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.

A CHANGED MAN AND OTHER TALES By Thomas Hardy

CONTENTS

PREFATORY NOTE

A CHANGED MAN

CHAPTER I

CHAPTER II

CHAPTER III

CHAPTER IV

CHAPTER V

CHAPTER VI

CHAPTER VII

THE WAITING SUPPER

CHAPTER I

CHAPTER II

CHAPTER III

CHAPTER IV

CHAPTER V

CHAPTER VI

CHAPTER VII

CHAPTER VIII

ALICIA'S DIARY

CHAPTER I.-SHE MISSES HER SISTER

CHAPTER II.-NEWS INTERESTING AND SERIOUS

CHAPTER III.-HER GLOOM LIGHTENS A LITTLE

CHAPTER IV.-SHE BEHOLDS THE ATTRACTIVE STRANGER

CHAPTER V.-HER SITUATION IS A TRYING ONE

CHAPTER VI.-HER INGENUITY INSTIGATES HER

CHAPTER VII.-A SURPRISE AWAITS HER

CHAPTER VIII.-SHE TRAVELS IN PURSUIT

CHAPTER IX.-SHE WITNESSES THE END

CHAPTER X.-SHE ADDS A NOTE LONG AFTER

THE GRAVE BY THE HANDPOST

ENTER A DRAGOON

A TRYST AT AN ANCIENT EARTH WORK

WHAT THE SHEPHERD SAW

A COMMITTEE-MAN OF 'THE TERROR'

MASTER JOHN HORSELEIGH, KNIGHT

THE DUKE'S REAPPEARANCE-A FAMILY TRADITION

A MERE INTERLUDE

CHAPTER I

CHAPTER II

CHAPTER III

CHAPTER IV

CHAPTER V

CHAPTER VI

CHAPTER VII

PREFATORY NOTE

I reprint in this volume, for what they may be worth, a dozen minor

novels that have been published in the periodical press at various dates

in the past, in order to render them accessible to readers who desire to

have them in the complete series issued by my publishers. For aid in

reclaiming some of the narratives I express my thanks to the proprietors

and editors of the newspapers and magazines in whose pages they first

appeared.

T. H. August 1913.

A CHANGED MAN

CHAPTER I

The person who, next to the actors themselves, chanced to know most of

their story, lived just below 'Top o' Town' (as the spot was called) in

an old substantially-built house, distinguished among its neighbours by

having an oriel window on the first floor, whence could be obtained a

raking view of the High Street, west and east, the former including

Laura's dwelling, the end of the Town Avenue hard by (in which were

played the odd pranks hereafter to be mentioned), the Port-Bredy road

rising westwards, and the turning that led to the cavalry barracks where

the Captain was quartered. Looking eastward down the town from the same

favoured gazebo, the long perspective of houses declined and dwindled

till they merged in the highway across the moor. The white riband of

road disappeared over Grey's Bridge a quarter of a mile off, to plunge

into innumerable rustic windings, shy shades, and solitary undulations

up hill and down dale for one hundred and twenty miles till it exhibited

itself at Hyde Park Corner as a smooth bland surface in touch with a

busy and fashionable world.

To the barracks aforesaid had recently arrived the �-th Hussars, a

regiment new to the locality. Almost before any acquaintance with its

members had been made by the townspeople, a report spread that they were

a 'crack' body of men, and had brought a splendid band. For some reason

or other the town had not been used as the headquarters of cavalry for

many years, the various troops stationed there having consisted of

casual detachments only; so that it was with a sense of honour that

everybody-even the small furniture-broker from whom the married troopers

hired tables and chairs-received the news of their crack quality.

In those days the Hussar regiments still wore over the left shoulder

that attractive attachment, or frilled half-coat, hanging loosely behind

like the wounded wing of a bird, which was called the pelisse, though it

was known among the troopers themselves as a 'sling-jacket.' It added

amazingly to their picturesqueness in women's eyes, and, indeed, in the

eyes of men also.

The burgher who lived in the house with the oriel window sat during a

great many hours of the day in that projection, for he was an invalid,

and time hung heavily on his hands unless he maintained a constant

interest in proceedings without. Not more than a week after the arrival

of the Hussars his ears were assailed by the shout of one schoolboy to

another in the street below.

'Have 'ee heard this about the Hussars? They are haunted! Yes-a ghost

troubles 'em; he has followed 'em about the world for years.'

A haunted regiment: that was a new idea for either invalid or stalwart.

The listener in the oriel came to the conclusion that there were some

lively characters among the �-th Hussars.

He made Captain Maumbry's acquaintance in an informal manner at an

afternoon tea to which he went in a wheeled chair-one of the very rare

outings that the state of his health permitted. Maumbry showed himself

to be a handsome man of twenty-eight or thirty, with an attractive hint

of wickedness in his manner that was sure to make him adorable with good

young women. The large dark eyes that lit his pale face expressed this

wickedness strongly, though such was the adaptability of their rays that

one could think they might have expressed sadness or seriousness just as

readily, if he had had a mind for such.

An old and deaf lady who was present asked Captain Maumbry bluntly:

'What's this we hear about you? They say your regiment is haunted.'

The Captain's face assumed an aspect of grave, even sad, concern. 'Yes,'

he replied, 'it is too true.'

Some younger ladies smiled till they saw how serious he looked, when

they looked serious likewise.

'Really?' said the old lady.

'Yes. We naturally don't wish to say much about it.'

'No, no; of course not. But-how haunted?'

'Well; the-thing, as I'll call it, follows us. In country quarters or

town, abroad or at home, it's just the same.'

'How do you account for it?'

'H'm.' Maumbry lowered his voice. 'Some crime committed by certain of

our regiment in past years, we suppose.'

'Dear me . . . How very horrid, and singular!'

'But, as I said, we don't speak of it much.'

'No . . . no.'

When the Hussar was gone, a young lady, disclosing a long-suppressed

interest, asked if the ghost had been seen by any of the town.

The lawyer's son, who always had the latest borough news, said that,

though it was seldom seen by any one but the Hussars themselves, more

than one townsman and woman had already set eyes on it, to his or her

terror. The phantom mostly appeared very late at night, under the dense

trees of the town-avenue nearest the barracks. It was about ten feet

high; its teeth chattered with a dry naked sound, as if they were those

of a skeleton; and its hip-bones could be heard grating in their

sockets.

During the darkest weeks of winter several timid persons were seriously

frightened by the object answering to this cheerful description, and the

police began to look into the matter. Whereupon the appearances grew

less frequent, and some of the Boys of the regiment thankfully stated

that they had not been so free from ghostly visitation for years as they

had become since their arrival in Casterbridge.

This playing at ghosts was the most innocent of the amusements indulged

in by the choice young spirits who inhabited the lichened, red-brick

building at the top of the town bearing 'W.D.' and a broad arrow on its

quoins. Far more serious escapades-levities relating to love, wine,

cards, betting-were talked of, with no doubt more or less of

exaggeration. That the Hussars, Captain Maumbry included, were the cause

of bitter tears to several young women of the town and country is

unquestionably true, despite the fact that the gaieties of the young men

wore a more staring colour in this old-fashioned place than they would

have done in a large and modern city.

CHAPTER II Regularly once a week they rode out in marching order.

Returning up the town on one of these occasions, the romantic pelisse

flapping behind each horseman's shoulder in the soft south-west wind,

Captain Maumbry glanced up at the oriel. A mutual nod was exchanged

between him and the person who sat there reading. The reader and a

friend in the room with him followed the troop with their eyes all the

way up the street, till, when the soldiers were opposite the house in

which Laura lived, that young lady became discernible in the balcony.

'They are engaged to be married, I hear,' said the friend.

'Who-Maumbry and Laura? Never-so soon?'

'Yes.'

'He'll never marry. Several girls have been mentioned in connection with

his name. I am sorry for Laura.'

'Oh, but you needn't be. They are excellently matched.'

'She's only one more.'

'She's one more, and more still. She has regularly caught him. She is a

born player of the game of hearts, and she knew how to beat him in his

own practices. If there is one woman in the town who has any chance of

holding her own and marrying him, she is that woman.'

This was true, as it turned out. By natural proclivity Laura had from

the first entered heart and soul into military romance as exhibited in

the plots and characters of those living exponents of it who came under

her notice. From her earliest young womanhood civilians, however

promising, had no chance of winning her interest if the meanest warrior

were within the horizon. It may be that the position of her uncle's

house (which was her home) at the corner of West Street nearest the

barracks, the daily passing of the troops, the constant blowing of

trumpet-calls a furlong from her windows, coupled with the fact that she

knew nothing of the inner realities of military life, and hence

idealized it, had also helped her mind's original bias for thinking men-

at-arms the only ones worthy of a woman's heart.

Captain Maumbry was a typical prize; one whom all surrounding maidens

had coveted, ached for, angled for, wept for, had by her judicious

management become subdued to her purpose; and in addition to the

pleasure of marrying the man she loved, Laura had the joy of feeling

herself hated by the mothers of all the marriageable girls of the

neighbourhood.

The man in the oriel went to the wedding; not as a guest, for at this

time he was but slightly acquainted with the parties; but mainly because

the church was close to his house; partly, too, for a reason which moved

many others to be spectators of the ceremony; a subconsciousness that,

though the couple might be happy in their experiences, there was

sufficient possibility of their being otherwise to colour the musings of

an onlooker with a pleasing pathos of conjecture. He could on occasion

do a pretty stroke of rhyming in those days, and he beguiled the time of

waiting by pencilling on a blank page of his prayer-book a few lines

which, though kept private then, may be given here:-AT A HASTY WEDDING

(Triolet)

If hours be years the twain are blest, For now they solace swift desire

By lifelong ties that tether zest If hours be years. The twain are blest

Do eastern suns slope never west, Nor pallid ashes follow fire. If hours

be years the twain are blest For now they solace swift desire.

As if, however, to falsify all prophecies, the couple seemed to find in

marriage the secret of perpetuating the intoxication of a courtship

which, on Maumbry's side at least, had opened without serious intent.

