day or two after.</p> +<h3>CHAPTER IV</h3> +<p>In ten minutes they were steaming out of the harbour for their voyage +of four or five hours, at whose ending she would have to tell her strange +story.</p> +<p>As Pen-zephyr and all its environing scenes disappeared behind Mousehole +and St. Clement’s Isle, Baptista’s ephemeral, meteor-like +husband impressed her yet more as a fantasy. She was still in +such a trance-like state that she had been an hour on the little packet-boat +before she became aware of the agitating fact that Mr. Heddegan was +on board with her. Involuntarily she slipped from her left hand +the symbol of her wifehood.</p> +<p>‘Hee-hee! Well, the truth is, I wouldn’t interrupt +’ee. “I reckon she don’t see me, or won’t +see me,” I said, “and what’s the hurry? She’ll +see enough o’ me soon!” I hope ye be well, mee deer?’</p> +<p>He was a hale, well-conditioned man of about five and fifty, of the +complexion common to those whose lives are passed on the bluffs and +beaches of an ocean isle. He extended the four quarters of his +face in a genial smile, and his hand for a grasp of the same magnitude. +She gave her own in surprised docility, and he continued: ‘I couldn’t +help coming across to meet ’ee. What an unfortunate thing +you missing the boat and not coming Saturday! They meant to have +warned ’ee that the time was changed, but forgot it at the last +moment. The truth is that I should have informed ’ee myself; +but I was that busy finishing up a job last week, so as to have this +week free, that I trusted to your father for attending to these little +things. However, so plain and quiet as it is all to be, it really +do not matter so much as it might otherwise have done, and I hope ye +haven’t been greatly put out. Now, if you’d sooner +that I should not be seen talking to ’ee—if ’ee feel +shy at all before strangers—just say. I’ll leave ’ee +to yourself till we get home.’</p> +<p>‘Thank you much. I am indeed a little tired, Mr. Heddegan.’</p> +<p>He nodded urbane acquiescence, strolled away immediately, and minutely +inspected the surface of the funnel, till some female passengers of +Giant’s Town tittered at what they must have thought a rebuff—for +the approaching wedding was known to many on St. Maria’s Island, +though to nobody elsewhere. Baptista coloured at their satire, +and called him back, and forced herself to commune with him in at least +a mechanically friendly manner.</p> +<p>The opening event had been thus different from her expectation, and +she had adumbrated no act to meet it. Taken aback she passively +allowed circumstances to pilot her along; and so the voyage was made.</p> +<p>It was near dusk when they touched the pier of Giant’s Town, +where several friends and neighbours stood awaiting them. Her +father had a lantern in his hand. Her mother, too, was there, +reproachfully glad that the delay had at last ended so simply. +Mrs. Trewthen and her daughter went together along the Giant’s +Walk, or promenade, to the house, rather in advance of her husband and +Mr. Heddegan, who talked in loud tones which reached the women over +their shoulders.</p> +<p>Some would have called Mrs. Trewthen a good mother; but though well +meaning she was maladroit, and her intentions missed their mark. +This might have been partly attributable to the slight deafness from +which she suffered. Now, as usual, the chief utterances came from +her lips.</p> +<p>‘Ah, yes, I’m so glad, my child, that you’ve got +over safe. It is all ready, and everything so well arranged, that +nothing but misfortune could hinder you settling as, with God’s +grace, becomes ’ee. Close to your mother’s door a’most, +’twill be a great blessing, I’m sure; and I was very glad +to find from your letters that you’d held your word sacred. +That’s right—make your word your bond always. Mrs. +Wace seems to be a sensible woman. I hope the Lord will do for +her as he’s doing for you no long time hence. And how did +’ee get over the terrible journey from Tor-upon-Sea to Pen-zephyr? +Once you’d done with the railway, of course, you seemed quite +at home. Well, Baptista, conduct yourself seemly, and all will +be well.’</p> +<p>Thus admonished, Baptista entered the house, her father and Mr. Heddegan +immediately at her back. Her mother had been so didactic that +she had felt herself absolutely unable to broach the subjects in the +centre of her mind.</p> +<p>The familiar room, with the dark ceiling, the well-spread table, +the old chairs, had never before spoken so eloquently of the times ere +she knew or had heard of Charley Stow. She went upstairs to take +off her things, her mother remaining below to complete the disposition +of the supper, and attend to the preparation of to-morrow’s meal, +altogether composing such an array of pies, from pies of fish to pies +of turnips, as was never heard of outside the Western Duchy. Baptista, +once alone, sat down and did nothing; and was called before she had +taken off her bonnet.</p> +<p>‘I’m coming,’ she cried, jumping up, and speedily +disapparelling herself, brushed her hair with a few touches and went +down.