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diff --git a/3056-0.txt b/3056-0.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..76fe23b --- /dev/null +++ b/3056-0.txt @@ -0,0 +1,9500 @@ +The Project Gutenberg eBook of Wessex Tales, by Thomas Hardy + +This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and +most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions +whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms +of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at +www.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you +will have to check the laws of the country where you are located before +using this eBook. + +Title: Wessex Tales + +Author: Thomas Hardy + +Release Date: February, 2002 [eBook #3056] +[Most recently updated: February 4, 2021] + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: UTF-8 + +Produced by: David Price + +*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK WESSEX TALES *** + + + + +Wessex Tales + +by Thomas Hardy + + +Contents + + Preface + An Imaginative Woman + The Three Strangers + The Withered Arm + Fellow-Townsmen + Interlopers at the Knap + The Distracted Preacher + + + + +PREFACE + + +An apology is perhaps needed for the neglect of contrast which is shown +by presenting two consecutive stories of hangmen in such a small +collection as the following. But in the neighbourhood of county-towns +tales of executions used to form a large proportion of the local +traditions; and though never personally acquainted with any chief +operator at such scenes, the writer of these pages had as a boy the +privilege of being on speaking terms with a man who applied for the +office, and who sank into an incurable melancholy because he failed to +get it, some slight mitigation of his grief being to dwell upon +striking episodes in the lives of those happier ones who had held it +with success and renown. His tale of disappointment used to cause some +wonder why his ambition should have taken such an unfortunate form, but +its nobleness was never questioned. In those days, too, there was still +living an old woman who, for the cure of some eating disease, had been +taken in her youth to have her ‘blood turned’ by a convict’s corpse, in +the manner described in ‘The Withered Arm.’ + +Since writing this story some years ago I have been reminded by an aged +friend who knew ‘Rhoda Brook’ that, in relating her dream, my +forgetfulness has weakened the facts out of which the tale grew. In +reality it was while lying down on a hot afternoon that the incubus +oppressed her and she flung it off, with the results upon the body of +the original as described. To my mind the occurrence of such a vision +in the daytime is more impressive than if it had happened in a midnight +dream. Readers are therefore asked to correct the misrelation, which +affords an instance of how our imperfect memories insensibly formalize +the fresh originality of living fact—from whose shape they slowly +depart, as machine-made castings depart by degrees from the sharp +hand-work of the mould. + +Among the many devices for concealing smuggled goods in caves and pits +of the earth, that of planting an apple-tree in a tray or box which was +placed over the mouth of the pit is, I believe, unique, and it is +detailed in one of the tales precisely as described by an old carrier +of ‘tubs’—a man who was afterwards in my father’s employ for over +thirty years. I never gathered from his reminiscences what means were +adopted for lifting the tree, which, with its roots, earth, and +receptacle, must have been of considerable weight. There is no doubt, +however, that the thing was done through many years. My informant often +spoke, too, of the horribly suffocating sensation produced by the pair +of spirit-tubs slung upon the chest and back, after stumbling with the +burden of them for several miles inland over a rough country and in +darkness. He said that though years of his youth and young manhood were +spent in this irregular business, his profits from the same, taken all +together, did not average the wages he might have earned in a steady +employment, whilst the fatigues and risks were excessive. + +I may add that the first story in the series turns upon a physical +possibility that may attach to women of imaginative temperament, and +that is well supported by the experiences of medical men and other +observers of such manifestations. + +T. H. + +_April_ 1896. + + + + +AN IMAGINATIVE WOMAN + + +When William Marchmill had finished his inquiries for lodgings at a +well-known watering-place in Upper Wessex, he returned to the hotel to +find his wife. She, with the children, had rambled along the shore, and +Marchmill followed in the direction indicated by the military-looking +hall-porter + +‘By Jove, how far you’ve gone! I am quite out of breath,’ Marchmill +said, rather impatiently, when he came up with his wife, who was +reading as she walked, the three children being considerably further +ahead with the nurse. + +Mrs. Marchmill started out of the reverie into which the book had +thrown her. ‘Yes,’ she said, ‘you’ve been such a long time. I was tired +of staying in that dreary hotel. But I am sorry if you have wanted me, +Will?’ + +‘Well, I have had trouble to suit myself. When you see the airy and +comfortable rooms heard of, you find they are stuffy and uncomfortable. +Will you come and see if what I’ve fixed on will do? There is not much +room, I am afraid; hut I can light on nothing better. The town is +rather full.’ + +The pair left the children and nurse to continue their ramble, and went +back together. + +In age well-balanced, in personal appearance fairly matched, and in +domestic requirements conformable, in temper this couple differed, +though even here they did not often clash, he being equable, if not +lymphatic, and she decidedly nervous and sanguine. It was to their +tastes and fancies, those smallest, greatest particulars, that no +common denominator could be applied. Marchmill considered his wife’s +likes and inclinations somewhat silly; she considered his sordid and +material. The husband’s business was that of a gunmaker in a thriving +city northwards, and his soul was in that business always; the lady was +best characterized by that superannuated phrase of elegance ‘a votary +of the muse.’ An impressionable, palpitating creature was Ella, +shrinking humanely from detailed knowledge of her husband’s trade +whenever she reflected that everything he manufactured had for its +purpose the destruction of life. She could only recover her equanimity +by assuring herself that some, at least, of his weapons were sooner or +later used for the extermination of horrid vermin and animals almost as +cruel to their inferiors in species as human beings were to theirs. + +She had never antecedently regarded this occupation of his as any +objection to having him for a husband. Indeed, the necessity of getting +life-leased at all cost, a cardinal virtue which all good mothers +teach, kept her from thinking of it at all till she had closed with +William, had passed the honeymoon, and reached the reflecting stage. +Then, like a person who has stumbled upon some object in the dark, she +wondered what she had got; mentally walked round it, estimated it; +whether it were rare or common; contained gold, silver, or lead; were a +clog or a pedestal, everything to her or nothing. + +She came to some vague conclusions, and since then had kept her heart +alive by pitying her proprietor’s obtuseness and want of refinement, +pitying herself, and letting off her delicate and ethereal emotions in +imaginative occupations, day-dreams, and night-sighs, which perhaps +would not much have disturbed William if he had known of them. + +Her figure was small, elegant, and slight in build, tripping, or rather +bounding, in movement. She was dark-eyed, and had that marvellously +bright and liquid sparkle in each pupil which characterizes persons of +Ella’s cast of soul, and is too often a cause of heartache to the +possessor’s male friends, ultimately sometimes to herself. Her husband +was a tall, long-featured man, with a brown beard; he had a pondering +regard; and was, it must be added, usually kind and tolerant to her. He +spoke in squarely shaped sentences, and was supremely satisfied with a +condition of sublunary things which made weapons a necessity. + +Husband and wife walked till they had reached the house they were in +search of, which stood in a terrace facing the sea, and was fronted by +a small garden of wind-proof and salt-proof evergreens, stone steps +leading up to the porch. It had its number in the row, but, being +rather larger than the rest, was in addition sedulously distinguished +as Coburg House by its landlady, though everybody else called it +‘Thirteen, New Parade.’ The spot was bright and lively now; but in +winter it became necessary to place sandbags against the door, and to +stuff up the keyhole against the wind and rain, which had worn the +paint so thin that the priming and knotting showed through. + +The householder, who had been watching for the gentleman’s return, met +them in the passage, and showed the rooms. She informed them that she +was a professional man’s widow, left in needy circumstances by the +rather sudden death of her husband, and she spoke anxiously of the +conveniences of the establishment. + +Mrs. Marchmill said that she liked the situation and the house; but, it +being small, there would not be accommodation enough, unless she could +have all the rooms. + +The landlady mused with an air of disappointment. She wanted the +visitors to be her tenants very badly, she said, with obvious honesty. +But unfortunately two of the rooms were occupied permanently by a +bachelor gentleman. He did not pay season prices, it was true; but as +he kept on his apartments all the year round, and was an extremely nice +and interesting young man, who gave no trouble, she did not like to +turn him out for a month’s ‘let,’ even at a high figure. ‘Perhaps, +however,’ she added, ‘he might offer to go for a time.’ + +They would not hear of this, and went back to the hotel, intending to +proceed to the agent’s to inquire further. Hardly had they sat down to +tea when the landlady called. Her gentleman, she said, had been so +obliging as to offer to give up his rooms for three or four weeks +rather than drive the new-comers away. + +‘It is very kind, but we won’t inconvenience him in that way,’ said the +Marchmills. + +‘O, it won’t inconvenience him, I assure you!’ said the landlady +eloquently. ‘You see, he’s a different sort of young man from +most—dreamy, solitary, rather melancholy—and he cares more to be here +when the south-westerly gales are beating against the door, and the sea +washes over the Parade, and there’s not a soul in the place, than he +does now in the season. He’d just as soon be where, in fact, he’s going +temporarily, to a little cottage on the Island opposite, for a change.’ +She hoped therefore that they would come. + +The Marchmill family accordingly took possession of the house next day, +and it seemed to suit them very well. After luncheon Mr. Marchmill +strolled out towards the pier, and Mrs. Marchmill, having despatched +the children to their outdoor amusements on the sands, settled herself +in more completely, examining this and that article, and testing the +reflecting powers of the mirror in the wardrobe door. + +In the small back sitting-room, which had been the young bachelor’s, +she found furniture of a more personal nature than in the rest. Shabby +books, of correct rather than rare editions, were piled up in a queerly +reserved manner in corners, as if the previous occupant had not +conceived the possibility that any incoming person of the season’s +bringing could care to look inside them. The landlady hovered on the +threshold to rectify anything that Mrs. Marchmill might not find to her +satisfaction. + +‘I’ll make this my own little room,’ said the latter, ‘because the +books are here. By the way, the person who has left seems to have a +good many. He won’t mind my reading some of them, Mrs. Hooper, I hope?’ + +‘O dear no, ma’am. Yes, he has a good many. You see, he is in the +literary line himself somewhat. He is a poet—yes, really a poet—and he +has a little income of his own, which is enough to write verses on, but +not enough for cutting a figure, even if he cared to.’ + +‘A poet! O, I did not know that.’ + +Mrs. Marchmill opened one of the books, and saw the owner’s name +written on the title-page. ‘Dear me!’ she continued; ‘I know his name +very well—Robert Trewe—of course I do; and his writings! And it is +_his_ rooms we have taken, and _him_ we have turned out of his home?’ + +Ella Marchmill, sitting down alone a few minutes later, thought with +interested surprise of Robert Trewe. Her own latter history will best +explain that interest. Herself the only daughter of a struggling man of +letters, she had during the last year or two taken to writing poems, in +an endeavour to find a congenial channel in which to let flow her +painfully embayed emotions, whose former limpidity and sparkle seemed +departing in the stagnation caused by the routine of a practical +household and the gloom of bearing children to a commonplace father. +These poems, subscribed with a masculine pseudonym, had appeared in +various obscure magazines, and in two cases in rather prominent ones. +In the second of the latter the page which bore her effusion at the +bottom, in smallish print, bore at the top, in large print, a few +verses on the same subject by this very man, Robert Trewe. Both of them +had, in fact, been struck by a tragic incident reported in the daily +papers, and had used it simultaneously as an inspiration, the editor +remarking in a note upon the coincidence, and that the excellence of +both poems prompted him to give them together. + +After that event Ella, otherwise ‘John Ivy,’ had watched with much +attention the appearance anywhere in print of verse bearing the +signature of Robert Trewe, who, with a man’s unsusceptibility on the +question of sex, had never once thought of passing himself off as a +woman. To be sure, Mrs. Marchmill had satisfied herself with a sort of +reason for doing the contrary in her case; that nobody might believe in +her inspiration if they found that the sentiments came from a pushing +tradesman’s wife, from the mother of three children by a matter-of-fact +small-arms manufacturer. + +Trewe’s verse contrasted with that of the rank and file of recent minor +poets in being impassioned rather than ingenious, luxuriant rather than +finished. Neither _symboliste_ nor _décadent_, he was a pessimist in so +far as that character applies to a man who looks at the worst +contingencies as well as the best in the human condition. Being little +attracted by excellences of form and rhythm apart from content, he +sometimes, when feeling outran his artistic speed, perpetrated sonnets +in the loosely rhymed Elizabethan fashion, which every right-minded +reviewer said he ought not to have done. + +With sad and hopeless envy, Ella Marchmill had often and often scanned +the rival poet’s work, so much stronger as it always was than her own +feeble lines. She had imitated him, and her inability to touch his +level would send her into fits of despondency. Months passed away thus, +till she observed from the publishers’ list that Trewe had collected +his fugitive pieces into a volume, which was duly issued, and was much +or little praised according to chance, and had a sale quite sufficient +to pay for the printing. + +This step onward had suggested to John Ivy the idea of collecting her +pieces also, or at any rate of making up a book of her rhymes by adding +many in manuscript to the few that had seen the light, for she had been +able to get no great number into print. A ruinous charge was made for +costs of publication; a few reviews noticed her poor little volume; but +nobody talked of it, nobody bought it, and it fell dead in a +fortnight—if it had ever been alive. + +The author’s thoughts were diverted to another groove just then by the +discovery that she was going to have a third child, and the collapse of +her poetical venture had perhaps less effect upon her mind than it +might have done if she had been domestically unoccupied. Her husband +had paid the publisher’s bill with the doctor’s, and there it all had +ended for the time. But, though less than a poet of her century, Ella +was more than a mere multiplier of her kind, and latterly she had begun +to feel the old afflatus once more. And now by an odd conjunction she +found herself in the rooms of Robert Trewe. + +She thoughtfully rose from her chair and searched the apartment with +the interest of a fellow-tradesman. Yes, the volume of his own verse +was among the rest. Though quite familiar with its contents, she read +it here as if it spoke aloud to her, then called up Mrs. Hooper, the +landlady, for some trivial service, and inquired again about the young +man. + +‘Well, I’m sure you’d be interested in him, ma’am, if you could see +him, only he’s so shy that I don’t suppose you will.’ Mrs. Hooper +seemed nothing loth to minister to her tenant’s curiosity about her +predecessor. ‘Lived here long? Yes, nearly two years. He keeps on his +rooms even when he’s not here: the soft air of this place suits his +chest, and he likes to be able to come back at any time. He is mostly +writing or reading, and doesn’t see many people, though, for the matter +of that, he is such a good, kind young fellow that folks would only be +too glad to be friendly with him if they knew him. You don’t meet +kind-hearted people every day.’ + +‘Ah, he’s kind-hearted . . . and good.’ + +‘Yes; he’ll oblige me in anything if I ask him. “Mr. Trewe,” I say to +him sometimes, “you are rather out of spirits.” “Well, I am, Mrs. +Hooper,” he’ll say, “though I don’t know how you should find it out.” +“Why not take a little change?” I ask. Then in a day or two he’ll say +that he will take a trip to Paris, or Norway, or somewhere; and I +assure you he comes back all the better for it.’ + +‘Ah, indeed! His is a sensitive nature, no doubt.’ + +‘Yes. Still he’s odd in some things. Once when he had finished a poem +of his composition late at night he walked up and down the room +rehearsing it; and the floors being so thin—jerry-built houses, you +know, though I say it myself—he kept me awake up above him till I +wished him further . . . But we get on very well.’ + +This was but the beginning of a series of conversations about the +rising poet as the days went on. On one of these occasions Mrs. Hooper +drew Ella’s attention to what she had not noticed before: minute +scribblings in pencil on the wall-paper behind the curtains at the head +of the bed. + +‘O! let me look,’ said Mrs. Marchmill, unable to conceal a rush of +tender curiosity as she bent her pretty face close to the wall. + +‘These,’ said Mrs. Hooper, with the manner of a woman who knew things, +‘are the very beginnings and first thoughts of his verses. He has tried +to rub most of them out, but you can read them still. My belief is that +he wakes up in the night, you know, with some rhyme in his head, and +jots it down there on the wall lest he should forget it by the morning. +Some of these very lines you see here I have seen afterwards in print +in the magazines. Some are newer; indeed, I have not seen that one +before. It must have been done only a few days ago.’ + +‘O yes! . . . ’ + +Ella Marchmill flushed without knowing why, and suddenly wished her +companion would go away, now that the information was imparted. An +indescribable consciousness of personal interest rather than literary +made her anxious to read the inscription alone; and she accordingly +waited till she could do so, with a sense that a great store of emotion +would be enjoyed in the act. + +Perhaps because the sea was choppy outside the Island, Ella’s husband +found it much pleasanter to go sailing and steaming about without his +wife, who was a bad sailor, than with her. He did not disdain to go +thus alone on board the steamboats of the cheap-trippers, where there +was dancing by moonlight, and where the couples would come suddenly +down with a lurch into each other’s arms; for, as he blandly told her, +the company was too mixed for him to take her amid such scenes. Thus, +while this thriving manufacturer got a great deal of change and sea-air +out of his sojourn here, the life, external at least, of Ella was +monotonous enough, and mainly consisted in passing a certain number of +hours each day in bathing and walking up and down a stretch of shore. +But the poetic impulse having again waxed strong, she was possessed by +an inner flame which left her hardly conscious of what was proceeding +around her. + +She had read till she knew by heart Trewe’s last little volume of +verses, and spent a great deal of time in vainly attempting to rival +some of them, till, in her failure, she burst into tears. The personal +element in the magnetic attraction exercised by this circumambient, +unapproachable master of hers was so much stronger than the +intellectual and abstract that she could not understand it. To be sure, +she was surrounded noon and night by his customary environment, which +literally whispered of him to her at every moment; but he was a man she +had never seen, and that all that moved her was the instinct to +specialize a waiting emotion on the first fit thing that came to hand +did not, of course, suggest itself to Ella. + +In the natural way of passion under the too practical conditions which +civilization has devised for its fruition, her husband’s love for her +had not survived, except in the form of fitful friendship, any more +than, or even so much as, her own for him; and, being a woman of very +living ardours, that required sustenance of some sort, they were +beginning to feed on this chancing material, which was, indeed, of a +quality far better than chance usually offers. + +One day the children had been playing hide-and-seek in a closet, +whence, in their excitement, they pulled out some clothing. Mrs. Hooper +explained that it belonged to Mr. Trewe, and hung it up in the closet +again. Possessed of her fantasy, Ella went later in the afternoon, when +nobody was in that part of the house, opened the closet, unhitched one +of the articles, a mackintosh, and put it on, with the waterproof cap +belonging to it. + +‘The mantle of Elijah!’ she said. ‘Would it might inspire me to rival +him, glorious genius that he is!’ + +Her eyes always grew wet when she thought like that, and she turned to +look at herself in the glass. _His_ heart had beat inside that coat, +and _his_ brain had worked under that hat at levels of thought she +would never reach. The consciousness of her weakness beside him made +her feel quite sick. Before she had got the things off her the door +opened, and her husband entered the room. + +‘What the devil—’ + +She blushed, and removed them + +‘I found them in the closet here,’ she said, ‘and put them on in a +freak. What have I else to do? You are always away!’ + +‘Always away? Well . . . ’ + +That evening she had a further talk with the landlady, who might +herself have nourished a half-tender regard for the poet, so ready was +she to discourse ardently about him. + +‘You are interested in Mr. Trewe, I know, ma’am,’ she said; ‘and he has +just sent to say that he is going to call to-morrow afternoon to look +up some books of his that he wants, if I’ll be in, and he may select +them from your room?’ + +‘O yes!’ + +‘You could very well meet Mr Trewe then, if you’d like to be in the +way!’ + +She promised with secret delight, and went to bed musing of him. + +Next morning her husband observed: ‘I’ve been thinking of what you +said, Ell: that I have gone about a good deal and left you without much +to amuse you. Perhaps it’s true. To-day, as there’s not much sea, I’ll +take you with me on board the yacht.’ + +For the first time in her experience of such an offer Ella was not +glad. But she accepted it for the moment. The time for setting out drew +near, and she went to get ready. She stood reflecting. The longing to +see the poet she was now distinctly in love with overpowered all other +considerations. + +‘I don’t want to go,’ she said to herself. ‘I can’t bear to be away! +And I won’t go.’ + +She told her husband that she had changed her mind about wishing to +sail. He was indifferent, and went his way. + +For the rest of the day the house was quiet, the children having gone +out upon the sands. The blinds waved in the sunshine to the soft, +steady stroke of the sea beyond the wall; and the notes of the Green +Silesian band, a troop of foreign gentlemen hired for the season, had +drawn almost all the residents and promenaders away from the vicinity +of Coburg House. A knock was audible at the door. + +Mrs. Marchmill did not hear any servant go to answer it, and she became +impatient. The books were in the room where she sat; but nobody came +up. She rang the bell. + +‘There is some person waiting at the door,’ she said. + +‘O no, ma’am! He’s gone long ago. I answered it.’ + +Mrs. Hooper came in herself. + +‘So disappointing!’ she said. ‘Mr. Trewe not coming after all!’ + +‘But I heard him knock, I fancy!’ + +‘No; that was somebody inquiring for lodgings who came to the wrong +house. I forgot to tell you that Mr. Trewe sent a note just before +lunch to say I needn’t get any tea for him, as he should not require +the books, and wouldn’t come to select them.’ + +Ella was miserable, and for a long time could not even re-read his +mournful ballad on ‘Severed Lives,’ so aching was her erratic little +heart, and so tearful her eyes. When the children came in with wet +stockings, and ran up to her to tell her of their adventures, she could +not feel that she cared about them half as much as usual. + + +‘Mrs. Hooper, have you a photograph of—the gentleman who lived here?’ +She was getting to be curiously shy in mentioning his name. + +‘Why, yes. It’s in the ornamental frame on the mantelpiece in your own +bedroom, ma’am.’ + +‘No; the Royal Duke and Duchess are in that.’ + +‘Yes, so they are; but he’s behind them. He belongs rightly to that +frame, which I bought on purpose; but as he went away he said: “Cover +me up from those strangers that are coming, for God’s sake. I don’t +want them staring at me, and I am sure they won’t want me staring at +them.” So I slipped in the Duke and Duchess temporarily in front of +him, as they had no frame, and Royalties are more suitable for letting +furnished than a private young man. If you take ’em out you’ll see him +under. Lord, ma’am, he wouldn’t mind if he knew it! He didn’t think the +next tenant would be such an attractive lady as you, or he wouldn’t +have thought of hiding himself; perhaps.’ + +‘Is he handsome?’ she asked timidly. + +‘_I_ call him so. Some, perhaps, wouldn’t.’ + +‘Should I?’ she asked, with eagerness. + +‘I think you would, though some would say he’s more striking than +handsome; a large-eyed thoughtful fellow, you know, with a very +electric flash in his eye when he looks round quickly, such as you’d +expect a poet to be who doesn’t get his living by it.’ + +‘How old is he?’ + +‘Several years older than yourself, ma’am; about thirty-one or two, I +think.’ + +Ella was, as a matter of fact, a few months over thirty herself; but +she did not look nearly so much. Though so immature in nature, she was +entering on that tract of life in which emotional women begin to +suspect that last love may be stronger than first love; and she would +soon, alas, enter on the still more melancholy tract when at least the +vainer ones of her sex shrink from receiving a male visitor otherwise +than with their backs to the window or the blinds half down. She +reflected on Mrs. Hooper’s remark, and said no more about age. + +Just then a telegram was brought up. It came from her husband, who had +gone down the Channel as far as Budmouth with his friends in the yacht, +and would not be able to get back till next day. + +After her light dinner Ella idled about the shore with the children +till dusk, thinking of the yet uncovered photograph in her room, with a +serene sense of something ecstatic to come. For, with the subtle +luxuriousness of fancy in which this young woman was an adept, on +learning that her husband was to be absent that night she had refrained +from incontinently rushing upstairs and opening the picture-frame, +preferring to reserve the inspection till she could be alone, and a +more romantic tinge be imparted to the occasion by silence, candles, +solemn sea and stars outside, than was afforded by the garish afternoon +sunlight. + +The children had been sent to bed, and Ella soon followed, though it +was not yet ten o’clock. To gratify her passionate curiosity she now +made her preparations, first getting rid of superfluous garments and +putting on her dressing-gown, then arranging a chair in front of the +table and reading several pages of Trewe’s tenderest utterances. Then +she fetched the portrait-frame to the light, opened the back, took out +the likeness, and set it up before her. + +It was a striking countenance to look upon. The poet wore a luxuriant +black moustache and imperial, and a slouched hat which shaded the +forehead. The large dark eyes, described by the landlady, showed an +unlimited capacity for misery; they looked out from beneath well-shaped +brows as if they were reading the universe in the microcosm of the +confronter’s face, and were not altogether overjoyed at what the +spectacle portended. + +Ella murmured in her lowest, richest, tenderest tone: ‘And it’s _you_ +who’ve so cruelly eclipsed me these many times!’ + +As she gazed long at the portrait she fell into thought, till her eyes +filled with tears, and she touched the cardboard with her lips. Then +she laughed with a nervous lightness, and wiped her eyes. + +She thought how wicked she was, a woman having a husband and three +children, to let her mind stray to a stranger in this unconscionable +manner. No, he was not a stranger! She knew his thoughts and feelings +as well as she knew her own; they were, in fact, the self-same thoughts +and feelings as hers, which her husband distinctly lacked; perhaps +luckily for himself; considering that he had to provide for family +expenses. + +‘He’s nearer my real self, he’s more intimate with the real me than +Will is, after all, even though I’ve never seen him,’ she said. + +She laid his book and picture on the table at the bedside, and when she +was reclining on the pillow she re-read those of Robert Trewe’s verses +which she had marked from time to time as most touching and true. +Putting these aside, she set up the photograph on its edge upon the +coverlet, and contemplated it as she lay. Then she scanned again by the +light of the candle the half-obliterated pencillings on the wall-paper +beside her head. There they were—phrases, couplets, _bouts-rimés_, +beginnings and middles of lines, ideas in the rough, like Shelley’s +scraps, and the least of them so intense, so sweet, so palpitating, +that it seemed as if his very breath, warm and loving, fanned her +cheeks from those walls, walls that had surrounded his head times and +times as they surrounded her own now. He must often have put up his +hand so—with the pencil in it. Yes, the writing was sideways, as it +would be if executed by one who extended his arm thus. + +These inscribed shapes of the poet’s world, + +‘Forms more real than living man, +Nurslings of immortality,’ + + +were, no doubt, the thoughts and spirit-strivings which had come to him +in the dead of night, when he could let himself go and have no fear of +the frost of criticism. No doubt they had often been written up hastily +by the light of the moon, the rays of the lamp, in the blue-grey dawn, +in full daylight perhaps never. And now her hair was dragging where his +arm had lain when he secured the fugitive fancies; she was sleeping on +a poet’s lips, immersed in the very essence of him, permeated by his +spirit as by an ether. + +While she was dreaming the minutes away thus, a footstep came upon the +stairs, and in a moment she heard her husband’s heavy step on the +landing immediately without. + +‘Ell, where are you?’ + +What possessed her she could not have described, but, with an +instinctive objection to let her husband know what she had been doing, +she slipped the photograph under the pillow just as he flung open the +door, with the air of a man who had dined not badly. + +‘O, I beg pardon,’ said William Marchmill. ‘Have you a headache? I am +afraid I have disturbed you.’ + +‘No, I’ve not got a headache,’ said she. ‘How is it you’ve come?’ + +‘Well, we found we could get back in very good time after all, and I +didn’t want to make another day of it, because of going somewhere else +to-morrow.’ + +‘Shall I come down again?’ + +‘O no. I’m as tired as a dog. I’ve had a good feed, and I shall turn in +straight off. I want to get out at six o’clock to-morrow if I can . . . +I shan’t disturb you by my getting up; it will be long before you are +awake.’ And he came forward into the room. + +While her eyes followed his movements, Ella softly pushed the +photograph further out of sight. + +‘Sure you’re not ill?’ he asked, bending over her. + +‘No, only wicked!’ + +‘Never mind that.’ And he stooped and kissed her. + +Next morning Marchmill was called at six o’clock; and in waking and +yawning she heard him muttering to himself: ‘What the deuce is this +that’s been crackling under me so?’ Imagining her asleep he searched +round him and withdrew something. Through her half-opened eyes she +perceived it to be Mr. Trewe. + +‘Well, I’m damned!’ her husband exclaimed. + +‘What, dear?’ said she. + +‘O, you are awake? Ha! ha!’ + +‘What _do_ you mean?’ + +‘Some bloke’s photograph—a friend of our landlady’s, I suppose. I +wonder how it came here; whisked off the table by accident perhaps when +they were making the bed.’ + +‘I was looking at it yesterday, and it must have dropped in then.’ + +‘O, he’s a friend of yours? Bless his picturesque heart!’ + +Ella’s loyalty to the object of her admiration could not endure to hear +him ridiculed. ‘He’s a clever man!’ she said, with a tremor in her +gentle voice which she herself felt to be absurdly uncalled for. + +‘He is a rising poet—the gentleman who occupied two of these rooms +before we came, though I’ve never seen him.’ + +‘How do you know, if you’ve never seen him?’ + +‘Mrs. Hooper told me when she showed me the photograph.’ + +‘O; well, I must up and be off. I shall be home rather early. Sorry I +can’t take you to-day, dear. Mind the children don’t go getting +drowned.’ + +That day Mrs. Marchmill inquired if Mr. Trewe were likely to call at +any other time. + +‘Yes,’ said Mrs. Hooper. ‘He’s coming this day week to stay with a +friend near here till you leave. He’ll be sure to call.’ + +Marchmill did return quite early in the afternoon; and, opening some +letters which had arrived in his absence, declared suddenly that he and +his family would have to leave a week earlier than they had expected to +do—in short, in three days. + +‘Surely we can stay a week longer?’ she pleaded. ‘I like it here.’ + +‘I don’t. It is getting rather slow.’ + +‘Then you might leave me and the children!’ + +‘How perverse you are, Ell! What’s the use? And have to come to fetch +you! No: we’ll all return together; and we’ll make out our time in +North Wales or Brighton a little later on. Besides, you’ve three days +longer yet.’ + +It seemed to be her doom not to meet the man for whose rival talent she +had a despairing admiration, and to whose person she was now absolutely +attached. Yet she determined to make a last effort; and having gathered +from her landlady that Trewe was living in a lonely spot not far from +the fashionable town on the Island opposite, she crossed over in the +packet from the neighbouring pier the following afternoon. + +What a useless journey it was! Ella knew but vaguely where the house +stood, and when she fancied she had found it, and ventured to inquire +of a pedestrian if he lived there, the answer returned by the man was +that he did not know. And if he did live there, how could she call upon +him? Some women might have the assurance to do it, but she had not. How +crazy he would think her. She might have asked him to call upon her, +perhaps; but she had not the courage for that, either. She lingered +mournfully about the picturesque seaside eminence till it was time to +return to the town and enter the steamer for recrossing, reaching home +for dinner without having been greatly missed. + +At the last moment, unexpectedly enough, her husband said that he +should have no objection to letting her and the children stay on till +the end of the week, since she wished to do so, if she felt herself +able to get home without him. She concealed the pleasure this extension +of time gave her; and Marchmill went off the next morning alone. + +But the week passed, and Trewe did not call. + +On Saturday morning the remaining members of the Marchmill family +departed from the place which had been productive of so much fervour in +her. The dreary, dreary train; the sun shining in moted beams upon the +hot cushions; the dusty permanent way; the mean rows of wire—these +things were her accompaniment: while out of the window the deep blue +sea-levels disappeared from her gaze, and with them her poet’s home. +Heavy-hearted, she tried to read, and wept instead. + +Mr. Marchmill was in a thriving way of business, and he and his family +lived in a large new house, which stood in rather extensive grounds a +few miles outside the city wherein he carried on his trade. Ella’s life +was lonely here, as the suburban life is apt to be, particularly at +certain seasons; and she had ample time to indulge her taste for lyric +and elegiac composition. She had hardly got back when she encountered a +piece by Robert Trewe in the new number of her favourite magazine, +which must have been written almost immediately before her visit to +Solentsea, for it contained the very couplet she had seen pencilled on +the wallpaper by the bed, and Mrs. Hooper had declared to be recent. +Ella could resist no longer, but seizing a pen impulsively, wrote to +him as a brother-poet, using the name of John Ivy, congratulating him +in her letter on his triumphant executions in metre and rhythm of +thoughts that moved his soul, as compared with her own brow-beaten +efforts in the same pathetic trade. + +To this address there came a response in a few days, little as she had +dared to hope for it—a civil and brief note, in which the young poet +stated that, though he was not well acquainted with Mr. Ivy’s verse, he +recalled the name as being one he had seen attached to some very +promising pieces; that he was glad to gain Mr. Ivy’s acquaintance by +letter, and should certainly look with much interest for his +productions in the future. + +There must have been something juvenile or timid in her own epistle, as +one ostensibly coming from a man, she declared to herself; for Trewe +quite adopted the tone of an elder and superior in this reply. But what +did it matter? he had replied; he had written to her with his own hand +from that very room she knew so well, for he was now back again in his +quarters. + +The correspondence thus begun was continued for two months or more, +Ella Marchmill sending him from time to time some that she considered +to be the best of her pieces, which he very kindly accepted, though he +did not say he sedulously read them, nor did he send her any of his own +in return. Ella would have been more hurt at this than she was if she +had not known that Trewe laboured under the impression that she was one +of his own sex. + +Yet the situation was unsatisfactory. A flattering little voice told +her that, were he only to see her, matters would be otherwise. No doubt +she would have helped on this by making a frank confession of +womanhood, to begin with, if something had not happened, to her +delight, to render it unnecessary. A friend of her husband’s, the +editor of the most important newspaper in the city and county, who was +dining with them one day, observed during their conversation about the +poet that his (the editor’s) brother the landscape-painter was a friend +of Mr. Trewe’s, and that the two men were at that very moment in Wales +together. + +Ella was slightly acquainted with the editor’s brother. The next +morning down she sat and wrote, inviting him to stay at her house for a +short time on his way back, and requesting him to bring with him, if +practicable, his companion Mr. Trewe, whose acquaintance she was +anxious to make. The answer arrived after some few days. Her +correspondent and his friend Trewe would have much satisfaction in +accepting her invitation on their way southward, which would be on such +and such a day in the following week. + +Ella was blithe and buoyant. Her scheme had succeeded; her beloved +though as yet unseen one was coming. “Behold, he standeth behind our +wall; he looked forth at the windows, showing himself through the +lattice,” she thought ecstatically. “And, lo, the winter is past, the +rain is over and gone, the flowers appear on the earth, the time of the +singing of birds is come, and the voice of the turtle is heard in our +land.” + +But it was necessary to consider the details of lodging and feeding +him. This she did most solicitously, and awaited the pregnant day and +hour. + +It was about five in the afternoon when she heard a ring at the door +and the editor’s brother’s voice in the hall. Poetess as she was, or as +she thought herself, she had not been too sublime that day to dress +with infinite trouble in a fashionable robe of rich material, having a +faint resemblance to the _chiton_ of the Greeks, a style just then in +vogue among ladies of an artistic and romantic turn, which had been +obtained by Ella of her Bond Street dressmaker when she was last in +London. Her visitor entered the drawing-room. She looked towards his +rear; nobody else came through the door. Where, in the name of the God +of Love, was Robert Trewe? + +‘O, I’m sorry,’ said the painter, after their introductory words had +been spoken. ‘Trewe is a curious fellow, you know, Mrs. Marchmill. He +said he’d come; then he said he couldn’t. He’s rather dusty. We’ve been +doing a few miles with knapsacks, you know; and he wanted to get on +home.’ + +‘He—he’s not coming?’ + +‘He’s not; and he asked me to make his apologies.’ + +‘When did you p-p-part from him?’ she asked, her nether lip starting +off quivering so much that it was like a _tremolo_-stop opened in her +speech. She longed to run away from this dreadful bore and cry her eyes +out. + +‘Just now, in the turnpike road yonder there.’ + +‘What! he has actually gone past my gates?’ + +‘Yes. When we got to them—handsome gates they are, too, the finest bit +of modern wrought-iron work I have seen—when we came to them we +stopped, talking there a little while, and then he wished me good-bye +and went on. The truth is, he’s a little bit depressed just now, and +doesn’t want to see anybody. He’s a very good fellow, and a warm +friend, but a little uncertain and gloomy sometimes; he thinks too much +of things. His poetry is rather too erotic and passionate, you know, +for some tastes; and he has just come in for a terrible slating from +the —— _Review_ that was published yesterday; he saw a copy of it at +the station by accident. Perhaps you’ve read it?’ + +‘No.’ + +‘So much the better. O, it is not worth thinking of; just one of those +articles written to order, to please the narrow-minded set of +subscribers upon whom the circulation depends. But he’s upset by it. He +says it is the misrepresentation that hurts him so; that, though he can +stand a fair attack, he can’t stand lies that he’s powerless to refute +and stop from spreading. That’s just Trewe’s weak point. He lives so +much by himself that these things affect him much more than they would +if he were in the bustle of fashionable or commercial life. So he +wouldn’t come here, making the excuse that it all looked so new and +monied—if you’ll pardon—’ + +‘But—he must have known—there was sympathy here! Has he never said +anything about getting letters from this address?’ + +‘Yes, yes, he has, from John Ivy—perhaps a relative of yours, he +thought, visiting here at the time?’ + +‘Did he—like Ivy, did he say?’ + +‘Well, I don’t know that he took any great interest in Ivy.’ + +‘Or in his poems?’ + +‘Or in his poems—so far as I know, that is.’ + +Robert Trewe took no interest in her house, in her poems, or in their +writer. As soon as she could get away she went into the nursery and +tried to let off her emotion by unnecessarily kissing the children, +till she had a sudden sense of disgust at being reminded how +plain-looking they were, like their father. + +The obtuse and single-minded landscape-painter never once perceived +from her conversation that it was only Trewe she wanted, and not +himself. He made the best of his visit, seeming to enjoy the society of +Ella’s husband, who also took a great fancy to him, and showed him +everywhere about the neighbourhood, neither of them noticing Ella’s +mood. + +The painter had been gone only a day or two when, while sitting +upstairs alone one morning, she glanced over the London paper just +arrived, and read the following paragraph:- + +‘SUICIDE OF A POET + + +‘Mr. Robert Trewe, who has been favourably known for some years as one +of our rising lyrists, committed suicide at his lodgings at Solentsea +on Saturday evening last by shooting himself in the right temple with a +revolver. Readers hardly need to be reminded that Mr. Trewe has +recently attracted the attention of a much wider public than had +hitherto known him, by his new volume of verse, mostly of an +impassioned kind, entitled “Lyrics to a Woman Unknown,” which has been +already favourably noticed in these pages for the extraordinary gamut +of feeling it traverses, and which has been made the subject of a +severe, if not ferocious, criticism in the —— Review. It is supposed, +though not certainly known, that the article may have partially +conduced to the sad act, as a copy of the review in question was found +on his writing-table; and he has been observed to be in a somewhat +depressed state of mind since the critique appeared.’ + + +Then came the report of the inquest, at which the following letter was +read, it having been addressed to a friend at a distance:- + +‘DEAR ——,—Before these lines reach your hands I shall be delivered from +the inconveniences of seeing, hearing, and knowing more of the things +around me. I will not trouble you by giving my reasons for the step I +have taken, though I can assure you they were sound and logical. +Perhaps had I been blessed with a mother, or a sister, or a female +friend of another sort tenderly devoted to me, I might have thought it +worth while to continue my present existence. I have long dreamt of +such an unattainable creature, as you know, and she, this +undiscoverable, elusive one, inspired my last volume; the imaginary +woman alone, for, in spite of what has been said in some quarters, +there is no real woman behind the title. She has continued to the last +unrevealed, unmet, unwon. I think it desirable to mention this in order +that no blame may attach to any real woman as having been the cause of +my decease by cruel or cavalier treatment of me. Tell my landlady that +I am sorry to have caused her this unpleasantness; but my occupancy of +the rooms will soon be forgotten. There are ample funds in my name at +the bank to pay all expenses. R. TREWE.’ + + +Ella sat for a while as if stunned, then rushed into the adjoining +chamber and flung herself upon her face on the bed. + +Her grief and distraction shook her to pieces; and she lay in this +frenzy of sorrow for more than an hour. Broken words came every now and +then from her quivering lips: ‘O, if he had only known of me—known of +me—me! . . . O, if I had only once met him—only once; and put my hand +upon his hot forehead—kissed him—let him know how I loved him—that I +would have suffered shame and scorn, would have lived and died, for +him! Perhaps it would have saved his dear life! . . . But no—it was not +allowed! God is a jealous God; and that happiness was not for him and +me!’ + +All possibilities were over; the meeting was stultified. Yet it was +almost visible to her in her fantasy even now, though it could never be +substantiated— + +‘The hour which might have been, yet might not be, +Which man’s and woman’s heart conceived and bore, +Yet whereof life was barren.’ + +She wrote to the landlady at Solentsea in the third person, in as +subdued a style as she could command, enclosing a postal order for a +sovereign, and informing Mrs. Hooper that Mrs. Marchmill had seen in +the papers the sad account of the poet’s death, and having been, as +Mrs. Hooper was aware, much interested in Mr. Trewe during her stay at +Coburg House, she would be obliged if Mrs. Hooper could obtain a small +portion of his hair before his coffin was closed down, and send it her +as a memorial of him, as also the photograph that was in the frame. + +By the return-post a letter arrived containing what had been requested. +Ella wept over the portrait and secured it in her private drawer; the +lock of hair she tied with white ribbon and put in her bosom, whence +she drew it and kissed it every now and then in some unobserved nook. + +‘What’s the matter?’ said her husband, looking up from his newspaper on +one of these occasions. ‘Crying over something? A lock of hair? Whose +is it?’ + +‘He’s dead!’ she murmured. + +‘Who?’ + +‘I don’t want to tell you, Will, just now, unless you insist!’ she +said, a sob hanging heavy in her voice. + +‘O, all right.’ + +‘Do you mind my refusing? I will tell you some day.’ + +‘It doesn’t matter in the least, of course.’ + +He walked away whistling a few bars of no tune in particular; and when +he had got down to his factory in the city the subject came into +Marchmill’s head again. + +He, too, was aware that a suicide had taken place recently at the house +they had occupied at Solentsea. Having seen the volume of poems in his +wife’s hand of late, and heard fragments of the landlady’s conversation +about Trewe when they were her tenants, he all at once said to himself; +‘Why of course it’s he! How the devil did she get to know him? What sly +animals women are!’ + +Then he placidly dismissed the matter, and went on with his daily +affairs. By this time Ella at home had come to a determination. Mrs. +Hooper, in sending the hair and photograph, had informed her of the day +of the funeral; and as the morning and noon wore on an overpowering +wish to know where they were laying him took possession of the +sympathetic woman. Caring very little now what her husband or any one +else might think of her eccentricities; she wrote Marchmill a brief +note, stating that she was called away for the afternoon and evening, +but would return on the following morning. This she left on his desk, +and having given the same information to the servants, went out of the +house on foot. + +When Mr. Marchmill reached home early in the afternoon the servants +looked anxious. The nurse took him privately aside, and hinted that her +mistress’s sadness during the past few days had been such that she +feared she had gone out to drown herself. Marchmill reflected. Upon the +whole he thought that she had not done that. Without saying whither he +was bound he also started off, telling them not to sit up for him. He +drove to the railway-station, and took a ticket for Solentsea. + +It was dark when he reached the place, though he had come by a fast +train, and he knew that if his wife had preceded him thither it could +only have been by a slower train, arriving not a great while before his +own. The season at Solentsea was now past: the parade was gloomy, and +the flys were few and cheap. He asked the way to the Cemetery, and soon +reached it. The gate was locked, but the keeper let him in, declaring, +however, that there was nobody within the precincts. Although it was +not late, the autumnal darkness had now become intense; and he found +some difficulty in keeping to the serpentine path which led to the +quarter where, as the man had told him, the one or two interments for +the day had taken place. He stepped upon the grass, and, stumbling over +some pegs, stooped now and then to discern if possible a figure against +the sky. + +He could see none; but lighting on a spot where the soil was trodden, +beheld a crouching object beside a newly made grave. She heard him, and +sprang up. + +‘Ell, how silly this is!’ he said indignantly. ‘Running away from +home—I never heard such a thing! Of course I am not jealous of this +unfortunate man; but it is too ridiculous that you, a married woman +with three children and a fourth coming, should go losing your head +like this over a dead lover! . . . Do you know you were locked in? You +might not have been able to get out all night.’ + +She did not answer. + +‘I hope it didn’t go far between you and him, for your own sake.’ + +‘Don’t insult me, Will.’ + +‘Mind, I won’t have any more of this sort of thing; do you hear?’ + +‘Very well,’ she said. + +He drew her arm within his own, and conducted her out of the Cemetery. +It was impossible to get back that night; and not wishing to be +recognized in their present sorry condition, he took her to a miserable +little coffee-house close to the station, whence they departed early in +the morning, travelling almost without speaking, under the sense that +it was one of those dreary situations occurring in married life which +words could not mend, and reaching their own door at noon. + +The months passed, and neither of the twain ever ventured to start a +conversation upon this episode. Ella seemed to be only too frequently +in a sad and listless mood, which might almost have been called pining. +The time was approaching when she would have to undergo the stress of +childbirth for a fourth time, and that apparently did not tend to raise +her spirits. + +‘I don’t think I shall get over it this time!’ she said one day. + +‘Pooh! what childish foreboding! Why shouldn’t it be as well now as +ever?’ + +She shook her head. ‘I feel almost sure I am going to die; and I should +be glad, if it were not for Nelly, and Frank, and Tiny.’ + +‘And me!’ + +‘You’ll soon find somebody to fill my place,’ she murmured, with a sad +smile. ‘And you’ll have a perfect right to; I assure you of that.’ + +‘Ell, you are not thinking still about that—poetical friend of yours?’ + +She neither admitted nor denied the charge. ‘I am not going to get over +my illness this time,’ she reiterated. ‘Something tells me I shan’t.’ + +This view of things was rather a bad beginning, as it usually is; and, +in fact, six weeks later, in the month of May, she was lying in her +room, pulseless and bloodless, with hardly strength enough left to +follow up one feeble breath with another, the infant for whose +unnecessary life she was slowly parting with her own being fat and +well. Just before her death she spoke to Marchmill softly:- + +‘Will, I want to confess to you the entire circumstances of that—about +you know what—that time we visited Solentsea. I can’t tell what +possessed me—how I could forget you so, my husband! But I had got into +a morbid state: I thought you had been unkind; that you had neglected +me; that you weren’t up to my intellectual level, while he was, and far +above it. I wanted a fuller appreciator, perhaps, rather than another +lover—’ + +She could get no further then for very exhaustion; and she went off in +sudden collapse a few hours later, without having said anything more to +her husband on the subject of her love for the poet. William Marchmill, +in truth, like most husbands of several years’ standing, was little +disturbed by retrospective jealousies, and had not shown the least +anxiety to press her for confessions concerning a man dead and gone +beyond any power of inconveniencing him more. + +But when she had been buried a couple of years it chanced one day that, +in turning over some forgotten papers that he wished to destroy before +his second wife entered the house, he lighted on a lock of hair in an +envelope, with the photograph of the deceased poet, a date being +written on the back in his late wife’s hand. It was that of the time +they spent at Solentsea. + +Marchmill looked long and musingly at the hair and portrait, for +something struck him. Fetching the little boy who had been the death of +his mother, now a noisy toddler, he took him on his knee, held the lock +of hair against the child’s head, and set up the photograph on the +table behind, so that he could closely compare the features each +countenance presented. There were undoubtedly strong traces of +resemblance; the dreamy and peculiar expression of the poet’s face sat, +as the transmitted idea, upon the child’s, and the hair was of the same +hue. + +‘I’m damned if I didn’t think so!’ murmured Marchmill. ‘Then she _did_ +play me false with that fellow at the lodgings! Let me see: the +dates—the second week in August . . . the third week in May . . . Yes . +. . yes . . . Get away, you poor little brat! You are nothing to me!’ + +1893. + + + + +THE THREE STRANGERS + + +Among the few features of agricultural England which retain an +appearance but little modified by the lapse of centuries, may be +reckoned the high, grassy and furzy downs, coombs, or ewe-leases, as +they are indifferently called, that fill a large area of certain +counties in the south and south-west. If any mark of human occupation +is met with hereon, it usually takes the form of the solitary cottage +of some shepherd. + +Fifty years ago such a lonely cottage stood on such a down, and may +possibly be standing there now. In spite of its loneliness, however, +the spot, by actual measurement, was not more than five miles from a +county-town. Yet that affected it little. Five miles of irregular +upland, during the long inimical seasons, with their sleets, snows, +rains, and mists, afford withdrawing space enough to isolate a Timon or +a Nebuchadnezzar; much less, in fair weather, to please that less +repellent tribe, the poets, philosophers, artists, and others who +‘conceive and meditate of pleasant things.’ + +Some old earthen camp or barrow, some clump of trees, at least some +starved fragment of ancient hedge is usually taken advantage of in the +erection of these forlorn dwellings. But, in the present case, such a +kind of shelter had been disregarded. Higher Crowstairs, as the house +was called, stood quite detached and undefended. The only reason for +its precise situation seemed to be the crossing of two footpaths at +right angles hard by, which may have crossed there and thus for a good +five hundred years. Hence the house was exposed to the elements on all +sides. But, though the wind up here blew unmistakably when it did blow, +and the rain hit hard whenever it fell, the various weathers of the +winter season were not quite so formidable on the coomb as they were +imagined to be by dwellers on low ground. The raw rimes were not so +pernicious as in the hollows, and the frosts were scarcely so severe. +When the shepherd and his family who tenanted the house were pitied for +their sufferings from the exposure, they said that upon the whole they +were less inconvenienced by ‘wuzzes and flames’ (hoarses and phlegms) +than when they had lived by the stream of a snug neighbouring valley. + +The night of March 28, 182-, was precisely one of the nights that were +wont to call forth these expressions of commiseration. The level +rainstorm smote walls, slopes, and hedges like the clothyard shafts of +Senlac and Crecy. Such sheep and outdoor animals as had no shelter +stood with their buttocks to the winds; while the tails of little birds +trying to roost on some scraggy thorn were blown inside-out like +umbrellas. The gable-end of the cottage was stained with wet, and the +eavesdroppings flapped against the wall. Yet never was commiseration +for the shepherd more misplaced. For that cheerful rustic was +entertaining a large party in glorification of the christening of his +second girl. + +The guests had arrived before the rain began to fall, and they were all +now assembled in the chief or living room of the dwelling. A glance +into the apartment at eight o’clock on this eventful evening would have +resulted in the opinion that it was as cosy and comfortable a nook as +could be wished for in boisterous weather. The calling of its +inhabitant was proclaimed by a number of highly-polished sheep-crooks +without stems that were hung ornamentally over the fireplace, the curl +of each shining crook varying from the antiquated type engraved in the +patriarchal pictures of old family Bibles to the most approved fashion +of the last local sheep-fair. The room was lighted by half-a-dozen +candles, having wicks only a trifle smaller than the grease which +enveloped them, in candlesticks that were never used but at high-days, +holy-days, and family feasts. The lights were scattered about the room, +two of them standing on the chimney-piece. This position of candles was +in itself significant. Candles on the chimney-piece always meant a +party. + +On the hearth, in front of a back-brand to give substance, blazed a +fire of thorns, that crackled ‘like the laughter of the fool.’ + +Nineteen persons were gathered here. Of these, five women, wearing +gowns of various bright hues, sat in chairs along the wall; girls shy +and not shy filled the window-bench; four men, including Charley Jake +the hedge-carpenter, Elijah New the parish-clerk, and John Pitcher, a +neighbouring dairyman, the shepherd’s father-in-law, lolled in the +settle; a young man and maid, who were blushing over tentative +_pourparlers_ on a life-companionship, sat beneath the corner-cupboard; +and an elderly engaged man of fifty or upward moved restlessly about +from spots where his betrothed was not to the spot where she was. +Enjoyment was pretty general, and so much the more prevailed in being +unhampered by conventional restrictions. Absolute confidence in each +other’s good opinion begat perfect ease, while the finishing stroke of +manner, amounting to a truly princely serenity, was lent to the +majority by the absence of any expression or trait denoting that they +wished to get on in the world, enlarge their minds, or do any eclipsing +thing whatever—which nowadays so generally nips the bloom and +_bonhomie_ of all except the two extremes of the social scale. + +Shepherd Fennel had married well, his wife being a dairyman’s daughter +from a vale at a distance, who brought fifty guineas in her pocket—and +kept them there, till they should be required for ministering to the +needs of a coming family. This frugal woman had been somewhat exercised +as to the character that should be given to the gathering. A sit-still +party had its advantages; but an undisturbed position of ease in chairs +and settles was apt to lead on the men to such an unconscionable deal +of toping that they would sometimes fairly drink the house dry. A +dancing-party was the alternative; but this, while avoiding the +foregoing objection on the score of good drink, had a counterbalancing +disadvantage in the matter of good victuals, the ravenous appetites +engendered by the exercise causing immense havoc in the buttery. +Shepherdess Fennel fell back upon the intermediate plan of mingling +short dances with short periods of talk and singing, so as to hinder +any ungovernable rage in either. But this scheme was entirely confined +to her own gentle mind: the shepherd himself was in the mood to exhibit +the most reckless phases of hospitality. + +The fiddler was a boy of those parts, about twelve years of age, who +had a wonderful dexterity in jigs and reels, though his fingers were so +small and short as to necessitate a constant shifting for the high +notes, from which he scrambled back to the first position with sounds +not of unmixed purity of tone. At seven the shrill tweedle-dee of this +youngster had begun, accompanied by a booming ground-bass from Elijah +New, the parish-clerk, who had thoughtfully brought with him his +favourite musical instrument, the serpent. Dancing was instantaneous, +Mrs. Fennel privately enjoining the players on no account to let the +dance exceed the length of a quarter of an hour. + +But Elijah and the boy, in the excitement of their position, quite +forgot the injunction. Moreover, Oliver Giles, a man of seventeen, one +of the dancers, who was enamoured of his partner, a fair girl of +thirty-three rolling years, had recklessly handed a new crown-piece to +the musicians, as a bribe to keep going as long as they had muscle and +wind. Mrs. Fennel, seeing the steam begin to generate on the +countenances of her guests, crossed over and touched the fiddler’s +elbow and put her hand on the serpent’s mouth. But they took no notice, +and fearing she might lose her character of genial hostess if she were +to interfere too markedly, she retired and sat down helpless. And so +the dance whizzed on with cumulative fury, the performers moving in +their planet-like courses, direct and retrograde, from apogee to +perigee, till the hand of the well-kicked clock at the bottom of the +room had travelled over the circumference of an hour. + +While these cheerful events were in course of enactment within Fennel’s +pastoral dwelling, an incident having considerable bearing on the party +had occurred in the gloomy night without. Mrs. Fennel’s concern about +the growing fierceness of the dance corresponded in point of time with +the ascent of a human figure to the solitary hill of Higher Crowstairs +from the direction of the distant town. This personage strode on +through the rain without a pause, following the little-worn path which, +further on in its course, skirted the shepherd’s cottage. + +It was nearly the time of full moon, and on this account, though the +sky was lined with a uniform sheet of dripping cloud, ordinary objects +out of doors were readily visible. The sad wan light revealed the +lonely pedestrian to be a man of supple frame; his gait suggested that +he had somewhat passed the period of perfect and instinctive agility, +though not so far as to be otherwise than rapid of motion when occasion +required. At a rough guess, he might have been about forty years of +age. He appeared tall, but a recruiting sergeant, or other person +accustomed to the judging of men’s heights by the eye, would have +discerned that this was chiefly owing to his gauntness, and that he was +not more than five-feet-eight or nine. + +Notwithstanding the regularity of his tread, there was caution in it, +as in that of one who mentally feels his way; and despite the fact that +it was not a black coat nor a dark garment of any sort that he wore, +there was something about him which suggested that he naturally +belonged to the black-coated tribes of men. His clothes were of +fustian, and his boots hobnailed, yet in his progress he showed not the +mud-accustomed bearing of hobnailed and fustianed peasantry. + +By the time that he had arrived abreast of the shepherd’s premises the +rain came down, or rather came along, with yet more determined +violence. The outskirts of the little settlement partially broke the +force of wind and rain, and this induced him to stand still. The most +salient of the shepherd’s domestic erections was an empty sty at the +forward corner of his hedgeless garden, for in these latitudes the +principle of masking the homelier features of your establishment by a +conventional frontage was unknown. The traveller’s eye was attracted to +this small building by the pallid shine of the wet slates that covered +it. He turned aside, and, finding it empty, stood under the pent-roof +for shelter. + +While he stood, the boom of the serpent within the adjacent house, and +the lesser strains of the fiddler, reached the spot as an accompaniment +to the surging hiss of the flying rain on the sod, its louder beating +on the cabbage-leaves of the garden, on the eight or ten beehives just +discernible by the path, and its dripping from the eaves into a row of +buckets and pans that had been placed under the walls of the cottage. +For at Higher Crowstairs, as at all such elevated domiciles, the grand +difficulty of housekeeping was an insufficiency of water; and a casual +rainfall was utilized by turning out, as catchers, every utensil that +the house contained. Some queer stories might be told of the +contrivances for economy in suds and dish-waters that are absolutely +necessitated in upland habitations during the droughts of summer. But +at this season there were no such exigencies; a mere acceptance of what +the skies bestowed was sufficient for an abundant store. + +At last the notes of the serpent ceased and the house was silent. This +cessation of activity aroused the solitary pedestrian from the reverie +into which he had lapsed, and, emerging from the shed, with an +apparently new intention, he walked up the path to the house-door. +Arrived here, his first act was to kneel down on a large stone beside +the row of vessels, and to drink a copious draught from one of them. +Having quenched his thirst he rose and lifted his hand to knock, but +paused with his eye upon the panel. Since the dark surface of the wood +revealed absolutely nothing, it was evident that he must be mentally +looking through the door, as if he wished to measure thereby all the +possibilities that a house of this sort might include, and how they +might bear upon the question of his entry. + +In his indecision he turned and surveyed the scene around. Not a soul +was anywhere visible. The garden-path stretched downward from his feet, +gleaming like the track of a snail; the roof of the little well (mostly +dry), the well-cover, the top rail of the garden-gate, were varnished +with the same dull liquid glaze; while, far away in the vale, a faint +whiteness of more than usual extent showed that the rivers were high in +the meads. Beyond all this winked a few bleared lamplights through the +beating drops—lights that denoted the situation of the county-town from +which he had appeared to come. The absence of all notes of life in that +direction seemed to clinch his intentions, and he knocked at the door. + +Within, a desultory chat had taken the place of movement and musical +sound. The hedge-carpenter was suggesting a song to the company, which +nobody just then was inclined to undertake, so that the knock afforded +a not unwelcome diversion. + +‘Walk in!’ said the shepherd promptly. + +The latch clicked upward, and out of the night our pedestrian appeared +upon the door-mat. The shepherd arose, snuffed two of the nearest +candles, and turned to look at him. + +Their light disclosed that the stranger was dark in complexion and not +unprepossessing as to feature. His hat, which for a moment he did not +remove, hung low over his eyes, without concealing that they were +large, open, and determined, moving with a flash rather than a glance +round the room. He seemed pleased with his survey, and, baring his +shaggy head, said, in a rich deep voice, ‘The rain is so heavy, +friends, that I ask leave to come in and rest awhile.’ + +‘To be sure, stranger,’ said the shepherd. ‘And faith, you’ve been +lucky in choosing your time, for we are having a bit of a fling for a +glad cause—though, to be sure, a man could hardly wish that glad cause +to happen more than once a year.’ + +‘Nor less,’ spoke up a woman. ‘For ’tis best to get your family over +and done with, as soon as you can, so as to be all the earlier out of +the fag o’t.’ + +‘And what may be this glad cause?’ asked the stranger. + +‘A birth and christening,’ said the shepherd. + +The stranger hoped his host might not be made unhappy either by too +many or too few of such episodes, and being invited by a gesture to a +pull at the mug, he readily acquiesced. His manner, which, before +entering, had been so dubious, was now altogether that of a careless +and candid man. + +‘Late to be traipsing athwart this coomb—hey?’ said the engaged man of +fifty. + +‘Late it is, master, as you say.—I’ll take a seat in the +chimney-corner, if you have nothing to urge against it, ma’am; for I am +a little moist on the side that was next the rain.’ + +Mrs. Shepherd Fennel assented, and made room for the self-invited +comer, who, having got completely inside the chimney-corner, stretched +out his legs and his arms with the expansiveness of a person quite at +home. + +‘Yes, I am rather cracked in the vamp,’ he said freely, seeing that the +eyes of the shepherd’s wife fell upon his boots, ‘and I am not well +fitted either. I have had some rough times lately, and have been forced +to pick up what I can get in the way of wearing, but I must find a suit +better fit for working-days when I reach home.’ + +‘One of hereabouts?’ she inquired. + +‘Not quite that—further up the country.’ + +‘I thought so. And so be I; and by your tongue you come from my +neighbourhood.’ + +‘But you would hardly have heard of me,’ he said quickly. ‘My time +would be long before yours, ma’am, you see.’ + +This testimony to the youthfulness of his hostess had the effect of +stopping her cross-examination. + +‘There is only one thing more wanted to make me happy,’ continued the +new-comer. ‘And that is a little baccy, which I am sorry to say I am +out of.’ + +‘I’ll fill your pipe,’ said the shepherd. + +‘I must ask you to lend me a pipe likewise.’ + +‘A smoker, and no pipe about ‘ee?’ + +‘I have dropped it somewhere on the road.’ + +The shepherd filled and handed him a new clay pipe, saying, as he did +so, ‘Hand me your baccy-box—I’ll fill that too, now I am about it.’ + +The man went through the movement of searching his pockets. + +‘Lost that too?’ said his entertainer, with some surprise. + +‘I am afraid so,’ said the man with some confusion. ‘Give it to me in a +screw of paper.’ Lighting his pipe at the candle with a suction that +drew the whole flame into the bowl, he resettled himself in the corner +and bent his looks upon the faint steam from his damp legs, as if he +wished to say no more. + +Meanwhile the general body of guests had been taking little notice of +this visitor by reason of an absorbing discussion in which they were +engaged with the band about a tune for the next dance. The matter being +settled, they were about to stand up when an interruption came in the +shape of another knock at the door. + +At sound of the same the man in the chimney-corner took up the poker +and began stirring the brands as if doing it thoroughly were the one +aim of his existence; and a second time the shepherd said, ‘Walk in!’ +In a moment another man stood upon the straw-woven door-mat. He too was +a stranger. + +This individual was one of a type radically different from the first. +There was more of the commonplace in his manner, and a certain jovial +cosmopolitanism sat upon his features. He was several years older than +the first arrival, his hair being slightly frosted, his eyebrows +bristly, and his whiskers cut back from his cheeks. His face was rather +full and flabby, and yet it was not altogether a face without power. A +few grog-blossoms marked the neighbourhood of his nose. He flung back +his long drab greatcoat, revealing that beneath it he wore a suit of +cinder-gray shade throughout, large heavy seals, of some metal or other +that would take a polish, dangling from his fob as his only personal +ornament. Shaking the water-drops from his low-crowned glazed hat, he +said, ‘I must ask for a few minutes’ shelter, comrades, or I shall be +wetted to my skin before I get to Casterbridge.’ + +‘Make yourself at home, master,’ said the shepherd, perhaps a trifle +less heartily than on the first occasion. Not that Fennel had the least +tinge of niggardliness in his composition; but the room was far from +large, spare chairs were not numerous, and damp companions were not +altogether desirable at close quarters for the women and girls in their +bright-coloured gowns. + +However, the second comer, after taking off his greatcoat, and hanging +his hat on a nail in one of the ceiling-beams as if he had been +specially invited to put it there, advanced and sat down at the table. +This had been pushed so closely into the chimney-corner, to give all +available room to the dancers, that its inner edge grazed the elbow of +the man who had ensconced himself by the fire; and thus the two +strangers were brought into close companionship. They nodded to each +other by way of breaking the ice of unacquaintance, and the first +stranger handed his neighbour the family mug—a huge vessel of brown +ware, having its upper edge worn away like a threshold by the rub of +whole generations of thirsty lips that had gone the way of all flesh, +and bearing the following inscription burnt upon its rotund side in +yellow letters + +THERE IS NO FUN +UNTiLL i CUM. + + +The other man, nothing loth, raised the mug to his lips, and drank on, +and on, and on—till a curious blueness overspread the countenance of +the shepherd’s wife, who had regarded with no little surprise the first +stranger’s free offer to the second of what did not belong to him to +dispense. + +‘I knew it!’ said the toper to the shepherd with much satisfaction. +‘When I walked up your garden before coming in, and saw the hives all +of a row, I said to myself; “Where there’s bees there’s honey, and +where there’s honey there’s mead.” But mead of such a truly comfortable +sort as this I really didn’t expect to meet in my older days.’ He took +yet another pull at the mug, till it assumed an ominous elevation. + +‘Glad you enjoy it!’ said the shepherd warmly. + +‘It is goodish mead,’ assented Mrs. Fennel, with an absence of +enthusiasm which seemed to say that it was possible to buy praise for +one’s cellar at too heavy a price. ‘It is trouble enough to make—and +really I hardly think we shall make any more. For honey sells well, and +we ourselves can make shift with a drop o’ small mead and metheglin for +common use from the comb-washings.’ + +‘O, but you’ll never have the heart!’ reproachfully cried the stranger +in cinder-gray, after taking up the mug a third time and setting it +down empty. ‘I love mead, when ’tis old like this, as I love to go to +church o’ Sundays, or to relieve the needy any day of the week.’ + +‘Ha, ha, ha!’ said the man in the chimney-corner, who, in spite of the +taciturnity induced by the pipe of tobacco, could not or would not +refrain from this slight testimony to his comrade’s humour. + +Now the old mead of those days, brewed of the purest first-year or +maiden honey, four pounds to the gallon—with its due complement of +white of eggs, cinnamon, ginger, cloves, mace, rosemary, yeast, and +processes of working, bottling, and cellaring—tasted remarkably strong; +but it did not taste so strong as it actually was. Hence, presently, +the stranger in cinder-gray at the table, moved by its creeping +influence, unbuttoned his waistcoat, threw himself back in his chair, +spread his legs, and made his presence felt in various ways. + +‘Well, well, as I say,’ he resumed, ‘I am going to Casterbridge, and to +Casterbridge I must go. I should have been almost there by this time; +but the rain drove me into your dwelling, and I’m not sorry for it.’ + +‘You don’t live in Casterbridge?’ said the shepherd. + +‘Not as yet; though I shortly mean to move there.’ + +‘Going to set up in trade, perhaps?’ + +‘No, no,’ said the shepherd’s wife. ‘It is easy to see that the +gentleman is rich, and don’t want to work at anything.’ + +The cinder-gray stranger paused, as if to consider whether he would +accept that definition of himself. He presently rejected it by +answering, ‘Rich is not quite the word for me, dame. I do work, and I +must work. And even if I only get to Casterbridge by midnight I must +begin work there at eight to-morrow morning. Yes, het or wet, blow or +snow, famine or sword, my day’s work to-morrow must be done.’ + +‘Poor man! Then, in spite o’ seeming, you be worse off than we?’ +replied the shepherd’s wife. + +‘’Tis the nature of my trade, men and maidens. ’Tis the nature of my +trade more than my poverty . . . But really and truly I must up and +off, or I shan’t get a lodging in the town.’ However, the speaker did +not move, and directly added, ‘There’s time for one more draught of +friendship before I go; and I’d perform it at once if the mug were not +dry.’ + +‘Here’s a mug o’ small,’ said Mrs. Fennel. ‘Small, we call it, though +to be sure ’tis only the first wash o’ the combs.’ + +‘No,’ said the stranger disdainfully. ‘I won’t spoil your first +kindness by partaking o’ your second.’ + +‘Certainly not,’ broke in Fennel. ‘We don’t increase and multiply every +day, and I’ll fill the mug again.’ He went away to the dark place under +the stairs where the barrel stood. The shepherdess followed him. + +‘Why should you do this?’ she said reproachfully, as soon as they were +alone. ‘He’s emptied it once, though it held enough for ten people; and +now he’s not contented wi’ the small, but must needs call for more o’ +the strong! And a stranger unbeknown to any of us. For my part, I don’t +like the look o’ the man at all.’ + +‘But he’s in the house, my honey; and ’tis a wet night, and a +christening. Daze it, what’s a cup of mead more or less? There’ll be +plenty more next bee-burning.’ + +‘Very well—this time, then,’ she answered, looking wistfully at the +barrel. ‘But what is the man’s calling, and where is he one of; that he +should come in and join us like this?’ + +‘I don’t know. I’ll ask him again.’ + +The catastrophe of having the mug drained dry at one pull by the +stranger in cinder-gray was effectually guarded against this time by +Mrs. Fennel. She poured out his allowance in a small cup, keeping the +large one at a discreet distance from him. When he had tossed off his +portion the shepherd renewed his inquiry about the stranger’s +occupation. + +The latter did not immediately reply, and the man in the +chimney-corner, with sudden demonstrativeness, said, ‘Anybody may know +my trade—I’m a wheelwright.’ + +‘A very good trade for these parts,’ said the shepherd. + +‘And anybody may know mine—if they’ve the sense to find it out,’ said +the stranger in cinder-gray. + +‘You may generally tell what a man is by his claws,’ observed the +hedge-carpenter, looking at his own hands. ‘My fingers be as full of +thorns as an old pin-cushion is of pins.’ + +The hands of the man in the chimney-corner instinctively sought the +shade, and he gazed into the fire as he resumed his pipe. The man at +the table took up the hedge-carpenter’s remark, and added smartly, +‘True; but the oddity of my trade is that, instead of setting a mark +upon me, it sets a mark upon my customers.’ + +No observation being offered by anybody in elucidation of this enigma, +the shepherd’s wife once more called for a song. The same obstacles +presented themselves as at the former time—one had no voice, another +had forgotten the first verse. The stranger at the table, whose soul +had now risen to a good working temperature, relieved the difficulty by +exclaiming that, to start the company, he would sing himself. Thrusting +one thumb into the arm-hole of his waistcoat, he waved the other hand +in the air, and, with an extemporizing gaze at the shining sheep-crooks +above the mantelpiece, began:— + +‘O my trade it is the rarest one, +Simple shepherds all— +My trade is a sight to see; +For my customers I tie, and take them up on high, +And waft ’em to a far countree!’ + + +The room was silent when he had finished the verse—with one exception, +that of the man in the chimney-corner, who, at the singer’s word, +‘Chorus! ‘joined him in a deep bass voice of musical relish— + +‘And waft ’em to a far countree!’ + + +Oliver Giles, John Pitcher the dairyman, the parish-clerk, the engaged +man of fifty, the row of young women against the wall, seemed lost in +thought not of the gayest kind. The shepherd looked meditatively on the +ground, the shepherdess gazed keenly at the singer, and with some +suspicion; she was doubting whether this stranger were merely singing +an old song from recollection, or was composing one there and then for +the occasion. All were as perplexed at the obscure revelation as the +guests at Belshazzar’s Feast, except the man in the chimney-corner, who +quietly said, ‘Second verse, stranger,’ and smoked on. + +The singer thoroughly moistened himself from his lips inwards, and went +on with the next stanza as requested:- + +My tools are but common ones, +Simple shepherds all— +My tools are no sight to see: +A little hempen string, and a post whereon to swing, +Are implements enough for me!’ + + +Shepherd Fennel glanced round. There was no longer any doubt that the +stranger was answering his question rhythmically. The guests one and +all started back with suppressed exclamations. The young woman engaged +to the man of fifty fainted half-way, and would have proceeded, but +finding him wanting in alacrity for catching her she sat down +trembling. + +‘O, he’s the—!’ whispered the people in the background, mentioning the +name of an ominous public officer. ‘He’s come to do it! ’Tis to be at +Casterbridge jail to-morrow—the man for sheep-stealing—the poor +clock-maker we heard of; who used to live away at Shottsford and had no +work to do—Timothy Summers, whose family were a-starving, and so he +went out of Shottsford by the high-road, and took a sheep in open +daylight, defying the farmer and the farmer’s wife and the farmer’s +lad, and every man jack among ’em. He’ (and they nodded towards the +stranger of the deadly trade) ‘is come from up the country to do it +because there’s not enough to do in his own county-town, and he’s got +the place here now our own county man’s dead; he’s going to live in the +same cottage under the prison wall.’ + +The stranger in cinder-gray took no notice of this whispered string of +observations, but again wetted his lips. Seeing that his friend in the +chimney-corner was the only one who reciprocated his joviality in any +way, he held out his cup towards that appreciative comrade, who also +held out his own. They clinked together, the eyes of the rest of the +room hanging upon the singer’s actions. He parted his lips for the +third verse; but at that moment another knock was audible upon the +door. This time the knock was faint and hesitating. + +The company seemed scared; the shepherd looked with consternation +towards the entrance, and it was with some effort that he resisted his +alarmed wife’s deprecatory glance, and uttered for the third time the +welcoming words, ‘Walk in!’ + +The door was gently opened, and another man stood upon the mat. He, +like those who had preceded him, was a stranger. This time it was a +short, small personage, of fair complexion, and dressed in a decent +suit of dark clothes. + +‘Can you tell me the way to—?’ he began: when, gazing round the room to +observe the nature of the company amongst whom he had fallen, his eyes +lighted on the stranger in cinder-gray. It was just at the instant when +the latter, who had thrown his mind into his song with such a will that +he scarcely heeded the interruption, silenced all whispers and +inquiries by bursting into his third verse:- + +To-morrow is my working day, +Simple shepherds all— +To-morrow is a working day for me: +For the farmer’s sheep is slain, and the lad who did it ta’en, +And on his soul may God ha’ merc-y!’ + + +The stranger in the chimney-corner, waving cups with the singer so +heartily that his mead splashed over on the hearth, repeated in his +bass voice as before:- + +‘And on his soul may God ha’ merc-y!’ + + +All this time the third stranger had been standing in the doorway. +Finding now that he did not come forward or go on speaking, the guests +particularly regarded him. They noticed to their surprise that he stood +before them the picture of abject terror—his knees trembling, his hand +shaking so violently that the door-latch by which he supported himself +rattled audibly: his white lips were parted, and his eyes fixed on the +merry officer of justice in the middle of the room. A moment more and +he had turned, closed the door, and fled. + +‘What a man can it be?’ said the shepherd. + +The rest, between the awfulness of their late discovery and the odd +conduct of this third visitor, looked as if they knew not what to +think, and said nothing. Instinctively they withdrew further and +further from the grim gentleman in their midst, whom some of them +seemed to take for the Prince of Darkness himself; till they formed a +remote circle, an empty space of floor being left between them and him— + +‘ . . . circulus, cujus centrum diabolus.’ + + +The room was so silent—though there were more than twenty people in +it—that nothing could be heard but the patter of the rain against the +window-shutters, accompanied by the occasional hiss of a stray drop +that fell down the chimney into the fire, and the steady puffing of the +man in the corner, who had now resumed his pipe of long clay. + +The stillness was unexpectedly broken. The distant sound of a gun +reverberated through the air—apparently from the direction of the +county-town. + +‘Be jiggered!’ cried the stranger who had sung the song, jumping up. + +‘What does that mean?’ asked several. + +‘A prisoner escaped from the jail—that’s what it means.’ + +All listened. The sound was repeated, and none of them spoke but the +man in the chimney-corner, who said quietly, ‘I’ve often been told that +in this county they fire a gun at such times; but I never heard it till +now.’ + +‘I wonder if it is _my_ man?’ murmured the personage in cinder-gray. + +‘Surely it is!’ said the shepherd involuntarily. ‘And surely we’ve zeed +him! That little man who looked in at the door by now, and quivered +like a leaf when he zeed ye and heard your song!’ + +‘His teeth chattered, and the breath went out of his body,’ said the +dairyman. + +‘And his heart seemed to sink within him like a stone,’ said Oliver +Giles. + +‘And he bolted as if he’d been shot at,’ said the hedge-carpenter. + +‘True—his teeth chattered, and his heart seemed to sink; and he bolted +as if he’d been shot at,’ slowly summed up the man in the +chimney-corner. + +‘I didn’t notice it,’ remarked the hangman. + +‘We were all a-wondering what made him run off in such a fright,’ +faltered one of the women against the wall, ‘and now ’tis explained!’ + +The firing of the alarm-gun went on at intervals, low and sullenly, and +their suspicions became a certainty. The sinister gentleman in +cinder-gray roused himself. ‘Is there a constable here?’ he asked, in +thick tones. ‘If so, let him step forward.’ + +The engaged man of fifty stepped quavering out from the wall, his +betrothed beginning to sob on the back of the chair. + +‘You are a sworn constable?’ + +‘I be, sir.’ + +‘Then pursue the criminal at once, with assistance, and bring him back +here. He can’t have gone far.’ + +‘I will, sir, I will—when I’ve got my staff. I’ll go home and get it, +and come sharp here, and start in a body.’ + +‘Staff!—never mind your staff; the man’ll be gone!’ + +‘But I can’t do nothing without my staff—can I, William, and John, and +Charles Jake? No; for there’s the king’s royal crown a painted on en in +yaller and gold, and the lion and the unicorn, so as when I raise en up +and hit my prisoner, ’tis made a lawful blow thereby. I wouldn’t ‘tempt +to take up a man without my staff—no, not I. If I hadn’t the law to gie +me courage, why, instead o’ my taking up him he might take up me!’ + +‘Now, I’m a king’s man myself; and can give you authority enough for +this,’ said the formidable officer in gray. ‘Now then, all of ye, be +ready. Have ye any lanterns?’ + +‘Yes—have ye any lanterns?—I demand it!’ said the constable. + +‘And the rest of you able-bodied—’ + +‘Able-bodied men—yes—the rest of ye!’ said the constable. + +‘Have you some good stout staves and pitch-forks—’ + +‘Staves and pitchforks—in the name o’ the law! And take ’em in yer +hands and go in quest, and do as we in authority tell ye!’ + +Thus aroused, the men prepared to give chase. The evidence was, indeed, +though circumstantial, so convincing, that but little argument was +needed to show the shepherd’s guests that after what they had seen it +would look very much like connivance if they did not instantly pursue +the unhappy third stranger, who could not as yet have gone more than a +few hundred yards over such uneven country. + +A shepherd is always well provided with lanterns; and, lighting these +hastily, and with hurdle-staves in their hands, they poured out of the +door, taking a direction along the crest of the hill, away from the +town, the rain having fortunately a little abated. + +Disturbed by the noise, or possibly by unpleasant dreams of her +baptism, the child who had been christened began to cry heart-brokenly +in the room overhead. These notes of grief came down through the chinks +of the floor to the ears of the women below, who jumped up one by one, +and seemed glad of the excuse to ascend and comfort the baby, for the +incidents of the last half-hour greatly oppressed them. Thus in the +space of two or three minutes the room on the ground-floor was deserted +quite. + +But it was not for long. Hardly had the sound of footsteps died away +when a man returned round the corner of the house from the direction +the pursuers had taken. Peeping in at the door, and seeing nobody +there, he entered leisurely. It was the stranger of the chimney-corner, +who had gone out with the rest. The motive of his return was shown by +his helping himself to a cut piece of skimmer-cake that lay on a ledge +beside where he had sat, and which he had apparently forgotten to take +with him. He also poured out half a cup more mead from the quantity +that remained, ravenously eating and drinking these as he stood. He had +not finished when another figure came in just as quietly—his friend in +cinder-gray. + +‘O—you here?’ said the latter, smiling. ‘I thought you had gone to help +in the capture.’ And this speaker also revealed the object of his +return by looking solicitously round for the fascinating mug of old +mead. + +‘And I thought you had gone,’ said the other, continuing his +skimmer-cake with some effort. + +‘Well, on second thoughts, I felt there were enough without me,’ said +the first confidentially, ‘and such a night as it is, too. Besides, +’tis the business o’ the Government to take care of its criminals—not +mine.’ + +‘True; so it is. And I felt as you did, that there were enough without +me.’ + +‘I don’t want to break my limbs running over the humps and hollows of +this wild country.’ + +‘Nor I neither, between you and me.’ + +‘These shepherd-people are used to it—simple-minded souls, you know, +stirred up to anything in a moment. They’ll have him ready for me +before the morning, and no trouble to me at all.’ + +‘They’ll have him, and we shall have saved ourselves all labour in the +matter.’ + +‘True, true. Well, my way is to Casterbridge; and ’tis as much as my +legs will do to take me that far. Going the same way?’ + +‘No, I am sorry to say! I have to get home over there’ (he nodded +indefinitely to the right), ‘and I feel as you do, that it is quite +enough for my legs to do before bedtime.’ + +The other had by this time finished the mead in the mug, after which, +shaking hands heartily at the door, and wishing each other well, they +went their several ways. + +In the meantime the company of pursuers had reached the end of the +hog’s-back elevation which dominated this part of the down. They had +decided on no particular plan of action; and, finding that the man of +the baleful trade was no longer in their company, they seemed quite +unable to form any such plan now. They descended in all directions down +the hill, and straightway several of the party fell into the snare set +by Nature for all misguided midnight ramblers over this part of the +cretaceous formation. The ‘lanchets,’ or flint slopes, which belted the +escarpment at intervals of a dozen yards, took the less cautious ones +unawares, and losing their footing on the rubbly steep they slid +sharply downwards, the lanterns rolling from their hands to the bottom, +and there lying on their sides till the horn was scorched through. + +When they had again gathered themselves together, the shepherd, as the +man who knew the country best, took the lead, and guided them round +these treacherous inclines. The lanterns, which seemed rather to dazzle +their eyes and warn the fugitive than to assist them in the +exploration, were extinguished, due silence was observed; and in this +more rational order they plunged into the vale. It was a grassy, +briery, moist defile, affording some shelter to any person who had +sought it; but the party perambulated it in vain, and ascended on the +other side. Here they wandered apart, and after an interval closed +together again to report progress. + +At the second time of closing in they found themselves near a lonely +ash, the single tree on this part of the coomb, probably sown there by +a passing bird some fifty years before. And here, standing a little to +one side of the trunk, as motionless as the trunk itself; appeared the +man they were in quest of; his outline being well defined against the +sky beyond. The band noiselessly drew up and faced him. + +‘Your money or your life!’ said the constable sternly to the still +figure. + +‘No, no,’ whispered John Pitcher. ‘’Tisn’t our side ought to say that. +That’s the doctrine of vagabonds like him, and we be on the side of the +law.’ + +‘Well, well,’ replied the constable impatiently; ‘I must say something, +mustn’t I? and if you had all the weight o’ this undertaking upon your +mind, perhaps you’d say the wrong thing too!—Prisoner at the bar, +surrender, in the name of the Father—the Crown, I mane!’ + +The man under the tree seemed now to notice them for the first time, +and, giving them no opportunity whatever for exhibiting their courage, +he strolled slowly towards them. He was, indeed, the little man, the +third stranger; but his trepidation had in a great measure gone. + +‘Well, travellers,’ he said, ‘did I hear ye speak to me?’ + +‘You did: you’ve got to come and be our prisoner at once!’ said the +constable. ‘We arrest ‘ee on the charge of not biding in Casterbridge +jail in a decent proper manner to be hung to-morrow morning. +Neighbours, do your duty, and seize the culpet!’ + +On hearing the charge, the man seemed enlightened, and, saying not +another word, resigned himself with preternatural civility to the +search-party, who, with their staves in their hands, surrounded him on +all sides, and marched him back towards the shepherd’s cottage. + +It was eleven o’clock by the time they arrived. The light shining from +the open door, a sound of men’s voices within, proclaimed to them as +they approached the house that some new events had arisen in their +absence. On entering they discovered the shepherd’s living room to be +invaded by two officers from Casterbridge jail, and a well-known +magistrate who lived at the nearest country-seat, intelligence of the +escape having become generally circulated. + +‘Gentlemen,’ said the constable, ‘I have brought back your man—not +without risk and danger; but every one must do his duty! He is inside +this circle of able-bodied persons, who have lent me useful aid, +considering their ignorance of Crown work. Men, bring forward your +prisoner!’ And the third stranger was led to the light. + +‘Who is this?’ said one of the officials. + +‘The man,’ said the constable. + +‘Certainly not,’ said the turnkey; and the first corroborated his +statement. + +‘But how can it be otherwise?’ asked the constable. ‘Or why was he so +terrified at sight o’ the singing instrument of the law who sat there?’ +Here he related the strange behaviour of the third stranger on entering +the house during the hangman’s song. + +‘Can’t understand it,’ said the officer coolly. ‘All I know is that it +is not the condemned man. He’s quite a different character from this +one; a gauntish fellow, with dark hair and eyes, rather good-looking, +and with a musical bass voice that if you heard it once you’d never +mistake as long as you lived.’ + +‘Why, souls—’twas the man in the chimney-corner!’ + +‘Hey—what?’ said the magistrate, coming forward after inquiring +particulars from the shepherd in the background. ‘Haven’t you got the +man after all?’ + +‘Well, sir,’ said the constable, ‘he’s the man we were in search of, +that’s true; and yet he’s not the man we were in search of. For the man +we were in search of was not the man we wanted, sir, if you understand +my everyday way; for ’twas the man in the chimney-corner!’ + +‘A pretty kettle of fish altogether!’ said the magistrate. ‘You had +better start for the other man at once.’ + +The prisoner now spoke for the first time. The mention of the man in +the chimney-corner seemed to have moved him as nothing else could do. +‘Sir,’ he said, stepping forward to the magistrate, ‘take no more +trouble about me. The time is come when I may as well speak. I have +done nothing; my crime is that the condemned man is my brother. Early +this afternoon I left home at Shottsford to tramp it all the way to +Casterbridge jail to bid him farewell. I was benighted, and called here +to rest and ask the way. When I opened the door I saw before me the +very man, my brother, that I thought to see in the condemned cell at +Casterbridge. He was in this chimney-corner; and jammed close to him, +so that he could not have got out if he had tried, was the executioner +who’d come to take his life, singing a song about it and not knowing +that it was his victim who was close by, joining in to save +appearances. My brother looked a glance of agony at me, and I knew he +meant, “Don’t reveal what you see; my life depends on it.” I was so +terror-struck that I could hardly stand, and, not knowing what I did, I +turned and hurried away.’ + +The narrator’s manner and tone had the stamp of truth, and his story +made a great impression on all around. ‘And do you know where your +brother is at the present time?’ asked the magistrate. + +‘I do not. I have never seen him since I closed this door.’ + +‘I can testify to that, for we’ve been between ye ever since,’ said the +constable. + +‘Where does he think to fly to?—what is his occupation?’ + +‘He’s a watch-and-clock-maker, sir.’ + +‘’A said ’a was a wheelwright—a wicked rogue,’ said the constable. + +‘The wheels of clocks and watches he meant, no doubt,’ said Shepherd +Fennel. ‘I thought his hands were palish for’s trade.’ + +‘Well, it appears to me that nothing can be gained by retaining this +poor man in custody,’ said the magistrate; ‘your business lies with the +other, unquestionably.’ + +And so the little man was released off-hand; but he looked nothing the +less sad on that account, it being beyond the power of magistrate or +constable to raze out the written troubles in his brain, for they +concerned another whom he regarded with more solicitude than himself. +When this was done, and the man had gone his way, the night was found +to be so far advanced that it was deemed useless to renew the search +before the next morning. + +Next day, accordingly, the quest for the clever sheep-stealer became +general and keen, to all appearance at least. But the intended +punishment was cruelly disproportioned to the transgression, and the +sympathy of a great many country-folk in that district was strongly on +the side of the fugitive. Moreover, his marvellous coolness and daring +in hob-and-nobbing with the hangman, under the unprecedented +circumstances of the shepherd’s party, won their admiration. So that it +may be questioned if all those who ostensibly made themselves so busy +in exploring woods and fields and lanes were quite so thorough when it +came to the private examination of their own lofts and outhouses. +Stories were afloat of a mysterious figure being occasionally seen in +some old overgrown trackway or other, remote from turnpike roads; but +when a search was instituted in any of these suspected quarters nobody +was found. Thus the days and weeks passed without tidings. + +In brief; the bass-voiced man of the chimney-corner was never +recaptured. Some said that he went across the sea, others that he did +not, but buried himself in the depths of a populous city. At any rate, +the gentleman in cinder-gray never did his morning’s work at +Casterbridge, nor met anywhere at all, for business purposes, the +genial comrade with whom he had passed an hour of relaxation in the +lonely house on the coomb. + +The grass has long been green on the graves of Shepherd Fennel and his +frugal wife; the guests who made up the christening party have mainly +followed their entertainers to the tomb; the baby in whose honour they +all had met is a matron in the sere and yellow leaf. But the arrival of +the three strangers at the shepherd’s that night, and the details +connected therewith, is a story as well known as ever in the country +about Higher Crowstairs. + +March 1883. + + + + +THE WITHERED ARM + + +CHAPTER I—A LORN MILKMAID + +It was an eighty-cow dairy, and the troop of milkers, regular and +supernumerary, were all at work; for, though the time of year was as +yet but early April, the feed lay entirely in water-meadows, and the +cows were ‘in full pail.’ The hour was about six in the evening, and +three-fourths of the large, red, rectangular animals having been +finished off, there was opportunity for a little conversation. + +‘He do bring home his bride to-morrow, I hear. They’ve come as far as +Anglebury to-day.’ + +The voice seemed to proceed from the belly of the cow called Cherry, +but the speaker was a milking-woman, whose face was buried in the flank +of that motionless beast. + +‘Hav’ anybody seen her?’ said another. + +There was a negative response from the first. ‘Though they say she’s a +rosy-cheeked, tisty-tosty little body enough,’ she added; and as the +milkmaid spoke she turned her face so that she could glance past her +cow’s tail to the other side of the barton, where a thin, fading woman +of thirty milked somewhat apart from the rest. + +‘Years younger than he, they say,’ continued the second, with also a +glance of reflectiveness in the same direction. + +‘How old do you call him, then?’ + +‘Thirty or so.’ + +‘More like forty,’ broke in an old milkman near, in a long white +pinafore or ‘wropper,’ and with the brim of his hat tied down, so that +he looked like a woman. ‘’A was born before our Great Weir was builded, +and I hadn’t man’s wages when I laved water there.’ + +The discussion waxed so warm that the purr of the milk-streams became +jerky, till a voice from another cow’s belly cried with authority, ‘Now +then, what the Turk do it matter to us about Farmer Lodge’s age, or +Farmer Lodge’s new mis’ess? I shall have to pay him nine pound a year +for the rent of every one of these milchers, whatever his age or hers. +Get on with your work, or ’twill be dark afore we have done. The +evening is pinking in a’ready.’ This speaker was the dairyman himself; +by whom the milkmaids and men were employed. + +Nothing more was said publicly about Farmer Lodge’s wedding, but the +first woman murmured under her cow to her next neighbour, ‘’Tis hard +for _she_,’ signifying the thin worn milkmaid aforesaid. + +‘O no,’ said the second. ‘He ha’n’t spoke to Rhoda Brook for years.’ + +When the milking was done they washed their pails and hung them on a +many-forked stand made of the peeled limb of an oak-tree, set upright +in the earth, and resembling a colossal antlered horn. The majority +then dispersed in various directions homeward. The thin woman who had +not spoken was joined by a boy of twelve or thereabout, and the twain +went away up the field also. + +Their course lay apart from that of the others, to a lonely spot high +above the water-meads, and not far from the border of Egdon Heath, +whose dark countenance was visible in the distance as they drew nigh to +their home. + +‘They’ve just been saying down in barton that your father brings his +young wife home from Anglebury to-morrow,’ the woman observed. ‘I shall +want to send you for a few things to market, and you’ll be pretty sure +to meet ’em.’ + +‘Yes, mother,’ said the boy. ‘Is father married then?’ + +‘Yes . . . You can give her a look, and tell me what’s she’s like, if +you do see her.’ + +‘Yes, mother.’ + +‘If she’s dark or fair, and if she’s tall—as tall as I. And if she +seems like a woman who has ever worked for a living, or one that has +been always well off, and has never done anything, and shows marks of +the lady on her, as I expect she do.’ + +‘Yes.’ + +They crept up the hill in the twilight, and entered the cottage. It was +built of mud-walls, the surface of which had been washed by many rains +into channels and depressions that left none of the original flat face +visible; while here and there in the thatch above a rafter showed like +a bone protruding through the skin. + +She was kneeling down in the chimney-corner, before two pieces of turf +laid together with the heather inwards, blowing at the red-hot ashes +with her breath till the turves flamed. The radiance lit her pale +cheek, and made her dark eyes, that had once been handsome, seem +handsome anew. ‘Yes,’ she resumed, ‘see if she is dark or fair, and if +you can, notice if her hands be white; if not, see if they look as +though she had ever done housework, or are milker’s hands like mine.’ + +The boy again promised, inattentively this time, his mother not +observing that he was cutting a notch with his pocket-knife in the +beech-backed chair. + +CHAPTER II—THE YOUNG WIFE + +The road from Anglebury to Holmstoke is in general level; but there is +one place where a sharp ascent breaks its monotony. Farmers +homeward-bound from the former market-town, who trot all the rest of +the way, walk their horses up this short incline. + +The next evening, while the sun was yet bright, a handsome new gig, +with a lemon-coloured body and red wheels, was spinning westward along +the level highway at the heels of a powerful mare. The driver was a +yeoman in the prime of life, cleanly shaven like an actor, his face +being toned to that bluish-vermilion hue which so often graces a +thriving farmer’s features when returning home after successful +dealings in the town. Beside him sat a woman, many years his +junior—almost, indeed, a girl. Her face too was fresh in colour, but it +was of a totally different quality—soft and evanescent, like the light +under a heap of rose-petals. + +Few people travelled this way, for it was not a main road; and the long +white riband of gravel that stretched before them was empty, save of +one small scarce-moving speck, which presently resolved itself into the +figure of boy, who was creeping on at a snail’s pace, and continually +looking behind him—the heavy bundle he carried being some excuse for, +if not the reason of, his dilatoriness. When the bouncing gig-party +slowed at the bottom of the incline above mentioned, the pedestrian was +only a few yards in front. Supporting the large bundle by putting one +hand on his hip, he turned and looked straight at the farmer’s wife as +though he would read her through and through, pacing along abreast of +the horse. + +The low sun was full in her face, rendering every feature, shade, and +contour distinct, from the curve of her little nostril to the colour of +her eyes. The farmer, though he seemed annoyed at the boy’s persistent +presence, did not order him to get out of the way; and thus the lad +preceded them, his hard gaze never leaving her, till they reached the +top of the ascent, when the farmer trotted on with relief in his +lineaments—having taken no outward notice of the boy whatever. + +‘How that poor lad stared at me!’ said the young wife. + +‘Yes, dear; I saw that he did.’ + +‘He is one of the village, I suppose?’ + +‘One of the neighbourhood. I think he lives with his mother a mile or +two off.’ + +‘He knows who we are, no doubt?’ + +‘O yes. You must expect to be stared at just at first, my pretty +Gertrude.’ + +‘I do,—though I think the poor boy may have looked at us in the hope we +might relieve him of his heavy load, rather than from curiosity.’ + +‘O no,’ said her husband off-handedly. ‘These country lads will carry a +hundredweight once they get it on their backs; besides his pack had +more size than weight in it. Now, then, another mile and I shall be +able to show you our house in the distance—if it is not too dark before +we get there.’ The wheels spun round, and particles flew from their +periphery as before, till a white house of ample dimensions revealed +itself, with farm-buildings and ricks at the back. + +Meanwhile the boy had quickened his pace, and turning up a by-lane some +mile and half short of the white farmstead, ascended towards the leaner +pastures, and so on to the cottage of his mother. + +She had reached home after her day’s milking at the outlying dairy, and +was washing cabbage at the doorway in the declining light. ‘Hold up the +net a moment,’ she said, without preface, as the boy came up. + +He flung down his bundle, held the edge of the cabbage-net, and as she +filled its meshes with the dripping leaves she went on, ‘Well, did you +see her?’ + +‘Yes; quite plain.’ + +‘Is she ladylike?’ + +‘Yes; and more. A lady complete.’ + +‘Is she young?’ + +‘Well, she’s growed up, and her ways be quite a woman’s.’ + +‘Of course. What colour is her hair and face?’ + +‘Her hair is lightish, and her face as comely as a live doll’s.’ + +‘Her eyes, then, are not dark like mine?’ + +‘No—of a bluish turn, and her mouth is very nice and red; and when she +smiles, her teeth show white.’ + +‘Is she tall?’ said the woman sharply. + +‘I couldn’t see. She was sitting down.’ + +‘Then do you go to Holmstoke church to-morrow morning: she’s sure to be +there. Go early and notice her walking in, and come home and tell me if +she’s taller than I.’ + +‘Very well, mother. But why don’t you go and see for yourself?’ + +_‘I_ go to see her! I wouldn’t look up at her if she were to pass my +window this instant. She was with Mr. Lodge, of course. What did he say +or do?’ + +‘Just the same as usual.’ + +‘Took no notice of you?’ + +‘None.’ + +Next day the mother put a clean shirt on the boy, and started him off +for Holmstoke church. He reached the ancient little pile when the door +was just being opened, and he was the first to enter. Taking his seat +by the font, he watched all the parishioners file in. The well-to-do +Farmer Lodge came nearly last; and his young wife, who accompanied him, +walked up the aisle with the shyness natural to a modest woman who had +appeared thus for the first time. As all other eyes were fixed upon +her, the youth’s stare was not noticed now. + +When he reached home his mother said, ‘Well?’ before he had entered the +room. + +‘She is not tall. She is rather short,’ he replied. + +‘Ah!’ said his mother, with satisfaction. + +‘But she’s very pretty—very. In fact, she’s lovely.’ + +The youthful freshness of the yeoman’s wife had evidently made an +impression even on the somewhat hard nature of the boy. + +‘That’s all I want to hear,’ said his mother quickly. ‘Now, spread the +table-cloth. The hare you caught is very tender; but mind that nobody +catches you.—You’ve never told me what sort of hands she had.’ + +‘I have never seen ’em. She never took off her gloves.’ + +‘What did she wear this morning?’ + +‘A white bonnet and a silver-coloured gownd. It whewed and whistled so +loud when it rubbed against the pews that the lady coloured up more +than ever for very shame at the noise, and pulled it in to keep it from +touching; but when she pushed into her seat, it whewed more than ever. +Mr. Lodge, he seemed pleased, and his waistcoat stuck out, and his +great golden seals hung like a lord’s; but she seemed to wish her noisy +gownd anywhere but on her.’ + +‘Not she! However, that will do now.’ + +These descriptions of the newly-married couple were continued from time +to time by the boy at his mother’s request, after any chance encounter +he had had with them. But Rhoda Brook, though she might easily have +seen young Mrs. Lodge for herself by walking a couple of miles, would +never attempt an excursion towards the quarter where the farmhouse lay. +Neither did she, at the daily milking in the dairyman’s yard on Lodge’s +outlying second farm, ever speak on the subject of the recent marriage. +The dairyman, who rented the cows of Lodge, and knew perfectly the tall +milkmaid’s history, with manly kindliness always kept the gossip in the +cow-barton from annoying Rhoda. But the atmosphere thereabout was full +of the subject during the first days of Mrs. Lodge’s arrival; and from +her boy’s description and the casual words of the other milkers, Rhoda +Brook could raise a mental image of the unconscious Mrs Lodge that was +realistic as a photograph. + +CHAPTER III—A VISION + +One night, two or three weeks after the bridal return, when the boy was +gone to bed, Rhoda sat a long time over the turf ashes that she had +raked out in front of her to extinguish them. She contemplated so +intently the new wife, as presented to her in her mind’s eye over the +embers, that she forgot the lapse of time. At last, wearied with her +day’s work, she too retired. + +But the figure which had occupied her so much during this and the +previous days was not to be banished at night. For the first time +Gertrude Lodge visited the supplanted woman in her dreams. Rhoda Brook +dreamed—since her assertion that she really saw, before falling asleep, +was not to be believed—that the young wife, in the pale silk dress and +white bonnet, but with features shockingly distorted, and wrinkled as +by age, was sitting upon her chest as she lay. The pressure of Mrs. +Lodge’s person grew heavier; the blue eyes peered cruelly into her +face; and then the figure thrust forward its left hand mockingly, so as +to make the wedding-ring it wore glitter in Rhoda’s eyes. Maddened +mentally, and nearly suffocated by pressure, the sleeper struggled; the +incubus, still regarding her, withdrew to the foot of the bed, only, +however, to come forward by degrees, resume her seat, and flash her +left hand as before. + +Gasping for breath, Rhoda, in a last desperate effort, swung out her +right hand, seized the confronting spectre by its obtrusive left arm, +and whirled it backward to the floor, starting up herself as she did so +with a low cry. + +‘O, merciful heaven!’ she cried, sitting on the edge of the bed in a +cold sweat; ‘that was not a dream—she was here!’ + +She could feel her antagonist’s arm within her grasp even now—the very +flesh and bone of it, as it seemed. She looked on the floor whither she +had whirled the spectre, but there was nothing to be seen. + +Rhoda Brook slept no more that night, and when she went milking at the +next dawn they noticed how pale and haggard she looked. The milk that +she drew quivered into the pail; her hand had not calmed even yet, and +still retained the feel of the arm. She came home to breakfast as +wearily as if it had been suppertime. + +‘What was that noise in your chimmer, mother, last night?’ said her +son. ‘You fell off the bed, surely?’ + +‘Did you hear anything fall? At what time?’ + +‘Just when the clock struck two.’ + +She could not explain, and when the meal was done went silently about +her household work, the boy assisting her, for he hated going afield on +the farms, and she indulged his reluctance. Between eleven and twelve +the garden-gate clicked, and she lifted her eyes to the window. At the +bottom of the garden, within the gate, stood the woman of her vision. +Rhoda seemed transfixed. + +‘Ah, she said she would come!’ exclaimed the boy, also observing her. + +‘Said so—when? How does she know us?’ + +‘I have seen and spoken to her. I talked to her yesterday.’ + +‘I told you,’ said the mother, flushing indignantly, ‘never to speak to +anybody in that house, or go near the place.’ + +‘I did not speak to her till she spoke to me. And I did not go near the +place. I met her in the road.’ + +‘What did you tell her?’ + +‘Nothing. She said, “Are you the poor boy who had to bring the heavy +load from market?” And she looked at my boots, and said they would not +keep my feet dry if it came on wet, because they were so cracked. I +told her I lived with my mother, and we had enough to do to keep +ourselves, and that’s how it was; and she said then, “I’ll come and +bring you some better boots, and see your mother.” She gives away +things to other folks in the meads besides us.’ + +Mrs. Lodge was by this time close to the door—not in her silk, as Rhoda +had seen her in the bed-chamber, but in a morning hat, and gown of +common light material, which became her better than silk. On her arm +she carried a basket. + +The impression remaining from the night’s experience was still strong. +Brook had almost expected to see the wrinkles, the scorn, and the +cruelty on her visitor’s face. + +She would have escaped an interview, had escape been possible. There +was, however, no backdoor to the cottage, and in an instant the boy had +lifted the latch to Mrs. Lodge’s gentle knock. + +‘I see I have come to the right house,’ said she, glancing at the lad, +and smiling. ‘But I was not sure till you opened the door.’ + +The figure and action were those of the phantom; but her voice was so +indescribably sweet, her glance so winning, her smile so tender, so +unlike that of Rhoda’s midnight visitant, that the latter could hardly +believe the evidence of her senses. She was truly glad that she had not +hidden away in sheer aversion, as she had been inclined to do. In her +basket Mrs. Lodge brought the pair of boots that she had promised to +the boy, and other useful articles. + +At these proofs of a kindly feeling towards her and hers Rhoda’s heart +reproached her bitterly. This innocent young thing should have her +blessing and not her curse. When she left them a light seemed gone from +the dwelling. Two days later she came again to know if the boots +fitted; and less than a fortnight after that paid Rhoda another call. +On this occasion the boy was absent. + +‘I walk a good deal,’ said Mrs. Lodge, ‘and your house is the nearest +outside our own parish. I hope you are well. You don’t look quite +well.’ + +Rhoda said she was well enough; and, indeed, though the paler of the +two, there was more of the strength that endures in her well-defined +features and large frame, than in the soft-cheeked young woman before +her. The conversation became quite confidential as regarded their +powers and weaknesses; and when Mrs. Lodge was leaving, Rhoda said, ‘I +hope you will find this air agree with you, ma’am, and not suffer from +the damp of the water-meads.’ + +The younger one replied that there was not much doubt of it, her +general health being usually good. ‘Though, now you remind me,’ she +added, ‘I have one little ailment which puzzles me. It is nothing +serious, but I cannot make it out.’ + +She uncovered her left hand and arm; and their outline confronted +Rhoda’s gaze as the exact original of the limb she had beheld and +seized in her dream. Upon the pink round surface of the arm were faint +marks of an unhealthy colour, as if produced by a rough grasp. Rhoda’s +eyes became riveted on the discolorations; she fancied that she +discerned in them the shape of her own four fingers. + +‘How did it happen?’ she said mechanically. + +‘I cannot tell,’ replied Mrs. Lodge, shaking her head. ‘One night when +I was sound asleep, dreaming I was away in some strange place, a pain +suddenly shot into my arm there, and was so keen as to awaken me. I +must have struck it in the daytime, I suppose, though I don’t remember +doing so.’ She added, laughing, ‘I tell my dear husband that it looks +just as if he had flown into a rage and struck me there. O, I daresay +it will soon disappear.’ + +‘Ha, ha! Yes . . . On what night did it come?’ + +Mrs. Lodge considered, and said it would be a fortnight ago on the +morrow. ‘When I awoke I could not remember where I was,’ she added, +’till the clock striking two reminded me.’ + +She had named the night and the hour of Rhoda’s spectral encounter, and +Brook felt like a guilty thing. The artless disclosure startled her; +she did not reason on the freaks of coincidence; and all the scenery of +that ghastly night returned with double vividness to her mind. + +‘O, can it be,’ she said to herself, when her visitor had departed, +‘that I exercise a malignant power over people against my own will?’ +She knew that she had been slily called a witch since her fall; but +never having understood why that particular stigma had been attached to +her, it had passed disregarded. Could this be the explanation, and had +such things as this ever happened before? + +CHAPTER IV—A SUGGESTION + +The summer drew on, and Rhoda Brook almost dreaded to meet Mrs. Lodge +again, notwithstanding that her feeling for the young wife amounted +well-nigh to affection. Something in her own individuality seemed to +convict Rhoda of crime. Yet a fatality sometimes would direct the steps +of the latter to the outskirts of Holmstoke whenever she left her house +for any other purpose than her daily work; and hence it happened that +their next encounter was out of doors. Rhoda could not avoid the +subject which had so mystified her, and after the first few words she +stammered, ‘I hope your—arm is well again, ma’am?’ She had perceived +with consternation that Gertrude Lodge carried her left arm stiffly. + +‘No; it is not quite well. Indeed it is no better at all; it is rather +worse. It pains me dreadfully sometimes.’ + +‘Perhaps you had better go to a doctor, ma’am.’ + +She replied that she had already seen a doctor. Her husband had +insisted upon her going to one. But the surgeon had not seemed to +understand the afflicted limb at all; he had told her to bathe it in +hot water, and she had bathed it, but the treatment had done no good. + +‘Will you let me see it?’ said the milkwoman. + +Mrs. Lodge pushed up her sleeve and disclosed the place, which was a +few inches above the wrist. As soon as Rhoda Brook saw it, she could +hardly preserve her composure. There was nothing of the nature of a +wound, but the arm at that point had a shrivelled look, and the outline +of the four fingers appeared more distinct than at the former time. +Moreover, she fancied that they were imprinted in precisely the +relative position of her clutch upon the arm in the trance; the first +finger towards Gertrude’s wrist, and the fourth towards her elbow. + +What the impress resembled seemed to have struck Gertrude herself since +their last meeting. ‘It looks almost like finger-marks,’ she said; +adding with a faint laugh, ‘my husband says it is as if some witch, or +the devil himself, had taken hold of me there, and blasted the flesh.’ + +Rhoda shivered. ‘That’s fancy,’ she said hurriedly. ‘I wouldn’t mind +it, if I were you.’ + +‘I shouldn’t so much mind it,’ said the younger, with hesitation, +‘if—if I hadn’t a notion that it makes my husband—dislike me—no, love +me less. Men think so much of personal appearance.’ + +‘Some do—he for one.’ + +‘Yes; and he was very proud of mine, at first.’ + +‘Keep your arm covered from his sight.’ + +‘Ah—he knows the disfigurement is there!’ She tried to hide the tears +that filled her eyes. + +‘Well, ma’am, I earnestly hope it will go away soon.’ + +And so the milkwoman’s mind was chained anew to the subject by a horrid +sort of spell as she returned home. The sense of having been guilty of +an act of malignity increased, affect as she might to ridicule her +superstition. In her secret heart Rhoda did not altogether object to a +slight diminution of her successor’s beauty, by whatever means it had +come about; but she did not wish to inflict upon her physical pain. For +though this pretty young woman had rendered impossible any reparation +which Lodge might have made Rhoda for his past conduct, everything like +resentment at the unconscious usurpation had quite passed away from the +elder’s mind. + +If the sweet and kindly Gertrude Lodge only knew of the scene in the +bed-chamber, what would she think? Not to inform her of it seemed +treachery in the presence of her friendliness; but tell she could not +of her own accord—neither could she devise a remedy. + +She mused upon the matter the greater part of the night; and the next +day, after the morning milking, set out to obtain another glimpse of +Gertrude Lodge if she could, being held to her by a gruesome +fascination. By watching the house from a distance the milkmaid was +presently able to discern the farmer’s wife in a ride she was taking +alone—probably to join her husband in some distant field. Mrs. Lodge +perceived her, and cantered in her direction. + +‘Good morning, Rhoda!’ Gertrude said, when she had come up. ‘I was +going to call.’ + +Rhoda noticed that Mrs. Lodge held the reins with some difficulty. + +‘I hope—the bad arm,’ said Rhoda. + +‘They tell me there is possibly one way by which I might be able to +find out the cause, and so perhaps the cure, of it,’ replied the other +anxiously. ‘It is by going to some clever man over in Egdon Heath. They +did not know if he was still alive—and I cannot remember his name at +this moment; but they said that you knew more of his movements than +anybody else hereabout, and could tell me if he were still to be +consulted. Dear me—what was his name? But you know.’ + +‘Not Conjuror Trendle?’ said her thin companion, turning pale. + +‘Trendle—yes. Is he alive?’ + +‘I believe so,’ said Rhoda, with reluctance. + +‘Why do you call him conjuror?’ + +‘Well—they say—they used to say he was a—he had powers other folks have +not.’ + +‘O, how could my people be so superstitious as to recommend a man of +that sort! I thought they meant some medical man. I shall think no more +of him.’ + +Rhoda looked relieved, and Mrs. Lodge rode on. The milkwoman had +inwardly seen, from the moment she heard of her having been mentioned +as a reference for this man, that there must exist a sarcastic feeling +among the work-folk that a sorceress would know the whereabouts of the +exorcist. They suspected her, then. A short time ago this would have +given no concern to a woman of her common-sense. But she had a haunting +reason to be superstitious now; and she had been seized with sudden +dread that this Conjuror Trendle might name her as the malignant +influence which was blasting the fair person of Gertrude, and so lead +her friend to hate her for ever, and to treat her as some fiend in +human shape. + +But all was not over. Two days after, a shadow intruded into the +window-pattern thrown on Rhoda Brook’s floor by the afternoon sun. The +woman opened the door at once, almost breathlessly. + +‘Are you alone?’ said Gertrude. She seemed to be no less harassed and +anxious than Brook herself. + +‘Yes,’ said Rhoda. + +‘The place on my arm seems worse, and troubles me!’ the young farmer’s +wife went on. ‘It is so mysterious! I do hope it will not be an +incurable wound. I have again been thinking of what they said about +Conjuror Trendle. I don’t really believe in such men, but I should not +mind just visiting him, from curiosity—though on no account must my +husband know. Is it far to where he lives?’ + +‘Yes—five miles,’ said Rhoda backwardly. ‘In the heart of Egdon.’ + +‘Well, I should have to walk. Could not you go with me to show me the +way—say to-morrow afternoon?’ + +‘O, not I—that is,’ the milkwoman murmured, with a start of dismay. +Again the dread seized her that something to do with her fierce act in +the dream might be revealed, and her character in the eyes of the most +useful friend she had ever had be ruined irretrievably. + +Mrs. Lodge urged, and Rhoda finally assented, though with much +misgiving. Sad as the journey would be to her, she could not +conscientiously stand in the way of a possible remedy for her patron’s +strange affliction. It was agreed that, to escape suspicion of their +mystic intent, they should meet at the edge of the heath at the corner +of a plantation which was visible from the spot where they now stood. + +CHAPTER V—CONJUROR TRENDLE + +By the next afternoon Rhoda would have done anything to escape this +inquiry. But she had promised to go. Moreover, there was a horrid +fascination at times in becoming instrumental in throwing such possible +light on her own character as would reveal her to be something greater +in the occult world than she had ever herself suspected. + +She started just before the time of day mentioned between them, and +half-an-hour’s brisk walking brought her to the south-eastern extension +of the Egdon tract of country, where the fir plantation was. A slight +figure, cloaked and veiled, was already there. Rhoda recognized, almost +with a shudder, that Mrs. Lodge bore her left arm in a sling. + +They hardly spoke to each other, and immediately set out on their climb +into the interior of this solemn country, which stood high above the +rich alluvial soil they had left half-an-hour before. It was a long +walk; thick clouds made the atmosphere dark, though it was as yet only +early afternoon; and the wind howled dismally over the hills of the +heath—not improbably the same heath which had witnessed the agony of +the Wessex King Ina, presented to after-ages as Lear. Gertrude Lodge +talked most, Rhoda replying with monosyllabic preoccupation. She had a +strange dislike to walking on the side of her companion where hung the +afflicted arm, moving round to the other when inadvertently near it. +Much heather had been brushed by their feet when they descended upon a +cart-track, beside which stood the house of the man they sought. + +He did not profess his remedial practices openly, or care anything +about their continuance, his direct interests being those of a dealer +in furze, turf, ‘sharp sand,’ and other local products. Indeed, he +affected not to believe largely in his own powers, and when warts that +had been shown him for cure miraculously disappeared—which it must be +owned they infallibly did—he would say lightly, ‘O, I only drink a +glass of grog upon ’em—perhaps it’s all chance,’ and immediately turn +the subject. + +He was at home when they arrived, having in fact seen them descending +into his valley. He was a gray-bearded man, with a reddish face, and he +looked singularly at Rhoda the first moment he beheld her. Mrs. Lodge +told him her errand; and then with words of self-disparagement he +examined her arm. + +‘Medicine can’t cure it,’ he said promptly. ‘’Tis the work of an +enemy.’ + +Rhoda shrank into herself, and drew back. + +‘An enemy? What enemy?’ asked Mrs. Lodge. + +He shook his head. ‘That’s best known to yourself,’ he said. ‘If you +like, I can show the person to you, though I shall not myself know who +it is. I can do no more; and don’t wish to do that.’ + +She pressed him; on which he told Rhoda to wait outside where she +stood, and took Mrs. Lodge into the room. It opened immediately from +the door; and, as the latter remained ajar, Rhoda Brook could see the +proceedings without taking part in them. He brought a tumbler from the +dresser, nearly filled it with water, and fetching an egg, prepared it +in some private way; after which he broke it on the edge of the glass, +so that the white went in and the yolk remained. As it was getting +gloomy, he took the glass and its contents to the window, and told +Gertrude to watch them closely. They leant over the table together, and +the milkwoman could see the opaline hue of the egg-fluid changing form +as it sank in the water, but she was not near enough to define the +shape that it assumed. + +‘Do you catch the likeness of any face or figure as you look?’ demanded +the conjuror of the young woman. + +She murmured a reply, in tones so low as to be inaudible to Rhoda, and +continued to gaze intently into the glass. Rhoda turned, and walked a +few steps away. + +When Mrs. Lodge came out, and her face was met by the light, it +appeared exceedingly pale—as pale as Rhoda’s—against the sad dun shades +of the upland’s garniture. Trendle shut the door behind her, and they +at once started homeward together. But Rhoda perceived that her +companion had quite changed. + +‘Did he charge much?’ she asked tentatively. + +‘O no—nothing. He would not take a farthing,’ said Gertrude. + +‘And what did you see?’ inquired Rhoda. + +‘Nothing I—care to speak of.’ The constraint in her manner was +remarkable; her face was so rigid as to wear an oldened aspect, faintly +suggestive of the face in Rhoda’s bed-chamber. + +‘Was it you who first proposed coming here?’ Mrs. Lodge suddenly +inquired, after a long pause. ‘How very odd, if you did!’ + +‘No. But I am not sorry we have come, all things considered,’ she +replied. For the first time a sense of triumph possessed her, and she +did not altogether deplore that the young thing at her side should +learn that their lives had been antagonized by other influences than +their own. + +The subject was no more alluded to during the long and dreary walk +home. But in some way or other a story was whispered about the +many-dairied lowland that winter that Mrs. Lodge’s gradual loss of the +use of her left arm was owing to her being ‘overlooked’ by Rhoda Brook. +The latter kept her own counsel about the incubus, but her face grew +sadder and thinner; and in the spring she and her boy disappeared from +the neighbourhood of Holmstoke. + +CHAPTER VI—A SECOND ATTEMPT + +Half-a-dozen years passed away, and Mr. and Mrs. Lodge’s married +experience sank into prosiness, and worse. The farmer was usually +gloomy and silent: the woman whom he had wooed for her grace and beauty +was contorted and disfigured in the left limb; moreover, she had +brought him no child, which rendered it likely that he would be the +last of a family who had occupied that valley for some two hundred +years. He thought of Rhoda Brook and her son; and feared this might be +a judgment from heaven upon him. + +The once blithe-hearted and enlightened Gertrude was changing into an +irritable, superstitious woman, whose whole time was given to +experimenting upon her ailment with every quack remedy she came across. +She was honestly attached to her husband, and was ever secretly hoping +against hope to win back his heart again by regaining some at least of +her personal beauty. Hence it arose that her closet was lined with +bottles, packets, and ointment-pots of every description—nay, bunches +of mystic herbs, charms, and books of necromancy, which in her +schoolgirl time she would have ridiculed as folly. + +‘Damned if you won’t poison yourself with these apothecary messes and +witch mixtures some time or other,’ said her husband, when his eye +chanced to fall upon the multitudinous array. + +She did not reply, but turned her sad, soft glance upon him in such +heart-swollen reproach that he looked sorry for his words, and added, +‘I only meant it for your good, you know, Gertrude.’ + +‘I’ll clear out the whole lot, and destroy them,’ said she huskily, +‘and try such remedies no more!’ + +‘You want somebody to cheer you,’ he observed. ‘I once thought of +adopting a boy; but he is too old now. And he is gone away I don’t know +where.’ + +She guessed to whom he alluded; for Rhoda Brook’s story had in the +course of years become known to her; though not a word had ever passed +between her husband and herself on the subject. Neither had she ever +spoken to him of her visit to Conjuror Trendle, and of what was +revealed to her, or she thought was revealed to her, by that solitary +heath-man. + +She was now five-and-twenty; but she seemed older. + +‘Six years of marriage, and only a few months of love,’ she sometimes +whispered to herself. And then she thought of the apparent cause, and +said, with a tragic glance at her withering limb, ‘If I could only +again be as I was when he first saw me!’ + +She obediently destroyed her nostrums and charms; but there remained a +hankering wish to try something else—some other sort of cure +altogether. She had never revisited Trendle since she had been +conducted to the house of the solitary by Rhoda against her will; but +it now suddenly occurred to Gertrude that she would, in a last +desperate effort at deliverance from this seeming curse, again seek out +the man, if he yet lived. He was entitled to a certain credence, for +the indistinct form he had raised in the glass had undoubtedly +resembled the only woman in the world who—as she now knew, though not +then—could have a reason for bearing her ill-will. The visit should be +paid. + +This time she went alone, though she nearly got lost on the heath, and +roamed a considerable distance out of her way. Trendle’s house was +reached at last, however: he was not indoors, and instead of waiting at +the cottage, she went to where his bent figure was pointed out to her +at work a long way off. Trendle remembered her, and laying down the +handful of furze-roots which he was gathering and throwing into a heap, +he offered to accompany her in her homeward direction, as the distance +was considerable and the days were short. So they walked together, his +head bowed nearly to the earth, and his form of a colour with it. + +‘You can send away warts and other excrescences I know,’ she said; ‘why +can’t you send away this?’ And the arm was uncovered. + +‘You think too much of my powers!’ said Trendle; ‘and I am old and weak +now, too. No, no; it is too much for me to attempt in my own person. +What have ye tried?’ + +She named to him some of the hundred medicaments and counterspells +which she had adopted from time to time. He shook his head. + +‘Some were good enough,’ he said approvingly; ‘but not many of them for +such as this. This is of the nature of a blight, not of the nature of a +wound; and if you ever do throw it off; it will be all at once.’ + +‘If I only could!’ + +‘There is only one chance of doing it known to me. It has never failed +in kindred afflictions,—that I can declare. But it is hard to carry +out, and especially for a woman.’ + +‘Tell me!’ said she. + +‘You must touch with the limb the neck of a man who’s been hanged.’ + +She started a little at the image he had raised. + +‘Before he’s cold—just after he’s cut down,’ continued the conjuror +impassively. + +‘How can that do good?’ + +‘It will turn the blood and change the constitution. But, as I say, to +do it is hard. You must get into jail, and wait for him when he’s +brought off the gallows. Lots have done it, though perhaps not such +pretty women as you. I used to send dozens for skin complaints. But +that was in former times. The last I sent was in ‘13—near twenty years +ago.’ + +He had no more to tell her; and, when he had put her into a straight +track homeward, turned and left her, refusing all money as at first. + +CHAPTER VII—A RIDE + +The communication sank deep into Gertrude’s mind. Her nature was rather +a timid one; and probably of all remedies that the white wizard could +have suggested there was not one which would have filled her with so +much aversion as this, not to speak of the immense obstacles in the way +of its adoption. + +Casterbridge, the county-town, was a dozen or fifteen miles off; and +though in those days, when men were executed for horse-stealing, arson, +and burglary, an assize seldom passed without a hanging, it was not +likely that she could get access to the body of the criminal unaided. +And the fear of her husband’s anger made her reluctant to breathe a +word of Trendle’s suggestion to him or to anybody about him. + +She did nothing for months, and patiently bore her disfigurement as +before. But her woman’s nature, craving for renewed love, through the +medium of renewed beauty (she was but twenty-five), was ever +stimulating her to try what, at any rate, could hardly do her any harm. +‘What came by a spell will go by a spell surely,’ she would say. +Whenever her imagination pictured the act she shrank in terror from the +possibility of it: then the words of the conjuror, ‘It will turn your +blood,’ were seen to be capable of a scientific no less than a ghastly +interpretation; the mastering desire returned, and urged her on again. + +There was at this time but one county paper, and that her husband only +occasionally borrowed. But old-fashioned days had old-fashioned means, +and news was extensively conveyed by word of mouth from market to +market, or from fair to fair, so that, whenever such an event as an +execution was about to take place, few within a radius of twenty miles +were ignorant of the coming sight; and, so far as Holmstoke was +concerned, some enthusiasts had been known to walk all the way to +Casterbridge and back in one day, solely to witness the spectacle. The +next assizes were in March; and when Gertrude Lodge heard that they had +been held, she inquired stealthily at the inn as to the result, as soon +as she could find opportunity. + +She was, however, too late. The time at which the sentences were to be +carried out had arrived, and to make the journey and obtain admission +at such short notice required at least her husband’s assistance. She +dared not tell him, for she had found by delicate experiment that these +smouldering village beliefs made him furious if mentioned, partly +because he half entertained them himself. It was therefore necessary to +wait for another opportunity. + +Her determination received a fillip from learning that two epileptic +children had attended from this very village of Holmstoke many years +before with beneficial results, though the experiment had been strongly +condemned by the neighbouring clergy. April, May, June, passed; and it +is no overstatement to say that by the end of the last-named month +Gertrude well-nigh longed for the death of a fellow-creature. Instead +of her formal prayers each night, her unconscious prayer was, ‘O Lord, +hang some guilty or innocent person soon!’ + +This time she made earlier inquiries, and was altogether more +systematic in her proceedings. Moreover, the season was summer, between +the haymaking and the harvest, and in the leisure thus afforded him her +husband had been holiday-taking away from home. + +The assizes were in July, and she went to the inn as before. There was +to be one execution—only one—for arson. + +Her greatest problem was not how to get to Casterbridge, but what means +she should adopt for obtaining admission to the jail. Though access for +such purposes had formerly never been denied, the custom had fallen +into desuetude; and in contemplating her possible difficulties, she was +again almost driven to fall back upon her husband. But, on sounding him +about the assizes, he was so uncommunicative, so more than usually +cold, that she did not proceed, and decided that whatever she did she +would do alone. + +Fortune, obdurate hitherto, showed her unexpected favour. On the +Thursday before the Saturday fixed for the execution, Lodge remarked to +her that he was going away from home for another day or two on business +at a fair, and that he was sorry he could not take her with him. + +She exhibited on this occasion so much readiness to stay at home that +he looked at her in surprise. Time had been when she would have shown +deep disappointment at the loss of such a jaunt. However, he lapsed +into his usual taciturnity, and on the day named left Holmstoke. + +It was now her turn. She at first had thought of driving, but on +reflection held that driving would not do, since it would necessitate +her keeping to the turnpike-road, and so increase by tenfold the risk +of her ghastly errand being found out. She decided to ride, and avoid +the beaten track, notwithstanding that in her husband’s stables there +was no animal just at present which by any stretch of imagination could +be considered a lady’s mount, in spite of his promise before marriage +to always keep a mare for her. He had, however, many cart-horses, fine +ones of their kind; and among the rest was a serviceable creature, an +equine Amazon, with a back as broad as a sofa, on which Gertrude had +occasionally taken an airing when unwell. This horse she chose. + +On Friday afternoon one of the men brought it round. She was dressed, +and before going down looked at her shrivelled arm. ‘Ah!’ she said to +it, ‘if it had not been for you this terrible ordeal would have been +saved me!’ + +When strapping up the bundle in which she carried a few articles of +clothing, she took occasion to say to the servant, ‘I take these in +case I should not get back to-night from the person I am going to +visit. Don’t be alarmed if I am not in by ten, and close up the house +as usual. I shall be at home to-morrow for certain.’ She meant then to +privately tell her husband: the deed accomplished was not like the deed +projected. He would almost certainly forgive her. + +And then the pretty palpitating Gertrude Lodge went from her husband’s +homestead; but though her goal was Casterbridge she did not take the +direct route thither through Stickleford. Her cunning course at first +was in precisely the opposite direction. As soon as she was out of +sight, however, she turned to the left, by a road which led into Egdon, +and on entering the heath wheeled round, and set out in the true +course, due westerly. A more private way down the county could not be +imagined; and as to direction, she had merely to keep her horse’s head +to a point a little to the right of the sun. She knew that she would +light upon a furze-cutter or cottager of some sort from time to time, +from whom she might correct her bearing. + +Though the date was comparatively recent, Egdon was much less +fragmentary in character than now. The attempts—successful and +otherwise—at cultivation on the lower slopes, which intrude and break +up the original heath into small detached heaths, had not been carried +far; Enclosure Acts had not taken effect, and the banks and fences +which now exclude the cattle of those villagers who formerly enjoyed +rights of commonage thereon, and the carts of those who had turbary +privileges which kept them in firing all the year round, were not +erected. Gertrude, therefore, rode along with no other obstacles than +the prickly furze bushes, the mats of heather, the white water-courses, +and the natural steeps and declivities of the ground. + +Her horse was sure, if heavy-footed and slow, and though a draught +animal, was easy-paced; had it been otherwise, she was not a woman who +could have ventured to ride over such a bit of country with a half-dead +arm. It was therefore nearly eight o’clock when she drew rein to +breathe the mare on the last outlying high point of heath-land towards +Casterbridge, previous to leaving Egdon for the cultivated valleys. + +She halted before a pool called Rushy-pond, flanked by the ends of two +hedges; a railing ran through the centre of the pond, dividing it in +half. Over the railing she saw the low green country; over the green +trees the roofs of the town; over the roofs a white flat façade, +denoting the entrance to the county jail. On the roof of this front +specks were moving about; they seemed to be workmen erecting something. +Her flesh crept. She descended slowly, and was soon amid corn-fields +and pastures. In another half-hour, when it was almost dusk, Gertrude +reached the White Hart, the first inn of the town on that side. + +Little surprise was excited by her arrival; farmers’ wives rode on +horseback then more than they do now; though, for that matter, Mrs. +Lodge was not imagined to be a wife at all; the innkeeper supposed her +some harum-skarum young woman who had come to attend ‘hang-fair’ next +day. Neither her husband nor herself ever dealt in Casterbridge market, +so that she was unknown. While dismounting she beheld a crowd of boys +standing at the door of a harness-maker’s shop just above the inn, +looking inside it with deep interest. + +‘What is going on there?’ she asked of the ostler. + +‘Making the rope for to-morrow.’ + +She throbbed responsively, and contracted her arm. + +‘’Tis sold by the inch afterwards,’ the man continued. ‘I could get you +a bit, miss, for nothing, if you’d like?’ + +She hastily repudiated any such wish, all the more from a curious +creeping feeling that the condemned wretch’s destiny was becoming +interwoven with her own; and having engaged a room for the night, sat +down to think. + +Up to this time she had formed but the vaguest notions about her means +of obtaining access to the prison. The words of the cunning-man +returned to her mind. He had implied that she should use her beauty, +impaired though it was, as a pass-key. In her inexperience she knew +little about jail functionaries; she had heard of a high-sheriff and an +under-sheriff; but dimly only. She knew, however, that there must be a +hangman, and to the hangman she determined to apply. + +CHAPTER VIII—A WATER-SIDE HERMIT + +At this date, and for several years after, there was a hangman to +almost every jail. Gertrude found, on inquiry, that the Casterbridge +official dwelt in a lonely cottage by a deep slow river flowing under +the cliff on which the prison buildings were situate—the stream being +the self-same one, though she did not know it, which watered the +Stickleford and Holmstoke meads lower down in its course. + +Having changed her dress, and before she had eaten or drunk—for she +could not take her ease till she had ascertained some +particulars—Gertrude pursued her way by a path along the water-side to +the cottage indicated. Passing thus the outskirts of the jail, she +discerned on the level roof over the gateway three rectangular lines +against the sky, where the specks had been moving in her distant view; +she recognized what the erection was, and passed quickly on. Another +hundred yards brought her to the executioner’s house, which a boy +pointed out It stood close to the same stream, and was hard by a weir, +the waters of which emitted a steady roar. + +While she stood hesitating the door opened, and an old man came forth +shading a candle with one hand. Locking the door on the outside, he +turned to a flight of wooden steps fixed against the end of the +cottage, and began to ascend them, this being evidently the staircase +to his bedroom. Gertrude hastened forward, but by the time she reached +the foot of the ladder he was at the top. She called to him loudly +enough to be heard above the roar of the weir; he looked down and said, +‘What d’ye want here?’ + +‘To speak to you a minute.’ + +The candle-light, such as it was, fell upon her imploring, pale, +upturned face, and Davies (as the hangman was called) backed down the +ladder. ‘I was just going to bed,’ he said; ‘“Early to bed and early to +rise,” but I don’t mind stopping a minute for such a one as you. Come +into house.’ He reopened the door, and preceded her to the room within. + +The implements of his daily work, which was that of a jobbing gardener, +stood in a corner, and seeing probably that she looked rural, he said, +‘If you want me to undertake country work I can’t come, for I never +leave Casterbridge for gentle nor simple—not I. My real calling is +officer of justice,’ he added formally. + +‘Yes, yes! That’s it. To-morrow!’ + +‘Ah! I thought so. Well, what’s the matter about that? ’Tis no use to +come here about the knot—folks do come continually, but I tell ’em one +knot is as merciful as another if ye keep it under the ear. Is the +unfortunate man a relation; or, I should say, perhaps’ (looking at her +dress) ‘a person who’s been in your employ?’ + +‘No. What time is the execution?’ + +‘The same as usual—twelve o’clock, or as soon after as the London +mail-coach gets in. We always wait for that, in case of a reprieve.’ + +‘O—a reprieve—I hope not!’ she said involuntarily, + +‘Well,—hee, hee!—as a matter of business, so do I! But still, if ever a +young fellow deserved to be let off, this one does; only just turned +eighteen, and only present by chance when the rick was fired. +Howsomever, there’s not much risk of it, as they are obliged to make an +example of him, there having been so much destruction of property that +way lately.’ + +‘I mean,’ she explained, ‘that I want to touch him for a charm, a cure +of an affliction, by the advice of a man who has proved the virtue of +the remedy.’ + +‘O yes, miss! Now I understand. I’ve had such people come in past +years. But it didn’t strike me that you looked of a sort to require +blood-turning. What’s the complaint? The wrong kind for this, I’ll be +bound.’ + +‘My arm.’ She reluctantly showed the withered skin. + +‘Ah—’tis all a-scram!’ said the hangman, examining it. + +‘Yes,’ said she. + +‘Well,’ he continued, with interest, ‘that _is_ the class o’ subject, +I’m bound to admit! I like the look of the place; it is truly as +suitable for the cure as any I ever saw. ’Twas a knowing-man that sent +‘ee, whoever he was.’ + +‘You can contrive for me all that’s necessary?’ she said breathlessly. + +‘You should really have gone to the governor of the jail, and your +doctor with ‘ee, and given your name and address—that’s how it used to +be done, if I recollect. Still, perhaps, I can manage it for a trifling +fee.’ + +‘O, thank you! I would rather do it this way, as I should like it kept +private.’ + +‘Lover not to know, eh?’ + +‘No—husband.’ + +‘Aha! Very well. I’ll get ee’ a touch of the corpse.’ + +‘Where is it now?’ she said, shuddering. + +‘It?_—he_, you mean; he’s living yet. Just inside that little small +winder up there in the glum.’ He signified the jail on the cliff above. + +She thought of her husband and her friends. ‘Yes, of course,’ she said; +‘and how am I to proceed?’ + +He took her to the door. ‘Now, do you be waiting at the little wicket +in the wall, that you’ll find up there in the lane, not later than one +o’clock. I will open it from the inside, as I shan’t come home to +dinner till he’s cut down. Good-night. Be punctual; and if you don’t +want anybody to know ‘ee, wear a veil. Ah—once I had such a daughter as +you!’ + +She went away, and climbed the path above, to assure herself that she +would be able to find the wicket next day. Its outline was soon visible +to her—a narrow opening in the outer wall of the prison precincts. The +steep was so great that, having reached the wicket, she stopped a +moment to breathe; and, looking back upon the water-side cot, saw the +hangman again ascending his outdoor staircase. He entered the loft or +chamber to which it led, and in a few minutes extinguished his light. + +The town clock struck ten, and she returned to the White Hart as she +had come. + +CHAPTER IX—A RENCOUNTER + +It was one o’clock on Saturday. Gertrude Lodge, having been admitted to +the jail as above described, was sitting in a waiting-room within the +second gate, which stood under a classic archway of ashlar, then +comparatively modern, and bearing the inscription, ‘COVNTY JAIL: 1793.’ +This had been the façade she saw from the heath the day before. Near at +hand was a passage to the roof on which the gallows stood. + +The town was thronged, and the market suspended; but Gertrude had seen +scarcely a soul. Having kept her room till the hour of the appointment, +she had proceeded to the spot by a way which avoided the open space +below the cliff where the spectators had gathered; but she could, even +now, hear the multitudinous babble of their voices, out of which rose +at intervals the hoarse croak of a single voice uttering the words, +‘Last dying speech and confession!’ There had been no reprieve, and the +execution was over; but the crowd still waited to see the body taken +down. + +Soon the persistent girl heard a trampling overhead, then a hand +beckoned to her, and, following directions, she went out and crossed +the inner paved court beyond the gatehouse, her knees trembling so that +she could scarcely walk. One of her arms was out of its sleeve, and +only covered by her shawl. + +On the spot at which she had now arrived were two trestles, and before +she could think of their purpose she heard heavy feet descending stairs +somewhere at her back. Turn her head she would not, or could not, and, +rigid in this position, she was conscious of a rough coffin passing her +shoulder, borne by four men. It was open, and in it lay the body of a +young man, wearing the smockfrock of a rustic, and fustian breeches. +The corpse had been thrown into the coffin so hastily that the skirt of +the smockfrock was hanging over. The burden was temporarily deposited +on the trestles. + +By this time the young woman’s state was such that a gray mist seemed +to float before her eyes, on account of which, and the veil she wore, +she could scarcely discern anything: it was as though she had nearly +died, but was held up by a sort of galvanism. + +‘Now!’ said a voice close at hand, and she was just conscious that the +word had been addressed to her. + +By a last strenuous effort she advanced, at the same time hearing +persons approaching behind her. She bared her poor curst arm; and +Davies, uncovering the face of the corpse, took Gertrude’s hand, and +held it so that her arm lay across the dead man’s neck, upon a line the +colour of an unripe blackberry, which surrounded it. + +Gertrude shrieked: ‘the turn o’ the blood,’ predicted by the conjuror, +had taken place. But at that moment a second shriek rent the air of the +enclosure: it was not Gertrude’s, and its effect upon her was to make +her start round. + +Immediately behind her stood Rhoda Brook, her face drawn, and her eyes +red with weeping. Behind Rhoda stood Gertrude’s own husband; his +countenance lined, his eyes dim, but without a tear. + +‘D-n you! what are you doing here?’ he said hoarsely. + +‘Hussy—to come between us and our child now!’ cried Rhoda. ‘This is the +meaning of what Satan showed me in the vision! You are like her at +last!’ And clutching the bare arm of the younger woman, she pulled her +unresistingly back against the wall. Immediately Brook had loosened her +hold the fragile young Gertrude slid down against the feet of her +husband. When he lifted her up she was unconscious. + +The mere sight of the twain had been enough to suggest to her that the +dead young man was Rhoda’s son. At that time the relatives of an +executed convict had the privilege of claiming the body for burial, if +they chose to do so; and it was for this purpose that Lodge was +awaiting the inquest with Rhoda. He had been summoned by her as soon as +the young man was taken in the crime, and at different times since; and +he had attended in court during the trial. This was the ‘holiday’ he +had been indulging in of late. The two wretched parents had wished to +avoid exposure; and hence had come themselves for the body, a waggon +and sheet for its conveyance and covering being in waiting outside. + +Gertrude’s case was so serious that it was deemed advisable to call to +her the surgeon who was at hand. She was taken out of the jail into the +town; but she never reached home alive. Her delicate vitality, sapped +perhaps by the paralyzed arm, collapsed under the double shock that +followed the severe strain, physical and mental, to which she had +subjected herself during the previous twenty-four hours. Her blood had +been ‘turned’ indeed—too far. Her death took place in the town three +days after. + +Her husband was never seen in Casterbridge again; once only in the old +market-place at Anglebury, which he had so much frequented, and very +seldom in public anywhere. Burdened at first with moodiness and +remorse, he eventually changed for the better, and appeared as a +chastened and thoughtful man. Soon after attending the funeral of his +poor young wife he took steps towards giving up the farms in Holmstoke +and the adjoining parish, and, having sold every head of his stock, he +went away to Port-Bredy, at the other end of the county, living there +in solitary lodgings till his death two years later of a painless +decline. It was then found that he had bequeathed the whole of his not +inconsiderable property to a reformatory for boys, subject to the +payment of a small annuity to Rhoda Brook, if she could be found to +claim it. + +For some time she could not be found; but eventually she reappeared in +her old parish,—absolutely refusing, however, to have anything to do +with the provision made for her. Her monotonous milking at the dairy +was resumed, and followed for many long years, till her form became +bent, and her once abundant dark hair white and worn away at the +forehead—perhaps by long pressure against the cows. Here, sometimes, +those who knew her experiences would stand and observe her, and wonder +what sombre thoughts were beating inside that impassive, wrinkled brow, +to the rhythm of the alternating milk-streams. + +(‘_Blackwood’s Magazine_,’ _January_ 1888.) + + + + +FELLOW-TOWNSMEN + + +CHAPTER I + +The shepherd on the east hill could shout out lambing intelligence to +the shepherd on the west hill, over the intervening town chimneys, +without great inconvenience to his voice, so nearly did the steep +pastures encroach upon the burghers’ backyards. And at night it was +possible to stand in the very midst of the town and hear from their +native paddocks on the lower levels of greensward the mild lowing of +the farmer’s heifers, and the profound, warm blowings of breath in +which those creatures indulge. But the community which had jammed +itself in the valley thus flanked formed a veritable town, with a real +mayor and corporation, and a staple manufacture. + +During a certain damp evening five-and-thirty years ago, before the +twilight was far advanced, a pedestrian of professional appearance, +carrying a small bag in his hand and an elevated umbrella, was +descending one of these hills by the turnpike road when he was +overtaken by a phaeton. + +‘Hullo, Downe—is that you?’ said the driver of the vehicle, a young man +of pale and refined appearance. ‘Jump up here with me, and ride down to +your door.’ + +The other turned a plump, cheery, rather self-indulgent face over his +shoulder towards the hailer. + +‘O, good evening, Mr. Barnet—thanks,’ he said, and mounted beside his +acquaintance. + +They were fellow-burgesses of the town which lay beneath them, but +though old and very good friends, they were differently circumstanced. +Barnet was a richer man than the struggling young lawyer Downe, a fact +which was to some extent perceptible in Downe’s manner towards his +companion, though nothing of it ever showed in Barnet’s manner towards +the solicitor. Barnet’s position in the town was none of his own +making; his father had been a very successful flax-merchant in the same +place, where the trade was still carried on as briskly as the small +capacities of its quarters would allow. Having acquired a fair fortune, +old Mr. Barnet had retired from business, bringing up his son as a +gentleman-burgher, and, it must be added, as a well-educated, +liberal-minded young man. + +‘How is Mrs. Barnet?’ asked Downe. + +‘Mrs. Barnet was very well when I left home,’ the other answered +constrainedly, exchanging his meditative regard of the horse for one of +self-consciousness. + +Mr. Downe seemed to regret his inquiry, and immediately took up another +thread of conversation. He congratulated his friend on his election as +a council-man; he thought he had not seen him since that event took +place; Mrs. Downe had meant to call and congratulate Mrs. Barnet, but +he feared that she had failed to do so as yet. + +Barnet seemed hampered in his replies. _‘We_ should have been glad to +see you. I—my wife would welcome Mrs. Downe at any time, as you know . +. . Yes, I am a member of the corporation—rather an inexperienced +member, some of them say. It is quite true; and I should have declined +the honour as premature—having other things on my hands just now, +too—if it had not been pressed upon me so very heartily.’ + +‘There is one thing you have on your hands which I can never quite see +the necessity for,’ said Downe, with good-humoured freedom. ‘What the +deuce do you want to build that new mansion for, when you have already +got such an excellent house as the one you live in?’ + +Barnet’s face acquired a warmer shade of colour; but as the question +had been idly asked by the solicitor while regarding the surrounding +flocks and fields, he answered after a moment with no apparent +embarrassment— + +‘Well, we wanted to get out of the town, you know: the house I am +living in is rather old and inconvenient.’ Mr. Downe declared that he +had chosen a pretty site for the new building. They would be able to +see for miles and miles from the windows. Was he going to give it a +name? He supposed so. + +Barnet thought not. There was no other house near that was likely to be +mistaken for it. And he did not care for a name. + +‘But I think it has a name!’ Downe observed: ‘I went past—when was +it?—this morning; and I saw something,—“Château Ringdale,” I think it +was, stuck up on a board!’ + +‘It was an idea she—we had for a short time,’ said Barnet hastily. ‘But +we have decided finally to do without a name—at any rate such a name as +that. It must have been a week ago that you saw it. It was taken down +last Saturday . . . Upon that matter I am firm!’ he added grimly. + +Downe murmured in an unconvinced tone that he thought he had seen it +yesterday. + +Talking thus they drove into the town. The street was unusually still +for the hour of seven in the evening; an increasing drizzle had +prevailed since the afternoon, and now formed a gauze across the yellow +lamps, and trickled with a gentle rattle down the heavy roofs of stone +tile, that bent the house-ridges hollow-backed with its weight, and in +some instances caused the walls to bulge outwards in the upper story. +Their route took them past the little town-hall, the Black-Bull Hotel, +and onward to the junction of a small street on the right, consisting +of a row of those two-and-two windowed brick residences of no +particular age, which are exactly alike wherever found, except in the +people they contain. + +‘Wait—I’ll drive you up to your door,’ said Barnet, when Downe prepared +to alight at the corner. He thereupon turned into the narrow street, +when the faces of three little girls could be discerned close to the +panes of a lighted window a few yards ahead, surmounted by that of a +young matron, the gaze of all four being directed eagerly up the empty +street. ‘You are a fortunate fellow, Downe,’ Barnet continued, as +mother and children disappeared from the window to run to the door. +‘You must be happy if any man is. I would give a hundred such houses as +my new one to have a home like yours.’ + +‘Well—yes, we get along pretty comfortably,’ replied Downe +complacently. + +‘That house, Downe, is none of my ordering,’ Barnet broke out, +revealing a bitterness hitherto suppressed, and checking the horse a +moment to finish his speech before delivering up his passenger. ‘The +house I have already is good enough for me, as you supposed. It is my +own freehold; it was built by my grandfather, and is stout enough for a +castle. My father was born there, lived there, and died there. I was +born there, and have always lived there; yet I must needs build a new +one.’ + +‘Why do you?’ said Downe. + +‘Why do I? To preserve peace in the household. I do anything for that; +but I don’t succeed. I was firm in resisting “Château Ringdale,” +however; not that I would not have put up with the absurdity of the +name, but it was too much to have your house christened after Lord +Ringdale, because your wife once had a fancy for him. If you only knew +everything, you would think all attempt at reconciliation hopeless. In +your happy home you have had no such experiences; and God forbid that +you ever should. See, here they are all ready to receive you!’ + +‘Of course! And so will your wife be waiting to receive you,’ said +Downe. ‘Take my word for it she will! And with a dinner prepared for +you far better than mine.’ + +‘I hope so,’ Barnet replied dubiously. + +He moved on to Downe’s door, which the solicitor’s family had already +opened. Downe descended, but being encumbered with his bag and +umbrella, his foot slipped, and he fell upon his knees in the gutter. + +‘O, my dear Charles!’ said his wife, running down the steps; and, quite +ignoring the presence of Barnet, she seized hold of her husband, pulled +him to his feet, and kissed him, exclaiming, ‘I hope you are not hurt, +darling!’ The children crowded round, chiming in piteously, ‘Poor +papa!’ + +‘He’s all right,’ said Barnet, perceiving that Downe was only a little +muddy, and looking more at the wife than at the husband. Almost at any +other time—certainly during his fastidious bachelor years—he would have +thought her a too demonstrative woman; but those recent circumstances +of his own life to which he had just alluded made Mrs. Downe’s +solicitude so affecting that his eye grew damp as he witnessed it. +Bidding the lawyer and his family good-night he left them, and drove +slowly into the main street towards his own house. + +The heart of Barnet was sufficiently impressionable to be influenced by +Downe’s parting prophecy that he might not be so unwelcome home as he +imagined: the dreary night might, at least on this one occasion, make +Downe’s forecast true. Hence it was in a suspense that he could hardly +have believed possible that he halted at his door. On entering his wife +was nowhere to be seen, and he inquired for her. The servant informed +him that her mistress had the dressmaker with her, and would be engaged +for some time. + +‘Dressmaker at this time of day!’ + +‘She dined early, sir, and hopes you will excuse her joining you this +evening.’ + +‘But she knew I was coming to-night?’ + +‘O yes, sir.’ + +‘Go up and tell her I am come.’ + +The servant did so; but the mistress of the house merely transmitted +her former words. + +Barnet said nothing more, and presently sat down to his lonely meal, +which was eaten abstractedly, the domestic scene he had lately +witnessed still impressing him by its contrast with the situation here. +His mind fell back into past years upon a certain pleasing and gentle +being whose face would loom out of their shades at such times as these. +Barnet turned in his chair, and looked with unfocused eyes in a +direction southward from where he sat, as if he saw not the room but a +long way beyond. ‘I wonder if she lives there still!’ he said. + +CHAPTER II + +He rose with a sudden rebelliousness, put on his hat and coat, and went +out of the house, pursuing his way along the glistening pavement while +eight o’clock was striking from St. Mary’s tower, and the apprentices +and shopmen were slamming up the shutters from end to end of the town. +In two minutes only those shops which could boast of no attendant save +the master or the mistress remained with open eyes. These were ever +somewhat less prompt to exclude customers than the others: for their +owners’ ears the closing hour had scarcely the cheerfulness that it +possessed for the hired servants of the rest. Yet the night being +dreary the delay was not for long, and their windows, too, blinked +together one by one. + +During this time Barnet had proceeded with decided step in a direction +at right angles to the broad main thoroughfare of the town, by a long +street leading due southward. Here, though his family had no more to do +with the flax manufacture, his own name occasionally greeted him on +gates and warehouses, being used allusively by small rising tradesmen +as a recommendation, in such words as ‘Smith, from Barnet & +Co.’—‘Robinson, late manager at Barnet’s.’ The sight led him to reflect +upon his father’s busy life, and he questioned if it had not been far +happier than his own. + +The houses along the road became fewer, and presently open ground +appeared between them on either side, the track on the right hand +rising to a higher level till it merged in a knoll. On the summit a row +of builders’ scaffold-poles probed the indistinct sky like spears, and +at their bases could be discerned the lower courses of a building +lately begun. Barnet slackened his pace and stood for a few moments +without leaving the centre of the road, apparently not much interested +in the sight, till suddenly his eye was caught by a post in the fore +part of the ground bearing a white board at the top. He went to the +rails, vaulted over, and walked in far enough to discern painted upon +the board ‘Château Ringdale.’ + +A dismal irony seemed to lie in the words, and its effect was to +irritate him. Downe, then, had spoken truly. He stuck his umbrella into +the sod, and seized the post with both hands, as if intending to loosen +and throw it down. Then, like one bewildered by an opposition which +would exist none the less though its manifestations were removed, he +allowed his arms to sink to his side. + +‘Let it be,’ he said to himself. ‘I have declared there shall be +peace—if possible.’ + +Taking up his umbrella he quietly left the enclosure, and went on his +way, still keeping his back to the town. He had advanced with more +decision since passing the new building, and soon a hoarse murmur rose +upon the gloom; it was the sound of the sea. The road led to the +harbour, at a distance of a mile from the town, from which the trade of +the district was fed. After seeing the obnoxious name-board Barnet had +forgotten to open his umbrella, and the rain tapped smartly on his hat, +and occasionally stroked his face as he went on. + +Though the lamps were still continued at the roadside, they stood at +wider intervals than before, and the pavement had given place to common +road. Every time he came to a lamp an increasing shine made itself +visible upon his shoulders, till at last they quite glistened with wet. +The murmur from the shore grew stronger, but it was still some distance +off when he paused before one of the smallest of the detached houses by +the wayside, standing in its own garden, the latter being divided from +the road by a row of wooden palings. Scrutinizing the spot to ensure +that he was not mistaken, he opened the gate and gently knocked at the +cottage door. + +When he had patiently waited minutes enough to lead any man in ordinary +cases to knock again, the door was heard to open, though it was +impossible to see by whose hand, there being no light in the passage. +Barnet said at random, ‘Does Miss Savile live here?’ + +A youthful voice assured him that she did live there, and by a sudden +afterthought asked him to come in. It would soon get a light, it said: +but the night being wet, mother had not thought it worth while to trim +the passage lamp. + +‘Don’t trouble yourself to get a light for me,’ said Barnet hastily; +‘it is not necessary at all. Which is Miss Savile’s sitting-room?’ + +The young person, whose white pinafore could just be discerned, +signified a door in the side of the passage, and Barnet went forward at +the same moment, so that no light should fall upon his face. On +entering the room he closed the door behind him, pausing till he heard +the retreating footsteps of the child. + +He found himself in an apartment which was simply and neatly, though +not poorly furnished; everything, from the miniature chiffonnier to the +shining little daguerreotype which formed the central ornament of the +mantelpiece, being in scrupulous order. The picture was enclosed by a +frame of embroidered card-board—evidently the work of feminine +hands—and it was the portrait of a thin faced, elderly lieutenant in +the navy. From behind the lamp on the table a female form now rose into +view, that of a young girl, and a resemblance between her and the +portrait was early discoverable. She had been so absorbed in some +occupation on the other side of the lamp as to have barely found time +to realize her visitor’s presence. + +They both remained standing for a few seconds without speaking. The +face that confronted Barnet had a beautiful outline; the Raffaelesque +oval of its contour was remarkable for an English countenance, and that +countenance housed in a remote country-road to an unheard-of harbour. +But her features did not do justice to this splendid beginning: Nature +had recollected that she was not in Italy; and the young lady’s +lineaments, though not so inconsistent as to make her plain, would have +been accepted rather as pleasing than as correct. The preoccupied +expression which, like images on the retina, remained with her for a +moment after the state that caused it had ceased, now changed into a +reserved, half-proud, and slightly indignant look, in which the blood +diffused itself quickly across her cheek, and additional brightness +broke the shade of her rather heavy eyes. + +‘I know I have no business here,’ he said, answering the look. ‘But I +had a great wish to see you, and inquire how you were. You can give +your hand to me, seeing how often I have held it in past days?’ + +‘I would rather forget than remember all that, Mr. Barnet,’ she +answered, as she coldly complied with the request. ‘When I think of the +circumstances of our last meeting, I can hardly consider it kind of you +to allude to such a thing as our past—or, indeed, to come here at all.’ + +‘There was no harm in it surely? I don’t trouble you often, Lucy.’ + +‘I have not had the honour of a visit from you for a very long time, +certainly, and I did not expect it now,’ she said, with the same +stiffness in her air. ‘I hope Mrs. Barnet is very well?’ + +‘Yes, yes!’ he impatiently returned. ‘At least I suppose so—though I +only speak from inference!’ + +‘But she is your wife, sir,’ said the young girl tremulously. + +The unwonted tones of a man’s voice in that feminine chamber had +startled a canary that was roosting in its cage by the window; the bird +awoke hastily, and fluttered against the bars. She went and stilled it +by laying her face against the cage and murmuring a coaxing sound. It +might partly have been done to still herself. + +‘I didn’t come to talk of Mrs. Barnet,’ he pursued; ‘I came to talk of +you, of yourself alone; to inquire how you are getting on since your +great loss.’ And he turned towards the portrait of her father. + +‘I am getting on fairly well, thank you.’ + +The force of her utterance was scarcely borne out by her look; but +Barnet courteously reproached himself for not having guessed a thing so +natural; and to dissipate all embarrassment, added, as he bent over the +table, ‘What were you doing when I came?—painting flowers, and by +candlelight?’ + +‘O no,’ she said, ‘not painting them—only sketching the outlines. I do +that at night to save time—I have to get three dozen done by the end of +the month.’ + +Barnet looked as if he regretted it deeply. ‘You will wear your poor +eyes out,’ he said, with more sentiment than he had hitherto shown. +‘You ought not to do it. There was a time when I should have said you +must not. Well—I almost wish I had never seen light with my own eyes +when I think of that!’ + +‘Is this a time or place for recalling such matters?’ she asked, with +dignity. ‘You used to have a gentlemanly respect for me, and for +yourself. Don’t speak any more as you have spoken, and don’t come +again. I cannot think that this visit is serious, or was closely +considered by you.’ + +‘Considered: well, I came to see you as an old and good friend—not to +mince matters, to visit a woman I loved. Don’t be angry! I could not +help doing it, so many things brought you into my mind . . . This +evening I fell in with an acquaintance, and when I saw how happy he was +with his wife and family welcoming him home, though with only one-tenth +of my income and chances, and thought what might have been in my case, +it fairly broke down my discretion, and off I came here. Now I am here +I feel that I am wrong to some extent. But the feeling that I should +like to see you, and talk of those we used to know in common, was very +strong.’ + +‘Before that can be the case a little more time must pass,’ said Miss +Savile quietly; ‘a time long enough for me to regard with some calmness +what at present I remember far too impatiently—though it may be you +almost forget it. Indeed you must have forgotten it long before you +acted as you did.’ Her voice grew stronger and more vivacious as she +added: ‘But I am doing my best to forget it too, and I know I shall +succeed from the progress I have made already!’ + +She had remained standing till now, when she turned and sat down, +facing half away from him. + +Barnet watched her moodily. ‘Yes, it is only what I deserve,’ he said. +‘Ambition pricked me on—no, it was not ambition, it was +wrongheadedness! Had I but reflected . . . ’ He broke out vehemently: +‘But always remember this, Lucy: if you had written to me only one +little line after that misunderstanding, I declare I should have come +back to you. That ruined me!’ he slowly walked as far as the little +room would allow him to go, and remained with his eyes on the skirting. + +‘But, Mr. Barnet, how could I write to you? There was no opening for my +doing so.’ + +‘Then there ought to have been,’ said Barnet, turning. ‘That was my +fault!’ + +‘Well, I don’t know anything about that; but as there had been nothing +said by me which required any explanation by letter, I did not send +one. Everything was so indefinite, and feeling your position to be so +much wealthier than mine, I fancied I might have mistaken your meaning. +And when I heard of the other lady—a woman of whose family even you +might be proud—I thought how foolish I had been, and said nothing.’ + +‘Then I suppose it was destiny—accident—I don’t know what, that +separated us, dear Lucy. Anyhow you were the woman I ought to have made +my wife—and I let you slip, like the foolish man that I was!’ + +‘O, Mr. Barnet,’ she said, almost in tears, ‘don’t revive the subject +to me; I am the wrong one to console you—think, sir,—you should not be +here—it would be so bad for me if it were known!’ + +‘It would—it would, indeed,’ he said hastily. ‘I am not right in doing +this, and I won’t do it again.’ + +‘It is a very common folly of human nature, you know, to think the +course you did _not_ adopt must have been the best,’ she continued, +with gentle solicitude, as she followed him to the door of the room. +‘And you don’t know that I should have accepted you, even if you had +asked me to be your wife.’ At this his eye met hers, and she dropped +her gaze. She knew that her voice belied her. There was a silence till +she looked up to add, in a voice of soothing playfulness, ‘My family +was so much poorer than yours, even before I lost my dear father, +that—perhaps your companions would have made it unpleasant for us on +account of my deficiencies.’ + +‘Your disposition would soon have won them round,’ said Barnet. + +She archly expostulated: ‘Now, never mind my disposition; try to make +it up with your wife! Those are my commands to you. And now you are to +leave me at once.’ + +‘I will. I must make the best of it all, I suppose,’ he replied, more +cheerfully than he had as yet spoken. ‘But I shall never again meet +with such a dear girl as you!’ And he suddenly opened the door, and +left her alone. When his glance again fell on the lamps that were +sparsely ranged along the dreary level road, his eyes were in a state +which showed straw-like motes of light radiating from each flame into +the surrounding air. + +On the other side of the way Barnet observed a man under an umbrella, +walking parallel with himself. Presently this man left the footway, and +gradually converged on Barnet’s course. The latter then saw that it was +Charlson, a surgeon of the town, who owed him money. Charlson was a man +not without ability; yet he did not prosper. Sundry circumstances stood +in his way as a medical practitioner: he was needy; he was not a +coddle; he gossiped with men instead of with women; he had married a +stranger instead of one of the town young ladies; and he was given to +conversational buffoonery. Moreover, his look was quite erroneous. +Those only proper features in the family doctor, the quiet eye, and the +thin straight passionless lips which never curl in public either for +laughter or for scorn, were not his; he had a full-curved mouth, and a +bold black eye that made timid people nervous. His companions were what +in old times would have been called boon companions—an expression +which, though of irreproachable root, suggests fraternization carried +to the point of unscrupulousness. All this was against him in the +little town of his adoption. + +Charlson had been in difficulties, and to oblige him Barnet had put his +name to a bill; and, as he had expected, was called upon to meet it +when it fell due. It had been only a matter of fifty pounds, which +Barnet could well afford to lose, and he bore no ill-will to the +thriftless surgeon on account of it. But Charlson had a little too much +brazen indifferentism in his composition to be altogether a desirable +acquaintance. + +‘I hope to be able to make that little bill-business right with you in +the course of three weeks, Mr. Barnet,’ said Charlson with hail-fellow +friendliness. + +Barnet replied good-naturedly that there was no hurry. + +This particular three weeks had moved on in advance of Charlson’s +present with the precision of a shadow for some considerable time. + +‘I’ve had a dream,’ Charlson continued. Barnet knew from his tone that +the surgeon was going to begin his characteristic nonsense, and did not +encourage him. ‘I’ve had a dream,’ repeated Charlson, who required no +encouragement. ‘I dreamed that a gentleman, who has been very kind to +me, married a haughty lady in haste, before he had quite forgotten a +nice little girl he knew before, and that one wet evening, like the +present, as I was walking up the harbour-road, I saw him come out of +that dear little girl’s present abode.’ + +Barnet glanced towards the speaker. The rays from a neighbouring lamp +struck through the drizzle under Charlson’s umbrella, so as just to +illumine his face against the shade behind, and show that his eye was +turned up under the outer corner of its lid, whence it leered with +impish jocoseness as he thrust his tongue into his cheek. + +‘Come,’ said Barnet gravely, ‘we’ll have no more of that.’ + +‘No, no—of course not,’ Charlson hastily answered, seeing that his +humour had carried him too far, as it had done many times before. He +was profuse in his apologies, but Barnet did not reply. Of one thing he +was certain—that scandal was a plant of quick root, and that he was +bound to obey Lucy’s injunction for Lucy’s own sake. + +CHAPTER III + +He did so, to the letter; and though, as the crocus followed the +snowdrop and the daffodil the crocus in Lucy’s garden, the harbour-road +was a not unpleasant place to walk in, Barnet’s feet never trod its +stones, much less approached her door. He avoided a saunter that way as +he would have avoided a dangerous dram, and took his airings a long +distance northward, among severely square and brown ploughed fields, +where no other townsman came. Sometimes he went round by the lower +lanes of the borough, where the rope-walks stretched in which his +family formerly had share, and looked at the rope-makers walking +backwards, overhung by apple-trees and bushes, and intruded on by cows +and calves, as if trade had established itself there at considerable +inconvenience to Nature. + +One morning, when the sun was so warm as to raise a steam from the +south-eastern slopes of those flanking hills that looked so lovely +above the old roofs, but made every low-chimneyed house in the town as +smoky as Tophet, Barnet glanced from the windows of the town-council +room for lack of interest in what was proceeding within. Several +members of the corporation were present, but there was not much +business doing, and in a few minutes Downe came leisurely across to +him, saying that he seldom saw Barnet now. + +Barnet owned that he was not often present. + +Downe looked at the crimson curtain which hung down beside the panes, +reflecting its hot hues into their faces, and then out of the window. +At that moment there passed along the street a tall commanding lady, in +whom the solicitor recognized Barnet’s wife. Barnet had done the same +thing, and turned away. + +‘It will be all right some day,’ said Downe, with cheering sympathy. + +‘You have heard, then, of her last outbreak?’ + +Downe depressed his cheerfulness to its very reverse in a moment. ‘No, +I have not heard of anything serious,’ he said, with as long a face as +one naturally round could be turned into at short notice. ‘I only hear +vague reports of such things.’ + +‘You may think it will be all right,’ said Barnet drily. ‘But I have a +different opinion . . . No, Downe, we must look the thing in the face. +Not poppy nor mandragora—however, how are your wife and children?’ + +Downe said that they were all well, thanks; they were out that morning +somewhere; he was just looking to see if they were walking that way. +Ah, there they were, just coming down the street; and Downe pointed to +the figures of two children with a nursemaid, and a lady walking behind +them. + +‘You will come out and speak to her?’ he asked. + +‘Not this morning. The fact is I don’t care to speak to anybody just +now.’ + +‘You are too sensitive, Mr. Barnet. At school I remember you used to +get as red as a rose if anybody uttered a word that hurt your +feelings.’ + +Barnet mused. ‘Yes,’ he admitted, ‘there is a grain of truth in that. +It is because of that I often try to make peace at home. Life would be +tolerable then at any rate, even if not particularly bright.’ + +‘I have thought more than once of proposing a little plan to you,’ said +Downe with some hesitation. ‘I don’t know whether it will meet your +views, but take it or leave it, as you choose. In fact, it was my wife +who suggested it: that she would be very glad to call on Mrs. Barnet +and get into her confidence. She seems to think that Mrs. Barnet is +rather alone in the town, and without advisers. Her impression is that +your wife will listen to reason. Emily has a wonderful way of winning +the hearts of people of her own sex.’ + +‘And of the other sex too, I think. She is a charming woman, and you +were a lucky fellow to find her.’ + +‘Well, perhaps I was,’ simpered Downe, trying to wear an aspect of +being the last man in the world to feel pride. ‘However, she will be +likely to find out what ruffles Mrs. Barnet. Perhaps it is some +misunderstanding, you know—something that she is too proud to ask you +to explain, or some little thing in your conduct that irritates her +because she does not fully comprehend you. The truth is, Emily would +have been more ready to make advances if she had been quite sure of her +fitness for Mrs. Barnet’s society, who has of course been accustomed to +London people of good position, which made Emily fearful of intruding.’ + +Barnet expressed his warmest thanks for the well-intentioned +proposition. There was reason in Mrs. Downe’s fear—that he owned. ‘But +do let her call,’ he said. ‘There is no woman in England I would so +soon trust on such an errand. I am afraid there will not be any +brilliant result; still I shall take it as the kindest and nicest thing +if she will try it, and not be frightened at a repulse.’ + +When Barnet and Downe had parted, the former went to the Town +Savings-Bank, of which he was a trustee, and endeavoured to forget his +troubles in the contemplation of low sums of money, and figures in a +network of red and blue lines. He sat and watched the working-people +making their deposits, to which at intervals he signed his name. Before +he left in the afternoon Downe put his head inside the door. + +‘Emily has seen Mrs. Barnet,’ he said, in a low voice. ‘She has got +Mrs. Barnet’s promise to take her for a drive down to the shore +to-morrow, if it is fine. Good afternoon!’ + +Barnet shook Downe by the hand without speaking, and Downe went away. + +CHAPTER IV + +The next day was as fine as the arrangement could possibly require. As +the sun passed the meridian and declined westward, the tall shadows +from the scaffold-poles of Barnet’s rising residence streaked the +ground as far as to the middle of the highway. Barnet himself was there +inspecting the progress of the works for the first time during several +weeks. A building in an old-fashioned town five-and-thirty years ago +did not, as in the modern fashion, rise from the sod like a booth at a +fair. The foundations and lower courses were put in and allowed to +settle for many weeks before the superstructure was built up, and a +whole summer of drying was hardly sufficient to do justice to the +important issues involved. Barnet stood within a window-niche which had +as yet received no frame, and thence looked down a slope into the road. +The wheels of a chaise were heard, and then his handsome Xantippe, in +the company of Mrs. Downe, drove past on their way to the shore. They +were driving slowly; there was a pleasing light in Mrs. Downe’s face, +which seemed faintly to reflect itself upon the countenance of her +companion—that _politesse du coeur_ which was so natural to her having +possibly begun already to work results. But whatever the situation, +Barnet resolved not to interfere, or do anything to hazard the promise +of the day. He might well afford to trust the issue to another when he +could never direct it but to ill himself. His wife’s clenched rein-hand +in its lemon-coloured glove, her stiff erect figure, clad in velvet and +lace, and her boldly-outlined face, passed on, exhibiting their owner +as one fixed for ever above the level of her companion—socially by her +early breeding, and materially by her higher cushion. + +Barnet decided to allow them a proper time to themselves, and then +stroll down to the shore and drive them home. After lingering on at the +house for another hour he started with this intention. A few hundred +yards below ‘Château Ringdale’ stood the cottage in which the late +lieutenant’s daughter had her lodging. Barnet had not been so far that +way for a long time, and as he approached the forbidden ground a +curious warmth passed into him, which led him to perceive that, unless +he were careful, he might have to fight the battle with himself about +Lucy over again. A tenth of his present excuse would, however, have +justified him in travelling by that road to-day. + +He came opposite the dwelling, and turned his eyes for a momentary +glance into the little garden that stretched from the palings to the +door. Lucy was in the enclosure; she was walking and stooping to gather +some flowers, possibly for the purpose of painting them, for she moved +about quickly, as if anxious to save time. She did not see him; he +might have passed unnoticed; but a sensation which was not in strict +unison with his previous sentiments that day led him to pause in his +walk and watch her. She went nimbly round and round the beds of +anemones, tulips, jonquils, polyanthuses, and other old-fashioned +flowers, looking a very charming figure in her half-mourning bonnet, +and with an incomplete nosegay in her left hand. Raising herself to +pull down a lilac blossom she observed him. + +‘Mr. Barnet!’ she said, innocently smiling. ‘Why, I have been thinking +of you many times since Mrs. Barnet went by in the pony-carriage, and +now here you are!’ + +‘Yes, Lucy,’ he said. + +Then she seemed to recall particulars of their last meeting, and he +believed that she flushed, though it might have been only the fancy of +his own supersensitivenesss. + +‘I am going to the harbour,’ he added. + +‘Are you?’ Lucy remarked simply. ‘A great many people begin to go there +now the summer is drawing on.’ + +Her face had come more into his view as she spoke, and he noticed how +much thinner and paler it was than when he had seen it last. ‘Lucy, how +weary you look! tell me, can I help you?’ he was going to cry out.—‘If +I do,’ he thought, ‘it will be the ruin of us both!’ He merely said +that the afternoon was fine, and went on his way. + +As he went a sudden blast of air came over the hill as if in +contradiction to his words, and spoilt the previous quiet of the scene. +The wind had already shifted violently, and now smelt of the sea. + +The harbour-road soon began to justify its name. A gap appeared in the +rampart of hills which shut out the sea, and on the left of the opening +rose a vertical cliff, coloured a burning orange by the sunlight, the +companion cliff on the right being livid in shade. Between these +cliffs, like the Libyan bay which sheltered the shipwrecked Trojans, +was a little haven, seemingly a beginning made by Nature herself of a +perfect harbour, which appealed to the passer-by as only requiring a +little human industry to finish it and make it famous, the ground on +each side as far back as the daisied slopes that bounded the interior +valley being a mere layer of blown sand. But the Port-Bredy burgesses a +mile inland had, in the course of ten centuries, responded many times +to that mute appeal, with the result that the tides had invariably +choked up their works with sand and shingle as soon as completed. There +were but few houses here: a rough pier, a few boats, some stores, an +inn, a residence or two, a ketch unloading in the harbour, were the +chief features of the settlement. On the open ground by the shore stood +his wife’s pony-carriage, empty, the boy in attendance holding the +horse. + +When Barnet drew nearer, he saw an indigo-coloured spot moving swiftly +along beneath the radiant base of the eastern cliff, which proved to be +a man in a jersey, running with all his might. He held up his hand to +Barnet, as it seemed, and they approached each other. The man was +local, but a stranger to him. + +‘What is it, my man?’ said Barnet. + +‘A terrible calamity!’ the boatman hastily explained. Two ladies had +been capsized in a boat—they were Mrs. Downe and Mrs. Barnet of the old +town; they had driven down there that afternoon—they had alighted, and +it was so fine, that, after walking about a little while, they had been +tempted to go out for a short sail round the cliff. Just as they were +putting in to the shore, the wind shifted with a sudden gust, the boat +listed over, and it was thought they were both drowned. How it could +have happened was beyond his mind to fathom, for John Green knew how to +sail a boat as well as any man there. + +‘Which is the way to the place?’ said Barnet. + +It was just round the cliff. + +‘Run to the carriage and tell the boy to bring it to the place as soon +as you can. Then go to the Harbour Inn and tell them to ride to town +for a doctor. Have they been got out of the water?’ + +‘One lady has.’ + +‘Which?’ + +‘Mrs. Barnet. Mrs. Downe, it is feared, has fleeted out to sea.’ + +Barnet ran on to that part of the shore which the cliff had hitherto +obscured from his view, and there discerned, a long way ahead, a group +of fishermen standing. As soon as he came up one or two recognized him, +and, not liking to meet his eye, turned aside with misgiving. He went +amidst them and saw a small sailing-boat lying draggled at the water’s +edge; and, on the sloping shingle beside it, a soaked and sandy woman’s +form in the velvet dress and yellow gloves of his wife. + +CHAPTER V + +All had been done that could be done. Mrs. Barnet was in her own house +under medical hands, but the result was still uncertain. Barnet had +acted as if devotion to his wife were the dominant passion of his +existence. There had been much to decide—whether to attempt restoration +of the apparently lifeless body as it lay on the shore—whether to carry +her to the Harbour Inn—whether to drive with her at once to his own +house. The first course, with no skilled help or appliances near at +hand, had seemed hopeless. The second course would have occupied nearly +as much time as a drive to the town, owing to the intervening ridges of +shingle, and the necessity of crossing the harbour by boat to get to +the house, added to which much time must have elapsed before a doctor +could have arrived down there. By bringing her home in the carriage +some precious moments had slipped by; but she had been laid in her own +bed in seven minutes, a doctor called to her side, and every possible +restorative brought to bear upon her. + +At what a tearing pace he had driven up that road, through the yellow +evening sunlight, the shadows flapping irksomely into his eyes as each +wayside object rushed past between him and the west! Tired workmen with +their baskets at their backs had turned on their homeward journey to +wonder at his speed. Halfway between the shore and Port-Bredy town he +had met Charlson, who had been the first surgeon to hear of the +accident. He was accompanied by his assistant in a gig. Barnet had sent +on the latter to the coast in case that Downe’s poor wife should by +that time have been reclaimed from the waves, and had brought Charlson +back with him to the house. + +Barnet’s presence was not needed here, and he felt it to be his next +duty to set off at once and find Downe, that no other than himself +might break the news to him. + +He was quite sure that no chance had been lost for Mrs. Downe by his +leaving the shore. By the time that Mrs. Barnet had been laid in the +carriage, a much larger group had assembled to lend assistance in +finding her friend, rendering his own help superfluous. But the duty of +breaking the news was made doubly painful by the circumstance that the +catastrophe which had befallen Mrs. Downe was solely the result of her +own and her husband’s loving-kindness towards himself. + +He found Downe in his office. When the solicitor comprehended the +intelligence he turned pale, stood up, and remained for a moment +perfectly still, as if bereft of his faculties; then his shoulders +heaved, he pulled out his handkerchief and began to cry like a child. +His sobs might have been heard in the next room. He seemed to have no +idea of going to the shore, or of doing anything; but when Barnet took +him gently by the hand and proposed to start at once, he quietly +acquiesced, neither uttering any further word nor making any effort to +repress his tears. + +Barnet accompanied him to the shore, where, finding that no trace had +as yet been seen of Mrs. Downe, and that his stay would be of no avail, +he left Downe with his friends and the young doctor, and once more +hastened back to his own house. + +At the door he met Charlson. ‘Well!’ Barnet said. + +‘I have just come down,’ said the doctor; ‘we have done everything, but +without result. I sympathize with you in your bereavement.’ + +Barnet did not much appreciate Charlson’s sympathy, which sounded to +his ears as something of a mockery from the lips of a man who knew what +Charlson knew about their domestic relations. Indeed there seemed an +odd spark in Charlson’s full black eye as he said the words; but that +might have been imaginary. + +‘And, Mr. Barnet,’ Charlson resumed, ‘that little matter between us—I +hope to settle it finally in three weeks at least.’ + +‘Never mind that now,’ said Barnet abruptly. He directed the surgeon to +go to the harbour in case his services might even now be necessary +there: and himself entered the house. + +The servants were coming from his wife’s chamber, looking helplessly at +each other and at him. He passed them by and entered the room, where he +stood mutely regarding the bed for a few minutes, after which he walked +into his own dressing-room adjoining, and there paced up and down. In a +minute or two he noticed what a strange and total silence had come over +the upper part of the house; his own movements, muffled as they were by +the carpet, seemed noisy, and his thoughts to disturb the air like +articulate utterances. His eye glanced through the window. Far down the +road to the harbour a roof detained his gaze: out of it rose a red +chimney, and out of the red chimney a curl of smoke, as from a fire +newly kindled. He had often seen such a sight before. In that house +lived Lucy Savile; and the smoke was from the fire which was regularly +lighted at this time to make her tea. + +After that he went back to the bedroom, and stood there some time +regarding his wife’s silent form. She was a woman some years older than +himself, but had not by any means overpassed the maturity of good looks +and vigour. Her passionate features, well-defined, firm, and statuesque +in life, were doubly so now: her mouth and brow, beneath her purplish +black hair, showed only too clearly that the turbulency of character +which had made a bear-garden of his house had been no temporary phase +of her existence. While he reflected, he suddenly said to himself, I +wonder if all has been done? + +The thought was led up to by his having fancied that his wife’s +features lacked in its complete form the expression which he had been +accustomed to associate with the faces of those whose spirits have fled +for ever. The effacement of life was not so marked but that, entering +uninformed, he might have supposed her sleeping. Her complexion was +that seen in the numerous faded portraits by Sir Joshua Reynolds; it +was pallid in comparison with life, but there was visible on a close +inspection the remnant of what had once been a flush; the keeping +between the cheeks and the hollows of the face being thus preserved, +although positive colour was gone. Long orange rays of evening sun +stole in through chinks in the blind, striking on the large mirror, and +being thence reflected upon the crimson hangings and woodwork of the +heavy bedstead, so that the general tone of light was remarkably warm; +and it was probable that something might be due to this circumstance. +Still the fact impressed him as strange. Charlson had been gone more +than a quarter of an hour: could it be possible that he had left too +soon, and that his attempts to restore her had operated so sluggishly +as only now to have made themselves felt? Barnet laid his hand upon her +chest, and fancied that ever and anon a faint flutter of palpitation, +gentle as that of a butterfly’s wing, disturbed the stillness +there—ceasing for a time, then struggling to go on, then breaking down +in weakness and ceasing again. + +Barnet’s mother had been an active practitioner of the healing art +among her poorer neighbours, and her inspirations had all been derived +from an octavo volume of Domestic Medicine, which at this moment was +lying, as it had lain for many years, on a shelf in Barnet’s +dressing-room. He hastily fetched it, and there read under the head +‘Drowning:’- + +‘Exertions for the recovery of any person who has not been immersed for +a longer period than half-an-hour should be continued for at least four +hours, as there have been many cases in which returning life has made +itself visible even after a longer interval. + +‘Should, however, a weak action of any of the organs show itself when +the case seems almost hopeless, our efforts must be redoubled; the +feeble spark in this case requires to be solicited; it will certainly +disappear under a relaxation of labour.’ + + +Barnet looked at his watch; it was now barely two hours and a half from +the time when he had first heard of the accident. He threw aside the +book and turned quickly to reach a stimulant which had previously been +used. Pulling up the blind for more light, his eye glanced out of the +window. There he saw that red chimney still smoking cheerily, and that +roof, and through the roof that somebody. His mechanical movements +stopped, his hand remained on the blind-cord, and he seemed to become +breathless, as if he had suddenly found himself treading a high rope. + +While he stood a sparrow lighted on the windowsill, saw him, and flew +away. Next a man and a dog walked over one of the green hills which +bulged above the roofs of the town. But Barnet took no notice. + +We may wonder what were the exact images that passed through his mind +during those minutes of gazing upon Lucy Savile’s house, the sparrow, +the man and the dog, and Lucy Savile’s house again. There are honest +men who will not admit to their thoughts, even as idle hypotheses, +views of the future that assume as done a deed which they would recoil +from doing; and there are other honest men for whom morality ends at +the surface of their own heads, who will deliberate what the first will +not so much as suppose. Barnet had a wife whose pretence distracted his +home; she now lay as in death; by merely doing nothing—by letting the +intelligence which had gone forth to the world lie undisturbed—he would +effect such a deliverance for himself as he had never hoped for, and +open up an opportunity of which till now he had never dreamed. Whether +the conjuncture had arisen through any unscrupulous, ill-considered +impulse of Charlson to help out of a strait the friend who was so kind +as never to press him for what was due could not be told; there was +nothing to prove it; and it was a question which could never be asked. +The triangular situation—himself—his wife—Lucy Savile—was the one clear +thing. + +From Barnet’s actions we may infer that he _supposed_ such and such a +result, for a moment, but did not deliberate. He withdrew his hazel +eyes from the scene without, calmly turned, rang the bell for +assistance, and vigorously exerted himself to learn if life still +lingered in that motionless frame. In a short time another surgeon was +in attendance; and then Barnet’s surmise proved to be true. The slow +life timidly heaved again; but much care and patience were needed to +catch and retain it, and a considerable period elapsed before it could +be said with certainty that Mrs. Barnet lived. When this was the case, +and there was no further room for doubt, Barnet left the chamber. The +blue evening smoke from Lucy’s chimney had died down to an +imperceptible stream, and as he walked about downstairs he murmured to +himself, ‘My wife was dead, and she is alive again.’ + +It was not so with Downe. After three hours’ immersion his wife’s body +had been recovered, life, of course, being quite extinct. Barnet on +descending, went straight to his friend’s house, and there learned the +result. Downe was helpless in his wild grief, occasionally even +hysterical. Barnet said little, but finding that some guiding hand was +necessary in the sorrow-stricken household, took upon him to supervise +and manage till Downe should be in a state of mind to do so for +himself. + +CHAPTER VI + +One September evening, four months later, when Mrs. Barnet was in +perfect health, and Mrs. Downe but a weakening memory, an errand-boy +paused to rest himself in front of Mr. Barnet’s old house, depositing +his basket on one of the window-sills. The street was not yet lighted, +but there were lights in the house, and at intervals a flitting shadow +fell upon the blind at his elbow. Words also were audible from the same +apartment, and they seemed to be those of persons in violent +altercation. But the boy could not gather their purport, and he went on +his way. + +Ten minutes afterwards the door of Barnet’s house opened, and a tall +closely-veiled lady in a travelling-dress came out and descended the +freestone steps. The servant stood in the doorway watching her as she +went with a measured tread down the street. When she had been out of +sight for some minutes Barnet appeared at the door from within. + +‘Did your mistress leave word where she was going?’ he asked. + +‘No, sir.’ + +‘Is the carriage ordered to meet her anywhere?’ + +‘No, sir.’ + +‘Did she take a latch-key?’ + +‘No, sir.’ + +Barnet went in again, sat down in his chair, and leaned back. Then in +solitude and silence he brooded over the bitter emotions that filled +his heart. It was for this that he had gratuitously restored her to +life, and made his union with another impossible! The evening drew on, +and nobody came to disturb him. At bedtime he told the servants to +retire, that he would sit up for Mrs. Barnet himself; and when they +were gone he leaned his head upon his hand and mused for hours. + +The clock struck one, two; still his wife came not, and, with +impatience added to depression, he went from room to room till another +weary hour had passed. This was not altogether a new experience for +Barnet; but she had never before so prolonged her absence. At last he +sat down again and fell asleep. + +He awoke at six o’clock to find that she had not returned. In searching +about the rooms he discovered that she had taken a case of jewels which +had been hers before her marriage. At eight a note was brought him; it +was from his wife, in which she stated that she had gone by the coach +to the house of a distant relative near London, and expressed a wish +that certain boxes, articles of clothing, and so on, might be sent to +her forthwith. The note was brought to him by a waiter at the +Black-Bull Hotel, and had been written by Mrs. Barnet immediately +before she took her place in the stage. + +By the evening this order was carried out, and Barnet, with a sense of +relief, walked out into the town. A fair had been held during the day, +and the large clear moon which rose over the most prominent hill flung +its light upon the booths and standings that still remained in the +street, mixing its rays curiously with those from the flaring naphtha +lamps. The town was full of country-people who had come in to enjoy +themselves, and on this account Barnet strolled through the streets +unobserved. With a certain recklessness he made for the harbour-road, +and presently found himself by the shore, where he walked on till he +came to the spot near which his friend the kindly Mrs. Downe had lost +her life, and his own wife’s life had been preserved. A tremulous +pathway of bright moonshine now stretched over the water which had +engulfed them, and not a living soul was near. + +Here he ruminated on their characters, and next on the young girl in +whom he now took a more sensitive interest than at the time when he had +been free to marry her. Nothing, so far as he was aware, had ever +appeared in his own conduct to show that such an interest existed. He +had made it a point of the utmost strictness to hinder that feeling +from influencing in the faintest degree his attitude towards his wife; +and this was made all the more easy for him by the small demand Mrs. +Barnet made upon his attentions, for which she ever evinced the +greatest contempt; thus unwittingly giving him the satisfaction of +knowing that their severance owed nothing to jealousy, or, indeed, to +any personal behaviour of his at all. Her concern was not with him or +his feelings, as she frequently told him; but that she had, in a moment +of weakness, thrown herself away upon a common burgher when she might +have aimed at, and possibly brought down, a peer of the realm. Her +frequent depreciation of Barnet in these terms had at times been so +intense that he was sorely tempted to retaliate on her egotism by +owning that he loved at the same low level on which he lived; but +prudence had prevailed, for which he was now thankful. + +Something seemed to sound upon the shingle behind him over and above +the raking of the wave. He looked round, and a slight girlish shape +appeared quite close to him, He could not see her face because it was +in the direction of the moon. + +‘Mr. Barnet?’ the rambler said, in timid surprise. The voice was the +voice of Lucy Savile. + +‘Yes,’ said Barnet. ‘How can I repay you for this pleasure?’ + +‘I only came because the night was so clear. I am now on my way home.’ + +‘I am glad we have met. I want to know if you will let me do something +for you, to give me an occupation, as an idle man? I am sure I ought to +help you, for I know you are almost without friends.’ + +She hesitated. ‘Why should you tell me that?’ she said. + +‘In the hope that you will be frank with me.’ + +‘I am not altogether without friends here. But I am going to make a +little change in my life—to go out as a teacher of freehand drawing and +practical perspective, of course I mean on a comparatively humble +scale, because I have not been specially educated for that profession. +But I am sure I shall like it much.’ + +‘You have an opening?’ + +‘I have not exactly got it, but I have advertised for one.’ + +‘Lucy, you must let me help you!’ + +‘Not at all.’ + +‘You need not think it would compromise you, or that I am indifferent +to delicacy. I bear in mind how we stand. It is very unlikely that you +will succeed as teacher of the class you mention, so let me do +something of a different kind for you. Say what you would like, and it +shall be done.’ + +‘No; if I can’t be a drawing-mistress or governess, or something of +that sort, I shall go to India and join my brother.’ + +‘I wish I could go abroad, anywhere, everywhere with you, Lucy, and +leave this place and its associations for ever!’ + +She played with the end of her bonnet-string, and hastily turned aside. +‘Don’t ever touch upon that kind of topic again,’ she said, with a +quick severity not free from anger. ‘It simply makes it impossible for +me to see you, much less receive any guidance from you. No, thank you, +Mr. Barnet; you can do nothing for me at present; and as I suppose my +uncertainty will end in my leaving for India, I fear you never will. If +ever I think you _can_ do anything, I will take the trouble to ask you. +Till then, good-bye.’ + +The tone of her latter words was equivocal, and while he remained in +doubt whether a gentle irony was or was not inwrought with their sound, +she swept lightly round and left him alone. He saw her form get smaller +and smaller along the damp belt of sea-sand between ebb and flood; and +when she had vanished round the cliff into the harbour-road, he himself +followed in the same direction. + +That her hopes from an advertisement should be the single thread which +held Lucy Savile in England was too much for Barnet. On reaching the +town he went straight to the residence of Downe, now a widower with +four children. The young motherless brood had been sent to bed about a +quarter of an hour earlier, and when Barnet entered he found Downe +sitting alone. It was the same room as that from which the family had +been looking out for Downe at the beginning of the year, when Downe had +slipped into the gutter and his wife had been so enviably tender +towards him. The old neatness had gone from the house; articles lay in +places which could show no reason for their presence, as if momentarily +deposited there some months ago, and forgotten ever since; there were +no flowers; things were jumbled together on the furniture which should +have been in cupboards; and the place in general had that stagnant, +unrenovated air which usually pervades the maimed home of the widower. + +Downe soon renewed his customary full-worded lament over his wife, and +even when he had worked himself up to tears, went on volubly, as if a +listener were a luxury to be enjoyed whenever he could be caught. + +‘She was a treasure beyond compare, Mr. Barnet! I shall never see such +another. Nobody now to nurse me—nobody to console me in those daily +troubles, you know, Barnet, which make consolation so necessary to a +nature like mine. It would be unbecoming to repine, for her spirit’s +home was elsewhere—the tender light in her eyes always showed it; but +it is a long dreary time that I have before me, and nobody else can +ever fill the void left in my heart by her loss—nobody—nobody!’ And +Downe wiped his eyes again. + +‘She was a good woman in the highest sense,’ gravely answered Barnet, +who, though Downe’s words drew genuine compassion from his heart, could +not help feeling that a tender reticence would have been a finer +tribute to Mrs. Downe’s really sterling virtues than such a +second-class lament as this. + +‘I have something to show you,’ Downe resumed, producing from a drawer +a sheet of paper on which was an elaborate design for a canopied tomb. +‘This has been sent me by the architect, but it is not exactly what I +want.’ + +‘You have got Jones to do it, I see, the man who is carrying out my +house,’ said Barnet, as he glanced at the signature to the drawing. + +‘Yes, but it is not quite what I want. I want something more +striking—more like a tomb I have seen in St. Paul’s Cathedral. Nothing +less will do justice to my feelings, and how far short of them that +will fall!’ + +Barnet privately thought the design a sufficiently imposing one as it +stood, even extravagantly ornate; but, feeling that he had no right to +criticize, he said gently, ‘Downe, should you not live more in your +children’s lives at the present time, and soften the sharpness of +regret for your own past by thinking of their future?’ + +‘Yes, yes; but what can I do more?’ asked Downe, wrinkling his forehead +hopelessly. + +It was with anxious slowness that Barnet produced his reply—the secret +object of his visit to-night. ‘Did you not say one day that you ought +by rights to get a governess for the children?’ + +Downe admitted that he had said so, but that he could not see his way +to it. ‘The kind of woman I should like to have,’ he said, ‘would be +rather beyond my means. No; I think I shall send them to school in the +town when they are old enough to go out alone.’ + +‘Now, I know of something better than that. The late Lieutenant +Savile’s daughter, Lucy, wants to do something for herself in the way +of teaching. She would be inexpensive, and would answer your purpose as +well as anybody for six or twelve months. She would probably come daily +if you were to ask her, and so your housekeeping arrangements would not +be much affected.’ + +‘I thought she had gone away,’ said the solicitor, musing. ‘Where does +she live?’ + +Barnet told him, and added that, if Downe should think of her as +suitable, he would do well to call as soon as possible, or she might be +on the wing. ‘If you do see her,’ he said, ‘it would be advisable not +to mention my name. She is rather stiff in her ideas of me, and it +might prejudice her against a course if she knew that I recommended +it.’ + +Downe promised to give the subject his consideration, and nothing more +was said about it just then. But when Barnet rose to go, which was not +till nearly bedtime, he reminded Downe of the suggestion and went up +the street to his own solitary home with a sense of satisfaction at his +promising diplomacy in a charitable cause. + +CHAPTER VII + +The walls of his new house were carried up nearly to their full height. +By a curious though not infrequent reaction, Barnet’s feelings about +that unnecessary structure had undergone a change; he took considerable +interest in its progress as a long-neglected thing, his wife before her +departure having grown quite weary of it as a hobby. Moreover, it was +an excellent distraction for a man in the unhappy position of having to +live in a provincial town with nothing to do. He was probably the first +of his line who had ever passed a day without toil, and perhaps +something like an inherited instinct disqualifies such men for a life +of pleasant inaction, such as lies in the power of those whose leisure +is not a personal accident, but a vast historical accretion which has +become part of their natures. + +Thus Barnet got into a way of spending many of his leisure hours on the +site of the new building, and he might have been seen on most days at +this time trying the temper of the mortar by punching the joints with +his stick, looking at the grain of a floor-board, and meditating where +it grew, or picturing under what circumstances the last fire would be +kindled in the at present sootless chimneys. One day when thus occupied +he saw three children pass by in the company of a fair young woman, +whose sudden appearance caused him to flush perceptibly. + +‘Ah, she is there,’ he thought. ‘That’s a blessed thing.’ + +Casting an interested glance over the rising building and the busy +workmen, Lucy Savile and the little Downes passed by; and after that +time it became a regular though almost unconscious custom of Barnet to +stand in the half-completed house and look from the ungarnished windows +at the governess as she tripped towards the sea-shore with her young +charges, which she was in the habit of doing on most fine afternoons. +It was on one of these occasions, when he had been loitering on the +first-floor landing, near the hole left for the staircase, not yet +erected, that there appeared above the edge of the floor a little hat, +followed by a little head. + +Barnet withdrew through a doorway, and the child came to the top of the +ladder, stepping on to the floor and crying to her sisters and Miss +Savile to follow. Another head rose above the floor, and another, and +then Lucy herself came into view. The troop ran hither and thither +through the empty, shaving-strewn rooms, and Barnet came forward. + +Lucy uttered a small exclamation: she was very sorry that she had +intruded; she had not the least idea that Mr. Barnet was there: the +children had come up, and she had followed. + +Barnet replied that he was only too glad to see them there. ‘And now, +let me show you the rooms,’ he said. + +She passively assented, and he took her round. There was not much to +show in such a bare skeleton of a house, but he made the most of it, +and explained the different ornamental fittings that were soon to be +fixed here and there. Lucy made but few remarks in reply, though she +seemed pleased with her visit, and stole away down the ladder, followed +by her companions. + +After this the new residence became yet more of a hobby for Barnet. +Downe’s children did not forget their first visit, and when the windows +were glazed, and the handsome staircase spread its broad low steps into +the hall, they came again, prancing in unwearied succession through +every room from ground-floor to attics, while Lucy stood waiting for +them at the door. Barnet, who rarely missed a day in coming to inspect +progress, stepped out from the drawing-room. + +‘I could not keep them out,’ she said, with an apologetic blush. ‘I +tried to do so very much: but they are rather wilful, and we are +directed to walk this way for the sea air.’ + +‘Do let them make the house their regular playground, and you yours,’ +said Barnet. ‘There is no better place for children to romp and take +their exercise in than an empty house, particularly in muddy or damp +weather such as we shall get a good deal of now; and this place will +not be furnished for a long long time—perhaps never. I am not at all +decided about it.’ + +‘O, but it must!’ replied Lucy, looking round at the hall. ‘The rooms +are excellent, twice as high as ours; and the views from the windows +are so lovely.’ + +‘I daresay, I daresay,’ he said absently. + +‘Will all the furniture be new?’ she asked. + +‘All the furniture be new—that’s a thing I have not thought of. In fact +I only come here and look on. My father’s house would have been large +enough for me, but another person had a voice in the matter, and it was +settled that we should build. However, the place grows upon me; its +recent associations are cheerful, and I am getting to like it fast.’ + +A certain uneasiness in Lucy’s manner showed that the conversation was +taking too personal a turn for her. ‘Still, as modern tastes develop, +people require more room to gratify them in,’ she said, withdrawing to +call the children; and serenely bidding him good afternoon she went on +her way. + +Barnet’s life at this period was singularly lonely, and yet he was +happier than he could have expected. His wife’s estrangement and +absence, which promised to be permanent, left him free as a boy in his +movements, and the solitary walks that he took gave him ample +opportunity for chastened reflection on what might have been his lot if +he had only shown wisdom enough to claim Lucy Savile when there was no +bar between their lives, and she was to be had for the asking. He would +occasionally call at the house of his friend Downe; but there was +scarcely enough in common between their two natures to make them more +than friends of that excellent sort whose personal knowledge of each +other’s history and character is always in excess of intimacy, whereby +they are not so likely to be severed by a clash of sentiment as in +cases where intimacy springs up in excess of knowledge. Lucy was never +visible at these times, being either engaged in the school-room, or in +taking an airing out of doors; but, knowing that she was now +comfortable, and had given up the, to him, depressing idea of going off +to the other side of the globe, he was quite content. + +The new house had so far progressed that the gardeners were beginning +to grass down the front. During an afternoon which he was passing in +marking the curve for the carriage-drive, he beheld her coming in +boldly towards him from the road. Hitherto Barnet had only caught her +on the premises by stealth; and this advance seemed to show that at +last her reserve had broken down. + +A smile gained strength upon her face as she approached, and it was +quite radiant when she came up, and said, without a trace of +embarrassment, ‘I find I owe you a hundred thanks—and it comes to me +quite as a surprise! It was through your kindness that I was engaged by +Mr. Downe. Believe me, Mr. Barnet, I did not know it until yesterday, +or I should have thanked you long and long ago!’ + +‘I had offended you—just a trifle—at the time, I think?’ said Barnet, +smiling, ‘and it was best that you should not know.’ + +‘Yes, yes,’ she returned hastily. ‘Don’t allude to that; it is past and +over, and we will let it be. The house is finished almost, is it not? +How beautiful it will look when the evergreens are grown! Do you call +the style Palladian, Mr. Barnet?’ + +‘I—really don’t quite know what it is. Yes, it must be Palladian, +certainly. But I’ll ask Jones, the architect; for, to tell the truth, I +had not thought much about the style: I had nothing to do with choosing +it, I am sorry to say.’ + +She would not let him harp on this gloomy refrain, and talked on bright +matters till she said, producing a small roll of paper which he had +noticed in her hand all the while, ‘Mr. Downe wished me to bring you +this revised drawing of the late Mrs. Downe’s tomb, which the architect +has just sent him. He would like you to look it over.’ + +The children came up with their hoops, and she went off with them down +the harbour-road as usual. Barnet had been glad to get those words of +thanks; he had been thinking for many months that he would like her to +know of his share in finding her a home such as it was; and what he +could not do for himself, Downe had now kindly done for him. He +returned to his desolate house with a lighter tread; though in reason +he hardly knew why his tread should be light. + +On examining the drawing, Barnet found that, instead of the vast +altar-tomb and canopy Downe had determined on at their last meeting, it +was to be a more modest memorial even than had been suggested by the +architect; a coped tomb of good solid construction, with no useless +elaboration at all. Barnet was truly glad to see that Downe had come to +reason of his own accord; and he returned the drawing with a note of +approval. + +He followed up the house-work as before, and as he walked up and down +the rooms, occasionally gazing from the windows over the bulging green +hills and the quiet harbour that lay between them, he murmured words +and fragments of words, which, if listened to, would have revealed all +the secrets of his existence. Whatever his reason in going there, Lucy +did not call again: the walk to the shore seemed to be abandoned: he +must have thought it as well for both that it should be so, for he did +not go anywhere out of his accustomed ways to endeavour to discover +her. + +CHAPTER VIII + +The winter and the spring had passed, and the house was complete. It +was a fine morning in the early part of June, and Barnet, though not in +the habit of rising early, had taken a long walk before breakfast; +returning by way of the new building. A sufficiently exciting cause of +his restlessness to-day might have been the intelligence which had +reached him the night before, that Lucy Savile was going to India after +all, and notwithstanding the representations of her friends that such a +journey was unadvisable in many ways for an unpractised girl, unless +some more definite advantage lay at the end of it than she could show +to be the case. Barnet’s walk up the slope to the building betrayed +that he was in a dissatisfied mood. He hardly saw that the dewy time of +day lent an unusual freshness to the bushes and trees which had so +recently put on their summer habit of heavy leafage, and made his +newly-laid lawn look as well established as an old manorial meadow. The +house had been so adroitly placed between six tall elms which were +growing on the site beforehand, that they seemed like real ancestral +trees; and the rooks, young and old, cawed melodiously to their +visitor. + +The door was not locked, and he entered. No workmen appeared to be +present, and he walked from sunny window to sunny window of the empty +rooms, with a sense of seclusion which might have been very pleasant +but for the antecedent knowledge that his almost paternal care of Lucy +Savile was to be thrown away by her wilfulness. Footsteps echoed +through an adjoining room; and bending his eyes in that direction, he +perceived Mr. Jones, the architect. He had come to look over the +building before giving the contractor his final certificate. They +walked over the house together. Everything was finished except the +papering: there were the latest improvements of the period in +bell-hanging, ventilating, smoke-jacks, fire-grates, and French +windows. The business was soon ended, and Jones, having directed +Barnet’s attention to a roll of wall-paper patterns which lay on a +bench for his choice, was leaving to keep another engagement, when +Barnet said, ‘Is the tomb finished yet for Mrs. Downe?’ + +‘Well—yes: it is at last,’ said the architect, coming back and speaking +as if he were in a mood to make a confidence. ‘I have had no end of +trouble in the matter, and, to tell the truth, I am heartily glad it is +over.’ + +Barnet expressed his surprise. ‘I thought poor Downe had given up those +extravagant notions of his? then he has gone back to the altar and +canopy after all? Well, he is to be excused, poor fellow!’ + +‘O no—he has not at all gone back to them—quite the reverse,’ Jones +hastened to say. ‘He has so reduced design after design, that the whole +thing has been nothing but waste labour for me; till in the end it has +become a common headstone, which a mason put up in half a day.’ + +‘A common headstone?’ said Barnet. + +‘Yes. I held out for some time for the addition of a footstone at +least. But he said, “O no—he couldn’t afford it.”’ + +‘Ah, well—his family is growing up, poor fellow, and his expenses are +getting serious.’ + +‘Yes, exactly,’ said Jones, as if the subject were none of his. And +again directing Barnet’s attention to the wall-papers, the bustling +architect left him to keep some other engagement. + +‘A common headstone,’ murmured Barnet, left again to himself. He mused +a minute or two, and next began looking over and selecting from the +patterns; but had not long been engaged in the work when he heard +another footstep on the gravel without, and somebody enter the open +porch. + +Barnet went to the door—it was his manservant in search of him. + +‘I have been trying for some time to find you, sir,’ he said. ‘This +letter has come by the post, and it is marked immediate. And there’s +this one from Mr. Downe, who called just now wanting to see you.’ He +searched his pocket for the second. + +Barnet took the first letter—it had a black border, and bore the London +postmark. It was not in his wife’s handwriting, or in that of any +person he knew; but conjecture soon ceased as he read the page, wherein +he was briefly informed that Mrs. Barnet had died suddenly on the +previous day, at the furnished villa she had occupied near London. + +Barnet looked vaguely round the empty hall, at the blank walls, out of +the doorway. Drawing a long palpitating breath, and with eyes downcast, +he turned and climbed the stairs slowly, like a man who doubted their +stability. The fact of his wife having, as it were, died once already, +and lived on again, had entirely dislodged the possibility of her +actual death from his conjecture. He went to the landing, leant over +the balusters, and after a reverie, of whose duration he had but the +faintest notion, turned to the window and stretched his gaze to the +cottage further down the road, which was visible from his landing, and +from which Lucy still walked to the solicitor’s house by a cross path. +The faint words that came from his moving lips were simply, ‘At last!’ + +Then, almost involuntarily, Barnet fell down on his knees and murmured +some incoherent words of thanksgiving. Surely his virtue in restoring +his wife to life had been rewarded! But, as if the impulse struck +uneasily on his conscience, he quickly rose, brushed the dust from his +trousers and set himself to think of his next movements. He could not +start for London for some hours; and as he had no preparations to make +that could not be made in half-an-hour, he mechanically descended and +resumed his occupation of turning over the wall-papers. They had all +got brighter for him, those papers. It was all changed—who would sit in +the rooms that they were to line? He went on to muse upon Lucy’s +conduct in so frequently coming to the house with the children; her +occasional blush in speaking to him; her evident interest in him. What +woman can in the long run avoid being interested in a man whom she +knows to be devoted to her? If human solicitation could ever effect +anything, there should be no going to India for Lucy now. All the +papers previously chosen seemed wrong in their shades, and he began +from the beginning to choose again. + +While entering on the task he heard a forced ‘Ahem!’ from without the +porch, evidently uttered to attract his attention, and footsteps again +advancing to the door. His man, whom he had quite forgotten in his +mental turmoil, was still waiting there. + +‘I beg your pardon, sir,’ the man said from round the doorway; ‘but +here’s the note from Mr. Downe that you didn’t take. He called just +after you went out, and as he couldn’t wait, he wrote this on your +study-table.’ + +He handed in the letter—no black-bordered one now, but a +practical-looking note in the well-known writing of the solicitor. + +‘DEAR BARNET’—it ran—‘Perhaps you will be prepared for the information +I am about to give—that Lucy Savile and myself are going to be married +this morning. I have hitherto said nothing as to my intention to any of +my friends, for reasons which I am sure you will fully appreciate. The +crisis has been brought about by her expressing her intention to join +her brother in India. I then discovered that I could not do without +her. + +‘It is to be quite a private wedding; but it is my particular wish that +you come down here quietly at ten, and go to church with us; it will +add greatly to the pleasure I shall experience in the ceremony, and, I +believe, to Lucy’s also. I have called on you very early to make the +request, in the belief that I should find you at home; but you are +beforehand with me in your early rising.—Yours sincerely, C. Downe.’ + + +‘Need I wait, sir?’ said the servant after a dead silence. + +‘That will do, William. No answer,’ said Barnet calmly. + +When the man had gone Barnet re-read the letter. Turning eventually to +the wall-papers, which he had been at such pains to select, he +deliberately tore them into halves and quarters, and threw them into +the empty fireplace. Then he went out of the house; locked the door, +and stood in the front awhile. Instead of returning into the town, he +went down the harbour-road and thoughtfully lingered about by the sea, +near the spot where the body of Downe’s late wife had been found and +brought ashore. + +Barnet was a man with a rich capacity for misery, and there is no doubt +that he exercised it to its fullest extent now. The events that had, as +it were, dashed themselves together into one half-hour of this day +showed that curious refinement of cruelty in their arrangement which +often proceeds from the bosom of the whimsical god at other times known +as blind Circumstance. That his few minutes of hope, between the +reading of the first and second letters, had carried him to +extraordinary heights of rapture was proved by the immensity of his +suffering now. The sun blazing into his face would have shown a close +watcher that a horizontal line, which he had never noticed before, but +which was never to be gone thereafter, was somehow gradually forming +itself in the smooth of his forehead. His eyes, of a light hazel, had a +curious look which can only be described by the word bruised; the +sorrow that looked from them being largely mixed with the surprise of a +man taken unawares. + +The secondary particulars of his present position, too, were odd +enough, though for some time they appeared to engage little of his +attention. Not a soul in the town knew, as yet, of his wife’s death; +and he almost owed Downe the kindness of not publishing it till the day +was over: the conjuncture, taken with that which had accompanied the +death of Mrs. Downe, being so singular as to be quite sufficient to +darken the pleasure of the impressionable solicitor to a cruel extent, +if made known to him. But as Barnet could not set out on his journey to +London, where his wife lay, for some hours (there being at this date no +railway within a distance of many miles), no great reason existed why +he should leave the town. + +Impulse in all its forms characterized Barnet, and when he heard the +distant clock strike the hour of ten his feet began to carry him up the +harbour-road with the manner of a man who must do something to bring +himself to life. He passed Lucy Savile’s old house, his own new one, +and came in view of the church. Now he gave a perceptible start, and +his mechanical condition went away. Before the church-gate were a +couple of carriages, and Barnet then could perceive that the marriage +between Downe and Lucy was at that moment being solemnized within. A +feeling of sudden, proud self-confidence, an indocile wish to walk +unmoved in spite of grim environments, plainly possessed him, and when +he reached the wicket-gate he turned in without apparent effort. Pacing +up the paved footway he entered the church and stood for a while in the +nave passage. A group of people was standing round the vestry door; +Barnet advanced through these and stepped into the vestry. + +There they were, busily signing their names. Seeing Downe about to look +round, Barnet averted his somewhat disturbed face for a second or two; +when he turned again front to front he was calm and quite smiling; it +was a creditable triumph over himself, and deserved to be remembered in +his native town. He greeted Downe heartily, offering his +congratulations. + +It seemed as if Barnet expected a half-guilty look upon Lucy’s face; +but no, save the natural flush and flurry engendered by the service +just performed, there was nothing whatever in her bearing which showed +a disturbed mind: her gray-brown eyes carried in them now as at other +times the well-known expression of common-sensed rectitude which never +went so far as to touch on hardness. She shook hands with him, and +Downe said warmly, ‘I wish you could have come sooner: I called on +purpose to ask you. You’ll drive back with us now?’ + +‘No, no,’ said Barnet; ‘I am not at all prepared; but I thought I would +look in upon you for a moment, even though I had not time to go home +and dress. I’ll stand back and see you pass out, and observe the effect +of the spectacle upon myself as one of the public.’ + +Then Lucy and her husband laughed, and Barnet laughed and retired; and +the quiet little party went gliding down the nave and towards the +porch, Lucy’s new silk dress sweeping with a smart rustle round the +base-mouldings of the ancient font, and Downe’s little daughters +following in a state of round-eyed interest in their position, and that +of Lucy, their teacher and friend. + +So Downe was comforted after his Emily’s death, which had taken place +twelve months, two weeks, and three days before that time. + +When the two flys had driven off and the spectators had vanished, +Barnet followed to the door, and went out into the sun. He took no more +trouble to preserve a spruce exterior; his step was unequal, +hesitating, almost convulsive; and the slight changes of colour which +went on in his face seemed refracted from some inward flame. In the +churchyard he became pale as a summer cloud, and finding it not easy to +proceed he sat down on one of the tombstones and supported his head +with his hand. + +Hard by was a sexton filling up a grave which he had not found time to +finish on the previous evening. Observing Barnet, he went up to him, +and recognizing him, said, ‘Shall I help you home, sir?’ + +‘O no, thank you,’ said Barnet, rousing himself and standing up. The +sexton returned to his grave, followed by Barnet, who, after watching +him awhile, stepped into the grave, now nearly filled, and helped to +tread in the earth. + +The sexton apparently thought his conduct a little singular, but he +made no observation, and when the grave was full, Barnet suddenly +stopped, looked far away, and with a decided step proceeded to the gate +and vanished. The sexton rested on his shovel and looked after him for +a few moments, and then began banking up the mound. + +In those short minutes of treading in the dead man Barnet had formed a +design, but what it was the inhabitants of that town did not for some +long time imagine. He went home, wrote several letters of business, +called on his lawyer, an old man of the same place who had been the +legal adviser of Barnet’s father before him, and during the evening +overhauled a large quantity of letters and other documents in his +possession. By eleven o’clock the heap of papers in and before Barnet’s +grate had reached formidable dimensions, and he began to burn them. +This, owing to their quantity, it was not so easy to do as he had +expected, and he sat long into the night to complete the task. + +The next morning Barnet departed for London, leaving a note for Downe +to inform him of Mrs. Barnet’s sudden death, and that he was gone to +bury her; but when a thrice-sufficient time for that purpose had +elapsed, he was not seen again in his accustomed walks, or in his new +house, or in his old one. He was gone for good, nobody knew whither. It +was soon discovered that he had empowered his lawyer to dispose of all +his property, real and personal, in the borough, and pay in the +proceeds to the account of an unknown person at one of the large London +banks. The person was by some supposed to be himself under an assumed +name; but few, if any, had certain knowledge of that fact. + +The elegant new residence was sold with the rest of his possessions; +and its purchaser was no other than Downe, now a thriving man in the +borough, and one whose growing family and new wife required more roomy +accommodation than was afforded by the little house up the narrow side +street. Barnet’s old habitation was bought by the trustees of the +Congregational Baptist body in that town, who pulled down the +time-honoured dwelling and built a new chapel on its site. By the time +the last hour of that, to Barnet, eventful year had chimed, every +vestige of him had disappeared from the precincts of his native place, +and the name became extinct in the borough of Port-Bredy, after having +been a living force therein for more than two hundred years. + +CHAPTER IX + +Twenty-one years and six months do not pass without setting a mark even +upon durable stone and triple brass; upon humanity such a period works +nothing less than transformation. In Barnet’s old birthplace vivacious +young children with bones like india-rubber had grown up to be stable +men and women, men and women had dried in the skin, stiffened, +withered, and sunk into decrepitude; while selections from every class +had been consigned to the outlying cemetery. Of inorganic differences +the greatest was that a railway had invaded the town, tying it on to a +main line at a junction a dozen miles off. Barnet’s house on the +harbour-road, once so insistently new, had acquired a respectable +mellowness, with ivy, Virginia creepers, lichens, damp patches, and +even constitutional infirmities of its own like its elder fellows. Its +architecture, once so very improved and modern, had already become +stale in style, without having reached the dignity of being +old-fashioned. Trees about the harbour-road had increased in +circumference or disappeared under the saw; while the church had had +such a tremendous practical joke played upon it by some facetious +restorer or other as to be scarce recognizable by its dearest old +friends. + +During this long interval George Barnet had never once been seen or +heard of in the town of his fathers. + +It was the evening of a market-day, and some half-dozen middle-aged +farmers and dairymen were lounging round the bar of the Black-Bull +Hotel, occasionally dropping a remark to each other, and less +frequently to the two barmaids who stood within the pewter-topped +counter in a perfunctory attitude of attention, these latter sighing +and making a private observation to one another at odd intervals, on +more interesting experiences than the present. + +‘Days get shorter,’ said one of the dairymen, as he looked towards the +street, and noticed that the lamp-lighter was passing by. + +The farmers merely acknowledged by their countenances the propriety of +this remark, and finding that nobody else spoke, one of the barmaids +said ‘yes,’ in a tone of painful duty. + +‘Come fair-day we shall have to light up before we start for +home-along.’ + +‘That’s true,’ his neighbour conceded, with a gaze of blankness. + +‘And after that we shan’t see much further difference all’s winter.’ + +The rest were not unwilling to go even so far as this. + +The barmaid sighed again, and raised one of her hands from the counter +on which they rested to scratch the smallest surface of her face with +the smallest of her fingers. She looked towards the door, and presently +remarked, ‘I think I hear the ‘bus coming in from station.’ + +The eyes of the dairymen and farmers turned to the glass door dividing +the hall from the porch, and in a minute or two the omnibus drew up +outside. Then there was a lumbering down of luggage, and then a man +came into the hall, followed by a porter with a portmanteau on his +poll, which he deposited on a bench. + +The stranger was an elderly person, with curly ashen white hair, a +deeply-creviced outer corner to each eyelid, and a countenance baked by +innumerable suns to the colour of terra-cotta, its hue and that of his +hair contrasting like heat and cold respectively. He walked +meditatively and gently, like one who was fearful of disturbing his own +mental equilibrium. But whatever lay at the bottom of his breast had +evidently made him so accustomed to its situation there that it caused +him little practical inconvenience. + +He paused in silence while, with his dubious eyes fixed on the +barmaids, he seemed to consider himself. In a moment or two he +addressed them, and asked to be accommodated for the night. As he +waited he looked curiously round the hall, but said nothing. As soon as +invited he disappeared up the staircase, preceded by a chambermaid and +candle, and followed by a lad with his trunk. Not a soul had recognized +him. + +A quarter of an hour later, when the farmers and dairymen had driven +off to their homesteads in the country, he came downstairs, took a +biscuit and one glass of wine, and walked out into the town, where the +radiance from the shop-windows had grown so in volume of late years as +to flood with cheerfulness every standing cart, barrow, stall, and +idler that occupied the wayside, whether shabby or genteel. His chief +interest at present seemed to lie in the names painted over the +shop-fronts and on door-ways, as far as they were visible; these now +differed to an ominous extent from what they had been one-and-twenty +years before. + +The traveller passed on till he came to the bookseller’s, where he +looked in through the glass door. A fresh-faced young man was standing +behind the counter, otherwise the shop was empty. The gray-haired +observer entered, asked for some periodical by way of paying for +admission, and with his elbow on the counter began to turn over the +pages he had bought, though that he read nothing was obvious. + +At length he said, ‘Is old Mr. Watkins still alive?’ in a voice which +had a curious youthful cadence in it even now. + +‘My father is dead, sir,’ said the young man. + +‘Ah, I am sorry to hear it,’ said the stranger. ‘But it is so many +years since I last visited this town that I could hardly expect it +should be otherwise.’ After a short silence he continued—‘And is the +firm of Barnet, Browse, and Company still in existence?_—_they used to +be large flax-merchants and twine-spinners here?’ + +‘The firm is still going on, sir, but they have dropped the name of +Barnet. I believe that was a sort of fancy name—at least, I never knew +of any living Barnet. ’Tis now Browse and Co.’ + +‘And does Andrew Jones still keep on as architect?’ + +‘He’s dead, sir.’ + +‘And the Vicar of St. Mary’s—Mr. Melrose?’ + +‘He’s been dead a great many years.’ + +‘Dear me!’ He paused yet longer, and cleared his voice. ‘Is Mr. Downe, +the solicitor, still in practice?’ + +‘No, sir, he’s dead. He died about seven years ago.’ + +Here it was a longer silence still; and an attentive observer would +have noticed that the paper in the stranger’s hand increased its +imperceptible tremor to a visible shake. That gray-haired gentleman +noticed it himself, and rested the paper on the counter. ‘Is _Mrs_. +Downe still alive?’ he asked, closing his lips firmly as soon as the +words were out of his mouth, and dropping his eyes. + +‘Yes, sir, she’s alive and well. She’s living at the old place.’ + +‘In East Street?’ + +‘O no; at Château Ringdale. I believe it has been in the family for +some generations.’ + +‘She lives with her children, perhaps?’ + +‘No; she has no children of her own. There were some Miss Downes; I +think they were Mr. Downe’s daughters by a former wife; but they are +married and living in other parts of the town. Mrs. Downe lives alone.’ + +‘Quite alone?’ + +‘Yes, sir; quite alone.’ + +The newly-arrived gentleman went back to the hotel and dined; after +which he made some change in his dress, shaved back his beard to the +fashion that had prevailed twenty years earlier, when he was young and +interesting, and once more emerging, bent his steps in the direction of +the harbour-road. Just before getting to the point where the pavement +ceased and the houses isolated themselves, he overtook a shambling, +stooping, unshaven man, who at first sight appeared like a professional +tramp, his shoulders having a perceptible greasiness as they passed +under the gaslight. Each pedestrian momentarily turned and regarded the +other, and the tramp-like gentleman started back. + +‘Good—why—is that Mr. Barnet? ’Tis Mr. Barnet, surely!’ + +‘Yes; and you are Charlson?’ + +‘Yes—ah—you notice my appearance. The Fates have rather ill-used me. +By-the-bye, that fifty pounds. I never paid it, did I? . . . But I was +not ungrateful!’ Here the stooping man laid one hand emphatically on +the palm of the other. ‘I gave you a chance, Mr. George Barnet, which +many men would have thought full value received—the chance to marry +your Lucy. As far as the world was concerned, your wife was a _drowned +woman_, hey?’ + +‘Heaven forbid all that, Charlson!’ + +‘Well, well, ’twas a wrong way of showing gratitude, I suppose. And now +a drop of something to drink for old acquaintance’ sake! And Mr. +Barnet, she’s again free—there’s a chance now if you care for it—ha, +ha!’ And the speaker pushed his tongue into his hollow cheek and +slanted his eye in the old fashion. + +‘I know all,’ said Barnet quickly; and slipping a small present into +the hands of the needy, saddening man, he stepped ahead and was soon in +the outskirts of the town. + +He reached the harbour-road, and paused before the entrance to a +well-known house. It was so highly bosomed in trees and shrubs planted +since the erection of the building that one would scarcely have +recognized the spot as that which had been a mere neglected slope till +chosen as a site for a dwelling. He opened the swing-gate, closed it +noiselessly, and gently moved into the semicircular drive, which +remained exactly as it had been marked out by Barnet on the morning +when Lucy Savile ran in to thank him for procuring her the post of +governess to Downe’s children. But the growth of trees and bushes which +revealed itself at every step was beyond all expectation; sun-proof and +moon-proof bowers vaulted the walks, and the walls of the house were +uniformly bearded with creeping plants as high as the first-floor +windows. + +After lingering for a few minutes in the dusk of the bending boughs, +the visitor rang the door-bell, and on the servant appearing, he +announced himself as ‘an old friend of Mrs. Downe’s.’ + +The hall was lighted, but not brightly, the gas being turned low, as if +visitors were rare. There was a stagnation in the dwelling; it seemed +to be waiting. Could it really be waiting for him? The partitions which +had been probed by Barnet’s walking-stick when the mortar was green, +were now quite brown with the antiquity of their varnish, and the +ornamental woodwork of the staircase, which had glistened with a pale +yellow newness when first erected, was now of a rich wine-colour. +During the servant’s absence the following colloquy could be dimly +heard through the nearly closed door of the drawing-room. + +‘He didn’t give his name?’ + +‘He only said “an old friend,” ma’am.’ + +‘What kind of gentleman is he?’ + +‘A staidish gentleman, with gray hair.’ + +The voice of the second speaker seemed to affect the listener greatly. +After a pause, the lady said, ‘Very well, I will see him.’ + +And the stranger was shown in face to face with the Lucy who had once +been Lucy Savile. The round cheek of that formerly young lady had, of +course, alarmingly flattened its curve in her modern representative; a +pervasive grayness overspread her once dark brown hair, like morning +rime on heather. The parting down the middle was wide and jagged; once +it had been a thin white line, a narrow crevice between two high banks +of shade. But there was still enough left to form a handsome knob +behind, and some curls beneath inwrought with a few hairs like silver +wires were very becoming. In her eyes the only modification was that +their originally mild rectitude of expression had become a little more +stringent than heretofore. Yet she was still girlish—a girl who had +been gratuitously weighted by destiny with a burden of five-and-forty +years instead of her proper twenty. + +‘Lucy, don’t you know me?’ he said, when the servant had closed the +door. + +‘I knew you the instant I saw you!’ she returned cheerfully. ‘I don’t +know why, but I always thought you would come back to your old town +again.’ + +She gave him her hand, and then they sat down. ‘They said you were +dead,’ continued Lucy, ‘but I never thought so. We should have heard of +it for certain if you had been.’ + +‘It is a very long time since we met.’ + +‘Yes; what you must have seen, Mr. Barnet, in all these roving years, +in comparison with what I have seen in this quiet place!’ Her face grew +more serious. ‘You know my husband has been dead a long time? I am a +lonely old woman now, considering what I have been; though Mr. Downe’s +daughters—all married—manage to keep me pretty cheerful.’ + +‘And I am a lonely old man, and have been any time these twenty years.’ + +‘But where have you kept yourself? And why did you go off so +mysteriously?’ + +‘Well, Lucy, I have kept myself a little in America, and a little in +Australia, a little in India, a little at the Cape, and so on; I have +not stayed in any place for a long time, as it seems to me, and yet +more than twenty years have flown. But when people get to my age two +years go like one!—Your second question, why did I go away so +mysteriously, is surely not necessary. You guessed why, didn’t you?’ + +‘No, I never once guessed,’ she said simply; ‘nor did Charles, nor did +anybody as far as I know.’ + +‘Well, indeed! Now think it over again, and then look at me, and say if +you can’t guess?’ + +She looked him in the face with an inquiring smile. ‘Surely not because +of me?’ she said, pausing at the commencement of surprise. + +Barnet nodded, and smiled again; but his smile was sadder than hers. + +‘Because I married Charles?’ she asked. + +‘Yes; solely because you married him on the day I was free to ask you +to marry me. My wife died four-and-twenty hours before you went to +church with Downe. The fixing of my journey at that particular moment +was because of her funeral; but once away I knew I should have no +inducement to come back, and took my steps accordingly.’ + +Her face assumed an aspect of gentle reflection, and she looked up and +down his form with great interest in her eyes. ‘I never thought of it!’ +she said. ‘I knew, of course, that you had once implied some warmth of +feeling towards me, but I concluded that it passed off. And I have +always been under the impression that your wife was alive at the time +of my marriage. Was it not stupid of me!—But you will have some tea or +something? I have never dined late, you know, since my husband’s death. +I have got into the way of making a regular meal of tea. You will have +some tea with me, will you not?’ + +The travelled man assented quite readily, and tea was brought in. They +sat and chatted over the meal, regardless of the flying hour. ‘Well, +well!’ said Barnet presently, as for the first time he leisurely +surveyed the room; ‘how like it all is, and yet how different! Just +where your piano stands was a board on a couple of trestles, bearing +the patterns of wall-papers, when I was last here. I was choosing +them—standing in this way, as it might be. Then my servant came in at +the door, and handed me a note, so. It was from Downe, and announced +that you were just going to be married to him. I chose no more +wall-papers—tore up all those I had selected, and left the house. I +never entered it again till now.’ + +‘Ah, at last I understand it all,’ she murmured. + +They had both risen and gone to the fireplace. The mantel came almost +on a level with her shoulder, which gently rested against it, and +Barnet laid his hand upon the shelf close beside her shoulder. ‘Lucy,’ +he said, ‘better late than never. Will you marry me now?’ + +She started back, and the surprise which was so obvious in her wrought +even greater surprise in him that it should be so. It was difficult to +believe that she had been quite blind to the situation, and yet all +reason and common sense went to prove that she was not acting. + +‘You take me quite unawares by such a question!’ she said, with a +forced laugh of uneasiness. It was the first time she had shown any +embarrassment at all. ‘Why,’ she added, ‘I couldn’t marry you for the +world.’ + +‘Not after all this! Why not?’ + +‘It is—I would—I really think I may say it—I would upon the whole +rather marry you, Mr. Barnet, than any other man I have ever met, if I +ever dreamed of marriage again. But I don’t dream of it—it is quite out +of my thoughts; I have not the least intention of marrying again.’ + +‘But—on my account—couldn’t you alter your plans a little? Come!’ + +‘Dear Mr. Barnet,’ she said with a little flutter, ‘I would on your +account if on anybody’s in existence. But you don’t know in the least +what it is you are asking—such an impracticable thing—I won’t say +ridiculous, of course, because I see that you are really in earnest, +and earnestness is never ridiculous to my mind.’ + +‘Well, yes,’ said Barnet more slowly, dropping her hand, which he had +taken at the moment of pleading, ‘I am in earnest. The resolve, two +months ago, at the Cape, to come back once more was, it is true, rather +sudden, and as I see now, not well considered. But I am in earnest in +asking.’ + +‘And I in declining. With all good feeling and all kindness, let me say +that I am quite opposed to the idea of marrying a second time.’ + +‘Well, no harm has been done,’ he answered, with the same subdued and +tender humorousness that he had shown on such occasions in early life. +‘If you really won’t accept me, I must put up with it, I suppose.’ His +eye fell on the clock as he spoke. ‘Had you any notion that it was so +late?’ he asked. ‘How absorbed I have been!’ + +She accompanied him to the hall, helped him to put on his overcoat, and +let him out of the house herself. + +‘Good-night,’ said Barnet, on the doorstep, as the lamp shone in his +face. ‘You are not offended with me?’ + +‘Certainly not. Nor you with me?’ + +‘I’ll consider whether I am or not,’ he pleasantly replied. +‘Good-night.’ + +She watched him safely through the gate; and when his footsteps had +died away upon the road, closed the door softly and returned to the +room. Here the modest widow long pondered his speeches, with eyes +dropped to an unusually low level. Barnet’s urbanity under the blow of +her refusal greatly impressed her. After having his long period of +probation rendered useless by her decision, he had shown no anger, and +had philosophically taken her words as if he deserved no better ones. +It was very gentlemanly of him, certainly; it was more than +gentlemanly; it was heroic and grand. The more she meditated, the more +she questioned the virtue of her conduct in checking him so +peremptorily; and went to her bedroom in a mood of dissatisfaction. On +looking in the glass she was reminded that there was not so much +remaining of her former beauty as to make his frank declaration an +impulsive natural homage to her cheeks and eyes; it must undoubtedly +have arisen from an old staunch feeling of his, deserving tenderest +consideration. She recalled to her mind with much pleasure that he had +told her he was staying at the Black-Bull Hotel; so that if, after +waiting a day or two, he should not, in his modesty, call again, she +might then send him a nice little note. To alter her views for the +present was far from her intention; but she would allow herself to be +induced to reconsider the case, as any generous woman ought to do. + +The morrow came and passed, and Mr. Barnet did not drop in. At every +knock, light youthful hues flew across her cheek; and she was +abstracted in the presence of her other visitors. In the evening she +walked about the house, not knowing what to do with herself; the +conditions of existence seemed totally different from those which ruled +only four-and-twenty short hours ago. What had been at first a +tantalizing elusive sentiment was getting acclimatized within her as a +definite hope, and her person was so informed by that emotion that she +might almost have stood as its emblematical representative by the time +the clock struck ten. In short, an interest in Barnet precisely +resembling that of her early youth led her present heart to belie her +yesterday’s words to him, and she longed to see him again. + +The next day she walked out early, thinking she might meet him in the +street. The growing beauty of her romance absorbed her, and she went +from the street to the fields, and from the fields to the shore, +without any consciousness of distance, till reminded by her weariness +that she could go no further. He had nowhere appeared. In the evening +she took a step which under the circumstances seemed justifiable; she +wrote a note to him at the hotel, inviting him to tea with her at six +precisely, and signing her note ‘Lucy.’ + +In a quarter of an hour the messenger came back. Mr. Barnet had left +the hotel early in the morning of the day before, but he had stated +that he would probably return in the course of the week. + +The note was sent back, to be given to him immediately on his arrival. + +There was no sign from the inn that this desired event had occurred, +either on the next day or the day following. On both nights she had +been restless, and had scarcely slept half-an-hour. + +On the Saturday, putting off all diffidence, Lucy went herself to the +Black-Bull, and questioned the staff closely. + +Mr. Barnet had cursorily remarked when leaving that he might return on +the Thursday or Friday, but they were directed not to reserve a room +for him unless he should write. + +He had left no address. + +Lucy sorrowfully took back her note went home, and resolved to wait. + +She did wait—years and years—but Barnet never reappeared. + +_April_ 1880. + + + + +INTERLOPERS AT THE KNAP + + +CHAPTER I + +The north road from Casterbridge is tedious and lonely, especially in +winter-time. Along a part of its course it connects with Long-Ash Lane, +a monotonous track without a village or hamlet for many miles, and with +very seldom a turning. Unapprized wayfarers who are too old, or too +young, or in other respects too weak for the distance to be traversed, +but who, nevertheless, have to walk it, say, as they look wistfully +ahead, ‘Once at the top of that hill, and I must surely see the end of +Long-Ash Lane!’ But they reach the hilltop, and Long-Ash Lane stretches +in front as mercilessly as before. + +Some few years ago a certain farmer was riding through this lane in the +gloom of a winter evening. The farmer’s friend, a dairyman, was riding +beside him. A few paces in the rear rode the farmer’s man. All three +were well horsed on strong, round-barrelled cobs; and to be well horsed +was to be in better spirits about Long-Ash Lane than poor pedestrians +could attain to during its passage. + +But the farmer did not talk much to his friend as he rode along. The +enterprise which had brought him there filled his mind; for in truth it +was important. Not altogether so important was it, perhaps, when +estimated by its value to society at large; but if the true measure of +a deed be proportionate to the space it occupies in the heart of him +who undertakes it, Farmer Charles Darton’s business to-night could hold +its own with the business of kings. + +He was a large farmer. His turnover, as it is called, was probably +thirty thousand pounds a year. He had a great many draught horses, a +great many milch cows, and of sheep a multitude. This comfortable +position was, however, none of his own making. It had been created by +his father, a man of a very different stamp from the present +representative of the line. + +Darton, the father, had been a one-idea’d character, with a buttoned-up +pocket and a chink-like eye brimming with commercial subtlety. In +Darton the son, this trade subtlety had become transmuted into +emotional, and the harshness had disappeared; he would have been called +a sad man but for his constant care not to divide himself from lively +friends by piping notes out of harmony with theirs. Contemplative, he +allowed his mind to be a quiet meeting-place for memories and hopes. So +that, naturally enough, since succeeding to the agricultural calling, +and up to his present age of thirty-two, he had neither advanced nor +receded as a capitalist—a stationary result which did not agitate one +of his unambitious, unstrategic nature, since he had all that he +desired. The motive of his expedition to-night showed the same absence +of anxious regard for Number One. + +The party rode on in the slow, safe trot proper to night-time and bad +roads, Farmer Darton’s head jigging rather unromantically up and down +against the sky, and his motions being repeated with bolder emphasis by +his friend Japheth Johns; while those of the latter were travestied in +jerks still less softened by art in the person of the lad who attended +them. A pair of whitish objects hung one on each side of the latter, +bumping against him at each step, and still further spoiling the grace +of his seat. On close inspection they might have been perceived to be +open rush baskets—one containing a turkey, and the other some bottles +of wine. + +‘D’ye feel ye can meet your fate like a man, neighbour Darton?’ asked +Johns, breaking a silence which had lasted while five-and-twenty +hedgerow trees had glided by. + +Mr. Darton with a half-laugh murmured, ‘Ay—call it my fate! Hanging and +wiving go by destiny.’ And then they were silent again. + +The darkness thickened rapidly, at intervals shutting down on the land +in a perceptible flap, like the wave of a wing. The customary close of +day was accelerated by a simultaneous blurring of the air. With the +fall of night had come a mist just damp enough to incommode, but not +sufficient to saturate them. Countrymen as they were—born, as may be +said, with only an open door between them and the four seasons—they +regarded the mist but as an added obscuration, and ignored its humid +quality. + +They were travelling in a direction that was enlivened by no modern +current of traffic, the place of Darton’s pilgrimage being an +old-fashioned village—one of the Hintocks (several villages of that +name, with a distinctive prefix or affix, lying thereabout)—where the +people make the best cider and cider-wine in all Wessex, and where the +dunghills smell of pomace instead of stable refuse as elsewhere. The +lane was sometimes so narrow that the brambles of the hedge, which hung +forward like anglers’ rods over a stream, scratched their hats and +curry-combed their whiskers as they passed. Yet this neglected lane had +been a highway to Queen Elizabeth’s subjects and the cavalcades of the +past. Its day was over now, and its history as a national artery done +for ever. + +‘Why I have decided to marry her,’ resumed Darton (in a measured +musical voice of confidence which revealed a good deal of his +composition), as he glanced round to see that the lad was not too near, +‘is not only that I like her, but that I can do no better, even from a +fairly practical point of view. That I might ha’ looked higher is +possibly true, though it is really all nonsense. I have had experience +enough in looking above me. “No more superior women for me,” said I—you +know when. Sally is a comely, independent, simple character, with no +make-up about her, who’ll think me as much a superior to her as I used +to think—you know who I mean—was to me.’ + +‘Ay,’ said Johns. ‘However, I shouldn’t call Sally Hall simple. +Primary, because no Sally is; secondary, because if some could be, this +one wouldn’t. ’Tis a wrong denomination to apply to a woman, Charles, +and affects me, as your best man, like cold water. ’Tis like +recommending a stage play by saying there’s neither murder, villainy, +nor harm of any sort in it, when that’s what you’ve paid your +half-crown to see.’ + +‘Well; may your opinion do you good. Mine’s a different one.’ And +turning the conversation from the philosophical to the practical, +Darton expressed a hope that the said Sally had received what he’d sent +on by the carrier that day. + +Johns wanted to know what that was. + +‘It is a dress,’ said Darton. ‘Not exactly a wedding-dress; though she +may use it as one if she likes. It is rather serviceable than +showy—suitable for the winter weather.’ + +‘Good,’ said Johns. ‘Serviceable is a wise word in a bridegroom. I +commend ye, Charles.’ + +‘For,’ said Darton, ‘why should a woman dress up like a rope-dancer +because she’s going to do the most solemn deed of her life except +dying?’ + +‘Faith, why? But she will, because she will, I suppose,’ said Dairyman +Johns. + +‘H’m,’ said Darton. + +The lane they followed had been nearly straight for several miles, but +it now took a turn, and winding uncertainly for some distance forked +into two. By night country roads are apt to reveal ungainly qualities +which pass without observation during day; and though Darton had +travelled this way before, he had not done so frequently, Sally having +been wooed at the house of a relative near his own. He never remembered +seeing at this spot a pair of alternative ways looking so equally +probable as these two did now. Johns rode on a few steps. + +‘Don’t be out of heart, sonny,’ he cried. ‘Here’s a handpost. +Enoch—come and climm this post, and tell us the way.’ + +The lad dismounted, and jumped into the hedge where the post stood +under a tree. + +‘Unstrap the baskets, or you’ll smash up that wine!’ cried Darton, as +the young man began spasmodically to climb the post, baskets and all. + +‘Was there ever less head in a brainless world?’ said Johns. ‘Here, +simple Nocky, I’ll do it.’ He leapt off, and with much puffing climbed +the post, striking a match when he reached the top, and moving the +light along the arm, the lad standing and gazing at the spectacle. + +‘I have faced tantalization these twenty years with a temper as mild as +milk!’ said Japheth; ‘but such things as this don’t come short of +devilry!’ And flinging the match away, he slipped down to the ground. + +‘What’s the matter?’ asked Darton. + +‘Not a letter, sacred or heathen—not so much as would tell us the way +to the great fireplace—ever I should sin to say it! Either the moss and +mildew have eat away the words, or we have arrived in a land where the +natyves have lost the art o’ writing, and should ha’ brought our +compass like Christopher Columbus.’ + +‘Let us take the straightest road,’ said Darton placidly; ‘I shan’t be +sorry to get there—’tis a tiresome ride. I would have driven if I had +known.’ + +‘Nor I neither, sir,’ said Enoch. ‘These straps plough my shoulder like +a zull. If ’tis much further to your lady’s home, Maister Darton, I +shall ask to be let carry half of these good things in my innerds—hee, +hee!’ + +‘Don’t you be such a reforming radical, Enoch,’ said Johns sternly. +‘Here, I’ll take the turkey.’ + +This being done, they went forward by the right-hand lane, which +ascended a hill, the left winding away under a plantation. The +pit-a-pat of their horses’ hoofs lessened up the slope; and the +ironical directing-post stood in solitude as before, holding out its +blank arms to the raw breeze, which brought a snore from the wood as if +Skrymir the Giant were sleeping there. + +CHAPTER II + +Three miles to the left of the travellers, along the road they had not +followed, rose an old house with mullioned windows of Ham-hill stone, +and chimneys of lavish solidity. It stood at the top of a slope beside +King’s-Hintock village-street; and immediately in front of it grew a +large sycamore-tree, whose bared roots formed a convenient staircase +from the road below to the front door of the dwelling. Its situation +gave the house what little distinctive name it possessed, namely, ‘The +Knap.’ Some forty yards off a brook dribbled past, which, for its size, +made a great deal of noise. At the back was a dairy barton, accessible +for vehicles and live-stock by a side ‘drong.’ Thus much only of the +character of the homestead could be divined out of doors at this shady +evening-time. + +But within there was plenty of light to see by, as plenty was construed +at Hintock. Beside a Tudor fireplace, whose moulded four-centred arch +was nearly hidden by a figured blue-cloth blower, were seated two +women—mother and daughter—Mrs. Hall, and Sarah, or Sally; for this was +a part of the world where the latter modification had not as yet been +effaced as a vulgarity by the march of intellect. The owner of the name +was the young woman by whose means Mr. Darton proposed to put an end to +his bachelor condition on the approaching day. + +The mother’s bereavement had been so long ago as not to leave much mark +of its occurrence upon her now, either in face or clothes. She had +resumed the mob-cap of her early married life, enlivening its whiteness +by a few rose-du-Barry ribbons. Sally required no such aids to +pinkness. Roseate good-nature lit up her gaze; her features showed +curves of decision and judgment; and she might have been regarded +without much mistake as a warm-hearted, quick-spirited, handsome girl. + +She did most of the talking, her mother listening with a half-absent +air, as she picked up fragments of red-hot wood ember with the tongs, +and piled them upon the brands. But the number of speeches that passed +was very small in proportion to the meanings exchanged. Long experience +together often enabled them to see the course of thought in each +other’s minds without a word being spoken. Behind them, in the centre +of the room, the table was spread for supper, certain whiffs of air +laden with fat vapours, which ever and anon entered from the kitchen, +denoting its preparation there. + +‘The new gown he was going to send you stays about on the way like +himself,’ Sally’s mother was saying. + +‘Yes, not finished, I daresay,’ cried Sally independently. ‘Lord, I +shouldn’t be amazed if it didn’t come at all! Young men make such kind +promises when they are near you, and forget ’em when they go away. But +he doesn’t intend it as a wedding-gown—he gives it to me merely as a +gown to wear when I like—a travelling-dress is what it would be called +by some. Come rathe or come late it don’t much matter, as I have a +dress of my own to fall back upon. But what time is it?’ + +She went to the family clock and opened the glass, for the hour was not +otherwise discernible by night, and indeed at all times was rather a +thing to be investigated than beheld, so much more wall than window was +there in the apartment. ‘It is nearly eight,’ said she. + +‘Eight o’clock, and neither dress nor man,’ said Mrs. Hall. + +‘Mother, if you think to tantalize me by talking like that, you are +much mistaken! Let him be as late as he will—or stay away altogether—I +don’t care,’ said Sally. But a tender, minute quaver in the negation +showed that there was something forced in that statement. + +Mrs. Hall perceived it, and drily observed that she was not so sure +about Sally not caring. ‘But perhaps you don’t care so much as I do, +after all,’ she said. ‘For I see what you don’t, that it is a good and +flourishing match for you; a very honourable offer in Mr. Darton. And I +think I see a kind husband in him. So pray God ’twill go smooth, and +wind up well.’ + +Sally would not listen to misgivings. Of course it would go smoothly, +she asserted. ‘How you are up and down, mother!’ she went on. ‘At this +moment, whatever hinders him, we are not so anxious to see him as he is +to be here, and his thought runs on before him, and settles down upon +us like the star in the east. Hark!’ she exclaimed, with a breath of +relief, her eyes sparkling. ‘I heard something. Yes—here they are!’ + +The next moment her mother’s slower ear also distinguished the familiar +reverberation occasioned by footsteps clambering up the roots of the +sycamore. + +‘Yes it sounds like them at last,’ she said. ‘Well, it is not so very +late after all, considering the distance.’ + +The footfall ceased, and they arose, expecting a knock. They began to +think it might have been, after all, some neighbouring villager under +Bacchic influence, giving the centre of the road a wide berth, when +their doubts were dispelled by the new-comer’s entry into the passage. +The door of the room was gently opened, and there appeared, not the +pair of travellers with whom we have already made acquaintance, but a +pale-faced man in the garb of extreme poverty—almost in rags. + +‘O, it’s a tramp—gracious me!’ said Sally, starting back. + +His cheeks and eye-orbits were deep concaves—rather, it might be, from +natural weakness of constitution than irregular living, though there +were indications that he had led no careful life. He gazed at the two +women fixedly for a moment: then with an abashed, humiliated demeanour, +dropped his glance to the floor, and sank into a chair without uttering +a word. + +Sally was in advance of her mother, who had remained standing by the +fire. She now tried to discern the visitor across the candles. + +‘Why—mother,’ said Sally faintly, turning back to Mrs. Hall. ‘It is +Phil, from Australia!’ + +Mrs. Hall started, and grew pale, and a fit of coughing seized the man +with the ragged clothes. ‘To come home like this!’ she said. ‘O, +Philip—are you ill?’ + +‘No, no, mother,’ replied he impatiently, as soon as he could speak. + +‘But for God’s sake how do you come here—and just now too?’ + +‘Well, I am here,’ said the man. ‘How it is I hardly know. I’ve come +home, mother, because I was driven to it. Things were against me out +there, and went from bad to worse.’ + +‘Then why didn’t you let us know?—you’ve not writ a line for the last +two or three years.’ + +The son admitted sadly that he had not. He said that he had hoped and +thought he might fetch up again, and be able to send good news. Then he +had been obliged to abandon that hope, and had finally come home from +sheer necessity—previously to making a new start. ‘Yes, things are very +bad with me,’ he repeated, perceiving their commiserating glances at +his clothes. + +They brought him nearer the fire, took his hat from his thin hand, +which was so small and smooth as to show that his attempts to fetch up +again had not been in a manual direction. His mother resumed her +inquiries, and dubiously asked if he had chosen to come that particular +night for any special reason. + +For no reason, he told her. His arrival had been quite at random. Then +Philip Hall looked round the room, and saw for the first time that the +table was laid somewhat luxuriously, and for a larger number than +themselves; and that an air of festivity pervaded their dress. He asked +quickly what was going on. + +‘Sally is going to be married in a day or two,’ replied the mother; and +she explained how Mr. Darton, Sally’s intended husband, was coming +there that night with the groomsman, Mr. Johns, and other details. ‘We +thought it must be their step when we heard you,’ said Mrs. Hall. + +The needy wanderer looked again on the floor. ‘I see—I see,’ he +murmured. ‘Why, indeed, should I have come to-night? Such folk as I are +not wanted here at these times, naturally. And I have no business +here—spoiling other people’s happiness.’ + +‘Phil,’ said his mother, with a tear in her eye, but with a thinness of +lip and severity of manner which were presumably not more than past +events justified; ‘since you speak like that to me, I’ll speak honestly +to you. For these three years you have taken no thought for us. You +left home with a good supply of money, and strength and education, and +you ought to have made good use of it all. But you come back like a +beggar; and that you come in a very awkward time for us cannot be +denied. Your return to-night may do us much harm. But mind—you are +welcome to this home as long as it is mine. I don’t wish to turn you +adrift. We will make the best of a bad job; and I hope you are not +seriously ill?’ + +‘O no. I have only this infernal cough.’ + +She looked at him anxiously. ‘I think you had better go to bed at +once,’ she said. + +‘Well—I shall be out of the way there,’ said the son wearily. ‘Having +ruined myself, don’t let me ruin you by being seen in these togs, for +Heaven’s sake. Who do you say Sally is going to be married to—a Farmer +Darton?’ + +‘Yes—a gentleman-farmer—quite a wealthy man. Far better in station than +she could have expected. It is a good thing, altogether.’ + +‘Well done, little Sal!’ said her brother, brightening and looking up +at her with a smile. ‘I ought to have written; but perhaps I have +thought of you all the more. But let me get out of sight. I would +rather go and jump into the river than be seen here. But have you +anything I can drink? I am confoundedly thirsty with my long tramp.’ + +‘Yes, yes, we will bring something upstairs to you,’ said Sally, with +grief in her face. + +‘Ay, that will do nicely. But, Sally and mother—’ He stopped, and they +waited. ‘Mother, I have not told you all,’ he resumed slowly, still +looking on the floor between his knees. ‘Sad as what you see of me is, +there’s worse behind.’ + +His mother gazed upon him in grieved suspense, and Sally went and leant +upon the bureau, listening for every sound, and sighing. Suddenly she +turned round, saying, ‘Let them come, I don’t care! Philip, tell the +worst, and take your time.’ + +‘Well, then,’ said the unhappy Phil, ‘I am not the only one in this +mess. Would to Heaven I were! But—’ + +‘O, Phil!’ + +‘I have a wife as destitute as I.’ + +‘A wife?’ said his mother. + +‘Unhappily!’ + +‘A wife! Yes, that is the way with sons!’ + +‘And besides—’ said he. + +‘Besides! O, Philip, surely—’ + +‘I have two little children.’ + +‘Wife and children!’ whispered Mrs. Hall, sinking down confounded. + +‘Poor little things!’ said Sally involuntarily. + +His mother turned again to him. ‘I suppose these helpless beings are +left in Australia?’ + +‘No. They are in England.’ + +‘Well, I can only hope you’ve left them in a respectable place.’ + +‘I have not left them at all. They are here—within a few yards of us. +In short, they are in the stable.’ + +‘Where?’ + +‘In the stable. I did not like to bring them indoors till I had seen +you, mother, and broken the bad news a bit to you. They were very +tired, and are resting out there on some straw.’ + +Mrs. Hall’s fortitude visibly broke down. She had been brought up not +without refinement, and was even more moved by such a collapse of +genteel aims as this than a substantial dairyman’s widow would in +ordinary have been moved. ‘Well, it must be borne,’ she said, in a low +voice, with her hands tightly joined. ‘A starving son, a starving wife, +starving children! Let it be. But why is this come to us now, to-day, +to-night? Could no other misfortune happen to helpless women than this, +which will quite upset my poor girl’s chance of a happy life? Why have +you done us this wrong, Philip? What respectable man will come here, +and marry open-eyed into a family of vagabonds?’ + +‘Nonsense, mother!’ said Sally vehemently, while her face flushed. +‘Charley isn’t the man to desert me. But if he should be, and won’t +marry me because Phil’s come, let him go and marry elsewhere. I won’t +be ashamed of my own flesh and blood for any man in England—not I!’ And +then Sally turned away and burst into tears. + +‘Wait till you are twenty years older and you will tell a different +tale,’ replied her mother. + +The son stood up. ‘Mother,’ he said bitterly, ‘as I have come, so I +will go. All I ask of you is that you will allow me and mine to lie in +your stable to-night. I give you my word that we’ll be gone by break of +day, and trouble you no further!’ + +Mrs. Hall, the mother, changed at that. ‘O no,’ she answered hastily; +‘never shall it be said that I sent any of my own family from my door. +Bring ’em in, Philip, or take me out to them.’ + +‘We will put ’em all into the large bedroom,’ said Sally, brightening, +‘and make up a large fire. Let’s go and help them in, and call +Rebekah.’ (Rebekah was the woman who assisted at the dairy and +housework; she lived in a cottage hard by with her husband, who +attended to the cows.) + +Sally went to fetch a lantern from the back-kitchen, but her brother +said, ‘You won’t want a light. I lit the lantern that was hanging +there.’ + +‘What must we call your wife?’ asked Mrs. Hall. + +‘Helena,’ said Philip. + +With shawls over their heads they proceeded towards the back door. + +‘One minute before you go,’ interrupted Philip. ‘I—I haven’t confessed +all.’ + +‘Then Heaven help us!’ said Mrs. Hall, pushing to the door and clasping +her hands in calm despair. + +‘We passed through Evershead as we came,’ he continued, ‘and I just +looked in at the “Sow-and-Acorn” to see if old Mike still kept on there +as usual. The carrier had come in from Sherton Abbas at that moment, +and guessing that I was bound for this place—for I think he knew me—he +asked me to bring on a dressmaker’s parcel for Sally that was marked +“immediate.” My wife had walked on with the children. ’Twas a flimsy +parcel, and the paper was torn, and I found on looking at it that it +was a thick warm gown. I didn’t wish you to see poor Helena in a shabby +state. I was ashamed that you should—’twas not what she was born to. I +untied the parcel in the road, took it on to her where she was waiting +in the Lower Barn, and told her I had managed to get it for her, and +that she was to ask no question. She, poor thing, must have supposed I +obtained it on trust, through having reached a place where I was known, +for she put it on gladly enough. She has it on now. Sally has other +gowns, I daresay.’ + +Sally looked at her mother, speechless. + +‘You have others, I daresay!’ repeated Phil, with a sick man’s +impatience. ‘I thought to myself, “Better Sally cry than Helena +freeze.” Well, is the dress of great consequence? ’Twas nothing very +ornamental, as far as I could see.’ + +‘No—no; not of consequence,’ returned Sally sadly, adding in a gentle +voice, ‘You will not mind if I lend her another instead of that one, +will you?’ + +Philip’s agitation at the confession had brought on another attack of +the cough, which seemed to shake him to pieces. He was so obviously +unfit to sit in a chair that they helped him upstairs at once; and +having hastily given him a cordial and kindled the bedroom fire, they +descended to fetch their unhappy new relations. + +CHAPTER III + +It was with strange feelings that the girl and her mother, lately so +cheerful, passed out of the back door into the open air of the barton, +laden with hay scents and the herby breath of cows. A fine sleet had +begun to fall, and they trotted across the yard quickly. The +stable-door was open; a light shone from it—from the lantern which +always hung there, and which Philip had lighted, as he said. Softly +nearing the door, Mrs. Hall pronounced the name ‘Helena!’ + +There was no answer for the moment. Looking in she was taken by +surprise. Two people appeared before her. For one, instead of the +drabbish woman she had expected, Mrs. Hall saw a pale, dark-eyed, +ladylike creature, whose personality ruled her attire rather than was +ruled by it. She was in a new and handsome gown, of course, and an old +bonnet. She was standing up, agitated; her hand was held by her +companion—none else than Sally’s affianced, Farmer Charles Darton, upon +whose fine figure the pale stranger’s eyes were fixed, as his were +fixed upon her. His other hand held the rein of his horse, which was +standing saddled as if just led in. + +At sight of Mrs. Hall they both turned, looking at her in a way neither +quite conscious nor unconscious, and without seeming to recollect that +words were necessary as a solution to the scene. In another moment +Sally entered also, when Mr. Darton dropped his companion’s hand, led +the horse aside, and came to greet his betrothed and Mrs. Hall. + +‘Ah!’ he said, smiling—with something like forced composure—‘this is a +roundabout way of arriving, you will say, my dear Mrs. Hall. But we +lost our way, which made us late. I saw a light here, and led in my +horse at once—my friend Johns and my man have gone back to the little +inn with theirs, not to crowd you too much. No sooner had I entered +than I saw that this lady had taken temporary shelter here—and found I +was intruding.’ + +‘She is my daughter-in-law,’ said Mrs. Hall calmly. ‘My son, too, is in +the house, but he has gone to bed unwell.’ + +Sally had stood staring wonderingly at the scene until this moment, +hardly recognizing Darton’s shake of the hand. The spell that bound her +was broken by her perceiving the two little children seated on a heap +of hay. She suddenly went forward, spoke to them, and took one on her +arm and the other in her hand. + +‘And two children?’ said Mr. Darton, showing thus that he had not been +there long enough as yet to understand the situation. + +‘My grandchildren,’ said Mrs. Hall, with as much affected ease as +before. + +Philip Hall’s wife, in spite of this interruption to her first +rencounter, seemed scarcely so much affected by it as to feel any one’s +presence in addition to Mr. Darton’s. However, arousing herself by a +quick reflection, she threw a sudden critical glance of her sad eyes +upon Mrs. Hall; and, apparently finding her satisfactory, advanced to +her in a meek initiative. Then Sally and the stranger spoke some +friendly words to each other, and Sally went on with the children into +the house. Mrs. Hall and Helena followed, and Mr. Darton followed +these, looking at Helena’s dress and outline, and listening to her +voice like a man in a dream. + +By the time the others reached the house Sally had already gone +upstairs with the tired children. She rapped against the wall for +Rebekah to come in and help to attend to them, Rebekah’s house being a +little ‘spit-and-dab’ cabin leaning against the substantial stone-work +of Mrs. Hall’s taller erection. When she came a bed was made up for the +little ones, and some supper given to them. On descending the stairs +after seeing this done Sally went to the sitting-room. Young Mrs. Hall +entered it just in advance of her, having in the interim retired with +her mother-in-law to take off her bonnet, and otherwise make herself +presentable. Hence it was evident that no further communication could +have passed between her and Mr. Darton since their brief interview in +the stable. + +Mr. Japheth Johns now opportunely arrived, and broke up the restraint +of the company, after a few orthodox meteorological commentaries had +passed between him and Mrs. Hall by way of introduction. They at once +sat down to supper, the present of wine and turkey not being produced +for consumption to-night, lest the premature display of those gifts +should seem to throw doubt on Mrs. Hall’s capacities as a provider. + +‘Drink hearty, Mr. Johns—drink hearty,’ said that matron magnanimously. +‘Such as it is there’s plenty of. But perhaps cider-wine is not to your +taste?—though there’s body in it.’ + +‘Quite the contrairy, ma’am—quite the contrairy,’ said the dairyman. +‘For though I inherit the malt-liquor principle from my father, I am a +cider-drinker on my mother’s side. She came from these parts, you know. +And there’s this to be said for’t—’tis a more peaceful liquor, and +don’t lie about a man like your hotter drinks. With care, one may live +on it a twelvemonth without knocking down a neighbour, or getting a +black eye from an old acquaintance.’ + +The general conversation thus begun was continued briskly, though it +was in the main restricted to Mrs. Hall and Japheth, who in truth +required but little help from anybody. There being slight call upon +Sally’s tongue, she had ample leisure to do what her heart most +desired, namely, watch her intended husband and her sister-in-law with +a view of elucidating the strange momentary scene in which her mother +and herself had surprised them in the stable. If that scene meant +anything, it meant, at least, that they had met before. That there had +been no time for explanations Sally could see, for their manner was +still one of suppressed amazement at each other’s presence there. +Darton’s eyes, too, fell continually on the gown worn by Helena as if +this were an added riddle to his perplexity; though to Sally it was the +one feature in the case which was no mystery. He seemed to feel that +fate had impishly changed his vis-à-vis in the lover’s jig he was about +to foot; that while the gown had been expected to enclose a Sally, a +Helena’s face looked out from the bodice; that some long-lost hand met +his own from the sleeves. + +Sally could see that whatever Helena might know of Darton, she knew +nothing of how the dress entered into his embarrassment. And at moments +the young girl would have persuaded herself that Darton’s looks at her +sister-in-law were entirely the fruit of the clothes query. But surely +at other times a more extensive range of speculation and sentiment was +expressed by her lover’s eye than that which the changed dress would +account for. + +Sally’s independence made her one of the least jealous of women. But +there was something in the relations of these two visitors which ought +to be explained. + +Japheth Johns continued to converse in his well-known style, +interspersing his talk with some private reflections on the position of +Darton and Sally, which, though the sparkle in his eye showed them to +be highly entertaining to himself, were apparently not quite +communicable to the company. At last he withdrew for the night, going +off to the roadside inn half-a-mile back, whither Darton promised to +follow him in a few minutes. + +Half-an-hour passed, and then Mr. Darton also rose to leave, Sally and +her sister-in-law simultaneously wishing him good-night as they retired +upstairs to their rooms. But on his arriving at the front door with +Mrs. Hall a sharp shower of rain began to come down, when the widow +suggested that he should return to the fire-side till the storm ceased. + +Darton accepted her proposal, but insisted that, as it was getting +late, and she was obviously tired, she should not sit up on his +account, since he could let himself out of the house, and would quite +enjoy smoking a pipe by the hearth alone. Mrs. Hall assented; and +Darton was left by himself. He spread his knees to the brands, lit up +his tobacco as he had said, and sat gazing into the fire, and at the +notches of the chimney-crook which hung above. + +An occasional drop of rain rolled down the chimney with a hiss, and +still he smoked on; but not like a man whose mind was at rest. In the +long run, however, despite his meditations, early hours afield and a +long ride in the open air produced their natural result. He began to +doze. + +How long he remained in this half-unconscious state he did not know. He +suddenly opened his eyes. The back-brand had burnt itself in two, and +ceased to flame; the light which he had placed on the mantelpiece had +nearly gone out. But in spite of these deficiencies there was a light +in the apartment, and it came from elsewhere. Turning his head he saw +Philip Hall’s wife standing at the entrance of the room with a +bed-candle in one hand, a small brass tea-kettle in the other, and +_his_ gown, as it certainly seemed, still upon her. + +‘Helena!’ said Darton, starting up. + +Her countenance expressed dismay, and her first words were an apology. +‘I—did not know you were here, Mr. Darton,’ she said, while a blush +flashed to her cheek. ‘I thought every one had retired—I was coming to +make a little water boil; my husband seems to be worse. But perhaps the +kitchen fire can be lighted up again.’ + +‘Don’t go on my account. By all means put it on here as you intended,’ +said Darton. ‘Allow me to help you.’ He went forward to take the kettle +from her hand, but she did not allow him, and placed it on the fire +herself. + +They stood some way apart, one on each side of the fireplace, waiting +till the water should boil, the candle on the mantel between them, and +Helena with her eyes on the kettle. Darton was the first to break the +silence. ‘Shall I call Sally?’ he said. + +‘O no,’ she quickly returned. ‘We have given trouble enough already. We +have no right here. But we are the sport of fate, and were obliged to +come.’ + +‘No right here!’ said he in surprise. + +‘None. I can’t explain it now,’ answered Helena. ‘This kettle is very +slow.’ + +There was another pause; the proverbial dilatoriness of watched pots +was never more clearly exemplified. + +Helena’s face was of that sort which seems to ask for assistance +without the owner’s knowledge—the very antipodes of Sally’s, which was +self-reliance expressed. Darton’s eyes travelled from the kettle to +Helena’s face, then back to the kettle, then to the face for rather a +longer time. ‘So I am not to know anything of the mystery that has +distracted me all the evening?’ he said. ‘How is it that a woman, who +refused me because (as I supposed) my position was not good enough for +her taste, is found to be the wife of a man who certainly seems to be +worse off than I?’ + +‘He had the prior claim,’ said she. + +‘What! you knew him at that time?’ + +‘Yes, yes! Please say no more,’ she implored. + +‘Whatever my errors, I have paid for them during the last five years!’ + +The heart of Darton was subject to sudden overflowings. He was kind to +a fault. ‘I am sorry from my soul,’ he said, involuntarily approaching +her. Helena withdrew a step or two, at which he became conscious of his +movement, and quickly took his former place. Here he stood without +speaking, and the little kettle began to sing. + +‘Well, you might have been my wife if you had chosen,’ he said at last. +‘But that’s all past and gone. However, if you are in any trouble or +poverty I shall be glad to be of service, and as your relation by +marriage I shall have a right to be. Does your uncle know of your +distress?’ + +‘My uncle is dead. He left me without a farthing. And now we have two +children to maintain.’ + +‘What, left you nothing? How could he be so cruel as that?’ + +‘I disgraced myself in his eyes.’ + +‘Now,’ said Darton earnestly, ‘let me take care of the children, at +least while you are so unsettled. _You_ belong to another, so I cannot +take care of you.’ + +‘Yes you can,’ said a voice; and suddenly a third figure stood beside +them. It was Sally. ‘You can, since you seem to wish to?’ she repeated. +‘She no longer belongs to another . . . My poor brother is dead!’ + +Her face was red, her eyes sparkled, and all the woman came to the +front. ‘I have heard it!’ she went on to him passionately. ‘You can +protect her now as well as the children!’ She turned then to her +agitated sister-in-law. ‘I heard something,’ said Sally (in a gentle +murmur, differing much from her previous passionate words), ‘and I went +into his room. It must have been the moment you left. He went off so +quickly, and weakly, and it was so unexpected, that I couldn’t leave +even to call you.’ + +Darton was just able to gather from the confused discourse which +followed that, during his sleep by the fire, this brother whom he had +never seen had become worse; and that during Helena’s absence for water +the end had unexpectedly come. The two young women hastened upstairs, +and he was again left alone. + +After standing there a short time he went to the front door and looked +out; till, softly closing it behind him, he advanced and stood under +the large sycamore-tree. The stars were flickering coldly, and the +dampness which had just descended upon the earth in rain now sent up a +chill from it. Darton was in a strange position, and he felt it. The +unexpected appearance, in deep poverty, of Helena—a young lady, +daughter of a deceased naval officer, who had been brought up by her +uncle, a solicitor, and had refused Darton in marriage years ago—the +passionate, almost angry demeanour of Sally at discovering them, the +abrupt announcement that Helena was a widow; all this coming together +was a conjuncture difficult to cope with in a moment, and made him +question whether he ought to leave the house or offer assistance. But +for Sally’s manner he would unhesitatingly have done the latter. + +He was still standing under the tree when the door in front of him +opened, and Mrs. Hall came out. She went round to the garden-gate at +the side without seeing him. Darton followed her, intending to speak. + +Pausing outside, as if in thought, she proceeded to a spot where the +sun came earliest in spring-time, and where the north wind never blew; +it was where the row of beehives stood under the wall. Discerning her +object, he waited till she had accomplished it. + +It was the universal custom thereabout to wake the bees by tapping at +their hives whenever a death occurred in the household, under the +belief that if this were not done the bees themselves would pine away +and perish during the ensuing year. As soon as an interior buzzing +responded to her tap at the first hive Mrs. Hall went on to the second, +and thus passed down the row. As soon as she came back he met her. + +‘What can I do in this trouble, Mrs. Hall?’ he said. + +‘O—nothing, thank you, nothing,’ she said in a tearful voice, now just +perceiving him. ‘We have called Rebekah and her husband, and they will +do everything necessary.’ She told him in a few words the particulars +of her son’s arrival, broken in health—indeed, at death’s very door, +though they did not suspect it—and suggested, as the result of a +conversation between her and her daughter, that the wedding should be +postponed. + +‘Yes, of course,’ said Darton. ‘I think now to go straight to the inn +and tell Johns what has happened.’ It was not till after he had shaken +hands with her that he turned hesitatingly and added, ‘Will you tell +the mother of his children that, as they are now left fatherless, I +shall be glad to take the eldest of them, if it would be any +convenience to her and to you?’ + +Mrs. Hall promised that her son’s widow should he told of the offer, +and they parted. He retired down the rooty slope and disappeared in the +direction of the inn, where he informed Johns of the circumstances. +Meanwhile Mrs. Hall had entered the house, Sally was downstairs in the +sitting-room alone, and her mother explained to her that Darton had +readily assented to the postponement. + +‘No doubt he has,’ said Sally, with sad emphasis. ‘It is not put off +for a week, or a month, or a year. I shall never marry him, and she +will!’ + +CHAPTER IV + +Time passed, and the household on the Knap became again serene under +the composing influences of daily routine. A desultory, very desultory +correspondence, dragged on between Sally Hall and Darton, who, not +quite knowing how to take her petulant words on the night of her +brother’s death, had continued passive thus long. Helena and her +children remained at the dairy-house, almost of necessity, and Darton +therefore deemed it advisable to stay away. + +One day, seven months later on, when Mr. Darton was as usual at his +farm, twenty miles from Hintock, a note reached him from Helena. She +thanked him for his kind offer about her children, which her +mother-in-law had duly communicated, and stated that she would be glad +to accept it as regarded the eldest, the boy. Helena had, in truth, +good need to do so, for her uncle had left her penniless, and all +application to some relatives in the north had failed. There was, +besides, as she said, no good school near Hintock to which she could +send the child. + +On a fine summer day the boy came. He was accompanied half-way by Sally +and his mother—to the ‘White Horse,’ at Chalk Newton—where he was +handed over to Darton’s bailiff in a shining spring-cart, who met them +there. + +He was entered as a day-scholar at a popular school at Casterbridge, +three or four miles from Darton’s, having first been taught by Darton +to ride a forest-pony, on which he cantered to and from the aforesaid +fount of knowledge, and (as Darton hoped) brought away a promising +headful of the same at each diurnal expedition. The thoughtful +taciturnity into which Darton had latterly fallen was quite dissipated +by the presence of this boy. + +When the Christmas holidays came it was arranged that he should spend +them with his mother. The journey was, for some reason or other, +performed in two stages, as at his coming, except that Darton in person +took the place of the bailiff, and that the boy and himself rode on +horseback. + +Reaching the renowned ‘White Horse,’ Darton inquired if Miss and young +Mrs. Hall were there to meet little Philip (as they had agreed to be). +He was answered by the appearance of Helena alone at the door. + +‘At the last moment Sally would not come,’ she faltered. + +That meeting practically settled the point towards which these +long-severed persons were converging. But nothing was broached about it +for some time yet. Sally Hall had, in fact, imparted the first decisive +motion to events by refusing to accompany Helena. She soon gave them a +second move by writing the following note + +‘[Private.] + +‘DEAR CHARLES,—Living here so long and intimately with Helena, I have +naturally learnt her history, especially that of it which refers to +you. I am sure she would accept you as a husband at the proper time, +and I think you ought to give her the opportunity. You inquire in an +old note if I am sorry that I showed temper (which it wasn’t) that +night when I heard you talking to her. No, Charles, I am not sorry at +all for what I said then.—Yours sincerely, SALLY HALL.’ + + +Thus set in train, the transfer of Darton’s heart back to its original +quarters proceeded by mere lapse of time. In the following July, Darton +went to his friend Japheth to ask him at last to fulfil the bridal +office which had been in abeyance since the previous January +twelvemonths. + +‘With all my heart, man o’ constancy!’ said Dairyman Johns warmly. +‘I’ve lost most of my genteel fair complexion haymaking this hot +weather, ’tis true, but I’ll do your business as well as them that look +better. There be scents and good hair-oil in the world yet, thank God, +and they’ll take off the roughest o’ my edge. I’ll compliment her. +“Better late than never, Sally Hall,” I’ll say.’ + +‘It is not Sally,’ said Darton hurriedly. ‘It is young Mrs. Hall.’ + +Japheth’s face, as soon as he really comprehended, became a picture of +reproachful dismay. ‘Not Sally?’ he said. ‘Why not Sally? I can’t +believe it! Young Mrs. Hall! Well, well—where’s your wisdom?’ + +Darton shortly explained particulars; but Johns would not be +reconciled. ‘She was a woman worth having if ever woman was,’ he cried. +‘And now to let her go!’ + +‘But I suppose I can marry where I like,’ said Darton. + +‘H’m,’ replied the dairyman, lifting his eyebrows expressively. ‘This +don’t become you, Charles—it really do not. If I had done such a thing +you would have sworn I was a curst no’thern fool to be drawn off the +scent by such a red-herring doll-oll-oll.’ + +Farmer Darton responded in such sharp terms to this laconic opinion +that the two friends finally parted in a way they had never parted +before. Johns was to be no groomsman to Darton after all. He had flatly +declined. Darton went off sorry, and even unhappy, particularly as +Japheth was about to leave that side of the county, so that the words +which had divided them were not likely to be explained away or softened +down. + +A short time after the interview Darton was united to Helena at a +simple matter-of fact wedding; and she and her little girl joined the +boy who had already grown to look on Darton’s house as home. + +For some months the farmer experienced an unprecedented happiness and +satisfaction. There had been a flaw in his life, and it was as neatly +mended as was humanly possible. But after a season the stream of events +followed less clearly, and there were shades in his reveries. Helena +was a fragile woman, of little staying power, physically or morally, +and since the time that he had originally known her—eight or ten years +before—she had been severely tried. She had loved herself out, in +short, and was now occasionally given to moping. Sometimes she spoke +regretfully of the gentilities of her early life, and instead of +comparing her present state with her condition as the wife of the +unlucky Hall, she mused rather on what it had been before she took the +first fatal step of clandestinely marrying him. She did not care to +please such people as those with whom she was thrown as a thriving +farmer’s wife. She allowed the pretty trifles of agricultural +domesticity to glide by her as sorry details, and had it not been for +the children Darton’s house would have seemed but little brighter than +it had been before. + +This led to occasional unpleasantness, until Darton sometimes declared +to himself that such endeavours as his to rectify early deviations of +the heart by harking back to the old point mostly failed of success. +‘Perhaps Johns was right,’ he would say. ‘I should have gone on with +Sally. Better go with the tide and make the best of its course than +stem it at the risk of a capsize.’ But he kept these unmelodious +thoughts to himself, and was outwardly considerate and kind. + +This somewhat barren tract of his life had extended to less than a year +and a half when his ponderings were cut short by the loss of the woman +they concerned. When she was in her grave he thought better of her than +when she had been alive; the farm was a worse place without her than +with her, after all. No woman short of divine could have gone through +such an experience as hers with her first husband without becoming a +little soured. Her stagnant sympathies, her sometimes unreasonable +manner, had covered a heart frank and well meaning, and originally +hopeful and warm. She left him a tiny red infant in white wrappings. To +make life as easy as possible to this touching object became at once +his care. + +As this child learnt to walk and talk Darton learnt to see feasibility +in a scheme which pleased him. Revolving the experiment which he had +hitherto made upon life, he fancied he had gained wisdom from his +mistakes and caution from his miscarriages. + +What the scheme was needs no penetration to discover. Once more he had +opportunity to recast and rectify his ill-wrought situations by +returning to Sally Hall, who still lived quietly on under her mother’s +roof at Hintock. Helena had been a woman to lend pathos and refinement +to a home; Sally was the woman to brighten it. She would not, as Helena +did, despise the rural simplicities of a farmer’s fireside. Moreover, +she had a pre-eminent qualification for Darton’s household; no other +woman could make so desirable a mother to her brother’s two children +and Darton’s one as Sally—while Darton, now that Helena had gone, was a +more promising husband for Sally than he had ever been when liable to +reminders from an uncured sentimental wound. + +Darton was not a man to act rapidly, and the working out of his +reparative designs might have been delayed for some time. But there +came a winter evening precisely like the one which had darkened over +that former ride to Hintock, and he asked himself why he should +postpone longer, when the very landscape called for a repetition of +that attempt. + +He told his man to saddle the mare, booted and spurred himself with a +younger horseman’s nicety, kissed the two youngest children, and rode +off. To make the journey a complete parallel to the first, he would +fain have had his old acquaintance Japheth Johns with him. But Johns, +alas! was missing. His removal to the other side of the county had left +unrepaired the breach which had arisen between him and Darton; and +though Darton had forgiven him a hundred times, as Johns had probably +forgiven Darton, the effort of reunion in present circumstances was one +not likely to be made. + +He screwed himself up to as cheerful a pitch as he could without his +former crony, and became content with his own thoughts as he rode, +instead of the words of a companion. The sun went down; the boughs +appeared scratched in like an etching against the sky; old crooked men +with faggots at their backs said ‘Good-night, sir,’ and Darton replied +‘Good-night’ right heartily. + +By the time he reached the forking roads it was getting as dark as it +had been on the occasion when Johns climbed the directing-post. Darton +made no mistake this time. ‘Nor shall I be able to mistake, thank +Heaven, when I arrive,’ he murmured. It gave him peculiar satisfaction +to think that the proposed marriage, like his first, was of the nature +of setting in order things long awry, and not a momentary freak of +fancy. + +Nothing hindered the smoothness of his journey, which seemed not half +its former length. Though dark, it was only between five and six +o’clock when the bulky chimneys of Mrs. Hall’s residence appeared in +view behind the sycamore-tree. On second thoughts he retreated and put +up at the ale-house as in former time; and when he had plumed himself +before the inn mirror, called for something to drink, and smoothed out +the incipient wrinkles of care, he walked on to the Knap with a quick +step. + +CHAPTER V + +That evening Sally was making ‘pinners’ for the milkers, who were now +increased by two, for her mother and herself no longer joined in +milking the cows themselves. But upon the whole there was little change +in the household economy, and not much in its appearance, beyond such +minor particulars as that the crack over the window, which had been a +hundred years coming, was a trifle wider; that the beams were a shade +blacker; that the influence of modernism had supplanted the open +chimney corner by a grate; that Rebekah, who had worn a cap when she +had plenty of hair, had left it off now she had scarce any, because it +was reported that caps were not fashionable; and that Sally’s face had +naturally assumed a more womanly and experienced cast. + +Mrs. Hall was actually lifting coals with the tongs, as she had used to +do. + +‘Five years ago this very night, if I am not mistaken—’ she said, +laying on an ember. + +‘Not this very night—though ’twas one night this week,’ said the +correct Sally. + +‘Well, ’tis near enough. Five years ago Mr. Darton came to marry you, +and my poor boy Phil came home to die.’ She sighed. ‘Ah, Sally,’ she +presently said, ‘if you had managed well Mr. Darton would have had you, +Helena or none.’ + +‘Don’t be sentimental about that, mother,’ begged Sally. ‘I didn’t care +to manage well in such a case. Though I liked him, I wasn’t so anxious. +I would never have married the man in the midst of such a hitch as that +was,’ she added with decision; ‘and I don’t think I would if he were to +ask me now.’ + +‘I am not sure about that, unless you have another in your eye.’ + +‘I wouldn’t; and I’ll tell you why. I could hardly marry him for love +at this time o’ day. And as we’ve quite enough to live on if we give up +the dairy to-morrow, I should have no need to marry for any meaner +reason . . . I am quite happy enough as I am, and there’s an end of +it.’ + +Now it was not long after this dialogue that there came a mild rap at +the door, and in a moment there entered Rebekah, looking as though a +ghost had arrived. The fact was that that accomplished skimmer and +churner (now a resident in the house) had overheard the desultory +observations between mother and daughter, and on opening the door to +Mr. Darton thought the coincidence must have a grisly meaning in it. +Mrs. Hall welcomed the farmer with warm surprise, as did Sally, and for +a moment they rather wanted words. + +‘Can you push up the chimney-crook for me, Mr Darton? the notches +hitch,’ said the matron. He did it, and the homely little act bridged +over the awkward consciousness that he had been a stranger for four +years. + +Mrs. Hall soon saw what he had come for, and left the principals +together while she went to prepare him a late tea, smiling at Sally’s +recent hasty assertions of indifference, when she saw how civil Sally +was. When tea was ready she joined them. She fancied that Darton did +not look so confident as when he had arrived; but Sally was quite +light-hearted, and the meal passed pleasantly. + +About seven he took his leave of them. Mrs. Hall went as far as the +door to light him down the slope. On the doorstep he said frankly—‘I +came to ask your daughter to marry me; chose the night and everything, +with an eye to a favourable answer. But she won’t.’ + +‘Then she’s a very ungrateful girl!’ emphatically said Mrs. Hall. + +Darton paused to shape his sentence, and asked, ‘I—I suppose there’s +nobody else more favoured?’ + +‘I can’t say that there is, or that there isn’t,’ answered Mrs. Hall. +‘She’s private in some things. I’m on your side, however, Mr. Darton, +and I’ll talk to her.’ + +‘Thank ‘ee, thank ‘ee!’ said the farmer in a gayer accent; and with +this assurance the not very satisfactory visit came to an end. Darton +descended the roots of the sycamore, the light was withdrawn, and the +door closed. At the bottom of the slope he nearly ran against a man +about to ascend. + +‘Can a jack-o’-lent believe his few senses on such a dark night, or +can’t he?’ exclaimed one whose utterance Darton recognized in a moment, +despite its unexpectedness. ‘I dare not swear he can, though I fain +would!’ The speaker was Johns. + +Darton said he was glad of this opportunity, bad as it was, of putting +an end to the silence of years, and asked the dairyman what he was +travelling that way for. + +Japheth showed the old jovial confidence in a moment. ‘I’m going to see +your—relations—as they always seem to me,’ he said—‘Mrs. Hall and +Sally. Well, Charles, the fact is I find the natural barbarousness of +man is much increased by a bachelor life, and, as your leavings were +always good enough for me, I’m trying civilization here.’ He nodded +towards the house. + +‘Not with Sally—to marry her?’ said Darton, feeling something like a +rill of ice water between his shoulders. + +‘Yes, by the help of Providence and my personal charms. And I think I +shall get her. I am this road every week—my present dairy is only four +miles off, you know, and I see her through the window. ’Tis rather odd +that I was going to speak practical to-night to her for the first time. +You’ve just called?’ + +‘Yes, for a short while. But she didn’t say a word about you.’ + +‘A good sign, a good sign. Now that decides me. I’ll swing the mallet +and get her answer this very night as I planned.’ + +A few more remarks, and Darton, wishing his friend joy of Sally in a +slightly hollow tone of jocularity, bade him good-bye. Johns promised +to write particulars, and ascended, and was lost in the shade of the +house and tree. A rectangle of light appeared when Johns was admitted, +and all was dark again. + +‘Happy Japheth!’ said Darton. ‘This then is the explanation!’ + +He determined to return home that night. In a quarter of an hour he +passed out of the village, and the next day went about his +swede-lifting and storing as if nothing had occurred. + +He waited and waited to hear from Johns whether the wedding-day was +fixed: but no letter came. He learnt not a single particular till, +meeting Johns one day at a horse-auction, Darton exclaimed +genially—rather more genially than he felt—‘When is the joyful day to +be?’ + +To his great surprise a reciprocity of gladness was not conspicuous in +Johns. ‘Not at all,’ he said, in a very subdued tone. ‘’Tis a bad job; +she won’t have me.’ + +Darton held his breath till he said with treacherous solicitude, ‘Try +again—’tis coyness.’ + +‘O no,’ said Johns decisively. ‘There’s been none of that. We talked it +over dozens of times in the most fair and square way. She tells me +plainly, I don’t suit her. ’Twould be simply annoying her to ask her +again. Ah, Charles, you threw a prize away when you let her slip five +years ago.’ + +‘I did—I did,’ said Darton. + +He returned from that auction with a new set of feelings in play. He +had certainly made a surprising mistake in thinking Johns his +successful rival. It really seemed as if he might hope for Sally after +all. + +This time, being rather pressed by business, Darton had recourse to +pen-and-ink, and wrote her as manly and straightforward a proposal as +any woman could wish to receive. The reply came promptly:- + +‘DEAR MR. DARTON,—I am as sensible as any woman can be of the goodness +that leads you to make me this offer a second time. Better women than I +would be proud of the honour, for when I read your nice long speeches +on mangold-wurzel, and such like topics, at the Casterbridge Farmers’ +Club, I do feel it an honour, I assure you. But my answer is just the +same as before. I will not try to explain what, in truth, I cannot +explain—my reasons; I will simply say that I must decline to be married +to you. With good wishes as in former times, I am, your faithful +friend, + + +‘SALLY HALL.’ + + +Darton dropped the letter hopelessly. Beyond the negative, there was +just a possibility of sarcasm in it—‘nice long speeches on +mangold-wurzel’ had a suspicious sound. However, sarcasm or none, there +was the answer, and he had to be content. + +He proceeded to seek relief in a business which at this time engrossed +much of his attention—that of clearing up a curious mistake just +current in the county, that he had been nearly ruined by the recent +failure of a local bank. A farmer named Darton had lost heavily, and +the similarity of name had probably led to the error. Belief in it was +so persistent that it demanded several days of letter-writing to set +matters straight, and persuade the world that he was as solvent as ever +he had been in his life. He had hardly concluded this worrying task +when, to his delight, another letter arrived in the handwriting of +Sally. + +Darton tore it open; it was very short. + +‘DEAR MR. DARTON,—We have been so alarmed these last few days by the +report that you were ruined by the stoppage of —‘s Bank, that, now it +is contradicted I hasten, by my mother’s wish, to say how truly glad we +are to find there is no foundation for the report. After your kindness +to my poor brother’s children, I can do no less than write at such a +moment. We had a letter from each of them a few days ago.—Your faithful +friend, + + +‘SALLY HALL.’ + + +‘Mercenary little woman!’ said Darton to himself with a smile. ‘Then +that was the secret of her refusal this time—she thought I was ruined.’ + +Now, such was Darton, that as hours went on he could not help feeling +too generously towards Sally to condemn her in this. What did he want +in a wife? he asked himself. Love and integrity. What next? Worldly +wisdom. And was there really more than worldly wisdom in her refusal to +go aboard a sinking ship? She now knew it was otherwise. ‘Begad,’ he +said, ‘I’ll try her again.’ + +The fact was he had so set his heart upon Sally, and Sally alone, that +nothing was to be allowed to baulk him; and his reasoning was purely +formal. + +Anniversaries having been unpropitious, he waited on till a bright day +late in May—a day when all animate nature was fancying, in its +trusting, foolish way, that it was going to bask out of doors for +evermore. As he rode through Long-Ash Lane it was scarce recognizable +as the track of his two winter journeys. No mistake could be made now, +even with his eyes shut. The cuckoo’s note was at its best, between +April tentativeness and midsummer decrepitude, and the reptiles in the +sun behaved as winningly as kittens on a hearth. Though afternoon, and +about the same time as on the last occasion, it was broad day and +sunshine when he entered Hintock, and the details of the Knap +dairy-house were visible far up the road. He saw Sally in the garden, +and was set vibrating. He had first intended to go on to the inn; but +‘No,’ he said; ‘I’ll tie my horse to the garden-gate. If all goes well +it can soon be taken round: if not, I mount and ride away’ + +The tall shade of the horseman darkened the room in which Mrs. Hall +sat, and made her start, for he had ridden by a side path to the top of +the slope, where riders seldom came. In a few seconds he was in the +garden with Sally. + +Five—ay, three minutes—did the business at the back of that row of +bees. Though spring had come, and heavenly blue consecrated the scene, +Darton succeeded not. ‘_No_,’ said Sally firmly. ‘I will never, never +marry you, Mr. Darton. I would have done it once; but now I never can.’ + +‘But!’—implored Mr. Darton. And with a burst of real eloquence he went +on to declare all sorts of things that he would do for her. He would +drive her to see her mother every week—take her to London—settle so +much money upon her—Heaven knows what he did not promise, suggest, and +tempt her with. But it availed nothing. She interposed with a stout +negative, which closed the course of his argument like an iron gate +across a highway. Darton paused. + +‘Then,’ said he simply, ‘you hadn’t heard of my supposed failure when +you declined last time?’ + +‘I had not,’ she said. ‘But if I had ’twould have been all the same.’ + +‘And ’tis not because of any soreness from my slighting you years ago?’ + +‘No. That soreness is long past.’ + +‘Ah—then you despise me, Sally?’ + +‘No,’ she slowly answered. ‘I don’t altogether despise you. I don’t +think you quite such a hero as I once did—that’s all. The truth is, I +am happy enough as I am; and I don’t mean to marry at all. Now, may _I_ +ask a favour, sir?’ She spoke with an ineffable charm, which, whenever +he thought of it, made him curse his loss of her as long as he lived. + +‘To any extent.’ + +‘Please do not put this question to me any more. Friends as long as you +like, but lovers and married never.’ + +‘I never will,’ said Darton. ‘Not if I live a hundred years.’ + +And he never did. That he had worn out his welcome in her heart was +only too plain. + +When his step-children had grown up, and were placed out in life, all +communication between Darton and the Hall family ceased. It was only by +chance that, years after, he learnt that Sally, notwithstanding the +solicitations her attractions drew down upon her, had refused several +offers of marriage, and steadily adhered to her purpose of leading a +single life + +May 1884. + + + + +THE DISTRACTED PREACHER + + +CHAPTER I—HOW HIS COLD WAS CURED + +Something delayed the arrival of the Wesleyan minister, and a young man +came temporarily in his stead. It was on the thirteenth of January 183- +that Mr. Stockdale, the young man in question, made his humble entry +into the village, unknown, and almost unseen. But when those of the +inhabitants who styled themselves of his connection became acquainted +with him, they were rather pleased with the substitute than otherwise, +though he had scarcely as yet acquired ballast of character sufficient +to steady the consciences of the hundred-and-forty Methodists of pure +blood who, at this time, lived in Nether-Moynton, and to give in +addition supplementary support to the mixed race which went to church +in the morning and chapel in the evening, or when there was a tea—as +many as a hundred-and-ten people more, all told, and including the +parish-clerk in the winter-time, when it was too dark for the vicar to +observe who passed up the street at seven o’clock—which, to be just to +him, he was never anxious to do. + +It was owing to this overlapping of creeds that the celebrated +population-puzzle arose among the denser gentry of the district around +Nether-Moynton: how could it be that a parish containing fifteen score +of strong full-grown Episcopalians, and nearly thirteen score of +well-matured Dissenters, numbered barely two-and-twenty score adults in +all? + +The young man being personally interesting, those with whom he came in +contact were content to waive for a while the graver question of his +sufficiency. It is said that at this time of his life his eyes were +affectionate, though without a ray of levity; that his hair was curly, +and his figure tall; that he was, in short, a very lovable youth, who +won upon his female hearers as soon as they saw and heard him, and +caused them to say, ‘Why didn’t we know of this before he came, that we +might have gied him a warmer welcome!’ + +The fact was that, knowing him to be only provisionally selected, and +expecting nothing remarkable in his person or doctrine, they and the +rest of his flock in Nether-Moynton had felt almost as indifferent +about his advent as if they had been the soundest church-going +parishioners in the country, and he their true and appointed parson. +Thus when Stockdale set foot in the place nobody had secured a lodging +for him, and though his journey had given him a bad cold in the head, +he was forced to attend to that business himself. On inquiry he learnt +that the only possible accommodation in the village would be found at +the house of one Mrs. Lizzy Newberry, at the upper end of the street. + +It was a youth who gave this information, and Stockdale asked him who +Mrs. Newberry might be. + +The boy said that she was a widow-woman, who had got no husband, +because he was dead. Mr. Newberry, he added, had been a well-to-do man +enough, as the saying was, and a farmer; but he had gone off in a +decline. As regarded Mrs. Newberry’s serious side, Stockdale gathered +that she was one of the trimmers who went to church and chapel both. + +‘I’ll go there,’ said Stockdale, feeling that, in the absence of purely +sectarian lodgings, he could do no better. + +‘She’s a little particular, and won’t hae gover’ment folks, or curates, +or the pa’son’s friends, or such like,’ said the lad dubiously. + +‘Ah, that may be a promising sign: I’ll call. Or no; just you go up and +ask first if she can find room for me. I have to see one or two persons +on another matter. You will find me down at the carrier’s.’ + +In a quarter of an hour the lad came back, and said that Mrs. Newberry +would have no objection to accommodate him, whereupon Stockdale called +at the house. + +It stood within a garden-hedge, and seemed to be roomy and comfortable. +He saw an elderly woman, with whom he made arrangements to come the +same night, since there was no inn in the place, and he wished to house +himself as soon as possible; the village being a local centre from +which he was to radiate at once to the different small chapels in the +neighbourhood. He forthwith sent his luggage to Mrs. Newberry’s from +the carrier’s, where he had taken shelter, and in the evening walked up +to his temporary home. + +As he now lived there, Stockdale felt it unnecessary to knock at the +door; and entering quietly he had the pleasure of hearing footsteps +scudding away like mice into the back quarters. He advanced to the +parlour, as the front room was called, though its stone floor was +scarcely disguised by the carpet, which only over-laid the trodden +areas, leaving sandy deserts under the bulging mouldings of the +table-legs, playing with brass furniture. But the room looked snug and +cheerful. The firelight shone out brightly, trembling on the knobs and +handles, and lurking in great strength on the under surface of the +chimney-piece. A deep arm-chair, covered with horsehair, and studded +with a countless throng of brass nails, was pulled up on one side of +the fireplace. The tea-things were on the table, the teapot cover was +open, and a little hand-bell had been laid at that precise point +towards which a person seated in the great chair might be expected +instinctively to stretch his hand. + +Stockdale sat down, not objecting to his experience of the room thus +far, and began his residence by tinkling the bell. A little girl crept +in at the summons, and made tea for him. Her name, she said, was +Marther Sarer, and she lived out there, nodding towards the road and +village generally. Before Stockdale had got far with his meal, a tap +sounded on the door behind him, and on his telling the inquirer to come +in, a rustle of garments caused him to turn his head. He saw before him +a fine and extremely well-made young woman, with dark hair, a wide, +sensible, beautiful forehead, eyes that warmed him before he knew it, +and a mouth that was in itself a picture to all appreciative souls. + +‘Can I get you anything else for tea?’ she said, coming forward a step +or two, an expression of liveliness on her features, and her hand +waving the door by its edge. + +‘Nothing, thank you,’ said Stockdale, thinking less of what he replied +than of what might be her relation to the household. + +‘You are quite sure?’ said the young woman, apparently aware that he +had not considered his answer. + +He conscientiously examined the tea-things, and found them all there. +‘Quite sure, Miss Newberry,’ he said. + +‘It is Mrs. Newberry,’ she said. ‘Lizzy Newberry, I used to be Lizzy +Simpkins.’ + +‘O, I beg your pardon, Mrs. Newberry.’ And before he had occasion to +say more she left the room. + +Stockdale remained in some doubt till Martha Sarah came to clear the +table. ‘Whose house is this, my little woman,’ said he. + +‘Mrs. Lizzy Newberry’s, sir.’ + +‘Then Mrs. Newberry is not the old lady I saw this afternoon?’ + +‘No. That’s Mrs. Newberry’s mother. It was Mrs. Newberry who comed in +to you just by now, because she wanted to see if you was good-looking.’ + +Later in the evening, when Stockdale was about to begin supper, she +came again. ‘I have come myself, Mr. Stockdale,’ she said. The minister +stood up in acknowledgment of the honour. ‘I am afraid little Marther +might not make you understand. What will you have for supper?—there’s +cold rabbit, and there’s a ham uncut.’ + +Stockdale said he could get on nicely with those viands, and supper was +laid. He had no more than cut a slice when tap-tap came to the door +again. The minister had already learnt that this particular rhythm in +taps denoted the fingers of his enkindling landlady, and the doomed +young fellow buried his first mouthful under a look of receptive +blandness. + +‘We have a chicken in the house, Mr. Stockdale—I quite forgot to +mention it just now. Perhaps you would like Marther Sarer to bring it +up?’ + +Stockdale had advanced far enough in the art of being a young man to +say that he did not want the chicken, unless she brought it up herself; +but when it was uttered he blushed at the daring gallantry of the +speech, perhaps a shade too strong for a serious man and a minister. In +three minutes the chicken appeared, but, to his great surprise, only in +the hands of Martha Sarah. Stockdale was disappointed, which perhaps it +was intended that he should be. + +He had finished supper, and was not in the least anticipating Mrs. +Newberry again that night, when she tapped and entered as before. +Stockdale’s gratified look told that she had lost nothing by not +appearing when expected. It happened that the cold in the head from +which the young man suffered had increased with the approach of night, +and before she had spoken he was seized with a violent fit of sneezing +which he could not anyhow repress. + +Mrs. Newberry looked full of pity. ‘Your cold is very bad to-night, Mr. +Stockdale.’ + +Stockdale replied that it was rather troublesome. + +‘And I’ve a good mind’—she added archly, looking at the cheerless glass +of water on the table, which the abstemious minister was going to +drink. + +‘Yes, Mrs. Newberry?’ + +‘I’ve a good mind that you should have something more likely to cure it +than that cold stuff.’ + +‘Well,’ said Stockdale, looking down at the glass, ‘as there is no inn +here, and nothing better to be got in the village, of course it will +do.’ + +To this she replied, ‘There is something better, not far off, though +not in the house. I really think you must try it, or you may be ill. +Yes, Mr. Stockdale, you shall.’ She held up her finger, seeing that he +was about to speak. ‘Don’t ask what it is; wait, and you shall see.’ + +Lizzy went away, and Stockdale waited in a pleasant mood. Presently she +returned with her bonnet and cloak on, saying, ‘I am so sorry, but you +must help me to get it. Mother has gone to bed. Will you wrap yourself +up, and come this way, and please bring that cup with you?’ + +Stockdale, a lonely young fellow, who had for weeks felt a great +craving for somebody on whom to throw away superfluous interest, and +even tenderness, was not sorry to join her; and followed his guide +through the back door, across the garden, to the bottom, where the +boundary was a wall. This wall was low, and beyond it Stockdale +discerned in the night shades several grey headstones, and the outlines +of the church roof and tower. + +‘It is easy to get up this way,’ she said, stepping upon a bank which +abutted on the wall; then putting her foot on the top of the stonework, +and descending a spring inside, where the ground was much higher, as is +the manner of graveyards to be. Stockdale did the same, and followed +her in the dusk across the irregular ground till they came to the tower +door, which, when they had entered, she softly closed behind them. + +‘You can keep a secret?’ she said, in a musical voice. + +‘Like an iron chest!’ said he fervently. + +Then from under her cloak she produced a small lighted lantern, which +the minister had not noticed that she carried at all. The light showed +them to be close to the singing-gallery stairs, under which lay a heap +of lumber of all sorts, but consisting mostly of decayed framework, +pews, panels, and pieces of flooring, that from time to time had been +removed from their original fixings in the body of the edifice and +replaced by new. + +‘Perhaps you will drag some of those boards aside?’ she said, holding +the lantern over her head to light him better. ‘Or will you take the +lantern while I move them?’ + +‘I can manage it,’ said the young man, and acting as she ordered, he +uncovered, to his surprise, a row of little barrels bound with wood +hoops, each barrel being about as large as the nave of a heavy +waggon-wheel. + +When they were laid open Lizzy fixed her eyes on him, as if she +wondered what he would say. + +‘You know what they are?’ she asked, finding that he did not speak. + +‘Yes, barrels,’ said Stockdale simply. He was an inland man, the son of +highly respectable parents, and brought up with a single eye to the +ministry; and the sight suggested nothing beyond the fact that such +articles were there. + +‘You are quite right, they are barrels,’ she said, in an emphatic tone +of candour that was not without a touch of irony. + +Stockdale looked at her with an eye of sudden misgiving. ‘Not +smugglers’ liquor?’ he said. + +‘Yes,’ said she. ‘They are tubs of spirit that have accidentally come +over in the dark from France.’ + +In Nether-Moynton and its vicinity at this date people always smiled at +the sort of sin called in the outside world illicit trading; and these +little kegs of gin and brandy were as well known to the inhabitants as +turnips. So that Stockdale’s innocent ignorance, and his look of alarm +when he guessed the sinister mystery, seemed to strike Lizzy first as +ludicrous, and then as very awkward for the good impression that she +wished to produce upon him. + +‘Smuggling is carried on here by some of the people,’ she said in a +gentle, apologetic voice. ‘It has been their practice for generations, +and they think it no harm. Now, will you roll out one of the tubs?’ + +‘What to do with it?’ said the minister. + +‘To draw a little from it to cure your cold,’ she answered. ‘It is so +‘nation strong that it drives away that sort of thing in a jiffy. O, it +is all right about our taking it. I may have what I like; the owner of +the tubs says so. I ought to have had some in the house, and then I +shouldn’t ha’ been put to this trouble; but I drink none myself, and so +I often forget to keep it indoors.’ + +‘You are allowed to help yourself, I suppose, that you may not inform +where their hiding-place is?’ + +‘Well, no; not that particularly; but I may take any if I want it. So +help yourself.’ + +‘I will, to oblige you, since you have a right to it,’ murmured the +minister; and though he was not quite satisfied with his part in the +performance, he rolled one of the ‘tubs’ out from the corner into the +middle of the tower floor. ‘How do you wish me to get it out—with a +gimlet, I suppose?’ + +‘No, I’ll show you,’ said his interesting companion; and she held up +with her other hand a shoemaker’s awl and a hammer. ‘You must never do +these things with a gimlet, because the wood-dust gets in; and when the +buyers pour out the brandy that would tell them that the tub had been +broached. An awl makes no dust, and the hole nearly closes up again. +Now tap one of the hoops forward.’ + +Stockdale took the hammer and did so. + +‘Now make the hole in the part that was covered by the hoop.’ + +He made the hole as directed. ‘It won’t run out,’ he said. + +‘O yes it will,’ said she. ‘Take the tub between your knees, and +squeeze the heads; and I’ll hold the cup.’ + +Stockdale obeyed; and the pressure taking effect upon the tub, which +seemed, to be thin, the spirit spirted out in a stream. When the cup +was full he ceased pressing, and the flow immediately stopped. ‘Now we +must fill up the keg with water,’ said Lizzy, ‘or it will cluck like +forty hens when it is handled, and show that ’tis not full.’ + +‘But they tell you you may take it?’ + +‘Yes, the _smugglers_: but the _buyers_ must not know that the +smugglers have been kind to me at their expense.’ + +‘I see,’ said Stockdale doubtfully. ‘I much question the honesty of +this proceeding.’ + +By her direction he held the tub with the hole upwards, and while he +went through the process of alternately pressing and ceasing to press, +she produced a bottle of water, from which she took mouthfuls, +conveying each to the keg by putting her pretty lips to the hole, where +it was sucked in at each recovery of the cask from pressure. When it +was again full he plugged the hole, knocked the hoop down to its place, +and buried the tub in the lumber as before. + +‘Aren’t the smugglers afraid that you will tell?’ he asked, as they +recrossed the churchyard. + +‘O no; they are not afraid of that. I couldn’t do such a thing.’ + +‘They have put you into a very awkward corner,’ said Stockdale +emphatically. ‘You must, of course, as an honest person, sometimes feel +that it is your duty to inform—really you must.’ + +‘Well, I have never particularly felt it as a duty; and, besides, my +first husband—’ She stopped, and there was some confusion in her voice. +Stockdale was so honest and unsophisticated that he did not at once +discern why she paused: but at last he did perceive that the words were +a slip, and that no woman would have uttered ‘first husband’ by +accident unless she had thought pretty frequently of a second. He felt +for her confusion, and allowed her time to recover and proceed. ‘My +husband,’ she said, in a self-corrected tone, ‘used to know of their +doings, and so did my father, and kept the secret. I cannot inform, in +fact, against anybody.’ + +‘I see the hardness of it,’ he continued, like a man who looked far +into the moral of things. ‘And it is very cruel that you should be +tossed and tantalized between your memories and your conscience. I do +hope, Mrs. Newberry, that you will soon see your way out of this +unpleasant position.’ + +‘Well, I don’t just now,’ she murmured. + +By this time they had passed over the wall and entered the house, where +she brought him a glass and hot water, and left him to his own +reflections. He looked after her vanishing form, asking himself whether +he, as a respectable man, and a minister, and a shining light, even +though as yet only of the halfpenny-candle sort, were quite justified +in doing this thing. A sneeze settled the question; and he found that +when the fiery liquor was lowered by the addition of twice or thrice +the quantity of water, it was one of the prettiest cures for a cold in +the head that he had ever known, particularly at this chilly time of +the year. + +Stockdale sat in the deep chair about twenty minutes sipping and +meditating, till he at length took warmer views of things, and longed +for the morrow, when he would see Mrs. Newberry again. He then felt +that, though chronologically at a short distance, it would in an +emotional sense be very long before to-morrow came, and walked +restlessly round the room. His eye was attracted by a framed and glazed +sampler in which a running ornament of fir-trees and peacocks +surrounded the following pretty bit of sentiment:- + +‘Rose-leaves smell when roses thrive, +Here’s my work while I’m alive; +Rose-leaves smell when shrunk and shed, +Here’s my work when I am dead. + + +‘Lizzy Simpkins. Fear God. Honour the King. + ‘Aged 11 years. + + +‘’Tis hers,’ he said to himself. ‘Heavens, how I like that name!’ + +Before he had done thinking that no other name from Abigail to Zenobia +would have suited his young landlady so well, tap-tap came again upon +the door; and the minister started as her face appeared yet another +time, looking so disinterested that the most ingenious would have +refrained from asserting that she had come to affect his feelings by +her seductive eyes. + +‘Would you like a fire in your room, Mr. Stockdale, on account of your +cold?’ + +The minister, being still a little pricked in the conscience for +countenancing her in watering the spirits, saw here a way to +self-chastisement. ‘No, I thank you,’ he said firmly; ‘it is not +necessary. I have never been used to one in my life, and it would be +giving way to luxury too far.’ + +‘Then I won’t insist,’ she said, and disconcerted him by vanishing +instantly. + +Wondering if she was vexed by his refusal, he wished that he had chosen +to have a fire, even though it should have scorched him out of bed and +endangered his self-discipline for a dozen days. However, he consoled +himself with what was in truth a rare consolation for a budding lover, +that he was under the same roof with Lizzy; her guest, in fact, to take +a poetical view of the term lodger; and that he would certainly see her +on the morrow. + +The morrow came, and Stockdale rose early, his cold quite gone. He had +never in his life so longed for the breakfast hour as he did that day, +and punctually at eight o’clock, after a short walk, to reconnoitre the +premises, he re-entered the door of his dwelling. Breakfast passed, and +Martha Sarah attended, but nobody came voluntarily as on the night +before to inquire if there were other wants which he had not mentioned, +and which she would attempt to gratify. He was disappointed, and went +out, hoping to see her at dinner. Dinner time came; he sat down to the +meal, finished it, lingered on for a whole hour, although two new +teachers were at that moment waiting at the chapel-door to speak to him +by appointment. It was useless to wait longer, and he slowly went his +way down the lane, cheered by the thought that, after all, he would see +her in the evening, and perhaps engage again in the delightful +tub-broaching in the neighbouring church tower, which proceeding he +resolved to render more moral by steadfastly insisting that no water +should be introduced to fill up, though the tub should cluck like all +the hens in Christendom. But nothing could disguise the fact that it +was a queer business; and his countenance fell when he thought how much +more his mind was interested in that matter than in his serious duties. + +However, compunction vanished with the decline of day. Night came, and +his tea and supper; but no Lizzy Newberry, and no sweet temptations. At +last the minister could bear it no longer, and said to his quaint +little attendant, ‘Where is Mrs. Newberry to-day?’ judiciously handing +a penny as he spoke. + +‘She’s busy,’ said Martha. + +‘Anything serious happened?’ he asked, handing another penny, and +revealing yet additional pennies in the background. + +‘O no—nothing at all!’ said she, with breathless confidence. ‘Nothing +ever happens to her. She’s only biding upstairs in bed because ’tis her +way sometimes.’ + +Being a young man of some honour, he would not question further, and +assuming that Lizzy must have a bad headache, or other slight ailment, +in spite of what the girl had said, he went to bed dissatisfied, not +even setting eyes on old Mrs. Simpkins. ‘I said last night that I +should see her to-morrow,’ he reflected; ‘but that was not to be!’ + +Next day he had better fortune, or worse, meeting her at the foot of +the stairs in the morning, and being favoured by a visit or two from +her during the day—once for the purpose of making kindly inquiries +about his comfort, as on the first evening, and at another time to +place a bunch of winter-violets on his table, with a promise to renew +them when they drooped. On these occasions there was something in her +smile which showed how conscious she was of the effect she produced, +though it must be said that it was rather a humorous than a designing +consciousness, and savoured more of pride than of vanity. + +As for Stockdale, he clearly perceived that he possessed unlimited +capacity for backsliding, and wished that tutelary saints were not +denied to Dissenters. He set a watch upon his tongue and eyes for the +space of one hour and a half, after which he found it was useless to +struggle further, and gave himself up to the situation. ‘The other +minister will be here in a month,’ he said to himself when sitting over +the fire. ‘Then I shall be off, and she will distract my mind no more! +. . . And then, shall I go on living by myself for ever? No; when my +two years of probation are finished, I shall have a furnished house to +live in, with a varnished door and a brass knocker; and I’ll march +straight back to her, and ask her flat, as soon as the last plate is on +the dresser! + +Thus a titillating fortnight was passed by young Stockdale, during +which time things proceeded much as such matters have done ever since +the beginning of history. He saw the object of attachment several times +one day, did not see her at all the next, met her when he least +expected to do so, missed her when hints and signs as to where she +should be at a given hour almost amounted to an appointment. This mild +coquetry was perhaps fair enough under the circumstances of their being +so closely lodged, and Stockdale put up with it as philosophically as +he was able. Being in her own house, she could, after vexing him or +disappointing him of her presence, easily win him back by suddenly +surrounding him with those little attentions which her position as his +landlady put it in her power to bestow. When he had waited indoors half +the day to see her, and on finding that she would not be seen, had gone +off in a huff to the dreariest and dampest walk he could discover, she +would restore equilibrium in the evening with ‘Mr. Stockdale, I have +fancied you must feel draught o’ nights from your bedroom window, and +so I have been putting up thicker curtains this afternoon while you +were out;’ or, ‘I noticed that you sneezed twice again this morning, +Mr. Stockdale. Depend upon it that cold is hanging about you yet; I am +sure it is—I have thought of it continually; and you must let me make a +posset for you.’ + +Sometimes in coming home he found his sitting-room rearranged, chairs +placed where the table had stood, and the table ornamented with the few +fresh flowers and leaves that could be obtained at this season, so as +to add a novelty to the room. At times she would be standing on a chair +outside the house, trying to nail up a branch of the monthly rose which +the winter wind had blown down; and of course he stepped forward to +assist her, when their hands got mixed in passing the shreds and nails. +Thus they became friends again after a disagreement. She would utter on +these occasions some pretty and deprecatory remark on the necessity of +her troubling him anew; and he would straightway say that he would do a +hundred times as much for her if she should so require. + +CHAPTER II—HOW HE SAW TWO OTHER MEN + +Matters being in this advancing state, Stockdale was rather surprised +one cloudy evening, while sitting in his room, at hearing her speak in +low tones of expostulation to some one at the door. It was nearly dark, +but the shutters were not yet closed, nor the candles lighted; and +Stockdale was tempted to stretch his head towards the window. He saw +outside the door a young man in clothes of a whitish colour, and upon +reflection judged their wearer to be the well-built and rather handsome +miller who lived below. The miller’s voice was alternately low and +firm, and sometimes it reached the level of positive entreaty; but what +the words were Stockdale could in no way hear. + +Before the colloquy had ended, the minister’s attention was attracted +by a second incident. Opposite Lizzy’s home grew a clump of laurels, +forming a thick and permanent shade. One of the laurel boughs now +quivered against the light background of sky, and in a moment the head +of a man peered out, and remained still. He seemed to be also much +interested in the conversation at the door, and was plainly lingering +there to watch and listen. Had Stockdale stood in any other relation to +Lizzy than that of a lover, he might have gone out and investigated the +meaning of this: but being as yet but an unprivileged ally, he did +nothing more than stand up and show himself against the firelight, +whereupon the listener disappeared, and Lizzy and the miller spoke in +lower tones. + +Stockdale was made so uneasy by the circumstance, that as soon as the +miller was gone, he said, ‘Mrs. Newberry, are you aware that you were +watched just now, and your conversation heard?’ + +‘When?’ she said. + +‘When you were talking to that miller. A man was looking from the +laurel-tree as jealously as if he could have eaten you.’ + +She showed more concern than the trifling event seemed to demand, and +he added, ‘Perhaps you were talking of things you did not wish to be +overheard?’ + +‘I was talking only on business,’ she said. + +‘Lizzy, be frank!’ said the young man. ‘If it was only on business, why +should anybody wish to listen to you?’ + +She looked curiously at him. ‘What else do you think it could be, +then?’ + +‘Well—the only talk between a young woman and man that is likely to +amuse an eavesdropper.’ + +‘Ah yes,’ she said, smiling in spite of her preoccupation. ‘Well, my +cousin Owlett has spoken to me about matrimony, every now and then, +that’s true; but he was not speaking of it then. I wish he had been +speaking of it, with all my heart. It would have been much less serious +for me.’ + +‘O Mrs. Newberry!’ + +‘It would. Not that I should ha’ chimed in with him, of course. I wish +it for other reasons. I am glad, Mr. Stockdale, that you have told me +of that listener. It is a timely warning, and I must see my cousin +again.’ + +‘But don’t go away till I have spoken,’ said the minister. ‘I’ll out +with it at once, and make no more ado. Let it be Yes or No between us, +Lizzy; please do!’ And he held out his hand, in which she freely +allowed her own to rest, but without speaking. + +‘You mean Yes by that?’ he asked, after waiting a while. + +‘You may be my sweetheart, if you will.’ + +‘Why not say at once you will wait for me until I have a house and can +come back to marry you.’ + +‘Because I am thinking—thinking of something else,’ she said with +embarrassment. ‘It all comes upon me at once, and I must settle one +thing at a time.’ + +‘At any rate, dear Lizzy, you can assure me that the miller shall not +be allowed to speak to you except on business? You have never directly +encouraged him?’ + +She parried the question by saying, ‘You see, he and his party have +been in the habit of leaving things on my premises sometimes, and as I +have not denied him, it makes him rather forward.’ + +‘Things—what things?’ + +‘Tubs—they are called Things here.’ + +‘But why don’t you deny him, my dear Lizzy?’ + +‘I cannot well.’ + +‘You are too timid. It is unfair of him to impose so upon you, and get +your good name into danger by his smuggling tricks. Promise me that the +next time he wants to leave his tubs here you will let me roll them +into the street?’ + +She shook her head. ‘I would not venture to offend the neighbours so +much as that,’ said she, ‘or do anything that would be so likely to put +poor Owlett into the hands of the excisemen.’ + +Stockdale sighed, and said that he thought hers a mistaken generosity +when it extended to assisting those who cheated the king of his dues. +‘At any rate, you will let me make him keep his distance as your lover, +and tell him flatly that you are not for him?’ + +‘Please not, at present,’ she said. ‘I don’t wish to offend my old +neighbours. It is not only Owlett who is concerned.’ + +‘This is too bad,’ said Stockdale impatiently. + +‘On my honour, I won’t encourage him as my lover,’ Lizzy answered +earnestly. ‘A reasonable man will be satisfied with that.’ + +‘Well, so I am,’ said Stockdale, his countenance clearing. + +CHAPTER III—THE MYSTERIOUS GREATCOAT + +Stockdale now began to notice more particularly a feature in the life +of his fair landlady, which he had casually observed but scarcely ever +thought of before. It was that she was markedly irregular in her hours +of rising. For a week or two she would be tolerably punctual, reaching +the ground-floor within a few minutes of half-past seven. Then suddenly +she would not be visible till twelve at noon, perhaps for three or four +days in succession; and twice he had certain proof that she did not +leave her room till half-past three in the afternoon. The second time +that this extreme lateness came under his notice was on a day when he +had particularly wished to consult with her about his future movements; +and he concluded, as he always had done, that she had a cold, headache, +or other ailment, unless she had kept herself invisible to avoid +meeting and talking to him, which he could hardly believe. The former +supposition was disproved, however, by her innocently saying, some days +later, when they were speaking on a question of health, that she had +never had a moment’s heaviness, headache, or illness of any kind since +the previous January twelvemonth. + +‘I am glad to hear it,’ said he. ‘I thought quite otherwise.’ + +‘What, do I look sickly?’ she asked, turning up her face to show the +impossibility of his gazing on it and holding such a belief for a +moment. + +‘Not at all; I merely thought so from your being sometimes obliged to +keep your room through the best part of the day.’ + +‘O, as for that—it means nothing,’ she murmured, with a look which some +might have called cold, and which was the worst look that he liked to +see upon her. ‘It is pure sleepiness, Mr. Stockdale.’ + +‘Never!’ + +‘It is, I tell you. When I stay in my room till half-past three in the +afternoon, you may always be sure that I slept soundly till three, or I +shouldn’t have stayed there.’ + +‘It is dreadful,’ said Stockdale, thinking of the disastrous effects of +such indulgence upon the household of a minister, should it become a +habit of everyday occurrence. + +‘But then,’ she said, divining his good and prescient thoughts, ‘it +only happens when I stay awake all night. I don’t go to sleep till five +or six in the morning sometimes.’ + +‘Ah, that’s another matter,’ said Stockdale. ‘Sleeplessness to such an +alarming extent is real illness. Have you spoken to a doctor?’ + +‘O no—there is no need for doing that—it is all natural to me.’ And she +went away without further remark. + +Stockdale might have waited a long time to know the real cause of her +sleeplessness, had it not happened that one dark night he was sitting +in his bedroom jotting down notes for a sermon, which occupied him +perfunctorily for a considerable time after the other members of the +household had retired. He did not get to bed till one o’clock. Before +he had fallen asleep he heard a knocking at the front door, first +rather timidly performed, and then louder. Nobody answered it, and the +person knocked again. As the house still remained undisturbed, +Stockdale got out of bed, went to his window, which overlooked the +door, and opening it, asked who was there. + +A young woman’s voice replied that Susan Wallis was there, and that she +had come to ask if Mrs. Newberry could give her some mustard to make a +plaster with, as her father was taken very ill on the chest. + +The minister, having neither bell nor servant, was compelled to act in +person. ‘I will call Mrs. Newberry,’ he said. Partly dressing himself; +he went along the passage and tapped at Lizzy’s door. She did not +answer, and, thinking of her erratic habits in the matter of sleep, he +thumped the door persistently, when he discovered, by its moving ajar +under his knocking, that it had only been gently pushed to. As there +was now a sufficient entry for the voice, he knocked no longer, but +said in firm tones, ‘Mrs. Newberry, you are wanted.’ + +The room was quite silent; not a breathing, not a rustle, came from any +part of it. Stockdale now sent a positive shout through the open space +of the door: ‘Mrs. Newberry!’—still no answer, or movement of any kind +within. Then he heard sounds from the opposite room, that of Lizzy’s +mother, as if she had been aroused by his uproar though Lizzy had not, +and was dressing herself hastily. Stockdale softly closed the younger +woman’s door and went on to the other, which was opened by Mrs. +Simpkins before he could reach it. She was in her ordinary clothes, and +had a light in her hand. + +‘What’s the person calling about?’ she said in alarm. + +Stockdale told the girl’s errand, adding seriously, ‘I cannot wake Mrs. +Newberry.’ + +‘It is no matter,’ said her mother. ‘I can let the girl have what she +wants as well as my daughter.’ And she came out of the room and went +downstairs. + +Stockdale retired towards his own apartment, saying, however, to Mrs. +Simpkins from the landing, as if on second thoughts, ‘I suppose there +is nothing the matter with Mrs. Newberry, that I could not wake her?’ + +‘O no,’ said the old lady hastily. ‘Nothing at all.’ + +Still the minister was not satisfied. ‘Will you go in and see?’ he +said. ‘I should be much more at ease.’ + +Mrs. Simpkins returned up the staircase, went to her daughter’s room, +and came out again almost instantly. ‘There is nothing at all the +matter with Lizzy,’ she said; and descended again to attend to the +applicant, who, having seen the light, had remained quiet during this +interval. + +Stockdale went into his room and lay down as before. He heard Lizzy’s +mother open the front door, admit the girl, and then the murmured +discourse of both as they went to the store-cupboard for the medicament +required. The girl departed, the door was fastened, Mrs. Simpkins came +upstairs, and the house was again in silence. Still the minister did +not fall asleep. He could not get rid of a singular suspicion, which +was all the more harassing in being, if true, the most unaccountable +thing within his experience. That Lizzy Newberry was in her bedroom +when he made such a clamour at the door he could not possibly convince +himself; notwithstanding that he had heard her come upstairs at the +usual time, go into her chamber, and shut herself up in the usual way. +Yet all reason was so much against her being elsewhere, that he was +constrained to go back again to the unlikely theory of a heavy sleep, +though he had heard neither breath nor movement during a shouting and +knocking loud enough to rouse the Seven Sleepers. + +Before coming to any positive conclusion he fell asleep himself, and +did not awake till day. He saw nothing of Mrs. Newberry in the morning, +before he went out to meet the rising sun, as he liked to do when the +weather was fine; but as this was by no means unusual, he took no +notice of it. At breakfast-time he knew that she was not far off by +hearing her in the kitchen, and though he saw nothing of her person, +that back apartment being rigorously closed against his eyes, she +seemed to be talking, ordering, and bustling about among the pots and +skimmers in so ordinary a manner, that there was no reason for his +wasting more time in fruitless surmise. + +The minister suffered from these distractions, and his extemporized +sermons were not improved thereby. Already he often said Romans for +Corinthians in the pulpit, and gave out hymns in strange cramped +metres, that hitherto had always been skipped, because the congregation +could not raise a tune to fit them. He fully resolved that as soon as +his few weeks of stay approached their end he would cut the matter +short, and commit himself by proposing a definite engagement, repenting +at leisure if necessary. + +With this end in view, he suggested to her on the evening after her +mysterious sleep that they should take a walk together just before +dark, the latter part of the proposition being introduced that they +might return home unseen. She consented to go; and away they went over +a stile, to a shrouded footpath suited for the occasion. But, in spite +of attempts on both sides, they were unable to infuse much spirit into +the ramble. She looked rather paler than usual, and sometimes turned +her head away. + +‘Lizzy,’ said Stockdale reproachfully, when they had walked in silence +a long distance. + +‘Yes,’ said she. + +‘You yawned—much my company is to you!’ He put it in that way, but he +was really wondering whether her yawn could possibly have more to do +with physical weariness from the night before than mental weariness of +that present moment. Lizzy apologized, and owned that she was rather +tired, which gave him an opening for a direct question on the point; +but his modesty would not allow him to put it to her; and he +uncomfortably resolved to wait. + +The month of February passed with alternations of mud and frost, rain +and sleet, east winds and north-westerly gales. The hollow places in +the ploughed fields showed themselves as pools of water, which had +settled there from the higher levels, and had not yet found time to +soak away. The birds began to get lively, and a single thrush came just +before sunset each evening, and sang hopefully on the large elm-tree +which stood nearest to Mrs. Newberry’s house. Cold blasts and brittle +earth had given place to an oozing dampness more unpleasant in itself +than frost; but it suggested coming spring, and its unpleasantness was +of a bearable kind. + +Stockdale had been going to bring about a practical understanding with +Lizzy at least half-a-dozen times; but, what with the mystery of her +apparent absence on the night of the neighbour’s call, and her curious +way of lying in bed at unaccountable times, he felt a check within him +whenever he wanted to speak out. Thus they still lived on as +indefinitely affianced lovers, each of whom hardly acknowledged the +other’s claim to the name of chosen one. Stockdale persuaded himself +that his hesitation was owing to the postponement of the ordained +minister’s arrival, and the consequent delay in his own departure, +which did away with all necessity for haste in his courtship; but +perhaps it was only that his discretion was reasserting itself, and +telling him that he had better get clearer ideas of Lizzy before +arranging for the grand contract of his life with her. She, on her +part, always seemed ready to be urged further on that question than he +had hitherto attempted to go; but she was none the less independent, +and to a degree which would have kept from flagging the passion of a +far more mutable man. + +On the evening of the first of March he went casually into his bedroom +about dusk, and noticed lying on a chair a greatcoat, hat, and +breeches. Having no recollection of leaving any clothes of his own in +that spot, he went and examined them as well as he could in the +twilight, and found that they did not belong to him. He paused for a +moment to consider how they might have got there. He was the only man +living in the house; and yet these were not his garments, unless he had +made a mistake. No, they were not his. He called up Martha Sarah. + +‘How did these things come in my room?’ he said, flinging the +objectionable articles to the floor. + +Martha said that Mrs. Newberry had given them to her to brush, and that +she had brought them up there thinking they must be Mr. Stockdale’s, as +there was no other gentleman a-lodging there. + +‘Of course you did,’ said Stockdale. ‘Now take them down to your +mis’ess, and say they are some clothes I have found here and know +nothing about.’ + +As the door was left open he heard the conversation downstairs. ‘How +stupid!’ said Mrs. Newberry, in a tone of confusion. ‘Why, Marther +Sarer, I did not tell you to take ’em to Mr. Stockdale’s room?’ + +‘I thought they must be his as they was so muddy,’ said Martha humbly. + +‘You should have left ’em on the clothes-horse,’ said the young +mistress severely; and she came upstairs with the garments on her arm, +quickly passed Stockdale’s room, and threw them forcibly into a closet +at the end of a passage. With this the incident ended, and the house +was silent again. + +There would have been nothing remarkable in finding such clothes in a +widow’s house had they been clean; or moth-eaten, or creased, or mouldy +from long lying by; but that they should be splashed with recent mud +bothered Stockdale a good deal. When a young pastor is in the aspen +stage of attachment, and open to agitation at the merest trifles, a +really substantial incongruity of this complexion is a disturbing +thing. However, nothing further occurred at that time; but he became +watchful, and given to conjecture, and was unable to forget the +circumstance. + +One morning, on looking from his window, he saw Mrs. Newberry herself +brushing the tails of a long drab greatcoat, which, if he mistook not, +was the very same garment as the one that had adorned the chair of his +room. It was densely splashed up to the hollow of the back with +neighbouring Nether-Moynton mud, to judge by its colour, the spots +being distinctly visible to him in the sunlight. The previous day or +two having been wet, the inference was irresistible that the wearer had +quite recently been walking some considerable distance about the lanes +and fields. Stockdale opened the window and looked out, and Mrs. +Newberry turned her head. Her face became slowly red; she never had +looked prettier, or more incomprehensible, he waved his hand +affectionately, and said good-morning; she answered with embarrassment, +having ceased her occupation on the instant that she saw him, and +rolled up the coat half-cleaned. + +Stockdale shut the window. Some simple explanation of her proceeding +was doubtless within the bounds of possibility; but he himself could +not think of one; and he wished that she had placed the matter beyond +conjecture by voluntarily saying something about it there and then. + +But, though Lizzy had not offered an explanation at the moment, the +subject was brought forward by her at the next time of their meeting. +She was chatting to him concerning some other event, and remarked that +it happened about the time when she was dusting some old clothes that +had belonged to her poor husband. + +‘You keep them clean out of respect to his memory?’ said Stockdale +tentatively. + +‘I air and dust them sometimes,’ she said, with the most charming +innocence in the world. + +‘Do dead men come out of their graves and walk in mud?’ murmured the +minister, in a cold sweat at the deception that she was practising. + +‘What did you say?’ asked Lizzy. + +‘Nothing, nothing,’ said he mournfully. ‘Mere words—a phrase that will +do for my sermon next Sunday.’ It was too plain that Lizzy was unaware +that he had seen actual pedestrian splashes upon the skirts of the +tell-tale overcoat, and that she imagined him to believe it had come +direct from some chest or drawer. + +The aspect of the case was now considerably darker. Stockdale was so +much depressed by it that he did not challenge her explanation, or +threaten to go off as a missionary to benighted islanders, or reproach +her in any way whatever. He simply parted from her when she had done +talking, and lived on in perplexity, till by degrees his natural manner +became sad and constrained. + +CHAPTER IV—AT THE TIME OF THE NEW MOON + +The following Thursday was changeable, damp, and gloomy; and the night +threatened to be windy and unpleasant. Stockdale had gone away to +Knollsea in the morning, to be present at some commemoration service +there, and on his return he was met by the attractive Lizzy in the +passage. Whether influenced by the tide of cheerfulness which had +attended him that day, or by the drive through the open air, or whether +from a natural disposition to let bygones alone, he allowed himself to +be fascinated into forgetfulness of the greatcoat incident, and upon +the whole passed a pleasant evening; not so much in her society as +within sound of her voice, as she sat talking in the back parlour to +her mother, till the latter went to bed. Shortly after this Mrs. +Newberry retired, and then Stockdale prepared to go upstairs himself. +But before he left the room he remained standing by the dying embers +awhile, thinking long of one thing and another; and was only aroused by +the flickering of his candle in the socket as it suddenly declined and +went out. Knowing that there were a tinder-box, matches, and another +candle in his bedroom, he felt his way upstairs without a light. On +reaching his chamber he laid his hand on every possible ledge and +corner for the tinderbox, but for a long time in vain. Discovering it +at length, Stockdale produced a spark, and was kindling the brimstone, +when he fancied that he heard a movement in the passage. He blew harder +at the lint, the match flared up, and looking by aid of the blue light +through the door, which had been standing open all this time, he was +surprised to see a male figure vanishing round the top of the staircase +with the evident intention of escaping unobserved. The personage wore +the clothes which Lizzy had been brushing, and something in the outline +and gait suggested to the minister that the wearer was Lizzy herself. + +But he was not sure of this; and, greatly excited, Stockdale determined +to investigate the mystery, and to adopt his own way for doing it. He +blew out the match without lighting the candle, went into the passage, +and proceeded on tiptoe towards Lizzy’s room. A faint grey square of +light in the direction of the chamber-window as he approached told him +that the door was open, and at once suggested that the occupant was +gone. He turned and brought down his fist upon the handrail of the +staircase: ‘It was she; in her late husband’s coat and hat!’ + +Somewhat relieved to find that there was no intruder in the case, yet +none the less surprised, the minister crept down the stairs, softly put +on his boots, overcoat, and hat, and tried the front door. It was +fastened as usual: he went to the back door, found this unlocked, and +emerged into the garden. The night was mild and moonless, and rain had +lately been falling, though for the present it had ceased. There was a +sudden dropping from the trees and bushes every now and then, as each +passing wind shook their boughs. Among these sounds Stockdale heard the +faint fall of feet upon the road outside, and he guessed from the step +that it was Lizzy’s. He followed the sound, and, helped by the +circumstance of the wind blowing from the direction in which the +pedestrian moved, he got nearly close to her, and kept there, without +risk of being overheard. While he thus followed her up the street or +lane, as it might indifferently be called, there being more hedge than +houses on either side, a figure came forward to her from one of the +cottage doors. Lizzy stopped; the minister stepped upon the grass and +stopped also. + +‘Is that Mrs. Newberry?’ said the man who had come out, whose voice +Stockdale recognized as that of one of the most devout members of his +congregation. + +‘It is,’ said Lizzy. + +‘I be quite ready—I’ve been here this quarter-hour.’ + +‘Ah, John,’ said she, ‘I have bad news; there is danger to-night for +our venture.’ + +‘And d’ye tell o’t! I dreamed there might be.’ + +‘Yes,’ she said hurriedly; ‘and you must go at once round to where the +chaps are waiting, and tell them they will not be wanted till to-morrow +night at the same time. I go to burn the lugger off.’ + +‘I will,’ he said; and instantly went off through a gate, Lizzy +continuing her way. + +On she tripped at a quickening pace till the lane turned into the +turnpike-road, which she crossed, and got into the track for +Ringsworth. Here she ascended the hill without the least hesitation, +passed the lonely hamlet of Holworth, and went down the vale on the +other side. Stockdale had never taken any extensive walks in this +direction, but he was aware that if she persisted in her course much +longer she would draw near to the coast, which was here between two and +three miles distant from Nether-Moynton; and as it had been about a +quarter-past eleven o’clock when they set out, her intention seemed to +be to reach the shore about midnight. + +Lizzy soon ascended a small mound, which Stockdale at the same time +adroitly skirted on the left; and a dull monotonous roar burst upon his +ear. The hillock was about fifty yards from the top of the cliffs, and +by day it apparently commanded a full view of the bay. There was light +enough in the sky to show her disguised figure against it when she +reached the top, where she paused, and afterwards sat down. Stockdale, +not wishing on any account to alarm her at this moment, yet desirous of +being near her, sank upon his hands and knees, crept a little higher +up, and there stayed still. + +The wind was chilly, the ground damp, and his position one in which he +did not care to remain long. However, before he had decided to leave +it, the young man heard voices behind him. What they signified he did +not know; but, fearing that Lizzy was in danger, he was about to run +forward and warn her that she might be seen, when she crept to the +shelter of a little bush which maintained a precarious existence in +that exposed spot; and her form was absorbed in its dark and stunted +outline as if she had become part of it. She had evidently heard the +men as well as he. They passed near him, talking in loud and careless +tones, which could be heard above the uninterrupted washings of the +sea, and which suggested that they were not engaged in any business at +their own risk. This proved to be the fact: some of their words floated +across to him, and caused him to forget at once the coldness of his +situation. + +‘What’s the vessel?’ + +‘A lugger, about fifty tons.’ + +‘From Cherbourg, I suppose?’ + +‘Yes, ’a b’lieve.’ + +‘But it don’t all belong to Owlett?’ + +‘O no. He’s only got a share. There’s another or two in it—a farmer and +such like, but the names I don’t know.’ + +The voices died away, and the heads and shoulders of the men diminished +towards the cliff, and dropped out of sight. + +‘My darling has been tempted to buy a share by that unbeliever Owlett,’ +groaned the minister, his honest affection for Lizzy having quickened +to its intensest point during these moments of risk to her person and +name. ‘That’s why she’s here,’ he said to himself. ‘O, it will be the +ruin of her!’ + +His perturbation was interrupted by the sudden bursting out of a bright +and increasing light from the spot where Lizzy was in hiding. A few +seconds later, and before it had reached the height of a blaze, he +heard her rush past him down the hollow like a stone from a sling, in +the direction of home. The light now flared high and wide, and showed +its position clearly. She had kindled a bough of furze and stuck it +into the bush under which she had been crouching; the wind fanned the +flame, which crackled fiercely, and threatened to consume the bush as +well as the bough. Stockdale paused just long enough to notice thus +much, and then followed rapidly the route taken by the young woman. His +intention was to overtake her, and reveal himself as a friend; but run +as he would he could see nothing of her. Thus he flew across the open +country about Holworth, twisting his legs and ankles in unexpected +fissures and descents, till, on coming to the gate between the downs +and the road, he was forced to pause to get breath. There was no +audible movement either in front or behind him, and he now concluded +that she had not outrun him, but that, hearing him at her heels, and +believing him one of the excise party, she had hidden herself somewhere +on the way, and let him pass by. + +He went on at a more leisurely pace towards the village. On reaching +the house he found his surmise to be correct, for the gate was on the +latch, and the door unfastened, just as he had left them. Stockdale +closed the door behind him, and waited silently in the passage. In +about ten minutes he heard the same light footstep that he had heard in +going out; it paused at the gate, which opened and shut softly, and +then the door-latch was lifted, and Lizzy came in. + +Stockdale went forward and said at once, ‘Lizzy, don’t be frightened. I +have been waiting up for you.’ + +She started, though she had recognized the voice. ‘It is Mr. Stockdale, +isn’t it?’ she said. + +‘Yes,’ he answered, becoming angry now that she was safe indoors, and +not alarmed. ‘And a nice game I’ve found you out in to-night. You are +in man’s clothes, and I am ashamed of you!’ + +Lizzy could hardly find a voice to answer this unexpected reproach. + +‘I am only partly in man’s clothes,’ she faltered, shrinking back to +the wall. ‘It is only his greatcoat and hat and breeches that I’ve got +on, which is no harm, as he was my own husband; and I do it only +because a cloak blows about so, and you can’t use your arms. I have got +my own dress under just the same—it is only tucked in! Will you go away +upstairs and let me pass? I didn’t want you to see me at such a time as +this!’ + +‘But I have a right to see you! How do you think there can be anything +between us now?’ Lizzy was silent. ‘You are a smuggler,’ he continued +sadly. + +‘I have only a share in the run,’ she said. + +‘That makes no difference. Whatever did you engage in such a trade as +that for, and keep it such a secret from me all this time?’ + +‘I don’t do it always. I only do it in winter-time when ’tis new moon.’ + +‘Well, I suppose that’s because it can’t be done anywhen else . . . You +have regularly upset me, Lizzy.’ + +‘I am sorry for that,’ Lizzy meekly replied. + +‘Well now,’ said he more tenderly, ‘no harm is done as yet. Won’t you +for the sake of me give up this blamable and dangerous practice +altogether?’ + +‘I must do my best to save this run,’ said she, getting rather husky in +the throat. ‘I don’t want to give you up—you know that; but I don’t +want to lose my venture. I don’t know what to do now! Why I have kept +it so secret from you is that I was afraid you would be angry if you +knew.’ + +‘I should think so! I suppose if I had married you without finding this +out you’d have gone on with it just the same?’ + +‘I don’t know. I did not think so far ahead. I only went to-night to +burn the folks off, because we found that the excisemen knew where the +tubs were to be landed.’ + +‘It is a pretty mess to be in altogether, is this,’ said the distracted +young minister. ‘Well, what will you do now?’ + +Lizzy slowly murmured the particulars of their plan, the chief of which +were that they meant to try their luck at some other point of the shore +the next night; that three landing-places were always agreed upon +before the run was attempted, with the understanding that, if the +vessel was ‘burnt off’ from the first point, which was Ringsworth, as +it had been by her to-night, the crew should attempt to make the +second, which was Lulstead Cove, on the second night; and if there, +too, danger threatened, they should on the third night try the third +place, which was behind a headland further west. + +‘Suppose the officers hinder them landing there too?’ he said, his +attention to this interesting programme displacing for a moment his +concern at her share in it. + +‘Then we shan’t try anywhere else all this dark—that’s what we call the +time between moon and moon—and perhaps they’ll string the tubs to a +stray-line, and sink ’em a little-ways from shore, and take the +bearings; and then when they have a chance they’ll go to creep for +’em.’ + +‘What’s that?’ + +‘O, they’ll go out in a boat and drag a creeper—that’s a grapnel—along +the bottom till it catch hold of the stray-line.’ + +The minister stood thinking; and there was no sound within doors but +the tick of the clock on the stairs, and the quick breathing of Lizzy, +partly from her walk and partly from agitation, as she stood close to +the wall, not in such complete darkness but that he could discern +against its whitewashed surface the greatcoat and broad hat which +covered her. + +‘Lizzy, all this is very wrong,’ he said. ‘Don’t you remember the +lesson of the tribute-money? “Render unto Caesar the things that are +Caesar’s.” Surely you have heard that read times enough in your growing +up?’ + +‘He’s dead,’ she pouted. + +‘But the spirit of the text is in force just the same.’ + +‘My father did it, and so did my grandfather, and almost everybody in +Nether-Moynton lives by it, and life would be so dull if it wasn’t for +that, that I should not care to live at all.’ + +‘I am nothing to live for, of course,’ he replied bitterly. ‘You would +not think it worth while to give up this wild business and live for me +alone?’ + +‘I have never looked at it like that.’ + +‘And you won’t promise and wait till I am ready?’ + +‘I cannot give you my word to-night.’ And, looking thoughtfully down, +she gradually moved and moved away, going into the adjoining room, and +closing the door between them. She remained there in the dark till he +was tired of waiting, and had gone up to his own chamber. + +Poor Stockdale was dreadfully depressed all the next day by the +discoveries of the night before. Lizzy was unmistakably a fascinating +young woman, but as a minister’s wife she was hardly to be +contemplated. ‘If I had only stuck to father’s little grocery business, +instead of going in for the ministry, she would have suited me +beautifully!’ he said sadly, until he remembered that in that case he +would never have come from his distant home to Nether-Moynton, and +never have known her. + +The estrangement between them was not complete, but it was sufficient +to keep them out of each other’s company. Once during the day he met +her in the garden-path, and said, turning a reproachful eye upon her, +‘Do you promise, Lizzy?’ But she did not reply. The evening drew on, +and he knew well enough that Lizzy would repeat her excursion at +night—her half-offended manner had shown that she had not the slightest +intention of altering her plans at present. He did not wish to repeat +his own share of the adventure; but, act as he would, his uneasiness on +her account increased with the decline of day. Supposing that an +accident should befall her, he would never forgive himself for not +being there to help, much as he disliked the idea of seeming to +countenance such unlawful escapades. + +CHAPTER V—HOW THEY WENT TO LULSTEAD COVE + +As he had expected, she left the house at the same hour at night, this +time passing his door without stealth, as if she knew very well that he +would be watching, and were resolved to brave his displeasure. He was +quite ready, opened the door quickly, and reached the back door almost +as soon as she. + +‘Then you will go, Lizzy?’ he said as he stood on the step beside her, +who now again appeared as a little man with a face altogether unsuited +to his clothes. + +‘I must,’ she said, repressed by his stern manner. + +‘Then I shall go too,’ said he. + +‘And I am sure you will enjoy it!’ she exclaimed in more buoyant tones. +‘Everybody does who tries it.’ + +‘God forbid that I should!’ he said. ‘But I must look after you.’ + +They opened the wicket and went up the road abreast of each other, but +at some distance apart, scarcely a word passing between them. The +evening was rather less favourable to smuggling enterprise than the +last had been, the wind being lower, and the sky somewhat clear towards +the north. + +‘It is rather lighter,’ said Stockdale. + +‘’Tis, unfortunately,’ said she. ‘But it is only from those few stars +over there. The moon was new to-day at four o’clock, and I expected +clouds. I hope we shall be able to do it this dark, for when we have to +sink ’em for long it makes the stuff taste bleachy, and folks don’t +like it so well.’ + +Her course was different from that of the preceding night, branching +off to the left over Lord’s Barrow as soon as they had got out of the +lane and crossed the highway. By the time they reached Chaldon Down, +Stockdale, who had been in perplexed thought as to what he should say +to her, decided that he would not attempt expostulation now, while she +was excited by the adventure, but wait till it was over, and endeavour +to keep her from such practices in future. It occurred to him once or +twice, as they rambled on, that should they be surprised by the +excisemen, his situation would be more awkward than hers, for it would +be difficult to prove his true motive in coming to the spot; but the +risk was a slight consideration beside his wish to be with her. + +They now arrived at a ravine which lay on the outskirts of Chaldon, a +village two miles on their way towards the point of the shore they +sought. Lizzy broke the silence this time: ‘I have to wait here to meet +the carriers. I don’t know if they have come yet. As I told you, we go +to Lulstead Cove to-night, and it is two miles further than +Ringsworth.’ + +It turned out that the men had already come; for while she spoke two or +three dozen heads broke the line of the slope, and a company of them at +once descended from the bushes where they had been lying in wait. These +carriers were men whom Lizzy and other proprietors regularly employed +to bring the tubs from the boat to a hiding-place inland. They were all +young fellows of Nether-Moynton, Chaldon, and the neighbourhood, quiet +and inoffensive persons, who simply engaged to carry the cargo for +Lizzy and her cousin Owlett, as they would have engaged in any other +labour for which they were fairly well paid. + +At a word from her they closed in together. ‘You had better take it +now,’ she said to them; and handed to each a packet. It contained six +shillings, their remuneration for the night’s undertaking, which was +paid beforehand without reference to success or failure; but, besides +this, they had the privilege of selling as agents when the run was +successfully made. As soon as it was done, she said to them, ‘The place +is the old one near Lulstead Cove;’ the men till that moment not having +been told whither they were bound, for obvious reasons. ‘Owlett will +meet you there,’ added Lizzy. ‘I shall follow behind, to see that we +are not watched.’ + +The carriers went on, and Stockdale and Mrs. Newberry followed at a +distance of a stone’s throw. ‘What do these men do by day?’ he said. + +‘Twelve or fourteen of them are labouring men. Some are brickmakers, +some carpenters, some shoe-makers, some thatchers. They are all known +to me very well. Nine of ’em are of your own congregation.’ + +‘I can’t help that,’ said Stockdale. + +‘O, I know you can’t. I only told you. The others are more +church-inclined, because they supply the pa’son with all the spirits he +requires, and they don’t wish to show unfriendliness to a customer.’ + +‘How do you choose ’em?’ said Stockdale. + +‘We choose ’em for their closeness, and because they are strong and +surefooted, and able to carry a heavy load a long way without being +tired.’ + +Stockdale sighed as she enumerated each particular, for it proved how +far involved in the business a woman must be who was so well acquainted +with its conditions and needs. And yet he felt more tenderly towards +her at this moment than he had felt all the foregoing day. Perhaps it +was that her experienced manner and hold indifference stirred his +admiration in spite of himself. + +‘Take my arm, Lizzy,’ he murmured. + +‘I don’t want it,’ she said. ‘Besides, we may never be to each other +again what we once have been.’ + +‘That depends upon you,’ said he, and they went on again as before. + +The hired carriers paced along over Chaldon Down with as little +hesitation as if it had been day, avoiding the cart-way, and leaving +the village of East Chaldon on the left, so as to reach the crest of +the hill at a lonely trackless place not far from the ancient earthwork +called Round Pound. An hour’s brisk walking brought them within sound +of the sea, not many hundred yards from Lulstead Cove. Here they +paused, and Lizzy and Stockdale came up with them, when they went on +together to the verge of the cliff. One of the men now produced an iron +bar, which he drove firmly into the soil a yard from the edge, and +attached to it a rope that he had uncoiled from his body. They all +began to descend, partly stepping, partly sliding down the incline, as +the rope slipped through their hands. + +‘You will not go to the bottom, Lizzy?’ said Stockdale anxiously. + +‘No. I stay here to watch,’ she said. ‘Owlett is down there.’ + +The men remained quite silent when they reached the shore; and the next +thing audible to the two at the top was the dip of heavy oars, and the +dashing of waves against a boat’s bow. In a moment the keel gently +touched the shingle, and Stockdale heard the footsteps of the +thirty-six carriers running forwards over the pebbles towards the point +of landing. + +There was a sousing in the water as of a brood of ducks plunging in, +showing that the men had not been particular about keeping their legs, +or even their waists, dry from the brine: but it was impossible to see +what they were doing, and in a few minutes the shingle was trampled +again. The iron bar sustaining the rope, on which Stockdale’s hand +rested, began to swerve a little, and the carriers one by one appeared +climbing up the sloping cliff; dripping audibly as they came, and +sustaining themselves by the guide-rope. Each man on reaching the top +was seen to be carrying a pair of tubs, one on his back and one on his +chest, the two being slung together by cords passing round the chine +hoops, and resting on the carrier’s shoulders. Some of the stronger men +carried three by putting an extra one on the top behind, but the +customary load was a pair, these being quite weighty enough to give +their bearer the sensation of having chest and backbone in contact +after a walk of four or five miles. + +‘Where is Owlett?’ said Lizzy to one of them. + +‘He will not come up this way,’ said the carrier. ‘He’s to bide on +shore till we be safe off.’ Then, without waiting for the rest, the +foremost men plunged across the down; and, when the last had ascended, +Lizzy pulled up the rope, wound it round her arm, wriggled the bar from +the sod, and turned to follow the carriers. + +‘You are very anxious about Owlett’s safety,’ said the minister. + +‘Was there ever such a man!’ said Lizzy. ‘Why, isn’t he my cousin?’ + +‘Yes. Well, it is a bad night’s work,’ said Stockdale heavily. ‘But +I’ll carry the bar and rope for you.’ + +‘Thank God, the tubs have got so far all right,’ said she. + +Stockdale shook his head, and, taking the bar, walked by her side +towards the downs; and the moan of the sea was heard no more. + +‘Is this what you meant the other day when you spoke of having business +with Owlett?’ the young man asked. + +‘This is it,’ she replied. ‘I never see him on any other matter.’ + +‘A partnership of that kind with a young man is very odd.’ + +‘It was begun by my father and his, who were brother-laws.’ + +Her companion could not blind himself to the fact that where tastes and +pursuits were so akin as Lizzy’s and Owlett’s, and where risks were +shared, as with them, in every undertaking, there would be a peculiar +appropriateness in her answering Owlett’s standing question on +matrimony in the affirmative. This did not soothe Stockdale, its +tendency being rather to stimulate in him an effort to make the pair as +inappropriate as possible, and win her away from this nocturnal crew to +correctness of conduct and a minister’s parlour in some far-removed +inland county. + +They had been walking near enough to the file of carriers for Stockdale +to perceive that, when they got into the road to the village, they +split up into two companies of unequal size, each of which made off in +a direction of its own. One company, the smaller of the two, went +towards the church, and by the time that Lizzy and Stockdale reached +their own house these men had scaled the churchyard wall, and were +proceeding noiselessly over the grass within. + +‘I see that Owlett has arranged for one batch to be put in the church +again,’ observed Lizzy. ‘Do you remember my taking you there the first +night you came?’ + +‘Yes, of course,’ said Stockdale. ‘No wonder you had permission to +broach the tubs—they were his, I suppose?’ + +‘No, they were not—they were mine; I had permission from myself. The +day after that they went several miles inland in a waggon-load of +manure, and sold very well.’ + +At this moment the group of men who had made off to the left some time +before began leaping one by one from the hedge opposite Lizzy’s house, +and the first man, who had no tubs upon his shoulders, came forward. + +‘Mrs. Newberry, isn’t it?’ he said hastily. + +‘Yes, Jim,’ said she. ‘What’s the matter?’ + +‘I find that we can’t put any in Badger’s Clump to-night, Lizzy,’ said +Owlett. ‘The place is watched. We must sling the apple-tree in the +orchet if there’s time. We can’t put any more under the church lumber +than I have sent on there, and my mixen hev already more in en than is +safe.’ + +‘Very well,’ she said. ‘Be quick about it—that’s all. What can I do?’ + +‘Nothing at all, please. Ah, it is the minister!—you two that can’t do +anything had better get indoors and not be zeed.’ + +While Owlett thus conversed, in a tone so full of contraband anxiety +and so free from lover’s jealousy, the men who followed him had been +descending one by one from the hedge; and it unfortunately happened +that when the hindmost took his leap, the cord slipped which sustained +his tubs: the result was that both the kegs fell into the road, one of +them being stove in by the blow. + +‘’Od drown it all!’ said Owlett, rushing back. + +‘It is worth a good deal, I suppose?’ said Stockdale. + +‘O no—about two guineas and half to us now,’ said Lizzy excitedly. ‘It +isn’t that—it is the smell! It is so blazing strong before it has been +lowered by water, that it smells dreadfully when spilt in the road like +that! I do hope Latimer won’t pass by till it is gone off.’ + +Owlett and one or two others picked up the burst tub and began to +scrape and trample over the spot, to disperse the liquor as much as +possible; and then they all entered the gate of Owlett’s orchard, which +adjoined Lizzy’s garden on the right. Stockdale did not care to follow +them, for several on recognizing him had looked wonderingly at his +presence, though they said nothing. Lizzy left his side and went to the +bottom of the garden, looking over the hedge into the orchard, where +the men could be dimly seen bustling about, and apparently hiding the +tubs. All was done noiselessly, and without a light; and when it was +over they dispersed in different directions, those who had taken their +cargoes to the church having already gone off to their homes. + +Lizzy returned to the garden-gate, over which Stockdale was still +abstractedly leaning. ‘It is all finished: I am going indoors now,’ she +said gently. ‘I will leave the door ajar for you.’ + +‘O no—you needn’t,’ said Stockdale; ‘I am coming too.’ + +But before either of them had moved, the faint clatter of horses’ hoofs +broke upon the ear, and it seemed to come from the point where the +track across the down joined the hard road. + +‘They are just too late!’ cried Lizzy exultingly. + +‘Who?’ said Stockdale. + +‘Latimer, the riding-officer, and some assistant of his. We had better +go indoors.’ + +They entered the house, and Lizzy bolted the door. ‘Please don’t get a +light, Mr. Stockdale,’ she said. + +‘Of course I will not,’ said he. + +‘I thought you might be on the side of the king,’ said Lizzy, with +faintest sarcasm. + +‘I am,’ said Stockdale. ‘But, Lizzy Newberry, I love you, and you know +it perfectly well; and you ought to know, if you do not, what I have +suffered in my conscience on your account these last few days!’ + +‘I guess very well,’ she said hurriedly. ‘Yet I don’t see why. Ah, you +are better than I!’ + +The trotting of the horses seemed to have again died away, and the pair +of listeners touched each other’s fingers in the cold ‘Good-night’ of +those whom something seriously divided. They were on the landing, but +before they had taken three steps apart, the tramp of the horsemen +suddenly revived, almost close to the house. Lizzy turned to the +staircase window, opened the casement about an inch, and put her face +close to the aperture. ‘Yes, one of ’em is Latimer,’ she whispered. ‘He +always rides a white horse. One would think it was the last colour for +a man in that line.’ + +Stockdale looked, and saw the white shape of the animal as it passed +by; but before the riders had gone another ten yards, Latimer reined in +his horse, and said something to his companion which neither Stockdale +nor Lizzy could hear. Its drift was, however, soon made evident, for +the other man stopped also; and sharply turning the horses’ heads they +cautiously retraced their steps. When they were again opposite Mrs. +Newberry’s garden, Latimer dismounted, and the man on the dark horse +did the same. + +Lizzy and Stockdale, intently listening and observing the proceedings, +naturally put their heads as close as possible to the slit formed by +the slightly opened casement; and thus it occurred that at last their +cheeks came positively into contact. They went on listening, as if they +did not know of the singular incident which had happened to their +faces, and the pressure of each to each rather increased than lessened +with the lapse of time. + +They could hear the excisemen sniffing the air like hounds as they +paced slowly along. When they reached the spot where the tub had burst, +both stopped on the instant. + +‘Ay, ay, ’tis quite strong here,’ said the second officer. ‘Shall we +knock at the door?’ + +‘Well, no,’ said Latimer. ‘Maybe this is only a trick to put us off the +scent. They wouldn’t kick up this stink anywhere near their +hiding-place. I have known such things before.’ + +‘Anyhow, the things, or some of ’em, must have been brought this way,’ +said the other. + +‘Yes,’ said Latimer musingly. ‘Unless ’tis all done to tole us the +wrong way. I have a mind that we go home for to-night without saying a +word, and come the first thing in the morning with more hands. I know +they have storages about here, but we can do nothing by this owl’s +light. We will look round the parish and see if everybody is in bed, +John; and if all is quiet, we will do as I say.’ + +They went on, and the two inside the window could hear them passing +leisurely through the whole village, the street of which curved round +at the bottom and entered the turnpike road at another junction. This +way the excisemen followed, and the amble of their horses died quite +away. + +‘What will you do?’ said Stockdale, withdrawing from his position. + +She knew that he alluded to the coming search by the officers, to +divert her attention from their own tender incident by the casement, +which he wished to be passed over as a thing rather dreamt of than +done. ‘O, nothing,’ she replied, with as much coolness as she could +command under her disappointment at his manner. ‘We often have such +storms as this. You would not be frightened if you knew what fools they +are. Fancy riding o’ horseback through the place: of course they will +hear and see nobody while they make that noise; but they are always +afraid to get off, in case some of our fellows should burst out upon +’em, and tie them up to the gate-post, as they have done before now. +Good-night, Mr. Stockdale.’ + +She closed the window and went to her room, where a tear fell from her +eyes; and that not because of the alertness of the riding-officers. + +CHAPTER VI—THE GREAT SEARCH AT NETHER-MOYNTON + +Stockdale was so excited by the events of the evening, and the dilemma +that he was placed in between conscience and love, that he did not +sleep, or even doze, but remained as broadly awake as at noonday. As +soon as the grey light began to touch ever so faintly the whiter +objects in his bedroom he arose, dressed himself, and went downstairs +into the road. + +The village was already astir. Several of the carriers had heard the +well-known tramp of Latimer’s horse while they were undressing in the +dark that night, and had already communicated with each other and +Owlett on the subject. The only doubt seemed to be about the safety of +those tubs which had been left under the church gallery-stairs, and +after a short discussion at the corner of the mill, it was agreed that +these should be removed before it got lighter, and hidden in the middle +of a double hedge bordering the adjoining field. However, before +anything could be carried into effect, the footsteps of many men were +heard coming down the lane from the highway. + +‘Damn it, here they be,’ said Owlett, who, having already drawn the +hatch and started his mill for the day, stood stolidly at the mill-door +covered with flour, as if the interest of his whole soul was bound up +in the shaking walls around him. + +The two or three with whom he had been talking dispersed to their usual +work, and when the excise officers, and the formidable body of men they +had hired, reached the village cross, between the mill and Mrs. +Newberry’s house, the village wore the natural aspect of a place +beginning its morning labours. + +‘Now,’ said Latimer to his associates, who numbered thirteen men in +all, ‘what I know is that the things are somewhere in this here place. +We have got the day before us, and ’tis hard if we can’t light upon ’em +and get ’em to Budmouth Custom-house before night. First we will try +the fuel-houses, and then we’ll work our way into the chimmers, and +then to the ricks and stables, and so creep round. You have nothing but +your noses to guide ye, mind, so use ’em to-day if you never did in +your lives before.’ + +Then the search began. Owlett, during the early part, watched from his +mill-window, Lizzy from the door of her house, with the greatest +self-possession. A farmer down below, who also had a share in the run, +rode about with one eye on his fields and the other on Latimer and his +myrmidons, prepared to put them off the scent if he should be asked a +question. Stockdale, who was no smuggler at all, felt more anxiety than +the worst of them, and went about his studies with a heavy heart, +coming frequently to the door to ask Lizzy some question or other on +the consequences to her of the tubs being found. + +‘The consequences,’ she said quietly, ‘are simply that I shall lose +’em. As I have none in the house or garden, they can’t touch me +personally.’ + +‘But you have some in the orchard?’ + +‘Owlett rents that of me, and he lends it to others. So it will be hard +to say who put any tubs there if they should be found.’ + +There was never such a tremendous sniffing known as that which took +place in Nether-Moynton parish and its vicinity this day. All was done +methodically, and mostly on hands and knees. At different hours of the +day they had different plans. From daybreak to breakfast-time the +officers used their sense of smell in a direct and straightforward +manner only, pausing nowhere but at such places as the tubs might be +supposed to be secreted in at that very moment, pending their removal +on the following night. Among the places tested and examined were + +Hollow trees Cupboards Culverts +Potato-graves Clock-cases Hedgerows +Fuel-houses Chimney-flues Faggot-ricks +Bedrooms Rainwater-butts Haystacks +Apple-lofts Pigsties Coppers and ovens. + +After breakfast they recommenced with renewed vigour, taking a new +line; that is to say, directing their attention to clothes that might +be supposed to have come in contact with the tubs in their removal from +the shore, such garments being usually tainted with the spirit, owing +to its oozing between the staves. They now sniffed at— + +Smock-frocks Smiths’ and shoemakers’ aprons Old shirts and +waistcoats Knee-naps and hedging-gloves Coats and hats Tarpaulins +Breeches and leggings Market-cloaks Women’s shawls and +gowns Scarecrows + +And as soon as the mid-day meal was over, they pushed their search into +places where the spirits might have been thrown away in alarm:- + +Horse-ponds Mixens Sinks in yards Stable-drains Wet +ditches Road-scrapings, and Cinder-heaps Cesspools Back-door +gutters. + +But still these indefatigable excisemen discovered nothing more than +the original tell-tale smell in the road opposite Lizzy’s house, which +even yet had not passed off. + +‘I’ll tell ye what it is, men,’ said Latimer, about three o’clock in +the afternoon, ‘we must begin over again. Find them tubs I will.’ + +The men, who had been hired for the day, looked at their hands and +knees, muddy with creeping on all fours so frequently, and rubbed their +noses, as if they had almost had enough of it; for the quantity of bad +air which had passed into each one’s nostril had rendered it nearly as +insensible as a flue. However, after a moment’s hesitation, they +prepared to start anew, except three, whose power of smell had quite +succumbed under the excessive wear and tear of the day. + +By this time not a male villager was to be seen in the parish. Owlett +was not at his mill, the farmers were not in their fields, the parson +was not in his garden, the smith had left his forge, and the +wheelwright’s shop was silent. + +‘Where the divil are the folk gone?’ said Latimer, waking up to the +fact of their absence, and looking round. ‘I’ll have ’em up for this! +Why don’t they come and help us? There’s not a man about the place but +the Methodist parson, and he’s an old woman. I demand assistance in the +king’s name!’ + +‘We must find the jineral public afore we can demand that,’ said his +lieutenant. + +‘Well, well, we shall do better without ’em,’ said Latimer, who changed +his moods at a moment’s notice. ‘But there’s great cause of suspicion +in this silence and this keeping out of sight, and I’ll bear it in +mind. Now we will go across to Owlett’s orchard, and see what we can +find there.’ + +Stockdale, who heard this discussion from the garden-gate, over which +he had been leaning, was rather alarmed, and thought it a mistake of +the villagers to keep so completely out of the way. He himself, like +the excisemen, had been wondering for the last half-hour what could +have become of them. Some labourers were of necessity engaged in +distant fields, but the master-workmen should have been at home; though +one and all, after just showing themselves at their shops, had +apparently gone off for the day. He went in to Lizzy, who sat at a back +window sewing, and said, ‘Lizzy, where are the men?’ + +Lizzy laughed. ‘Where they mostly are when they’re run so hard as +this.’ She cast her eyes to heaven. ‘Up there,’ she said. + +Stockdale looked up. ‘What—on the top of the church tower?’ he asked, +seeing the direction of her glance. + +‘Yes.’ + +‘Well, I expect they will soon have to come down,’ said he gravely. ‘I +have been listening to the officers, and they are going to search the +orchard over again, and then every nook in the church.’ + +Lizzy looked alarmed for the first time. ‘Will you go and tell our +folk?’ she said. ‘They ought to be let know.’ Seeing his conscience +struggling within him like a boiling pot, she added, ‘No, never mind, +I’ll go myself.’ + +She went out, descended the garden, and climbed over the churchyard +wall at the same time that the preventive-men were ascending the road +to the orchard. Stockdale could do no less than follow her. By the time +that she reached the tower entrance he was at her side, and they +entered together. + +Nether-Moynton church-tower was, as in many villages, without a turret, +and the only way to the top was by going up to the singers’ gallery, +and thence ascending by a ladder to a square trap-door in the floor of +the bell-loft, above which a permanent ladder was fixed, passing +through the bells to a hole in the roof. When Lizzy and Stockdale +reached the gallery and looked up, nothing but the trap-door and the +five holes for the bell-ropes appeared. The ladder was gone. + +‘There’s no getting up,’ said Stockdale. + +‘O yes, there is,’ said she. ‘There’s an eye looking at us at this +moment through a knot-hole in that trap-door.’ + +And as she spoke the trap opened, and the dark line of the ladder was +seen descending against the white-washed wall. When it touched the +bottom Lizzy dragged it to its place, and said, ‘If you’ll go up, I’ll +follow.’ + +The young man ascended, and presently found himself among consecrated +bells for the first time in his life, nonconformity having been in the +Stockdale blood for some generations. He eyed them uneasily, and looked +round for Lizzy. Owlett stood here, holding the top of the ladder. + +‘What, be you really one of us?’ said the miller. + +‘It seems so,’ said Stockdale sadly. + +‘He’s not,’ said Lizzy, who overheard. ‘He’s neither for nor against +us. He’ll do us no harm.’ + +She stepped up beside them, and then they went on to the next stage, +which, when they had clambered over the dusty bell-carriages, was of +easy ascent, leading towards the hole through which the pale sky +appeared, and into the open air. Owlett remained behind for a moment, +to pull up the lower ladder. + +‘Keep down your heads,’ said a voice, as soon as they set foot on the +flat. + +Stockdale here beheld all the missing parishioners, lying on their +stomachs on the tower roof, except a few who, elevated on their hands +and knees, were peeping through the embrasures of the parapet. +Stockdale did the same, and saw the village lying like a map below him, +over which moved the figures of the excisemen, each foreshortened to a +crablike object, the crown of his hat forming a circular disc in the +centre of him. Some of the men had turned their heads when the young +preacher’s figure arose among them. + +‘What, Mr. Stockdale?’ said Matt Grey, in a tone of surprise. + +‘I’d as lief that it hadn’t been,’ said Jim Clarke. ‘If the pa’son +should see him a trespassing here in his tower, ’twould be none the +better for we, seeing how ’a do hate chapel-members. He’d never buy a +tub of us again, and he’s as good a customer as we have got this side +o’ Warm’ll.’ + +‘Where is the pa’son?’ said Lizzy. + +‘In his house, to be sure, that he mid see nothing of what’s going +on—where all good folks ought to be, and this young man likewise.’ + +‘Well, he has brought some news,’ said Lizzy. ‘They are going to search +the orchet and church; can we do anything if they should find?’ + +‘Yes,’ said her cousin Owlett. ‘That’s what we’ve been talking o’, and +we have settled our line. Well, be dazed!’ + +The exclamation was caused by his perceiving that some of the +searchers, having got into the orchard, and begun stooping and creeping +hither and thither, were pausing in the middle, where a tree smaller +than the rest was growing. They drew closer, and bent lower than ever +upon the ground. + +‘O, my tubs!’ said Lizzy faintly, as she peered through the parapet at +them. + +‘They have got ’em, ’a b’lieve,’ said Owlett. + +The interest in the movements of the officers was so keen that not a +single eye was looking in any other direction; but at that moment a +shout from the church beneath them attracted the attention of the +smugglers, as it did also of the party in the orchard, who sprang to +their feet and went towards the churchyard wall. At the same time those +of the Government men who had entered the church unperceived by the +smugglers cried aloud, ‘Here be some of ’em at last.’ + +The smugglers remained in a blank silence, uncertain whether ‘some of +’em’ meant tubs or men; but again peeping cautiously over the edge of +the tower they learnt that tubs were the things descried; and soon +these fated articles were brought one by one into the middle of the +churchyard from their hiding-place under the gallery-stairs. + +‘They are going to put ’em on Hinton’s vault till they find the rest!’ +said Lizzy hopelessly. The excisemen had, in fact, begun to pile up the +tubs on a large stone slab which was fixed there; and when all were +brought out from the tower, two or three of the men were left standing +by them, the rest of the party again proceeding to the orchard. + +The interest of the smugglers in the next manoeuvres of their enemies +became painfully intense. Only about thirty tubs had been secreted in +the lumber of the tower, but seventy were hidden in the orchard, making +up all that they had brought ashore as yet, the remainder of the cargo +having been tied to a sinker and dropped overboard for another night’s +operations. The excisemen, having re-entered the orchard, acted as if +they were positive that here lay hidden the rest of the tubs, which +they were determined to find before nightfall. They spread themselves +out round the field, and advancing on all fours as before, went anew +round every apple-tree in the enclosure. The young tree in the middle +again led them to pause, and at length the whole company gathered there +in a way which signified that a second chain of reasoning had led to +the same results as the first. + +When they had examined the sod hereabouts for some minutes, one of the +men rose, ran to a disused porch of the church where tools were kept, +and returned with the sexton’s pickaxe and shovel, with which they set +to work. + +‘Are they really buried there?’ said the minister, for the grass was so +green and uninjured that it was difficult to believe it had been +disturbed. The smugglers were too interested to reply, and presently +they saw, to their chagrin, the officers stand several on each side of +the tree; and, stooping and applying their hands to the soil, they +bodily lifted the tree and the turf around it. The apple-tree now +showed itself to be growing in a shallow box, with handles for lifting +at each of the four sides. Under the site of the tree a square hole was +revealed, and an exciseman went and looked down. + +‘It is all up now,’ said Owlett quietly. ‘And now all of ye get down +before they notice we are here; and be ready for our next move. I had +better bide here till dark, or they may take me on suspicion, as ’tis +on my ground. I’ll be with ye as soon as daylight begins to pink in.’ + +‘And I?’ said Lizzy. + +‘You please look to the linch-pins and screws; then go indoors and know +nothing at all. The chaps will do the rest.’ + +The ladder was replaced, and all but Owlett descended, the men passing +off one by one at the back of the church, and vanishing on their +respective errands. + +Lizzy walked boldly along the street, followed closely by the minister. + +‘You are going indoors, Mrs. Newberry?’ he said. + +She knew from the words ‘Mrs. Newberry’ that the division between them +had widened yet another degree. + +‘I am not going home,’ she said. ‘I have a little thing to do before I +go in. Martha Sarah will get your tea.’ + +‘O, I don’t mean on that account,’ said Stockdale. ‘What _can_ you have +to do further in this unhallowed affair?’ + +‘Only a little,’ she said. + +‘What is that? I’ll go with you.’ + +‘No, I shall go by myself. Will you please go indoors? I shall be there +in less than an hour.’ + +‘You are not going to run any danger, Lizzy?’ said the young man, his +tenderness reasserting itself. + +‘None whatever—worth mentioning,’ answered she, and went down towards +the Cross. + +Stockdale entered the garden gate, and stood behind it looking on. The +excisemen were still busy in the orchard, and at last he was tempted to +enter, and watch their proceedings. When he came closer he found that +the secret cellar, of whose existence he had been totally unaware, was +formed by timbers placed across from side to side about a foot under +the ground, and grassed over. + +The excisemen looked up at Stockdale’s fair and downy countenance, and +evidently thinking him above suspicion, went on with their work again. +As soon as all the tubs were taken out, they began tearing up the turf; +pulling out the timbers, and breaking in the sides, till the cellar was +wholly dismantled and shapeless, the apple-tree lying with its roots +high to the air. But the hole which had in its time held so much +contraband merchandize was never completely filled up, either then or +afterwards, a depression in the greensward marking the spot to this +day. + +CHAPTER VII—THE WALK TO WARM’ELL CROSS AND AFTERWARDS + +As the goods had all to be carried to Budmouth that night, the +excisemen’s next object was to find horses and carts for the journey, +and they went about the village for that purpose. Latimer strode hither +and thither with a lump of chalk in his hand, marking broad-arrows so +vigorously on every vehicle and set of harness that he came across, +that it seemed as if he would chalk broad-arrows on the very hedges and +roads. The owner of every conveyance so marked was bound to give it up +for Government purposes. Stockdale, who had had enough of the scene, +turned indoors thoughtful and depressed. Lizzy was already there, +having come in at the back, though she had not yet taken off her +bonnet. She looked tired, and her mood was not much brighter than his +own. They had but little to say to each other; and the minister went +away and attempted to read; but at this he could not succeed, and he +shook the little bell for tea. + +Lizzy herself brought in the tray, the girl having run off into the +village during the afternoon, too full of excitement at the proceedings +to remember her state of life. However, almost before the sad lovers +had said anything to each other, Martha came in in a steaming state. + +‘O, there’s such a stoor, Mrs. Newberry and Mr. Stockdale! The king’s +excisemen can’t get the carts ready nohow at all! They pulled Thomas +Ballam’s, and William Rogers’s, and Stephen Sprake’s carts into the +road, and off came the wheels, and down fell the carts; and they found +there was no linch-pins in the arms; and then they tried Samuel Shane’s +waggon, and found that the screws were gone from he, and at last they +looked at the dairyman’s cart, and he’s got none neither! They have +gone now to the blacksmith’s to get some made, but he’s nowhere to be +found!’ + +Stockdale looked at Lizzy, who blushed very slightly, and went out of +the room, followed by Martha Sarah. But before they had got through the +passage there was a rap at the front door, and Stockdale recognized +Latimer’s voice addressing Mrs. Newberry, who had turned back. + +‘For God’s sake, Mrs. Newberry, have you seen Hardman the blacksmith up +this way? If we could get hold of him, we’d e’en a’most drag him by the +hair of his head to his anvil, where he ought to be.’ + +‘He’s an idle man, Mr. Latimer,’ said Lizzy archly. ‘What do you want +him for?’ + +‘Why, there isn’t a horse in the place that has got more than three +shoes on, and some have only two. The waggon-wheels be without strakes, +and there’s no linch-pins to the carts. What with that, and the bother +about every set of harness being out of order, we shan’t be off before +nightfall—upon my soul we shan’t. ’Tis a rough lot, Mrs. Newberry, that +you’ve got about you here; but they’ll play at this game once too +often, mark my words they will! There’s not a man in the parish that +don’t deserve to be whipped.’ + +It happened that Hardman was at that moment a little further up the +lane, smoking his pipe behind a holly-bush. When Latimer had done +speaking he went on in this direction, and Hardman, hearing the +exciseman’s steps, found curiosity too strong for prudence. He peeped +out from the bush at the very moment that Latimer’s glance was on it. +There was nothing left for him to do but to come forward with +unconcern. + +‘I’ve been looking for you for the last hour!’ said Latimer with a +glare in his eye. + +‘Sorry to hear that,’ said Hardman. ‘I’ve been out for a stroll, to +look for more hid tubs, to deliver ’em up to Gover’ment.’ + +‘O yes, Hardman, we know it,’ said Latimer, with withering sarcasm. ‘We +know that you’ll deliver ’em up to Gover’ment. We know that all the +parish is helping us, and have been all day! Now you please walk along +with me down to your shop, and kindly let me hire ye in the king’s +name.’ + +They went down the lane together; and presently there resounded from +the smithy the ring of a hammer not very briskly swung. However, the +carts and horses were got into some sort of travelling condition, but +it was not until after the clock had struck six, when the muddy roads +were glistening under the horizontal light of the fading day. The +smuggled tubs were soon packed into the vehicles, and Latimer, with +three of his assistants, drove slowly out of the village in the +direction of the port of Budmouth, some considerable number of miles +distant, the other excisemen being left to watch for the remainder of +the cargo, which they knew to have been sunk somewhere between +Ringsworth and Lulstead Cove, and to unearth Owlett, the only person +clearly implicated by the discovery of the cave. + +Women and children stood at the doors as the carts, each chalked with +the Government pitchfork, passed in the increasing twilight; and as +they stood they looked at the confiscated property with a melancholy +expression that told only too plainly the relation which they bore to +the trade. + +‘Well, Lizzy,’ said Stockdale, when the crackle of the wheels had +nearly died away. ‘This is a fit finish to your adventure. I am truly +thankful that you have got off without suspicion, and the loss only of +the liquor. Will you sit down and let me talk to you?’ + +‘By and by,’ she said. ‘But I must go out now.’ + +‘Not to that horrid shore again?’ he said blankly. + +‘No, not there. I am only going to see the end of this day’s business.’ + +He did not answer to this, and she moved towards the door slowly, as if +waiting for him to say something more. + +‘You don’t offer to come with me,’ she added at last. ‘I suppose that’s +because you hate me after all this?’ + +‘Can you say it, Lizzy, when you know I only want to save you from such +practices? Come with you of course I will, if it is only to take care +of you. But why will you go out again?’ + +‘Because I cannot rest indoors. Something is happening, and I must know +what. Now, come!’ And they went into the dusk together. + +When they reached the turnpike-road she turned to the right, and he +soon perceived that they were following the direction of the excisemen +and their load. He had given her his arm, and every now and then she +suddenly pulled it back, to signify that he was to halt a moment and +listen. They had walked rather quickly along the first quarter of a +mile, and on the second or third time of standing still she said, ‘I +hear them ahead—don’t you?’ + +‘Yes,’ he said; ‘I hear the wheels. But what of that?’ + +‘I only want to know if they get clear away from the neighbourhood.’ + +‘Ah,’ said he, a light breaking upon him. ‘Something desperate is to be +attempted!—and now I remember there was not a man about the village +when we left.’ + +‘Hark!’ she murmured. The noise of the cartwheels had stopped, and +given place to another sort of sound. + +‘’Tis a scuffle!’ said Stockdale. ‘There’ll be murder! Lizzy, let go my +arm; I am going on. On my conscience, I must not stay here and do +nothing!’ + +‘There’ll be no murder, and not even a broken head,’ she said. ‘Our men +are thirty to four of them: no harm will be done at all.’ + +‘Then there _is_ an attack!’ exclaimed Stockdale; ‘and you knew it was +to be. Why should you side with men who break the laws like this?’ + +‘Why should you side with men who take from country traders what they +have honestly bought wi’ their own money in France?’ said she firmly. + +‘They are not honestly bought,’ said he. + +‘They are,’ she contradicted. ‘I and Owlett and the others paid thirty +shillings for every one of the tubs before they were put on board at +Cherbourg, and if a king who is nothing to us sends his people to steal +our property, we have a right to steal it back again.’ + +Stockdale did not stop to argue the matter, but went quickly in the +direction of the noise, Lizzy keeping at his side. ‘Don’t you +interfere, will you, dear Richard?’ she said anxiously, as they drew +near. ‘Don’t let us go any closer: ’tis at Warm’ell Cross where they +are seizing ’em. You can do no good, and you may meet with a hard +blow!’ + +‘Let us see first what is going on,’ he said. But before they had got +much further the noise of the cartwheels began again; and Stockdale +soon found that they were coming towards him. In another minute the +three carts came up, and Stockdale and Lizzy stood in the ditch to let +them pass. + +Instead of being conducted by four men, as had happened when they went +out of the village, the horses and carts were now accompanied by a body +of from twenty to thirty, all of whom, as Stockdale perceived to his +astonishment, had blackened faces. Among them walked six or eight huge +female figures, whom, from their wide strides, Stockdale guessed to be +men in disguise. As soon as the party discerned Lizzy and her companion +four or five fell back, and when the carts had passed, came close to +the pair. + +‘There is no walking up this way for the present,’ said one of the +gaunt women, who wore curls a foot long, dangling down the sides of her +face, in the fashion of the time. Stockdale recognized this lady’s +voice as Owlett’s. + +‘Why not?’ said Stockdale. ‘This is the public highway.’ + +‘Now look here, youngster,’ said Owlett. ‘O, ’tis the Methodist +parson!—what, and Mrs. Newberry! Well, you’d better not go up that way, +Lizzy. They’ve all run off, and folks have got their own again.’ + +The miller then hastened on and joined his comrades. Stockdale and +Lizzy also turned back. ‘I wish all this hadn’t been forced upon us,’ +she said regretfully. ‘But if those excisemen had got off with the +tubs, half the people in the parish would have been in want for the +next month or two.’ + +Stockdale was not paying much attention to her words, and he said, ‘I +don’t think I can go back like this. Those four poor excisemen may be +murdered for all I know.’ + +‘Murdered!’ said Lizzy impatiently. ‘We don’t do murder here.’ + +‘Well, I shall go as far as Warm’ell Cross to see,’ said Stockdale +decisively; and, without wishing her safe home or anything else, the +minister turned back. Lizzy stood looking at him till his form was +absorbed in the shades; and then, with sadness, she went in the +direction of Nether-Moynton. + +The road was lonely, and after nightfall at this time of the year there +was often not a passer for hours. Stockdale pursued his way without +hearing a sound beyond that of his own footsteps; and in due time he +passed beneath the trees of the plantation which surrounded the +Warm’ell Cross-road. Before he had reached the point of intersection he +heard voices from the thicket. + +‘Hoi-hoi-hoi! Help, help!’ + +The voices were not at all feeble or despairing, but they were +unmistakably anxious. Stockdale had no weapon, and before plunging into +the pitchy darkness of the plantation he pulled a stake from the hedge, +to use in case of need. When he got among the trees he shouted—‘What’s +the matter—where are you?’ + +‘Here,’ answered the voices; and, pushing through the brambles in that +direction, he came near the objects of his search. + +‘Why don’t you come forward?’ said Stockdale. + +‘We be tied to the trees!’ + +‘Who are you?’ + +‘Poor Will Latimer the exciseman!’ said one plaintively. ‘Just come and +cut these cords, there’s a good man. We were afraid nobody would pass +by to-night.’ + +Stockdale soon loosened them, upon which they stretched their limbs and +stood at their ease. + +‘The rascals!’ said Latimer, getting now into a rage, though he had +seemed quite meek when Stockdale first came up. ‘’Tis the same set of +fellows. I know they were Moynton chaps to a man.’ + +‘But we can’t swear to ’em,’ said another. ‘Not one of ’em spoke.’ + +‘What are you going to do?’ said Stockdale. + +‘I’d fain go back to Moynton, and have at ’em again!’ said Latimer. + +‘So would we!’ said his comrades. + +‘Fight till we die!’ said Latimer. + +‘We will, we will!’ said his men. + +‘But,’ said Latimer, more frigidly, as they came out of the plantation, +‘we don’t _know_ that these chaps with black faces were Moynton men? +And proof is a hard thing.’ + +‘So it is,’ said the rest. + +‘And therefore we won’t do nothing at all,’ said Latimer, with complete +dispassionateness. ‘For my part, I’d sooner be them than we. The +clitches of my arms are burning like fire from the cords those two +strapping women tied round ’em. My opinion is, now I have had time to +think o’t, that you may serve your Gover’ment at too high a price. For +these two nights and days I have not had an hour’s rest; and, please +God, here’s for home-along.’ + +The other officers agreed heartily to this course; and, thanking +Stockdale for his timely assistance, they parted from him at the Cross, +taking themselves the western road, and Stockdale going back to +Nether-Moynton. + +During that walk the minister was lost in reverie of the most painful +kind. As soon as he got into the house, and before entering his own +rooms, he advanced to the door of the little back parlour in which +Lizzy usually sat with her mother. He found her there alone. Stockdale +went forward, and, like a man in a dream, looked down upon the table +that stood between him and the young woman, who had her bonnet and +cloak still on. As he did not speak, she looked up from her chair at +him, with misgiving in her eye. + +‘Where are they gone?’ he then said listlessly. + +‘Who?—I don’t know. I have seen nothing of them since. I came straight +in here.’ + +‘If your men can manage to get off with those tubs, it will be a great +profit to you, I suppose?’ + +‘A share will be mine, a share my cousin Owlett’s, a share to each of +the two farmers, and a share divided amongst the men who helped us.’ + +‘And you still think,’ he went on slowly, ‘that you will not give this +business up?’ + +Lizzy rose, and put her hand upon his shoulder. ‘Don’t ask that,’ she +whispered. ‘You don’t know what you are asking. I must tell you, though +I meant not to do it. What I make by that trade is all I have to keep +my mother and myself with.’ + +He was astonished. ‘I did not dream of such a thing,’ he said. ‘I would +rather have swept the streets, had I been you. What is money compared +with a clear conscience?’ + +‘My conscience is clear. I know my mother, but the king I have never +seen. His dues are nothing to me. But it is a great deal to me that my +mother and I should live.’ + +‘Marry me, and promise to give it up. I will keep your mother.’ + +‘It is good of you,’ she said, trembling a little. ‘Let me think of it +by myself. I would rather not answer now.’ + +She reserved her answer till the next day, and came into his room with +a solemn face. ‘I cannot do what you wished!’ she said passionately. +‘It is too much to ask. My whole life ha’ been passed in this way.’ Her +words and manner showed that before entering she had been struggling +with herself in private, and that the contention had been strong. + +Stockdale turned pale, but he spoke quietly. ‘Then, Lizzy, we must +part. I cannot go against my principles in this matter, and I cannot +make my profession a mockery. You know how I love you, and what I would +do for you; but this one thing I cannot do.’ + +‘But why should you belong to that profession?’ she burst out. ‘I have +got this large house; why can’t you marry me, and live here with us, +and not be a Methodist preacher any more? I assure you, Richard, it is +no harm, and I wish you could only see it as I do! We only carry it on +in winter: in summer it is never done at all. It stirs up one’s dull +life at this time o’ the year, and gives excitement, which I have got +so used to now that I should hardly know how to do ‘ithout it. At +nights, when the wind blows, instead of being dull and stupid, and not +noticing whether it do blow or not, your mind is afield, even if you +are not afield yourself; and you are wondering how the chaps are +getting on; and you walk up and down the room, and look out o’ window, +and then you go out yourself, and know your way about as well by night +as by day, and have hairbreadth escapes from old Latimer and his +fellows, who are too stupid ever to really frighten us, and only make +us a bit nimble.’ + +‘He frightened you a little last night, anyhow: and I would advise you +to drop it before it is worse.’ + +She shook her head. ‘No, I must go on as I have begun. I was born to +it. It is in my blood, and I can’t be cured. O, Richard, you cannot +think what a hard thing you have asked, and how sharp you try me when +you put me between this and my love for ‘ee!’ + +Stockdale was leaning with his elbow on the mantelpiece, his hands over +his eyes. ‘We ought never to have met, Lizzy,’ he said. ‘It was an ill +day for us! I little thought there was anything so hopeless and +impossible in our engagement as this. Well, it is too late now to +regret consequences in this way. I have had the happiness of seeing you +and knowing you at least.’ + +‘You dissent from Church, and I dissent from State,’ she said. ‘And I +don’t see why we are not well matched.’ + +He smiled sadly, while Lizzy remained looking down, her eyes beginning +to overflow. + +That was an unhappy evening for both of them, and the days that +followed were unhappy days. Both she and he went mechanically about +their employments, and his depression was marked in the village by more +than one of his denomination with whom he came in contact. But Lizzy, +who passed her days indoors, was unsuspected of being the cause: for it +was generally understood that a quiet engagement to marry existed +between her and her cousin Owlett, and had existed for some time. + +Thus uncertainly the week passed on; till one morning Stockdale said to +her: ‘I have had a letter, Lizzy. I must call you that till I am gone.’ + +‘Gone?’ said she blankly. + +‘Yes,’ he said. ‘I am going from this place. I felt it would be better +for us both that I should not stay after what has happened. In fact, I +couldn’t stay here, and look on you from day to day, without becoming +weak and faltering in my course. I have just heard of an arrangement by +which the other minister can arrive here in about a week; and let me go +elsewhere.’ + +That he had all this time continued so firmly fixed in his resolution +came upon her as a grievous surprise. ‘You never loved me!’ she said +bitterly. + +‘I might say the same,’ he returned; ‘but I will not. Grant me one +favour. Come and hear my last sermon on the day before I go.’ + +Lizzy, who was a church-goer on Sunday mornings, frequently attended +Stockdale’s chapel in the evening with the rest of the double-minded; +and she promised. + +It became known that Stockdale was going to leave, and a good many +people outside his own sect were sorry to hear it. The intervening days +flew rapidly away, and on the evening of the Sunday which preceded the +morning of his departure Lizzy sat in the chapel to hear him for the +last time. The little building was full to overflowing, and he took up +the subject which all had expected, that of the contraband trade so +extensively practised among them. His hearers, in laying his words to +their own hearts, did not perceive that they were most particularly +directed against Lizzy, till the sermon waxed warm, and Stockdale +nearly broke down with emotion. In truth his own earnestness, and her +sad eyes looking up at him, were too much for the young man’s +equanimity. He hardly knew how he ended. He saw Lizzy, as through a +mist, turn and go away with the rest of the congregation; and shortly +afterwards followed her home. + +She invited him to supper, and they sat down alone, her mother having, +as was usual with her on Sunday nights, gone to bed early. + +‘We will part friends, won’t we?’ said Lizzy, with forced gaiety, and +never alluding to the sermon: a reticence which rather disappointed +him. + +‘We will,’ he said, with a forced smile on his part; and they sat down. + +It was the first meal that they had ever shared together in their +lives, and probably the last that they would so share. When it was +over, and the indifferent conversation could no longer be continued, he +arose and took her hand. ‘Lizzy,’ he said, ‘do you say we must part—do +you?’ + +‘You do,’ she said solemnly. ‘I can say no more.’ + +‘Nor I,’ said he. ‘If that is your answer, good-bye!’ + +Stockdale bent over her and kissed her, and she involuntarily returned +his kiss. ‘I shall go early,’ he said hurriedly. ‘I shall not see you +again.’ + +And he did leave early. He fancied, when stepping forth into the grey +morning light, to mount the van which was to carry him away, that he +saw a face between the parted curtains of Lizzy’s window, but the light +was faint, and the panes glistened with wet; so he could not be sure. +Stockdale mounted the vehicle, and was gone; and on the following +Sunday the new minister preached in the chapel of the Moynton +Wesleyans. + +One day, two years after the parting, Stockdale, now settled in a +midland town, came into Nether-Moynton by carrier in the original way. +Jogging along in the van that afternoon he had put questions to the +driver, and the answers that he received interested the minister +deeply. The result of them was that he went without the least +hesitation to the door of his former lodging. It was about six o’clock +in the evening, and the same time of year as when he had left; now, +too, the ground was damp and glistening, the west was bright, and +Lizzy’s snowdrops were raising their heads in the border under the +wall. + +Lizzy must have caught sight of him from the window, for by the time +that he reached the door she was there holding it open: and then, as if +she had not sufficiently considered her act of coming out, she drew +herself back, saying with some constraint, ‘Mr. Stockdale!’ + +‘You knew it was,’ said Stockdale, taking her hand. ‘I wrote to say I +should call.’ + +‘Yes, but you did not say when,’ she answered. + +‘I did not. I was not quite sure when my business would lead me to +these parts.’ + +‘You only came because business brought you near?’ + +‘Well, that is the fact; but I have often thought I should like to come +on purpose to see you . . . But what’s all this that has happened? I +told you how it would be, Lizzy, and you would not listen to me.’ + +‘I would not,’ she said sadly. ‘But I had been brought up to that life; +and it was second nature to me. However, it is all over now. The +officers have blood-money for taking a man dead or alive, and the trade +is going to nothing. We were hunted down like rats.’ + +‘Owlett is quite gone, I hear.’ + +‘Yes. He is in America. We had a dreadful struggle that last time, when +they tried to take him. It is a perfect miracle that he lived through +it; and it is a wonder that I was not killed. I was shot in the hand. +It was not by aim; the shot was really meant for my cousin; but I was +behind, looking on as usual, and the bullet came to me. It bled +terribly, but I got home without fainting; and it healed after a time. +You know how he suffered?’ + +‘No,’ said Stockdale. ‘I only heard that he just escaped with his +life.’ + +‘He was shot in the back; but a rib turned the ball. He was badly hurt. +We would not let him be took. The men carried him all night across the +meads to Kingsbere, and hid him in a barn, dressing his wound as well +as they could, till he was so far recovered as to be able to get about. +He had gied up his mill for some time; and at last he got to Bristol, +and took a passage to America, and he’s settled in Wisconsin.’ + +‘What do you think of smuggling now?’ said the minister gravely. + +‘I own that we were wrong,’ said she. ‘But I have suffered for it. I am +very poor now, and my mother has been dead these twelve months . . . +But won’t you come in, Mr. Stockdale?’ + +Stockdale went in; and it is to be supposed that they came to an +understanding; for a fortnight later there was a sale of Lizzy’s +furniture, and after that a wedding at a chapel in a neighbouring town. + +He took her away from her old haunts to the home that he had made for +himself in his native county, where she studied her duties as a +minister’s wife with praiseworthy assiduity. It is said that in after +years she wrote an excellent tract called _Render unto Caesar; or, The +Repentant Villagers_, in which her own experience was anonymously used +as the introductory story. Stockdale got it printed, after making some +corrections, and putting in a few powerful sentences of his own; and +many hundreds of copies were distributed by the couple in the course of +their married life. + +_April_ 1879. + + + + +*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK WESSEX TALES *** + +***** This file should be named 3056-0.txt or 3056-0.zip ***** +This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: + https://www.gutenberg.org/3/0/5/3056/ + +Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions will +be renamed. + +Creating the works from print editions not protected by U.S. copyright +law means that no one owns a United States copyright in these works, +so the Foundation (and you!) can copy and distribute it in the +United States without permission and without paying copyright +royalties. 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