During the winter following they were the most popular pair in and about

Casterbridge-nay in South Wessex itself. No smart dinner in the country

houses of the younger and gayer families within driving distance of the

borough was complete without their lively presence; Mrs. Maumbry was the

blithest of the whirling figures at the county ball; and when followed

that inevitable incident of garrison-town life, an amateur dramatic

entertainment, it was just the same. The acting was for the benefit of

such and such an excellent charity-nobody cared what, provided the play

were played-and both Captain Maumbry and his wife were in the piece,

having been in fact, by mutual consent, the originators of the

performance. And so with laughter, and thoughtlessness, and movement,

all went merrily. There was a little backwardness in the bill-paying of

the couple; but in justice to them it must be added that sooner or later

all owings were paid.

CHAPTER III

At the chapel-of-ease attended by the troops there arose above the edge

of the pulpit one Sunday an unknown face. This was the face of a new

curate. He placed upon the desk, not the familiar sermon book, but

merely a Bible. The person who tells these things was not present at

that service, but he soon learnt that the young curate was nothing less

than a great surprise to his congregation; a mixed one always, for

though the Hussars occupied the body of the building, its nooks and

corners were crammed with civilians, whom, up to the present, even the

least uncharitable would have described as being attracted thither less

by the services than by the soldiery.

Now there arose a second reason for squeezing into an already

overcrowded church. The persuasive and gentle eloquence of Mr. Sainway

operated like a charm upon those accustomed only to the higher and dryer

styles of preaching, and for a time the other churches of the town were

thinned of their sitters.

At this point in the nineteenth century the sermon was the sole reason

for churchgoing amongst a vast body of religious people. The liturgy was

a formal preliminary, which, like the Royal proclamation in a court of

assize, had to be got through before the real interest began; and on

reaching home the question was simply: Who preached, and how did he

handle his subject? Even had an archbishop officiated in the service

proper nobody would have cared much about what was said or sung. People

who had formerly attended in the morning only began to go in the

evening, and even to the special addresses in the afternoon.

One day when Captain Maumbry entered his wife's drawing-room, filled

with hired furniture, she thought he was somebody else, for he had not

come upstairs humming the most catching air afloat in musical circles or

in his usual careless way.

'What's the matter, Jack?' she said without looking up from a note she

was writing.

'Well-not much, that I know.'

'O, but there is,' she murmured as she wrote.

'Why-this cursed new lath in a sheet-I mean the new parson! He wants us

to stop the band-playing on Sunday afternoons.'

Laura looked up aghast.

'Why, it is the one thing that enables the few rational beings

hereabouts to keep alive from Saturday to Monday!'

'He says all the town flock to the music and don't come to the service,

and that the pieces played are profane, or mundane, or inane, or

something-not what ought to be played on Sunday. Of course 'tis Lautmann

who settles those things.'

Lautmann was the bandmaster.

The barrack-green on Sunday afternoons had, indeed, become the promenade

of a great many townspeople cheerfully inclined, many even of those who

attended in the morning at Mr. Sainway's service; and little boys who

ought to have been listening to the curate's afternoon lecture were too

often seen rolling upon the grass and making faces behind the more

dignified listeners.

Laura heard no more about the matter, however, for two or three weeks,

when suddenly remembering it she asked her husband if any further

objections had been raised.

'O-Mr. Sainway. I forgot to tell you. I've made his acquaintance. He is

not a bad sort of man.'

Laura asked if either Maumbry or some others of the officers did not

give the presumptuous curate a good setting down for his interference.

'O well-we've forgotten that. He's a stunning preacher, they tell me.'

The acquaintance developed apparently, for the Captain said to her a

little later on, 'There's a good deal in Sainway's argument about having

no band on Sunday afternoons. After all, it is close to his church. But

he doesn't press his objections unduly.'

'I am surprised to hear you defend him!'

'It was only a passing thought of mine. We naturally don't wish to

offend the inhabitants of the town if they don't like it.'

'But they do.'

The invalid in the oriel never clearly gathered the details of progress

in this conflict of lay and clerical opinion; but so it was that, to the

disappointment of musicians, the grief of out-walking lovers, and the

regret of the junior population of the town and country round, the band-

playing on Sunday afternoons ceased in Casterbridge barrack-square.

By this time the Maumbrys had frequently listened to the preaching of

the gentle if narrow-minded curate; for these light-natured, hit-or-

miss, rackety people went to church like others for respectability's

sake. None so orthodox as your unmitigated worldling. A more remarkable

event was the sight to the man in the window of Captain Maumbry and Mr.

Sainway walking down the High Street in earnest conversation. On his

mentioning this fact to a caller he was assured that it was a matter of

common talk that they were always together.

The observer would soon have learnt this with his own eyes if he had not

been told. They began to pass together nearly every day. Hitherto Mrs.

Maumbry, in fashionable walking clothes, had usually been her husband's

companion; but this was less frequent now. The close and singular

friendship between the two men went on for nearly a year, when Mr.

Sainway was presented to a living in a densely-populated town in the

midland counties. He bade the parishioners of his old place a reluctant

farewell and departed, the touching sermon he preached on the occasion

being published by the local printer. Everybody was sorry to lose him;

and it was with genuine grief that his Casterbridge congregation learnt

later on that soon after his induction to his benefice, during some

bitter weather, he had fallen seriously ill of inflammation of the

lungs, of which he eventually died.

We now get below the surface of things. Of all who had known the dead

curate, none grieved for him like the man who on his first arrival had

called him a 'lath in a sheet.' Mrs. Maumbry had never greatly

sympathized with the impressive parson; indeed, she had been secretly

glad that he had gone away to better himself. He had considerably

diminished the pleasures of a woman by whom the joys of earth and good

company had been appreciated to the full. Sorry for her husband in his

loss of a friend who had been none of hers, she was yet quite unprepared

for the sequel.

'There is something that I have wanted to tell you lately, dear,' he

said one morning at breakfast with hesitation. 'Have you guessed what it

is?'

She had guessed nothing.

'That I think of retiring from the army.'

'What!'

'I have thought more and more of Sainway since his death, and of what he

used to say to me so earnestly. And I feel certain I shall be right in

obeying a call within me to give up this fighting trade and enter the

Church.'

'What-be a parson?'

'Yes.'

'But what should I do?'

'Be a parson's wife.'

'Never!' she affirmed.

'But how can you help it?'

'I'll run away rather!' she said vehemently;

'No, you mustn't,' Maumbry replied, in the tone he used when his mind

was made up. 'You'll get accustomed to the idea, for I am constrained to

carry it out, though it is against my worldly interests. I am forced on

by a Hand outside me to tread in the steps of Sainway.'

'Jack,' she asked, with calm pallor and round eyes; 'do you mean to say

seriously that you are arranging to be a curate instead of a soldier?'

'I might say a curate is a soldier-of the church militant; but I don't

want to offend you with doctrine. I distinctly say, yes.'

Late one evening, a little time onward, he caught her sitting by the dim

firelight in her room. She did not know he had entered; and he found her

weeping. 'What are you crying about, poor dearest?' he said.

She started. 'Because of what you have told me!' The Captain grew very

unhappy; but he was undeterred.

In due time the town learnt, to its intense surprise, that Captain

Maumbry had retired from the �-th Hussars and gone to Fountall

Theological College to prepare for the ministry.

CHAPTER IV

'O, the pity of it! Such a dashing soldier-so popular-such an

acquisition to the town-the soul of social life here! And now! . . . One

should not speak ill of the dead, but that dreadful Mr. Sainway-it was

too cruel of him!'

This is a summary of what was said when Captain, now the Reverend, John

Maumbry was enabled by circumstances to indulge his heart's desire of

returning to the scene of his former exploits in the capacity of a

minister of the Gospel. A low-lying district of the town, which at that

date was crowded with impoverished cottagers, was crying for a curate,

and Mr. Maumbry generously offered himself as one willing to undertake

labours that were certain to produce little result, and no thanks,

credit, or emolument.

Let the truth be told about him as a clergyman; he proved to be anything

but a brilliant success. Painstaking, single-minded, deeply in earnest

as all could see, his delivery was laboured, his sermons were dull to

listen to, and alas, too, too long. Even the dispassionate judges who

sat by the hour in the bar-parlour of the White Hart-an inn standing at

the dividing line between the poor quarter aforesaid and the fashionable

quarter of Maumbry's former triumphs, and hence affording a position of

strict impartiality-agreed in substance with the young ladies to the

westward, though their views were somewhat more tersely expressed:

'Surely, God A'mighty spwiled a good sojer to make a bad pa'son when He

shifted Cap'n Ma'mbry into a sarpless!'

The latter knew that such things were said, but he pursued his daily'

labours in and out of the hovels with serene unconcern.

It was about this time that the invalid in the oriel became more than a

mere bowing acquaintance of Mrs. Maumbry's. She had returned to the town

with her husband, and was living with him in a little house in the

centre of his circle of ministration, when by some means she became one

of the invalid's visitors. After a general conversation while sitting in

his room with a friend of both, an incident led up to the matter that

still rankled deeply in her soul. Her face was now paler and thinner

than it had been; even more attractive, her disappointments having

inscribed themselves as meek thoughtfulness on a look that was once a

little frivolous. The two ladies had called to be allowed to use the

window for observing the departure of the Hussars, who were leaving for

barracks much nearer to London.

The troopers turned the corner of Barrack Road into the top of High

Street, headed by their band playing 'The girl I left behind me' (which

was formerly always the tune for such times, though it is now nearly

disused). They came and passed the oriel, where an officer or two,

looking up and discovering Mrs. Maumbry, saluted her, whose eyes filled

with tears as the notes of the band waned away. Before the little group

had recovered from that sense of the romantic which such spectacles

impart, Mr. Maumbry came along the pavement. He probably had bidden his

former brethren-in-arms a farewell at the top of the street, for he

walked from that direction in his rather shabby clerical clothes, and

with a basket on his arm which seemed to hold some purchases he had been

making for his poorer parishioners. Unlike the soldiers he went along

quite unconscious of his appearance or of the scene around.