</p> +<p>Two or three of Mr. Heddegan’s and her father’s friends +had dropped in, and expressed their sympathy for the delay she had been +subjected to. The meal was a most merry one except to Baptista. +She had desired privacy, and there was none; and to break the news was +already a greater difficulty than it had been at first. Everything +around her, animate and inanimate, great and small, insisted that she +had come home to be married; and she could not get a chance to say nay.</p> +<p>One or two people sang songs, as overtures to the melody of the morrow, +till at length bedtime came, and they all withdrew, her mother having +retired a little earlier. When Baptista found herself again alone +in her bedroom the case stood as before: she had come home with much +to say, and she had said nothing.</p> +<p>It was now growing clear even to herself that Charles being dead, +she had not determination sufficient within her to break tidings which, +had he been alive, would have imperatively announced themselves. +And thus with the stroke of midnight came the turning of the scale; +her story should remain untold. It was not that upon the whole +she thought it best not to attempt to tell it; but that she could not +undertake so explosive a matter. To stop the wedding now would +cause a convulsion in Giant’s Town little short of volcanic. +Weakened, tired, and terrified as she had been by the day’s adventures, +she could not make herself the author of such a catastrophe. But +how refuse Heddegan without telling? It really seemed to her as +if her marriage with Mr. Heddegan were about to take place as if nothing +had intervened.</p> +<p>Morning came. The events of the previous days were cut off +from her present existence by scene and sentiment more completely than +ever. Charles Stow had grown to be a special being of whom, owing +to his character, she entertained rather fearful than loving memory. +Baptista could hear when she awoke that her parents were already moving +about downstairs. But she did not rise till her mother’s +rather rough voice resounded up the staircase as it had done on the +preceding evening.</p> +<p>‘Baptista! Come, time to be stirring! The man will +be here, by heaven’s blessing, in three-quarters of an hour. +He has looked in already for a minute or two—and says he’s +going to the church to see if things be well forward.’</p> +<p>Baptista arose, looked out of the window, and took the easy course. +When she emerged from the regions above she was arrayed in her new silk +frock and best stockings, wearing a linen jacket over the former for +breakfasting, and her common slippers over the latter, not to spoil +the new ones on the rough precincts of the dwelling.</p> +<p>It is unnecessary to dwell at any great length on this part of the +morning’s proceedings. She revealed nothing; and married +Heddegan, as she had given her word to do, on that appointed August +day.</p> +<h3>CHAPTER V</h3> +<p>Mr. Heddegan forgave the coldness of his bride’s manner during +and after the wedding ceremony, full well aware that there had been +considerable reluctance on her part to acquiesce in this neighbourly +arrangement, and, as a philosopher of long standing, holding that whatever +Baptista’s attitude now, the conditions would probably be much +the same six months hence as those which ruled among other married couples.</p> +<p>An absolutely unexpected shock was given to Baptista’s listless +mind about an hour after the wedding service. They had nearly +finished the mid-day dinner when the now husband said to her father, +‘We think of starting about two. And the breeze being so +fair we shall bring up inside Pen-zephyr new pier about six at least.’</p> +<p>‘What—are we going to Pen-zephyr?’ said Baptista. +‘I don’t know anything of it.’</p> +<p>‘Didn’t you tell her?’ asked her father of Heddegan.</p> +<p>It transpired that, owing to the delay in her arrival, this proposal +too, among other things, had in the hurry not been mentioned to her, +except some time ago as a general suggestion that they would go somewhere. +Heddegan had imagined that any trip would be pleasant, and one to the +mainland the pleasantest of all.</p> +<p>She looked so distressed at the announcement that her husband willingly +offered to give it up, though he had not had a holiday off the island +for a whole year. Then she pondered on the inconvenience of staying +at Giant’s Town, where all the inhabitants were bonded, by the +circumstances of their situation, into a sort of family party, which +permitted and encouraged on such occasions as these oral criticism that +was apt to disturb the equanimity of newly married girls, and would +especially worry Baptista in her strange situation. Hence, unexpectedly, +she agreed not to disorganize her husband’s plans for the wedding +jaunt, and it was settled that, as originally intended, they should +proceed in a neighbour’s sailing boat to the metropolis of the +district.</p> +<p>In this way they arrived at Pen-zephyr without difficulty or mishap. +Bidding adieu to Jenkin and his man, who had sailed them over, they +strolled arm in arm off the pier, Baptista silent, cold, and obedient. +Heddegan had arranged to take her as far as Plymouth before their return, +but to go no further than where they had landed that day. Their +first business was to find an inn; and in this they had unexpected difficulty, +since for some reason or other—possibly the fine weather—many +of the nearest at hand were full of tourists and commercial travellers. +He led her on till he reached a tavern which, though comparatively unpretending, +stood in as attractive a spot as any in the town; and this, somewhat +to their surprise after their previous experience, they found apparently +empty. The considerate old man, thinking that Baptista was educated +to artistic notions, though he himself was deficient in them, had decided +that it was most desirable to have, on such an occasion as the present, +an apartment with ‘a good view’ (the expression being one +he had often heard in use among tourists); and he therefore asked for +a favourite room on the first floor, from which a bow-window protruded, +for the express purpose of affording such an outlook.</p> +<p>The landlady, after some hesitation, said she was sorry that particular +apartment was engaged; the next one, however, or any other in the house, +was unoccupied.</p> +<p>‘The gentleman who has the best one will give it up to-morrow, +and then you can change into it,’ she added, as Mr. Heddegan hesitated +about taking the adjoining and less commanding one.</p> +<p>‘We shall be gone to-morrow, and shan’t want it,’ +he said.</p> +<p>Wishing not to lose customers, the landlady earnestly continued that +since he was bent on having the best room, perhaps the other gentleman +would not object to move at once into the one they despised, since, +though nothing could be seen from the window, the room was equally large.</p> +<p>‘Well, if he doesn’t care for a view,’ said Mr. +Heddegan, with the air of a highly artistic man who did.</p> +<p>‘O no—I am sure he doesn’t,’ she said. +‘I can promise that you shall have the room you want. If +you would not object to go for a walk for half an hour, I could have +it ready, and your things in it, and a nice tea laid in the bow-window +by the time you come back?’</p> +<p>This proposal was deemed satisfactory by the fussy old tradesman, +and they went out. Baptista nervously conducted him in an opposite +direction to her walk of the former day in other company, showing on +her wan face, had he observed it, how much she was beginning to regret +her sacrificial step for mending matters that morning.</p> +<p>She took advantage of a moment when her husband’s back was +turned to inquire casually in a shop if anything had been heard of the +gentleman who was sucked down in the eddy while bathing.</p> +<p>The shopman said, ‘Yes, his body has been washed ashore,’ +and had just handed Baptista a newspaper on which she discerned the +heading, ‘A Schoolmaster drowned while bathing,’ when her +husband turned to join her. She might have pursued the subject +without raising suspicion; but it was more than flesh and blood could +do, and completing a small purchase almost ran out of the shop.</p> +<p>‘What is your terrible hurry, mee deer?’ said Heddegan, +hastening after.</p> +<p>‘I don’t know—I don’t want to stay in shops,’ +she gasped.</p> +<p>‘And we won’t,’ he said. ‘They are +suffocating this weather. Let’s go back and have some tay!’</p> +<p>They found the much desired apartment awaiting their entry. +It was a sort of combination bed and sitting-room, and the table was +prettily spread with high tea in the bow-window, a bunch of flowers +in the midst, and a best-parlour chair on each side. Here they +shared the meal by the ruddy light of the vanishing sun. But though +the view had been engaged, regardless of expense, exclusively for Baptista’s +pleasure, she did not direct any keen attention out of the window. +Her gaze as often fell on the floor and walls of the room as elsewhere, +and on the table as much as on either, beholding nothing at all.</p> +<p>But there was a change. Opposite her seat was the door, upon +which her eyes presently became riveted like those of a little bird +upon a snake. For, on a peg at the back of the door, there hung +a hat; such a hat—surely, from its peculiar make, the actual hat—that +had been worn by Charles. Conviction grew to certainty when she +saw a railway ticket sticking up from the band. Charles had put +the ticket there—she had noticed the act.</p> +<p>Her teeth almost chattered; she murmured something incoherent. +Her husband jumped up and said, ‘You are not well! What +is it? What shall I get ’ee?’</p> +<p>‘Smelling salts!’ she said, quickly and desperately; +‘at that chemist’s shop you were in just now.’</p> +<p>He jumped up like the anxious old man that he was, caught up his +own hat from a back table, and without observing the other hastened +out and downstairs.</p> +<p>Left alone she gazed and gazed at the back of the door, then spasmodically +rang the bell. An honest-looking country maid-servant appeared +in response.</p> +<p>‘A hat!’ murmured Baptista, pointing with her finger. +‘It does not belong to us.’</p> +<p>‘O yes, I’ll take it away,’ said the young woman +with some hurry. ‘It belongs to the other gentleman.’</p> +<p>She spoke with a certain awkwardness, and took the hat out of the +room. Baptista had recovered her outward composure. ‘The +other gentleman?’ she said. ‘Where is the other gentleman?’</p> +<p>‘He’s in the next room, ma’am. He removed +out of this to oblige ’ee.’