The contrast was too much for Laura. With lips that now quivered, she

asked the invalid what he thought of the change that had come to her.

It was difficult to answer, and with a wilfulness that was too strong in

her she repeated the question.

'Do you think,' she added, 'that a woman's husband has a right to do

such a thing, even if he does feel a certain call to it?'

Her listener sympathized too largely with both of them to be anything

but unsatisfactory in his reply. Laura gazed longingly out of the window

towards the thin dusty line of Hussars, now smalling towards the

Mellstock Ridge. 'I,' she said, 'who should have been in their van on

the way to London, am doomed to fester in a hole in Durnover Lane!'

Many events had passed and many rumours had been current concerning her

before the invalid saw her again after her leave-taking that day.

CHAPTER V

Casterbridge had known many military and civil episodes; many happy

times, and times less happy; and now came the time of her visitation.

The scourge of cholera had been laid on the suffering country, and the

low-lying purlieus of this ancient borough had more than their share of

the infliction. Mixen Lane, in the Durnover quarter, and in Maumbry's

parish, was where the blow fell most heavily. Yet there was a certain

mercy in its choice of a date, for Maumbry was the man for such an hour.

The spread of the epidemic was so rapid that many left the town and took

lodgings in the villages and farms. Mr. Maumbry's house was close to the

most infected street, and he himself was occupied morn, noon, and night

in endeavours to stamp out the plague and in alleviating the sufferings

of the victims. So, as a matter of ordinary precaution, he decided to

isolate his wife somewhere away from him for a while.

She suggested a village by the sea, near Budmouth Regis, and lodgings

were obtained for her at Creston, a spot divided from the Casterbridge

valley by a high ridge that gave it quite another atmosphere, though it

lay no more than six miles off.

Thither she went. While she was rusticating in this place of safety, and

her husband was slaving in the slums, she struck up an acquaintance with

a lieutenant in the �-st Foot, a Mr. Vannicock, who was stationed with

his regiment at the Budmouth infantry barracks. As Laura frequently sat

on the shelving beach, watching each thin wave slide up to her, and

hearing, without heeding, its gnaw at the pebbles in its retreat, he

often took a walk that way.

The acquaintance grew and ripened. Her situation, her history, her

beauty, her age-a year or two above his own-all tended to make an

impression on the young man's heart, and a reckless flirtation was soon

in blithe progress upon that lonely shore.

It was said by her detractors afterwards that she had chosen her lodging

to be near this gentleman, but there is reason to believe that she had

never seen him till her arrival there. Just now Casterbridge was so

deeply occupied with its own sad affairs-a daily burying of the dead and

destruction of contaminated clothes and bedding-that it had little

inclination to promulgate such gossip as may have reached its ears on

the pair. Nobody long considered Laura in the tragic cloud which

overhung all.

Meanwhile, on the Budmouth side of the hill the very mood of men was in

contrast. The visitation there had been slight and much earlier, and

normal occupations and pastimes had been resumed. Mr. Maumbry had

arranged to see Laura twice a week in the open air, that she might run

no risk from him; and, having heard nothing of the faint rumour, he met

her as usual one dry and windy afternoon on the summit of the dividing

hill, near where the high road from town to town crosses the old Ridge-

way at right angles.

He waved his hand, and smiled as she approached, shouting to her: 'We

will keep this wall between us, dear.' (Walls formed the field-fences

here.) 'You mustn't be endangered. It won't be for long, with God's

help!'

'I will do as you tell me, Jack. But you are running too much risk

yourself, aren't you? I get little news of you; but I fancy you are.'

'Not more than others.'

Thus somewhat formally they talked, an insulating wind beating the wall

between them like a mill-weir.

'But you wanted to ask me something?' he added.

'Yes. You know we are trying in Budmouth to raise some money for your

sufferers; and the way we have thought of is by a dramatic performance.

They want me to take a part.'

His face saddened. 'I have known so much of that sort of thing, and all

that accompanies it! I wish you had thought of some other way.'

She said lightly that she was afraid it was all settled. 'You object to

my taking a part, then? Of course-'

He told her that he did not like to say he positively objected. He

wished they had chosen an oratorio, or lecture, or anything more in

keeping with the necessity it was to relieve.

'But,' said she impatiently, 'people won't come to oratorios or

lectures! They will crowd to comedies and farces.'

'Well, I cannot dictate to Budmouth how it shall earn the money it is

going to give us. Who is getting up this performance?'

'The boys of the �-st.'

'Ah, yes; our old game!' replied Mr. Maumbry. 'The grief of Casterbridge

is the excuse for their frivolity. Candidly, dear Laura, I wish you

wouldn't play in it. But I don't forbid you to. I leave the whole to

your judgment.'

The interview ended, and they went their ways northward and southward.

Time disclosed to all concerned that Mrs. Maumbry played in the comedy

as the heroine, the lover's part being taken by Mr. Vannicock.

CHAPTER VI

Thus was helped on an event which the conduct of the mutually-attracted

ones had been generating for some time.

It is unnecessary to give details. The �-st Foot left for Bristol, and

this precipitated their action. After a week of hesitation she agreed to

leave her home at Creston and meet Vannicock on the ridge hard by, and

to accompany him to Bath, where he had secured lodgings for her, so that

she would be only about a dozen miles from his quarters.

Accordingly, on the evening chosen, she laid on her dressing-table a

note for her husband, running thus:-

DEAR JACK-I am unable to endure this life any longer, and I have

resolved to put an end to it. I told you I should run away if you

persisted in being a clergyman, and now I am doing it. One cannot help

one's nature. I have resolved to throw in my lot with Mr. Vannicock, and

I hope rather than expect you will forgive me.-L.

Then, with hardly a scrap of luggage, she went, ascending to the ridge

in the dusk of early evening. Almost on the very spot where her husband

had stood at their last tryst she beheld the outline of Vannicock, who

had come all the way from Bristol to fetch her.

'I don't like meeting here-it is so unlucky!' she cried to him. 'For

God's sake let us have a place of our own. Go back to the milestone, and

I'll come on.'

He went back to the milestone that stands on the north slope of the

ridge, where the old and new roads diverge, and she joined him there.

She was taciturn and sorrowful when he asked her why she would not meet

him on the top. At last she inquired how they were going to travel.

He explained that he proposed to walk to Mellstock Hill, on the other

side of Casterbridge, where a fly was waiting to take them by a cross-

cut into the Ivell Road, and onward to that town. The Bristol railway

was open to Ivell.

This plan they followed, and walked briskly through the dull gloom till

they neared Casterbridge, which place they avoided by turning to the

right at the Roman Amphitheatre and bearing round to Durnover Cross.

Thence the way was solitary and open across the moor to the hill whereon

the Ivell fly awaited them.

'I have noticed for some time,' she said, 'a lurid glare over the

Durnover end of the town. It seems to come from somewhere about Mixen

Lane.'

'The lamps,' he suggested.

'There's not a lamp as big as a rushlight in the whole lane. It is where

the cholera is worst.'

By Standfast Corner, a little beyond the Cross, they suddenly obtained

an end view of the lane. Large bonfires were burning in the middle of

the way, with a view to purifying the air; and from the wretched

tenements with which the lane was lined in those days persons were

bringing out bedding and clothing. Some was thrown into the fires, the

rest placed in wheel-barrows and wheeled into the moor directly in the

track of the fugitives.

They followed on, and came up to where a vast copper was set in the open

air. Here the linen was boiled and disinfected. By the light of the

lanterns Laura discovered that her husband was standing by the copper,

and that it was he who unloaded the barrow and immersed its contents.

The night was so calm and muggy that the conversation by the copper

reached her ears.

'Are there many more loads to-night?'

'There's the clothes o' they that died this afternoon, sir. But that

might bide till to-morrow, for you must be tired out.'

'We'll do it at once, for I can't ask anybody else to undertake it.

Overturn that load on the grass and fetch the rest.'

The man did so and went off with the barrow. Maumbry paused for a moment

to wipe his face, and resumed his homely drudgery amid this squalid and

reeking scene, pressing down and stirring the contents of the copper

with what looked like an old rolling-pin. The steam therefrom, laden

with death, travelled in a low trail across the meadow.

Laura spoke suddenly: 'I won't go to-night after all. He is so tired,

and I must help him. I didn't know things were so bad as this!'

Vannicock's arm dropped from her waist, where it had been resting as

they walked. 'Will you leave?' she asked.

'I will if you say I must. But I'd rather help too.' There was no

expostulation in his tone.

Laura had gone forward. 'Jack,' she said, 'I am come to help!'

The weary curate turned and held up the lantern. 'O-what, is it you,

Laura?' he asked in surprise. 'Why did you come into this? You had

better go back-the risk is great.'

'But I want to help you, Jack. Please let me help! I didn't come by

myself-Mr. Vannicock kept me company. He will make himself useful too,

if he's not gone on. Mr. Vannicock!'

The young lieutenant came forward reluctantly. Mr. Maumbry spoke

formally to him, adding as he resumed his labour, 'I thought the �-st

Foot had gone to Bristol.'

'We have. But I have run down again for a few things.'

The two newcomers began to assist, Vannicock placing on the ground the

small bag containing Laura's toilet articles that he had been carrying.

The barrowman soon returned with another load, and all continued work

for nearly a half-hour, when a coachman came out from the shadows to the

north.

'Beg pardon, sir,' he whispered to Vannicock, 'but I've waited so long

on Mellstock hill that at last I drove down to the turnpike; and seeing

the light here, I ran on to find out what had happened.'

Lieutenant Vannicock told him to wait a few minutes, and the last

barrow-load was got through. Mr. Maumbry stretched himself and breathed

heavily, saying, 'There; we can do no more.'

As if from the relaxation of effort he seemed to be seized with violent

pain. He pressed his hands to his sides and bent forward.

'Ah! I think it has got hold of me at last,' he said with difficulty. 'I

must try to get home. Let Mr. Vannicock take you back, Laura.'