</p> +<p>‘How can you say so? I should hear him if he were there,’ +said Baptista, sufficiently recovered to argue down an apparent untruth.</p> +<p>‘He’s there,’ said the girl, hardily.</p> +<p>‘Then it is strange that he makes no noise,’ said Mrs. +Heddegan, convicting the girl of falsity by a look.</p> +<p>‘He makes no noise; but it is not strange,’ said the +servant.</p> +<p>All at once a dread took possession of the bride’s heart, like +a cold hand laid thereon; for it flashed upon her that there was a possibility +of reconciling the girl’s statement with her own knowledge of +facts.</p> +<p>‘Why does he make no noise?’ she weakly said.</p> +<p>The waiting-maid was silent, and looked at her questioner. +‘If I tell you, ma’am, you won’t tell missis?’ +she whispered.</p> +<p>Baptista promised.</p> +<p>‘Because he’s a-lying dead!’ said the girl. +‘He’s the schoolmaster that was drownded yesterday.’</p> +<p>‘O!’ said the bride, covering her eyes. ‘Then +he was in this room till just now?’</p> +<p>‘Yes,’ said the maid, thinking the young lady’s +agitation natural enough. ‘And I told missis that I thought +she oughtn’t to have done it, because I don’t hold it right +to keep visitors so much in the dark where death’s concerned; +but she said the gentleman didn’t die of anything infectious; +she was a poor, honest, innkeeper’s wife, she says, who had to +get her living by making hay while the sun sheened. And owing +to the drownded gentleman being brought here, she said, it kept so many +people away that we were empty, though all the other houses were full. +So when your good man set his mind upon the room, and she would have +lost good paying folk if he’d not had it, it wasn’t to be +supposed, she said, that she’d let anything stand in the way. +Ye won’t say that I’ve told ye, please, m’m? +All the linen has been changed, and as the inquest won’t be till +to-morrow, after you are gone, she thought you wouldn’t know a +word of it, being strangers here.’</p> +<p>The returning footsteps of her husband broke off further narration. +Baptista waved her hand, for she could not speak. The waiting-maid +quickly withdrew, and Mr. Heddegan entered with the smelling salts and +other nostrums.</p> +<p>‘Any better?’ he questioned.</p> +<p>‘I don’t like the hotel,’ she exclaimed, almost +simultaneously. ‘I can’t bear it—it doesn’t +suit me!’</p> +<p>‘Is that all that’s the matter?’ he returned pettishly +(this being the first time of his showing such a mood). ‘Upon +my heart and life such trifling is trying to any man’s temper, +Baptista! Sending me about from here to yond, and then when I +come back saying ’ee don’t like the place that I have sunk +so much money and words to get for ’ee. ‘Od dang it +all, ’tis enough to—But I won’t say any more at present, +mee deer, though it is just too much to expect to turn out of the house +now. We shan’t get another quiet place at this time of the +evening—every other inn in the town is bustling with rackety folk +of one sort and t’other, while here ’tis as quiet as the +grave—the country, I would say. So bide still, d’ye +hear, and to-morrow we shall be out of the town altogether—as +early as you like.’</p> +<p>The obstinacy of age had, in short, overmastered its complaisance, +and the young woman said no more. The simple course of telling +him that in the adjoining room lay a corpse which had lately occupied +their own might, it would have seemed, have been an effectual one without +further disclosure, but to allude to that subject, however it was disguised, +was more than Heddegan’s young wife had strength for. Horror +broke her down. In the contingency one thing only presented itself +to her paralyzed regard—that here she was doomed to abide, in +a hideous contiguity to the dead husband and the living, and her conjecture +did, in fact, bear itself out. That night she lay between the +two men she had married—Heddegan on the one hand, and on the other +through the partition against which the bed stood, Charles Stow.</p> +<h3>CHAPTER VI</h3> +<p>Kindly time had withdrawn the foregoing event three days from the +present of Baptista Heddegan. It was ten o’clock in the +morning; she had been ill, not in an ordinary or definite sense, but +in a state of cold stupefaction, from which it was difficult to arouse +her so much as to say a few sentences. When questioned she had +replied that she was pretty well.</p> +<p>Their trip, as such, had been something of a failure. They +had gone on as far as Falmouth, but here he had given way to her entreaties +to return home. This they could not very well do without repassing +through Pen-zephyr, at which place they had now again arrived.</p> +<p>In the train she had seen a weekly local paper, and read there a +paragraph detailing the inquest on Charles. It was added that +the funeral was to take place at his native town of Redrutin on Friday.</p> +<p>After reading this she had shown no reluctance to enter the fatal +neighbourhood of the tragedy, only stipulating that they should take +their rest at a different lodging from the first; and now comparatively +braced up and calm—indeed a cooler creature altogether than when +last in the town, she said to David that she wanted to walk out for +a while, as they had plenty of time on their hands.</p> +<p>‘To a shop as usual, I suppose, mee deer?’</p> +<p>‘Partly for shopping,’ she said. ‘And it +will be best for you, dear, to stay in after trotting about so much, +and have a good rest while I am gone.’</p> +<p>He assented; and Baptista sallied forth. As she had stated, +her first visit was made to a shop, a draper’s. Without +the exercise of much choice she purchased a black bonnet and veil, also +a black stuff gown; a black mantle she already wore. These articles +were made up into a parcel which, in spite of the saleswoman’s +offers, her customer said she would take with her. Bearing it +on her arm she turned to the railway, and at the station got a ticket +for Redrutin.</p> +<p>Thus it appeared that, on her recovery from the paralyzed mood of +the former day, while she had resolved not to blast utterly the happiness +of her present husband by revealing the history of the departed one, +she had also determined to indulge a certain odd, inconsequent, feminine +sentiment of decency, to the small extent to which it could do no harm +to any person. At Redrutin she emerged from the railway carriage +in the black attire purchased at the shop, having during the transit +made the change in the empty compartment she had chosen. The other +clothes were now in the bandbox and parcel. Leaving these at the +cloak-room she proceeded onward, and after a wary survey reached the +side of a hill whence a view of the burial ground could be obtained.</p> +<p>It was now a little before two o’clock. While Baptista +waited a funeral procession ascended the road. Baptista hastened +across, and by the time the procession entered the cemetery gates she +had unobtrusively joined it.</p> +<p>In addition to the schoolmaster’s own relatives (not a few), +the paragraph in the newspapers of his death by drowning had drawn together +many neighbours, acquaintances, and onlookers. Among them she +passed unnoticed, and with a quiet step pursued the winding path to +the chapel, and afterwards thence to the grave. When all was over, +and the relatives and idlers had withdrawn, she stepped to the edge +of the chasm. From beneath her mantle she drew a little bunch +of forget-me-nots, and dropped them in upon the coffin. In a few +minutes she also turned and went away from the cemetery. By five +o’clock she was again in Pen-zephyr.</p> +<p>‘You have been a mortal long time!’ said her husband, +crossly. ‘I allowed you an hour at most, mee deer.’</p> +<p>‘It occupied me longer,’ said she.</p> +<p>‘Well—I reckon it is wasting words to complain. +Hang it, ye look so tired and wisht that I can’t find heart to +say what I would!’</p> +<p>‘I am—weary and wisht, David; I am. We can get +home to-morrow for certain, I hope?’</p> +<p>‘We can. And please God we will!’ said Mr. Heddegan +heartily, as if he too were weary of his brief honeymoon. ‘I +must be into business again on Monday morning at latest.’</p> +<p>They left by the next morning steamer, and in the afternoon took +up their residence in their own house at Giant’s Town.</p> +<p>The hour that she reached the island it was as if a material weight +had been removed from Baptista’s shoulders. Her husband +attributed the change to the influence of the local breezes after the +hot-house atmosphere of the mainland. However that might be, settled +here, a few doors from her mother’s dwelling, she recovered in +no very long time much of her customary bearing, which was never very +demonstrative. She accepted her position calmly, and faintly smiled +when her neighbours learned to call her Mrs. Heddegan, and said she +seemed likely to become the leader of fashion in Giant’s Town.</p> +<p>Her husband was a man who had made considerably more money by trade +than her father had done: and perhaps the greater profusion of surroundings +at her command than she had heretofore been mistress of, was not without +an effect upon her. One week, two weeks, three weeks passed; and, +being pre-eminently a young woman who allowed things to drift, she did +nothing whatever either to disclose or conceal traces of her first marriage; +or to learn if there existed possibilities—which there undoubtedly +did—by which that hasty contract might become revealed to those +about her at any unexpected moment.</p> +<p>While yet within the first month of her marriage, and on an evening +just before sunset, Baptista was standing within her garden adjoining +the house, when she saw passing along the road a personage clad in a +greasy black coat and battered tall hat, which, common enough in the +slums of a city, had an odd appearance in St. Maria’s. The +tramp, as he seemed to be, marked her at once—bonnetless and unwrapped +as she was her features were plainly recognizable—and with an +air of friendly surprise came and leant over the wall.</p> +<p>‘What! don’t you know me?’ said he.</p> +<p>She had some dim recollection of his face, but said that she was +not acquainted with him.</p> +<p>‘Why, your witness to be sure, ma’am. Don’t +you mind the man that was mending the church-window when you and your +intended husband walked up to be made one; and the clerk called me down +from the ladder, and I came and did my part by writing my name and occupation?’