He walked a few steps, they helping him, but was obliged to sink down on

the grass.

'I am-afraid-you'll have to send for a hurdle, or shutter, or

something,' he went on feebly, 'or try to get me into the barrow.'

But Vannicock had called to the driver of the fly, and they waited until

it was brought on from the turnpike hard by. Mr. Maumbry was placed

therein. Laura entered with him, and they drove to his humble residence

near the Cross, where he was got upstairs.

Vannicock stood outside by the empty fly awhile, but Laura did not

reappear. He thereupon entered the fly and told the driver to take him

back to Ivell.

CHAPTER VII

Mr. Maumbry had over-exerted himself in the relief of the suffering

poor, and fell a victim-one of the last-to the pestilence which had

carried off so many. Two days later he lay in his coffin.

Laura was in the room below. A servant brought in some letters, and she

glanced them over. One was the note from herself to Maumbry, informing

him that she was unable to endure life with him any longer and was about

to elope with Vannicock. Having read the letter she took it upstairs to

where the dead man was, and slipped it into his coffin. The next day she

buried him.

She was now free.

She shut up his house at Durnover Cross and returned to her lodgings at

Creston. Soon she had a letter from Vannicock, and six weeks after her

husband's death her lover came to see her.

'I forgot to give you back this-that night,' he said presently, handing

her the little bag she had taken as her whole luggage when leaving.

Laura received it and absently shook it out. There fell upon the carpet

her brush, comb, slippers, nightdress, and other simple necessaries for

a journey. They had an intolerably ghastly look now, and she tried to

cover them.

'I can now,' he said, 'ask you to belong to me legally-when a proper

interval has gone-instead of as we meant.'

There was languor in his utterance, hinting at a possibility that it was

perfunctorily made. Laura picked up her articles, answering that he

certainly could so ask her-she was free. Yet not her expression either

could be called an ardent response. Then she bCHANGElinked more and more

quickly and put her handkerchief to her face. She was weeping violently.

He did not move or try to comfort her in any way. What had come between

them? No living person. They had been lovers. There was now no material

obstacle whatever to their union. But there was the insistent shadow of

that unconscious one; the thin figure of him, moving to and fro in front

of the ghastly furnace in the gloom of Durnover Moor.

Yet Vannicock called upon Laura when he was in the neighbourhood, which

was not often; but in two years, as if on purpose to further the

marriage which everybody was expecting, the �-st Foot returned to

Budmouth Regis.

Thereupon the two could not help encountering each other at times. But

whether because the obstacle had been the source of the love, or from a

sense of error, and because Mrs. Maumbry bore a less attractive look as

a widow than before, their feelings seemed to decline from their former

incandescence to a mere tepid civility. What domestic issues supervened

in Vannicock's further story the man in the oriel never knew; but Mrs.

Maumbry lived and died a widow. 1900.

THE WAITING SUPPER

CHAPTER I

Whoever had perceived the yeoman standing on Squire Everard's lawn in

the dusk of that October evening fifty years ago, might have said at

first sight that he was loitering there from idle curiosity. For a large

five-light window of the manor-house in front of him was unshuttered and

uncurtained, so that the illuminated room within could be scanned almost

to its four corners. Obviously nobody was ever expected to be in this

part of the grounds after nightfall.

The apartment thus swept by an eye from without was occupied by two

persons; they were sitting over dessert, the tablecloth having been

removed in the old-fashioned way. The fruits were local, consisting of

apples, pears, nuts, and such other products of the summer as might be

presumed to grow on the estate. There was strong ale and rum on the

table, and but little wine. Moreover, the appointments of the dining-

room were simple and homely even for the date, betokening a countrified

household of the smaller gentry, without much wealth or ambition-

formerly a numerous class, but now in great part ousted by the

territorial landlords.

One of the two sitters was a young lady in white muslin, who listened

somewhat impatiently to the remarks of her companion, an elderly,

rubicund personage, whom the merest stranger could have pronounced to be

her father. The watcher evinced no signs of moving, and it became

evident that affairs were not so simple as they first had seemed. The

tall farmer was in fact no accidental spectator, and he stood by

premeditation close to the trunk of a tree, so that had any traveller

passed along the road without the park gate, or even round the lawn to

the door, that person would scarce have noticed the other,

notwithstanding that the gate was quite near at hand, and the park

little larger than a paddock. There was still light enough in the

western heaven to brighten faintly one side of the man's face, and to

show against the trunk of the tree behind the admirable cut of his

profile; also to reveal that the front of the manor-house, small though

it seemed, was solidly built of stone in that never-to-be-surpassed

style for the English country residence-the mullioned and transomed

Elizabethan.

The lawn, although neglected, was still as level as a bowling- green-

which indeed it might once have served for; and the blades of grass

before the window were raked by the candle-shine, which stretched over

them so far as to touch the yeoman's face in front.

Within the dining-room there were also, with one of the twain, the same

signs of a hidden purpose that marked the farmer. The young lady's mind

was straying as clearly into the shadows as that of the loiterer was

fixed upon the room-nay, it could be said that she was quite conscious

of his presence outside. Impatience caused her foot to beat silently on

the carpet, and she more than once rose to leave the table. This

proceeding was checked by her father, who would put his hand upon her

shoulder and unceremoniously press her down into her chair, till he

should have concluded his observations. Her replies were brief enough,

and there was factitiousness in her smiles of assent to his views. A

small iron casement between two of the mullions was open, and some

occasional words of the dialogue were audible without.

'As for drains-how can I put in drains? The pipes don't cost much,

that's true; but the labour in sinking the trenches is ruination. And

then the gates-they should be hung to stone posts, otherwise there's no

keeping them up through harvest.' The Squire's voice was strongly toned

with the local accent, so that he said 'dra�ns' and 'ge�ts' like the

rustics on his estate.

The landscape without grew darker, and the young man's figure seemed to

be absorbed into the trunk of the tree. The small stars filled in

between the larger, the nebulae between the small stars, the trees quite

lost their voice; and if there was still a sound, it was from the

cascade of a stream which stretched along under the trees that bounded

the lawn on its northern side.

At last the young girl did get to her feet and secure her retreat. 'I

have something to do, papa,' she said. 'I shall not be in the drawing-

room just yet.'

'Very well,' replied he. 'Then I won't hurry.' And closing the door

behind her, he drew his decanters together and settled down in his

chair.

Three minutes after that a woman's shape emerged from the drawing-room

window, and passing through a wall-door to the entrance front, came

across the grass. She kept well clear of the dining-room window, but

enough of its light fell on her to show, escaping from the dark-hooded

cloak that she wore, stray verges of the same light dress which had

figured but recently at the dinner-table. The hood was contracted tight

about her face with a drawing-string, making her countenance small and

baby-like, and lovelier even than before.

Without hesitation she brushed across the grass to the tree under which

the young man stood concealed. The moment she had reached him he

enclosed her form with his arm. The meeting and embrace, though by no

means formal, were yet not passionate; the whole proceeding was that of

persons who had repeated the act so often as to be unconscious of its

performance. She turned within his arm, and faced in the same direction

with himself, which was towards the window; and thus they stood without

speaking, the back of her head leaning against his shoulder. For a while

each seemed to be thinking his and her diverse thoughts.

'You have kept me waiting a long time, dear Christine,' he said at last.

'I wanted to speak to you particularly, or I should not have stayed. How

came you to be dining at this time o' night?'

'Father has been out all day, and dinner was put back till six. I know I

have kept you; but Nicholas, how can I help it sometimes, if I am not to

run any risk? My poor father insists upon my listening to all he has to

say; since my brother left he has had nobody else to listen to him; and

to-night he was particularly tedious on his usual topics-draining, and

tenant-farmers, and the village people. I must take daddy to London; he

gets so narrow always staying here.'

'And what did you say to it all?'

'Well, I took the part of the tenant-farmers, of course, as the beloved

of one should in duty do.' There followed a little break or gasp,

implying a strangled sigh.

'You are sorry you have encouraged that beloving one?'

'O no, Nicholas . . . What is it you want to see me for particularly?'

'I know you are sorry, as time goes on, and everything is at a dead-

lock, with no prospect of change, and your rural swain loses his

freshness! Only think, this secret understanding between us has lasted

near three year, ever since you was a little over sixteen.'

'Yes; it has been a long time.'

'And I an untamed, uncultivated man, who has never seen London, and

knows nothing about society at all.'

'Not uncultivated, dear Nicholas. Untravelled, socially unpractised, if

you will,' she said, smiling. 'Well, I did sigh; but not because I

regret being your promised one. What I do sometimes regret is that the

scheme, which my meetings with you are but a part of, has not been

carried out completely. You said, Nicholas, that if I consented to swear

to keep faith with you, you would go away and travel, and see nations,

and peoples, and cities, and take a professor with you, and study books

and art, simultaneously with your study of men and manners; and then

come back at the end of two years, when I should find that my father

would by no means be indisposed to accept you as a son-in-law. You said

your reason for wishing to get my promise before starting was that your

mind would then be more at rest when you were far away, and so could

give itself more completely to knowledge than if you went as my

unaccepted lover only, fuming with anxiety as to how I should be when

you came back. I saw how reasonable that was; and solemnly swore myself

to you in consequence. But instead of going to see the world you stay on

and on here to see me.'

'And you don't want me to see you?'

'Yes-no-it is not that. It is that I have latterly felt frightened at

what I am doing when not in your actual presence. It seems so wicked not

to tell my father that I have a lover close at hand, within touch and

view of both of us; whereas if you were absent my conduct would not seem

quite so treacherous. The realities would not stare at one so. You would

be a pleasant dream to me, which I should be free to indulge in without

reproach of my conscience; I should live in hopeful expectation of your

returning fully qualified to boldly claim me of my father. There, I have

been terribly frank, I know.'

He in his turn had lapsed into gloomy breathings now. 'I did plan it as

you state,' he answered. 'I did mean to go away the moment I had your

promise. But, dear Christine, I did not foresee two or three things. I

did not know what a lot of pain it would cost to tear myself from you.