</p> +<p>Baptista glanced quickly around; her husband was out of earshot. +That would have been of less importance but for the fact that the wedding +witnessed by this personage had not been the wedding with Mr. Heddegan, +but the one on the day previous.</p> +<p>‘I’ve had a misfortune since then, that’s pulled +me under,’ continued her friend. ‘But don’t +let me damp yer wedded joy by naming the particulars. Yes, I’ve +seen changes since; though ’tis but a short time ago—let +me see, only a month next week, I think; for ’twere the first +or second day in August.’</p> +<p>‘Yes—that’s when it was,’ said another man, +a sailor, who had come up with a pipe in his mouth, and felt it necessary +to join in (Baptista having receded to escape further speech). +‘For that was the first time I set foot in Giant’s Town; +and her husband took her to him the same day.’</p> +<p>A dialogue then proceeded between the two men outside the wall, which +Baptista could not help hearing.</p> +<p>‘Ay, I signed the book that made her one flesh,’ repeated +the decayed glazier. ‘Where’s her goodman?’</p> +<p>‘About the premises somewhere; but you don’t see ’em +together much,’ replied the sailor in an undertone. ‘You +see, he’s older than she.’</p> +<p>‘Older? I should never have thought it from my own observation,’ +said the glazier. ‘He was a remarkably handsome man.’</p> +<p>‘Handsome? Well, there he is—we can see for ourselves.’</p> +<p>David Heddegan had, indeed, just shown himself at the upper end of +the garden; and the glazier, looking in bewilderment from the husband +to the wife, saw the latter turn pale.</p> +<p>Now that decayed glazier was a far-seeing and cunning man—too +far-seeing and cunning to allow himself to thrive by simple and straightforward +means—and he held his peace, till he could read more plainly the +meaning of this riddle, merely adding carelessly, ‘Well—marriage +do alter a man, ’tis true. I should never ha’ knowed +him!’</p> +<p>He then stared oddly at the disconcerted Baptista, and moving on +to where he could again address her, asked her to do him a good turn, +since he once had done the same for her. Understanding that he +meant money, she handed him some, at which he thanked her, and instantly +went away.</p> +<h3>CHAPTER VII</h3> +<p>She had escaped exposure on this occasion; but the incident had been +an awkward one, and should have suggested to Baptista that sooner or +later the secret must leak out. As it was, she suspected that +at any rate she had not heard the last of the glazier.</p> +<p>In a day or two, when her husband had gone to the old town on the +other side of the island, there came a gentle tap at the door, and the +worthy witness of her first marriage made his appearance a second time.</p> +<p>‘It took me hours to get to the bottom of the mystery—hours!’ +he said with a gaze of deep confederacy which offended her pride very +deeply. ‘But thanks to a good intellect I’ve done +it. Now, ma’am, I’m not a man to tell tales, even +when a tale would be so good as this. But I’m going back +to the mainland again, and a little assistance would be as rain on thirsty +ground.’</p> +<p>‘I helped you two days ago,’ began Baptista.</p> +<p>‘Yes—but what was that, my good lady? Not enough +to pay my passage to Pen-zephyr. I came over on your account, +for I thought there was a mystery somewhere. Now I must go back +on my own. Mind this—’twould be very awkward for you +if your old man were to know. He’s a queer temper, though +he may be fond.’</p> +<p>She knew as well as her visitor how awkward it would be; and the +hush-money she paid was heavy that day. She had, however, the +satisfaction of watching the man to the steamer, and seeing him diminish +out of sight. But Baptista perceived that the system into which +she had been led of purchasing silence thus was one fatal to her peace +of mind, particularly if it had to be continued.</p> +<p>Hearing no more from the glazier she hoped the difficulty was past. +But another week only had gone by, when, as she was pacing the Giant’s +Walk (the name given to the promenade), she met the same personage in +the company of a fat woman carrying a bundle.</p> +<p>‘This is the lady, my dear,’ he said to his companion. +‘This, ma’am, is my wife. We’ve come to settle +in the town for a time, if so be we can find room.’</p> +<p>‘That you won’t do,’ said she. ‘Nobody +can live here who is not privileged.’</p> +<p>‘I am privileged,’ said the glazier, ‘by my trade.’</p> +<p>Baptista went on, but in the afternoon she received a visit from +the man’s wife. This honest woman began to depict, in forcible +colours, the necessity for keeping up the concealment.</p> +<p>‘I will intercede with my husband, ma’am,’ she +said. ‘He’s a true man if rightly managed; and I’ll +beg him to consider your position. ’Tis a very nice house +you’ve got here,’ she added, glancing round, ‘and +well worth a little sacrifice to keep it.’</p> +<p>The unlucky Baptista staved off the danger on this third occasion +as she had done on the previous two. But she formed a resolve +that, if the attack were once more to be repeated she would face a revelation—worse +though that must now be than before she had attempted to purchase silence +by bribes. Her tormentors, never believing her capable of acting +upon such an intention, came again; but she shut the door in their faces. +They retreated, muttering something; but she went to the back of the +house, where David Heddegan was.</p> +<p>She looked at him, unconscious of all. The case was serious; +she knew that well; and all the more serious in that she liked him better +now than she had done at first. Yet, as she herself began to see, +the secret was one that was sure to disclose itself. Her name +and Charles’s stood indelibly written in the registers; and though +a month only had passed as yet it was a wonder that his clandestine +union with her had not already been discovered by his friends. +Thus spurring herself to the inevitable, she spoke to Heddegan.</p> +<p>‘David, come indoors. I have something to tell you.’</p> +<p>He hardly regarded her at first. She had discerned that during +the last week or two he had seemed preoccupied, as if some private business +harassed him. She repeated her request. He replied with +a sigh, ‘Yes, certainly, mee deer.’</p> +<p>When they had reached the sitting-room and shut the door she repeated, +faintly, ‘David, I have something to tell you—a sort of +tragedy I have concealed. You will hate me for having so far deceived +you; but perhaps my telling you voluntarily will make you think a little +better of me than you would do otherwise.’</p> +<p>‘Tragedy?’ he said, awakening to interest. ‘Much +you can know about tragedies, mee deer, that have been in the world +so short a time!’</p> +<p>She saw that he suspected nothing, and it made her task the harder. +But on she went steadily. ‘It is about something that happened +before we were married,’ she said.</p> +<p>‘Indeed!’</p> +<p>‘Not a very long time before—a short time. And +it is about a lover,’ she faltered.</p> +<p>‘I don’t much mind that,’ he said mildly. +‘In truth, I was in hopes ’twas more.’</p> +<p>‘In hopes!’</p> +<p>‘Well, yes.’</p> +<p>This screwed her up to the necessary effort. ‘I met my +old sweetheart. He scorned me, chid me, dared me, and I went and +married him. We were coming straight here to tell you all what +we had done; but he was drowned; and I thought I would say nothing about +him: and I married you, David, for the sake of peace and quietness. +I’ve tried to keep it from you, but have found I cannot. +There—that’s the substance of it, and you can never, never +forgive me, I am sure!’</p> +<p>She spoke desperately. But the old man, instead of turning +black or blue, or slaying her in his indignation, jumped up from his +chair, and began to caper around the room in quite an ecstatic emotion.</p> +<p>‘O, happy thing! How well it falls out!’ he exclaimed, +snapping his, fingers over his head. ‘Ha-ha—the knot +is cut—I see a way out of my trouble—ha-ha!’ +She looked at him without uttering a sound, till, as he still continued +smiling joyfully, she said, ‘O—what do you mean! Is +it done to torment me?’</p> +<p>‘No—no! O, mee deer, your story helps me out of +the most heart-aching quandary a poor man ever found himself in! +You see, it is this—<i>I’ve</i> got a tragedy, too; and +unless you had had one to tell, I could never have seen my way to tell +mine!’</p> +<p>‘What is yours—what is it?’ she asked, with altogether +a new view of things.</p> +<p>‘Well—it is a bouncer; mine is a bouncer!’ said +he, looking on the ground and wiping his eyes.</p> +<p>‘Not worse than mine?’</p> +<p>‘Well—that depends upon how you look at it. Yours +had to do with the past alone; and I don’t mind it. You +see, we’ve been married a month, and it don’t jar upon me +as it would if we’d only been married a day or two. Now +mine refers to past, present, and future; so that—’</p> +<p>‘Past, present, and future!’ she murmured. ‘It +never occurred to me that <i>you</i> had a tragedy, too.’</p> +<p>‘But I have!’ he said, shaking his head. ‘In +fact, four.’</p> +<p>‘Then tell ’em!’ cried the young woman.</p> +<p>‘I will—I will. But be considerate, I beg ’ee, +mee deer. Well—I wasn’t a bachelor when I married +’ee, any more than you were a spinster. Just as you was +a widow-woman, I was a widow-man.</p> +<p>‘Ah!’ said she, with some surprise. ‘But +is that all?—then we are nicely balanced,’ she added, relieved.</p> +<p>‘No—it is not all. There’s the point. +I am not only a widower.’</p> +<p>‘O, David!’</p> +<p>‘I am a widower with four tragedies—that is to say, four +strapping girls—the eldest taller than you. Don’t +’ee look so struck—dumb-like! It fell out in this +way. I knew the poor woman, their mother, in Pen-zephyr for some +years; and—to cut a long story short—I privately married +her at last, just before she died. I kept the matter secret, but +it is getting known among the people here by degrees. I’ve +long felt for the children—that it is my duty to have them here, +and do something for them. I have not had courage to break it +to ’ee, but I’ve seen lately that it would soon come to +your ears, and that hev worried me.’</p> +<p>‘Are they educated?’ said the ex-schoolmistress.</p> +<p>‘No. I am sorry to say they have been much neglected; +in truth, they can hardly read. And so I thought that by marrying +a young schoolmistress I should get some one in the house who could +teach ’em, and bring ’em into genteel condition, all for +nothing. You see, they are growed up too tall to be sent to school.’