And I did not know that my stingy uncle-heaven forgive me calling him

so!-would so flatly refuse to advance me money for my purpose-the scheme

of travelling with a first-rate tutor costing a formidable sum o' money.

You have no idea what it would cost!'

'But I have said that I'll find the money.'

'Ah, there,' he returned, 'you have hit a sore place. To speak truly,

dear, I would rather stay unpolished a hundred years than take your

money.'

'But why? Men continually use the money of the women they marry.'

'Yes; but not till afterwards. No man would like to touch your money at

present, and I should feel very mean if I were to do so in present

circumstances. That brings me to what I was going to propose. But no-

upon the whole I will not propose it now.'

'Ah! I would guarantee expenses, and you won't let me! The money is my

personal possession: it comes to me from my late grandfather, and not

from my father at all.'

He laughed forcedly and pressed her hand. 'There are more reasons why I

cannot tear myself away,' he added. 'What would become of my uncle's

farming? Six hundred acres in this parish, and five hundred in the next-

a constant traipsing from one farm to the other; he can't be in two

places at once. Still, that might be got over if it were not for the

other matters. Besides, dear, I still should be a little uneasy, even

though I have your promise, lest somebody should snap you up away from

me.'

'Ah, you should have thought of that before. Otherwise I have committed

myself for nothing.'

'I should have thought of it,' he answered gravely. 'But I did not.

There lies my fault, I admit it freely. Ah, if you would only commit

yourself a little more, I might at least get over that difficulty! But I

won't ask you. You have no idea how much you are to me still; you could

not argue so coolly if you had. What property belongs to you I hate the

very sound of; it is you I care for. I wish you hadn't a farthing in the

world but what I could earn for you!'

'I don't altogether wish that,' she murmured.

'I wish it, because it would have made what I was going to propose much

easier to do than it is now. Indeed I will not propose it, although I

came on purpose, after what you have said in your frankness.'

'Nonsense, Nic. Come, tell me. How can you be so touchy?'

'Look at this then, Christine dear.' He drew from his breast-pocket a

sheet of paper and unfolded it, when it was observable that a seal

dangled from the bottom.

'What is it?' She held the paper sideways, so that what there was of

window-light fell on its surface. 'I can only read the Old English

letters-why-our names! Surely it is not a marriage-licence?'

'It is.'

She trembled. 'O Nic! how could you do this-and without telling me!'

'Why should I have thought I must tell you? You had not spoken "frankly"

then as you have now. We have been all to each other more than these two

years, and I thought I would propose that we marry privately, and that I

then leave you on the instant. I would have taken my travelling-bag to

church, and you would have gone home alone. I should not have started on

my adventures in the brilliant manner of our original plan, but should

have roughed it a little at first; my great gain would have been that

the absolute possession of you would have enabled me to work with spirit

and purpose, such as nothing else could do. But I dare not ask you now-

so frank as you have been.'

She did not answer. The document he had produced gave such unexpected

substantiality to the venture with which she had so long toyed as a

vague dream merely, that she was, in truth, frightened a little. 'I-

don't know about it!' she said.

'Perhaps not. Ah, my little lady, you are wearying of me!'

'No, Nic,' responded she, creeping closer. 'I am not. Upon my word, and

truth, and honour, I am not, Nic.'

'A mere tiller of the soil, as I should be called,' he continued,

without heeding her. 'And you-well, a daughter of one of the-I won't say

oldest families, because that's absurd, all families are the same age-

one of the longest chronicled families about here, whose name is

actually the name of the place.'

'That's not much, I am sorry to say! My poor brother-but I won't speak

of that . . . Well,' she murmured mischievously, after a pause, 'you

certainly would not need to be uneasy if I were to do this that you want

me to do. You would have me safe enough in your trap then; I couldn't

get away!'

'That's just it!' he said vehemently. 'It is a trap-you feel it so, and

that though you wouldn't be able to get away from me you might

particularly wish to! Ah, if I had asked you two years ago you would

have agreed instantly. But I thought I was bound to wait for the

proposal to come from you as the superior!'

'Now you are angry, and take seriously what I meant purely in fun. You

don't know me even yet! To show you that you have not been mistaken in

me, I do propose to carry out this licence. I'll marry you, dear

Nicholas, to-morrow morning.'

'Ah, Christine! I am afraid I have stung you on to this, so that I

cannot-'

'No, no, no!' she hastily rejoined; and there was something in her tone

which suggested that she had been put upon her mettle and would not

flinch. 'Take me whilst I am in the humour. What church is the licence

for?'

'That I've not looked to see-why our parish church here, of course. Ah,

then we cannot use it! We dare not be married here.'

'We do dare,' said she. 'And we will too, if you'll be there.'

'If I'll be there!'

They speedily came to an agreement that he should be in the church-porch

at ten minutes to eight on the following morning, awaiting her; and

that, immediately after the conclusion of the service which would make

them one, Nicholas should set out on his long-deferred educational tour,

towards the cost of which she was resolving to bring a substantial

subscription with her to church. Then, slipping from him, she went

indoors by the way she had come, and Nicholas bent his steps homewards.

CHAPTER II

Instead of leaving the spot by the gate, he flung himself over the

fence, and pursued a direction towards the river under the trees. And it

was now, in his lonely progress, that he showed for the first time

outwardly that he was not altogether unworthy of her. He wore long

water-boots reaching above his knees, and, instead of making a circuit

to find a bridge by which he might cross the Froom-the river aforesaid-

he made straight for the point whence proceeded the low roar that was at

this hour the only evidence of the stream's existence. He speedily stood

on the verge of the waterfall which caused the noise, and stepping into

the water at the top of the fall, waded through with the sure tread of

one who knew every inch of his footing, even though the canopy of trees

rendered the darkness almost absolute, and a false step would have

precipitated him into the pool beneath. Soon reaching the boundary of

the grounds, he continued in the same direct line to traverse the

alluvial valley, full of brooks and tributaries to the main stream-in

former times quite impassable, and impassable in winter now. Sometimes

he would cross a deep gully on a plank not wider than the hand; at

another time he ploughed his way through beds of spear-grass, where at a

few feet to the right or left he might have been sucked down into a

morass. At last he reached firm land on the other side of this watery

tract, and came to his house on the rise behind-Elsenford-an ordinary

farmstead, from the back of which rose indistinct breathings, belchings,

and snortings, the rattle of halters, and other familiar features of an

agriculturist's home.

While Nicholas Long was packing his bag in an upper room of this

dwelling, Miss Christine Everard sat at a desk in her own chamber at

Froom-Everard manor-house, looking with pale fixed countenance at the

candles.

'I ought-I must now!' she whispered to herself. 'I should not have begun

it if I had not meant to carry it through! It runs in the blood of us, I

suppose.' She alluded to a fact unknown to her lover, the clandestine

marriage of an aunt under circumstances somewhat similar to the present.

In a few minutes she had penned the following note:-

October 13, 183-.

DEAR MR. BEALAND-Can you make it convenient to yourself to meet me at

the Church to-morrow morning at eight? I name the early hour because it

would suit me better than later on in the day. You will find me in the

chancel, if you can come. An answer yes or no by the bearer of this will

be sufficient. CHRISTINE EVERARD.

She sent the note to the rector immediately, waiting at a small side-

door of the house till she heard the servant's footsteps returning along

the lane, when she went round and met him in the passage. The rector had

taken the trouble to write a line, and answered that he would meet her

with pleasure.

A dripping fog which ushered in the next morning was highly favourable

to the scheme of the pair. At that time of the century Froom-Everard

House had not been altered and enlarged; the public lane passed close

under its walls; and there was a door opening directly from one of the

old parlours-the south parlour, as it was called-into the lane which led

to the village. Christine came out this way, and after following the

lane for a short distance entered upon a path within a belt of

plantation, by which the church could be reached privately. She even

avoided the churchyard gate, walking along to a place where the turf

without the low wall rose into a mound, enabling her to mount upon the

coping and spring down inside. She crossed the wet graves, and so glided

round to the door. He was there, with his bag in his hand. He kissed her

with a sort of surprise, as if he had expected that at the last moment

her heart would fail her.

Though it had not failed her, there was, nevertheless, no great ardour

in Christine's bearing-merely the momentum of an antecedent impulse.

They went up the aisle together, the bottle-green glass of the old lead

quarries admitting but little light at that hour, and under such an

atmosphere. They stood by the altar-rail in silence, Christine's skirt

visibly quivering at each beat of her heart.

Presently a quick step ground upon the gravel, and Mr. Bealand came

round by the front. He was a quiet bachelor, courteous towards

Christine, and not at first recognizing in Nicholas a neighbouring

yeoman (for he lived aloofly in the next parish), advanced to her

without revealing any surprise at her unusual request. But in truth he

was surprised, the keen interest taken by many country young women at

the present day in church decoration and festivals being then unknown.

'Good morning,' he said; and repeated the same words to Nicholas more

mechanically.

'Good morning,' she replied gravely. 'Mr. Bealand, I have a serious

reason for asking you to meet me-us, I may say. We wish you to marry

us.'

The rector's gaze hardened to fixity, rather between than upon either of

them, and he neither moved nor replied for some time.

'Ah!' he said at last.

'And we are quite ready.'

'I had no idea-'

'It has been kept rather private,' she said calmly.

'Where are your witnesses?'

'They are outside in the meadow, sir. I can call them in a moment,' said

Nicholas.

'Oh-I see it is-Mr. Nicholas Long,' said Mr. Bealand, and turning again

to Christine, 'Does your father know of this?'

'Is it necessary that I should answer that question, Mr. Bealand?'

'I am afraid it is-highly necessary.'

Christine began to look concerned.

'Where is the licence?' the rector asked; 'since there have been no

banns.'

Nicholas produced it, Mr. Bealand read it, an operation which occupied

him several minutes-or at least he made it appear so; till Christine

said impatiently, 'We are quite ready, Mr. Bealand. Will you proceed?

Mr. Long has to take a journey of a great many miles to-day.'

'And you?'

'No. I remain.'

Mr. Bealand assumed firmness. 'There is something wrong in this,' he

said. 'I cannot marry you without your father's presence.'

'But have you a right to refuse us?' interposed Nicholas. 'I believe we

are in a position to demand your fulfilment of our request.'

'No, you are not! Is Miss Everard of age? I think not. I think she is

months from being so. Eh, Miss Everard?'

'Am I bound to tell that?'

'Certainly. At any rate you are bound to write it. Meanwhile I refuse to

solemnize the service. And let me entreat you two young people to do

nothing so rash as this, even if by going to some strange church, you

may do so without discovery. The tragedy of marriage-'

'Tragedy?'

'Certainly. It is full of crises and catastrophes, and ends with the

death of one of the actors. The tragedy of marriage, as I was saying, is

one I shall not be a party to your beginning with such light hearts, and

I shall feel bound to put your father on his guard, Miss Everard. Think

better of it, I entreat you! Remember the proverb, "Marry in haste and

repent at leisure."'

Christine, spurred by opposition, almost stormed at him. Nicholas

implored; but nothing would turn that obstinate rector. She sat down and

reflected. By-and-by she confronted Mr. Bealand.

'Our marriage is not to be this morning, I see,' she said. 'Now grant me

one favour, and in return I'll promise you to do nothing rashly. Do not

tell my father a word of what has happened here.'

'I agree-if you undertake not to elope.'

She looked at Nicholas, and he looked at her. 'Do you wish me to elope,

Nic?' she asked.

'No,' he said.

So the compact was made, and they left the church singly, Nicholas

remaining till the last, and closing the door. On his way home, carrying

the well-packed bag which was just now to go no further, the two men who

were mending water-carriers in the meadows approached the hedge, as if

they had been on the alert all the time.

'You said you mid want us for zummat, sir?'

'All right-never mind,' he answered through the hedge. 'I did not

require you after all.'

CHAPTER III

At a manor not far away there lived a queer and primitive couple who had

lately been blessed with a son and heir. The christening took place

during the week under notice, and this had been followed by a feast to

the parishioners. Christine's father, one of the same generation and

kind, had been asked to drive over and assist in the entertainment, and

Christine, as a matter of course, accompanied him.

When they reached Athelhall, as the house was called, they found the

usually quiet nook a lively spectacle. Tables had been spread in the

apartment which lent its name to the whole building-the hall proper-

covered with a fine open-timbered roof, whose braces, purlins, and

rafters made a brown thicket of oak overhead. Here tenantry of all ages

sat with their wives and families, and the servants were assisted in

their ministrations by the sons and daughters of the owner's friends and

neighbours. Christine lent a hand among the rest.

She was holding a plate in each hand towards a huge brown platter of

baked rice-pudding, from which a footman was scooping a large spoonful,

when a voice reached her ear over her shoulder: 'Allow me to hold them

for you.'

Christine turned, and recognized in the speaker the nephew of the

entertainer, a young man from London, whom she had already met on two or

three occasions.

She accepted the proffered help, and from that moment, whenever he

passed her in their marchings to and fro during the remainder of the

serving, he smiled acquaintance. When their work was done, he improved

the few words into a conversation. He plainly had been attracted by her

fairness.

Bellston was a self-assured young man, not particularly good-looking,

with more colour in his skin than even Nicholas had. He had flushed a

little in attracting her notice, though the flush had nothing of

nervousness in it-the air with which it was accompanied making it

curiously suggestive of a flush of anger; and even when he laughed it

was difficult to banish that fancy.

The late autumn sunlight streamed in through the window panes upon the

heads and shoulders of the venerable patriarchs of the hamlet, and upon

the middle-aged, and upon the young; upon men and women who had played

out, or were to play, tragedies or tragi-comedies in that nook of

civilization not less great, essentially, than those which, enacted on

more central arenas, fix the attention of the world. One of the party

was a cousin of Nicholas Long's, who sat with her husband and children.

To make himself as locally harmonious as possible, Mr. Bellston remarked

to his companion on the scene-'It does one's heart good,' he said, 'to

see these simple peasants enjoying themselves.'

'O Mr. Bellston!' exclaimed Christine; 'don't be too sure about that

word "simple"! You little think what they see and meditate! Their

reasonings and emotions are as complicated as ours.'

She spoke with a vehemence which would have been hardly present in her

words but for her own relation to Nicholas. The sense of that produced

in her a nameless depression thenceforward. The young man, however,

still followed her up.

'I am glad to hear you say it,' he returned warmly. 'I was merely

attuning myself to your mood, as I thought. The real truth is that I

know more of the Parthians, and Medes, and dwellers in Mesopotamia-

almost of any people, indeed-than of the English rustics. Travel and

exploration are my profession, not the study of the British peasantry.'

Travel. There was sufficient coincidence between his declaration and the

course she had urged upon her lover, to lend Bellston's account of

himself a certain interest in Christine's ears. He might perhaps be able

to tell her something that would be useful to Nicholas, if their dream

were carried out. A door opened from the hall into the garden, and she

somehow found herself outside, chatting with Mr. Bellston on this topic,

till she thought that upon the whole she liked the young man. The garden

being his uncle's, he took her round it with an air of proprietorship;

and they went on amongst the Michaelmas daisies and chrysanthemums, and

through a door to the fruit-garden. A green-house was open, and he went

in and cut her a bunch of grapes.

'How daring of you! They are your uncle's.'

'O, he don't mind-I do anything here. A rough old buffer, isn't he?'

She was thinking of her Nic, and felt that, by comparison with her

present acquaintance, the farmer more than held his own as a fine and

intelligent fellow; but the harmony with her own existence in little

things, which she found here, imparted an alien tinge to Nicholas just

now. The latter, idealized by moonlight, or a thousand miles of

distance, was altogether a more romantic object for a woman's dream than

this smart new-lacquered man; but in the sun of afternoon, and amid a

surrounding company, Mr. Bellston was a very tolerable companion.

When they re-entered the hall, Bellston entreated her to come with him

up a spiral stair in the thickness of the wall, leading to a passage and

gallery whence they could look down upon the scene below. The people had

finished their feast, the newly-christened baby had been exhibited, and

a few words having been spoken to them they began, amid a racketing of

forms, to make for the greensward without, Nicholas's cousin and

cousin's wife and cousin's children among the rest. While they were

filing out, a voice was heard calling-'Hullo!-here, Jim; where are you?'

said Bellston's uncle. The young man descended, Christine following at

leisure.

'Now will ye be a good fellow,' the Squire continued, 'and set them

going outside in some dance or other that they know? I'm dog-tired, and

I want to have a yew words with Mr. Everard before we join 'em-hey,

Everard? They are shy till somebody starts 'em; afterwards they'll keep

gwine brisk enough.'

'Ay, that they wool,' said Squire Everard.

They followed to the lawn; and here it proved that James Bellston was as

shy, or rather as averse, as any of the tenantry themselves, to acting

the part of fugleman. Only the parish people had been at the feast, but

outlying neighbours had now strolled in for a dance.

'They want "Speed the Plough,"' said Bellston, coming up breathless. 'It

must be a country dance, I suppose? Now, Miss Everard, do have pity upon

me. I am supposed to lead off; but really I know no more about speeding

the plough than a child just born! Would you take one of the villagers?-

just to start them, my uncle says. Suppose you take that handsome young

farmer over there-I don't know his name, but I dare say you do-and I'll

come on with one of the dairyman's daughters as a second couple.'

Christine turned in the direction signified, and changed colour-though

in the shade nobody noticed it, 'Oh, yes-I know him,' she said coolly.

'He is from near our own place-Mr. Nicholas Long.'

'That's capital-then you can easily make him stand as first couple with

you. Now I must pick up mine.'

'I-I think I'll dance with you, Mr. Bellston,' she said with some

trepidation. 'Because, you see,' she explained eagerly, 'I know the

figure and you don't-so that I can help you; while Nicholas Long, I

know, is familiar with the figure, and that will make two couples who

know it-which is necessary, at least.'

Bellston showed his gratification by one of his angry-pleasant flushes-

he had hardly dared to ask for what she proffered freely; and having

requested Nicholas to take the dairyman's daughter, led Christine to her

place, Long promptly stepping up second with his charge. There were grim

silent depths in Nic's character; a small deedy spark in his eye, as it

caught Christine's, was all that showed his consciousness of her. Then

the fiddlers began-the celebrated Mellstock fiddlers who, given free

stripping, could play from sunset to dawn without turning a hair. The

couples wheeled and swung, Nicholas taking Christine's hand in the

course of business with the figure, when she waited for him to give it a

little squeeze; but he did not.

Christine had the greatest difficulty in steering her partner through

the maze, on account of his self-will, and when at last they reached the

bottom of the long line, she was breathless with her hard labour..

Resting here, she watched Nic and his lady; and, though she had

decidedly cooled off in these later months, began to admire him anew.

Nobody knew these dances like him, after all, or could do anything of

this sort so well. His performance with the dairyman's daughter so won

upon her, that when 'Speed the Plough' was over she contrived to speak

to him.

'Nic, you are to dance with me next time.'

He said he would, and presently asked her in a formal public manner,

lifting his hat gallantly. She showed a little backwardness, which he

quite understood, and allowed him to lead her to the top, a row of

enormous length appearing below them as if by magic as soon as they had

taken their places. Truly the Squire was right when he said that they

only wanted starting.

'What is it to be?' whispered Nicholas.

She turned to the band. 'The Honeymoon,' she said.

And then they trod the delightful last-century measure of that name,

which if it had been ever danced better, was never danced with more

zest. The perfect responsiveness which their tender acquaintance threw

into the motions of Nicholas and his partner lent to their gyrations the

fine adjustment of two interacting parts of a single machine. The

excitement of the movement carried Christine back to the time-the

unreflecting passionate time, about two years before-when she and Nic

had been incipient lovers only; and it made her forget the carking

anxieties, the vision of social breakers ahead, that had begun to take

the gilding off her position now. Nicholas, on his part, had never

ceased to be a lover; no personal worries had as yet made him conscious

of any staleness, flatness, or unprofitableness in his admiration of

Christine.