</p> +<p>‘O, mercy!’ she almost moaned. ‘Four great +girls to teach the rudiments to, and have always in the house with me +spelling over their books; and I hate teaching, it kills me. I +am bitterly punished—I am, I am!’</p> +<p>‘You’ll get used to ’em, mee deer, and the balance +of secrets—mine against yours—will comfort your heart with +a sense of justice. I could send for ’em this week very +well—and I will! In faith, I could send this very day. +Baptista, you have relieved me of all my difficulty!’</p> +<p>Thus the interview ended, so far as this matter was concerned. +Baptista was too stupefied to say more, and when she went away to her +room she wept from very mortification at Mr. Heddegan’s duplicity. +Education, the one thing she abhorred; the shame of it to delude a young +wife so!</p> +<p>The next meal came round. As they sat, Baptista would not suffer +her eyes to turn towards him. He did not attempt to intrude upon +her reserve, but every now and then looked under the table and chuckled +with satisfaction at the aspect of affairs. ‘How very well +matched we be!’ he said, comfortably.</p> +<p>Next day, when the steamer came in, Baptista saw her husband rush +down to meet it; and soon after there appeared at her door four tall, +hipless, shoulderless girls, dwindling in height and size from the eldest +to the youngest, like a row of Pan pipes; at the head of them standing +Heddegan. He smiled pleasantly through the grey fringe of his +whiskers and beard, and turning to the girls said, ‘Now come forrard, +and shake hands properly with your stepmother.’</p> +<p>Thus she made their acquaintance, and he went out, leaving them together. +On examination the poor girls turned out to be not only plain-looking, +which she could have forgiven, but to have such a lamentably meagre +intellectual equipment as to be hopelessly inadequate as companions. +Even the eldest, almost her own age, could only read with difficulty +words of two syllables; and taste in dress was beyond their comprehension. +In the long vista of future years she saw nothing but dreary drudgery +at her detested old trade without prospect of reward.</p> +<p>She went about quite despairing during the next few days—an +unpromising, unfortunate mood for a woman who had not been married six +weeks. From her parents she concealed everything. They had +been amongst the few acquaintances of Heddegan who knew nothing of his +secret, and were indignant enough when they saw such a ready-made household +foisted upon their only child. But she would not support them +in their remonstrances.</p> +<p>‘No, you don’t yet know all,’ she said.</p> +<p>Thus Baptista had sense enough to see the retributive fairness of +this issue. For some time, whenever conversation arose between +her and Heddegan, which was not often, she always said, ‘I am +miserable, and you know it. Yet I don’t wish things to be +otherwise.’</p> +<p>But one day when he asked, ‘How do you like ’em now?’ +her answer was unexpected. ‘Much better than I did,’ +she said, quietly. ‘I may like them very much some day.’</p> +<p>This was the beginning of a serener season for the chastened spirit +of Baptista Heddegan. She had, in truth, discovered, underneath +the crust of uncouthness and meagre articulation which was due to their +Troglodytean existence, that her unwelcomed daughters had natures that +were unselfish almost to sublimity. The harsh discipline accorded +to their young lives before their mother’s wrong had been righted, +had operated less to crush them than to lift them above all personal +ambition. They considered the world and its contents in a purely +objective way, and their own lot seemed only to affect them as that +of certain human beings among the rest, whose troubles they knew rather +than suffered.</p> +<p>This was such an entirely new way of regarding life to a woman of +Baptista’s nature, that her attention, from being first arrested +by it, became deeply interested. By imperceptible pulses her heart +expanded in sympathy with theirs. The sentences of her tragi-comedy, +her life, confused till now, became clearer daily. That in humanity, +as exemplified by these girls, there was nothing to dislike, but infinitely +much to pity, she learnt with the lapse of each week in their company. +She grew to like the girls of unpromising exterior, and from liking +she got to love them; till they formed an unexpected point of junction +between her own and her husband’s interests, generating a sterling +friendship at least, between a pair in whose existence there had threatened +to be neither friendship nor love.</p> +<p><i>October</i>, 1885.</p> +<p> </p> +<p>***END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK A CHANGED MAN AND OTHER TALES***</p> +<pre> + + +***** This file should be named 3058-h.htm or 3058-h.zip****** + + +This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: +https://www.gutenberg.org/dirs/3/0/5/3058 + + + +Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions +will be renamed. + +Creating the works from public domain print editions 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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