'Not quite so wildly, Nic,' she whispered. 'I don't object personally;

but they'll notice us. How came you here?'

'I heard that you had driven over; and I set out-on purpose for this.'

'What-you have walked?'

'Yes. If I had waited for one of uncle's horses I should have been too

late.'

'Five miles here and five back-ten miles on foot-merely to dance!'

'With you. What made you think of this old "Honeymoon" thing?'

'O! it came into my head when I saw you, as what would have been a

reality with us if you had not been stupid about that licence, and had

got it for a distant church.'

'Shall we try again?'

'No-I don't know. I'll think it over.'

The villagers admired their grace and skill, as the dancers themselves

perceived; but they did not know what accompanied that admiration in one

spot, at least.

'People who wonder they can foot it so featly together should know what

some others think,' a waterman was saying to his neighbour. 'Then their

wonder would be less.'

His comrade asked for information.

'Well-really I hardly believe it-but 'tis said they be man and wife.

Yes, sure-went to church and did the job a'most afore 'twas light one

morning. But mind, not a word of this; for 'twould be the loss of a

winter's work to me if I had spread such a report and it were not true.'

When the dance had ended she rejoined her own section of the company.

Her father and Mr. Bellston the elder had now come out from the house,

and were smoking in the background. Presently she found that her father

was at her elbow.

'Christine, don't dance too often with young Long-as a mere matter of

prudence, I mean, as volk might think it odd, he being one of our own

neighbouring farmers. I should not mention this to 'ee if he were an

ordinary young fellow; but being superior to the rest it behoves you to

be careful.'

'Exactly, papa,' said Christine.

But the revived sense that she was deceiving him threw a damp over her

spirits. 'But, after all,' she said to herself, 'he is a young man of

Elsenford, handsome, able, and the soul of honour; and I am a young

woman of the adjoining parish, who have been constantly thrown into

communication with him. Is it not, by nature's rule, the most proper

thing in the world that I should marry him, and is it not an absurd

conventional regulation which says that such a union would be wrong?'

It may be concluded that the strength of Christine's large-minded

argument was rather an evidence of weakness than of strength in the

passion it concerned, which had required neither argument nor reasoning

of any kind for its maintenance when full and flush in its early days.

When driving home in the dark with her father she sank into pensive

silence. She was thinking of Nicholas having to trudge on foot all those

miles back after his exertions on the sward. Mr. Everard, arousing

himself from a nap, said suddenly, 'I have something to mention to 'ee,

by George-so I have, Chris! You probably know what it is?'

She expressed ignorance, wondering if her father had discovered anything

of her secret.

'Well, according to him you know it. But I will tell 'ee. Perhaps you

noticed young Jim Bellston walking me off down the lawn with him?-

whether or no, we walked together a good while; and he informed me that

he wanted to pay his addresses to 'ee. I naturally said that it depended

upon yourself; and he replied that you were willing enough; you had

given him particular encouragement-showing your preference for him by

specially choosing him for your partner-hey? "In that case," says I, "go

on and conquer-settle it with her-I have no objection." The poor fellow

was very grateful, and in short, there we left the matter. He'll propose

to-morrow.'

She saw now to her dismay what James Bellston had read as encouragement.

'He has mistaken me altogether,' she said. 'I had no idea of such a

thing.'

'What, you won't have him?'

'Indeed, I cannot!'

'Chrissy,' said Mr. Everard with emphasis, 'there's noobody whom I

should so like you to marry as that young man. He's a thoroughly clever

fellow, and fairly well provided for. He's travelled all over the

temperate zone; but he says that directly he marries he's going to give

up all that, and be a regular stay-at-home. You would be nowhere safer

than in his hands.'

'It is true,' she answered. 'He is a highly desirable match, and I

should be well provided for, and probably very safe in his hands.'

'Then don't be skittish, and stand-to.'

She had spoken from her conscience and understanding, and not to please

her father. As a reflecting woman she believed that such a marriage

would be a wise one. In great things Nicholas was closest to her nature;

in little things Bellston seemed immeasurably nearer than Nic; and life

was made up of little things.

Altogether the firmament looked black for Nicholas Long, notwithstanding

her half-hour's ardour for him when she saw him dancing with the

dairyman's daughter. Most great passions, movements, and beliefs-

individual and national-burst during their decline into a temporary

irradiation, which rivals their original splendour; and then they

speedily become extinct. Perhaps the dance had given the last flare-up

to Christine's love. It seemed to have improvidently consumed for its

immediate purpose all her ardour forwards, so that for the future there

was nothing left but frigidity.

Nicholas had certainly been very foolish about that licence!

CHAPTER IV

This laxity of emotional tone was further increased by an incident,

when, two days later, she kept an appointment with Nicholas in the

Sallows. The Sallows was an extension of shrubberies and plantations

along the banks of the Froom, accessible from the lawn of Froom-Everard

House only, except by wading through the river at the waterfall or

elsewhere. Near the brink was a thicket of box in which a trunk lay

prostrate; this had been once or twice their trysting-place, though it

was by no means a safe one; and it was here she sat awaiting him now.

The noise of the stream muffled any sound of footsteps, and it was

before she was aware of his approach that she looked up and saw him

wading across at the top of the waterfall.

Noontide lights and dwarfed shadows always banished the romantic aspect

of her love for Nicholas. Moreover, something new had occurred to

disturb her; and if ever she had regretted giving way to a tenderness

for him-which perhaps she had not done with any distinctness-she

regretted it now. Yet in the bottom of their hearts those two were

excellently paired, the very twin halves of a perfect whole; and their

love was pure. But at this hour surfaces showed garishly, and obscured

the depths. Probably her regret appeared in her face.

He walked up to her without speaking, the water running from his boots;

and, taking one of her hands in each of his own, looked narrowly into

her eyes.

'Have you thought it over?'

'What?'

'Whether we shall try again; you remember saying you would at the

dance?'

'Oh, I had forgotten that!'

'You are sorry we tried at all!' he said accusingly.

'I am not so sorry for the fact as for the rumours,' she said.

'Ah! rumours?'

'They say we are already married.'

'Who?'

'I cannot tell exactly. I heard some whispering to that effect. Somebody

in the village told one of the servants, I believe. This man said that

he was crossing the churchyard early on that unfortunate foggy morning,

and heard voices in the chancel, and peeped through the window as well

as the dim panes would let him; and there he saw you and me and Mr.

Bealand, and so on; but thinking his surmises would be dangerous

knowledge, he hastened on. And so the story got afloat. Then your aunt,

too-'

'Good Lord!-what has she done?'

The story was, told her, and she said proudly, "O yes, it is true

enough. I have seen the licence. But it is not to be known yet."'

'Seen the licence? How the-'

'Accidentally, I believe, when your coat was hanging somewhere.'

The information, coupled with the infelicitous word 'proudly,' caused

Nicholas to flush with mortification. He knew that it was in his aunt's

nature to make a brag of that sort; but worse than the brag was the fact

that this was the first occasion on which Christine had deigned to show

her consciousness that such a marriage would be a source of pride to his

relatives-the only two he had in the world.

'You are sorry, then, even to be thought my wife, much less to be it.'

He dropped her hand, which fell lifelessly.

'It is not sorry exactly, dear Nic. But I feel uncomfortable and vexed,

that after screwing up my courage, my fidelity, to the point of going to

church, you should have so muddled-managed the matter that it has ended

in neither one thing nor the other. How can I meet acquaintances, when I

don't know what they are thinking of me?'

'Then, dear Christine, let us mend the muddle. I'll go away for a few

days and get another licence, and you can come to me.'

She shrank from this perceptibly. 'I cannot screw myself up to it a

second time,' she said. 'I am sure I cannot! Besides, I promised Mr.

Bealand. And yet how can I continue to see you after such a rumour? We

shall be watched now, for certain.'

'Then don't see me.'

'I fear I must not for the present. Altogether-'

'What?'

'I am very depressed.'

These views were not very inspiriting to Nicholas, as he construed them.

It may indeed have been possible that he construed them wrongly, and

should have insisted upon her making the rumour true. Unfortunately,

too, he had come to her in a hurry through brambles and briars, water

and weed, and the shaggy wildness which hung about his appearance at

this fine and correct time of day lent an impracticability to the look

of him.

'You blame me-you repent your courses-you repent that you ever, ever

owned anything to me!'

'No, Nicholas, I do not repent that,' she returned gently, though with

firmness. 'But I think that you ought not to have got that licence

without asking me first; and I also think that you ought to have known

how it would be if you lived on here in your present position, and made

no effort to better it. I can bear whatever comes, for social ruin is

not personal ruin or even personal disgrace. But as a sensible, new-

risen poet says, whom I have been reading this morning:-

The world and its ways have a certain worth: And to press a point while

these oppose Were simple policy. Better wait.

As soon as you had got my promise, Nic, you should have gone away-yes-

and made a name, and come back to claim me. That was my silly girlish

dream about my hero.'

'Perhaps I can do as much yet! And would you have indeed liked better to

live away from me for family reasons, than to run a risk in seeing me

for affection's sake? O what a cold heart it has grown! If I had been a

prince, and you a dairymaid, I'd have stood by you in the face of the

world!'

She shook her head. 'Ah-you don't know what society is-you don't know.'

'Perhaps not. Who was that strange gentleman of about seven-and-twenty I

saw at Mr. Bellston's christening feast?'

'Oh-that was his nephew James. Now he is a man who has seen an unusual

extent of the world for his age. He is a great traveller, you know.'

'Indeed.'

'In fact an explorer. He is very entertaining.'

'No doubt.'

Nicholas received no shock of jealousy from her announcement. He knew

her so well that he could see she was not in the least in love with

Bellston. But he asked if Bellston were going to continue his

explorations.

'Not if he settles in life. Otherwise he will, I suppose.'

'Perhaps I could be a great explorer, too, if I tried.'

'You could, I am sure.'

They sat apart, and not together; each looking afar off at vague

objects, and not in each other's eyes. Thus the sad autumn afternoon

waned, while the waterfall hissed sarcastically of the inevitableness of

the unpleasant. Very different this from the time when they had first

met there.

The nook was most picturesque; but it looked horridly common and stupid

now. Their sentiment had set a colour hardly less visible than a

material one on surrounding objects, as sentiment must where life is but

thought. Nicholas was as devoted as ever to the fair Christine; but

unhappily he too had moods and humours, and the division between them

was not closed.

She had no sooner got indoors and sat down to her work-table than her

father entered the drawing-room.

She handed him his newspaper; he took it without a word, went and stood

on the hearthrug, and flung the paper on the floor.

'Christine, what's the meaning of this terrible story? I was just on my

way to look at the register.'

She looked at him without speech.

'You have married-Nicholas Long?'

'No, father.'

'No? Can you say no in the face of such facts as I have been put in

possession of?'

'Yes.'

'But-the note you wrote to the rector-and the going to church?'

She briefly explained that their attempt had failed.

'Ah! Then this is what that dancing meant, was it? By �-, it makes me �-

. How long has this been going on, may I ask?'

'This what?'

'What, indeed! Why, making him your beau. Now listen to me. All's well

that ends well; from this day, madam, this moment, he is to be nothing

more to you. You are not to see him. Cut him adrift instantly! I only

wish his volk were on my farm-out they should go, or I would know the

reason why. However, you are to write him a letter to this effect at

once.'

'How can I cut him adrift?'

'Why not? You must, my good maid!'

'Well, though I have not actually married him, I have solemnly sworn to

be his wife when he comes home from abroad to claim me. It would be

gross perjury not to fulfil my promise. Besides, no woman can go to

church with a man to deliberately solemnize matrimony, and refuse him

afterwards, if he does nothing wrong meanwhile.'

The uttered sound of her strong conviction seemed to kindle in Christine

a livelier perception of all its bearings than she had known while it

had lain unformulated in her mind. For when she had done speaking she

fell down on her knees before her father, covered her face, and said,

'Please, please forgive me, papa! How could I do it without letting you

know! I don't know, I don't know!'

When she looked up she found that, in the turmoil of his mind, her

father was moving about the room. 'You are within an ace of ruining

yourself, ruining me, ruining us all!' he said. 'You are nearly as bad

as your brother, begad!'

'Perhaps I am-yes-perhaps I am!'

'That I should father such a harum-scarum brood!'

'It is very bad; but Nicholas-'

'He's a scoundrel!'

'He is not a scoundrel!' cried she, turning quickly. 'He's as good and

worthy as you or I, or anybody bearing our name, or any nobleman in the

kingdom, if you come to that! Only-only'-she could not continue the

argument on those lines. 'Now, father, listen!' she sobbed; 'if you

taunt me I'll go off and join him at his farm this very day, and marry

him to-morrow, that's what I'll do!'

'I don't taant ye!'

'I wish to avoid unseemliness as much as you.'

She went away. When she came back a quarter of an hour later, thinking

to find the room empty, he was standing there as before, never having

apparently moved. His manner had quite changed. He seemed to take a

resigned and entirely different view of circumstances.

'Christine, here's a paragraph in the paper hinting at a secret wedding,

and I'm blazed if it don't point to you. Well, since this was to happen,

I'll bear it, and not complain. All volk have crosses, and this is one

of mine. Now, this is what I've got to say-I feel that you must carry

out this attempt at marrying Nicholas Long. Faith, you must! The rumour

will become a scandal if you don't-that's my view. I have tried to look

at the brightest side of the case. Nicholas Long is a young man superior

to most of his class, and fairly presentable. And he's not poor-at least

his uncle is not. I believe the old muddler could buy me up any day.

However, a farmer's wife you must be, as far as I can see. As you've

made your bed, so ye must lie. Parents propose, and ungrateful children

dispose. You shall marry him, and immediately.'

Christine hardly knew what to make of this. 'He is quite willing to

wait, and so am I. We can wait for two or three years, and then he will

be as worthy as-'

'You must marry him. And the sooner the better, if 'tis to be done at

all . . . And yet I did wish you could have been Jim Bellston's wife. I

did wish it! But no.'

'I, too, wished it and do still, in one sense,' she returned gently. His

moderation had won her out of her defiant mood, and she was willing to

reason with him.

'You do?' he said surprised.

'I see that in a worldly sense my conduct with Mr. Long may be

considered a mistake.'

'H'm-I am glad to hear that-after my death you may see it more clearly

still; and you won't have long to wait, to my reckoning.'

She fell into bitter repentance, and kissed him in her anguish. 'Don't

say that!' she cried. 'Tell me what to do?'

'If you'll leave me for an hour or two I'll think. Drive to the market

and back-the carriage is at the door-and I'll try to collect my senses.

Dinner can be put back till you return.'

In a few minutes she was dressed, and the carriage bore her up the hill

which divided the village and manor from the market-town.

CHAPTER V

A quarter of an hour brought her into the High Street, and for want of a

more important errand she called at the harness-maker's for a dog-collar

that she required.

It happened to be market-day, and Nicholas, having postponed the

engagements which called him thither to keep the appointment with her in

the Sallows, rushed off at the end of the afternoon to attend to them as

well as he could. Arriving thus in a great hurry on account of the

lateness of the hour, he still retained the wild, amphibious appearance

which had marked him when he came up from the meadows to her side-an

exceptional condition of things which had scarcely ever before occurred.

When she crossed the pavement from the shop door, the shopman bowing and

escorting her to the carriage, Nicholas chanced to be standing at the

road-waggon office, talking to the master of the waggons. There were a

good many people about, and those near paused and looked at her transit,

in the full stroke of the level October sun, which went under the brims

of their hats, and pierced through their button-holes. From the group

she heard murmured the words: 'Mrs. Nicholas Long.'

The unexpected remark, not without distinct satire in its tone, took her

so greatly by surprise that she was confounded. Nicholas was by this

time nearer, though coming against the sun he had not yet perceived her.

Influenced by her father's lecture, she felt angry with him for being

there and causing this awkwardness. Her notice of him was therefore

slight, supercilious perhaps, slurred over; and her vexation at his

presence showed distinctly in her face as she sat down in her seat.

Instead of catching his waiting eye, she positively turned her head

away.

A moment after she was sorry she had treated him so; but he was gone.

Reaching home she found on her dressing-table a note from her father.

The statement was brief:

I have considered and am of the same opinion. You must marry him. He can

leave home at once and travel as proposed. I have written to him to this

effect. I don't want any victuals, so don't wait dinner for me.

Nicholas was the wrong kind of man to be blind to his Christine's

mortification, though he did not know its entire cause. He had lately

foreseen something of this sort as possible.

'It serves me right,' he thought, as he trotted homeward. 'It was

absurd-wicked of me to lead her on so. The sacrifice would have been too

great-too cruel!' And yet, though he thus took her part, he flushed with

indignation every time he said to himself, 'She is ashamed of me!'

On the ridge which overlooked Froom-Everard he met a neighbour of his-a

stock-dealer-in his gig, and they drew rein and exchanged a few words. A

part of the dealer's conversation had much meaning for Nicholas.

'I've had occasion to call on Squire Everard,' the former said; 'but he

couldn't see me on account of being quite knocked up at some bad news he

has heard.'

Nicholas rode on past Froom-Everard to Elsenford Farm, pondering. He had

new and startling matter for thought as soon as he got there. The

Squire's note had arrived. At first he could not credit its import; then

he saw further, took in the tone of the letter, saw the writer's

contempt behind the words, and understood that the letter was written as

by a man hemmed into a corner. Christine was defiantly-insultingly-

hurled at his head. He was accepted because he was so despised.

And yet with what respect he had treated her and hers! Now he was

reminded of what an agricultural friend had said years ago, seeing the

eyes of Nicholas fixed on Christine as on an angel when she passed:

'Better a little fire to warm 'ee than a great one to burn 'ee. No good

can come of throwing your heart there.' He went into the mead, sat down,

and asked himself four questions:

1. How could she live near her acquaintance as his wife, even in his

absence, without suffering martyrdom from the stings of their contempt?

2. Would not this entail total estrangement between Christine and her

family also, and her own consequent misery?

3. Must not such isolation extinguish her affection for him?

4. Supposing that her father rigged them out as colonists and sent them

off to America, was not the effect of such exile upon one of her gentle

nurture likely to be as the last?

In short, whatever they should embark in together would be cruelty to

her, and his death would be a relief. It would, indeed, in one aspect be

a relief to her now, if she were so ashamed of him as she had appeared

to be that day. Were he dead, this little episode with him would fade

away like a dream.

Mr. Everard was a good-hearted man at bottom, but to take his enraged

offer seriously was impossible. Obviously it was hotly made in his first

bitterness at what he had heard. The least thing that he could do would

be to go away and never trouble her more. To travel and learn and come

back in two years, as mapped out in their first sanguine scheme,

required a staunch heart on her side, if the necessary expenditure of

time and money were to be afterwards justified; and it were folly to

calculate on that when he had seen to-day that her heart was failing her

already. To travel and disappear and not be heard of for many years

would be a far more independent stroke, and it would leave her entirely

unfettered. Perhaps he might rival in this kind the accomplished Mr.

Bellston, of whose journeyings he had heard so much.

He sat and sat, and the fog rose out of the river, enveloping him like a

fleece; first his feet and knees, then his arms and body, and finally

submerging his head. When he had come to a decision he went up again

into the homestead. He would be independent, if he died for it, and he

would free Christine. Exile was the only course. The first step was to

inform his uncle of his determination.

Two days later Nicholas was on the same spot in the mead, at almost the

same hour of eve. But there was no fog now; a blusterous autumn wind had

ousted the still, golden days and misty nights; and he was going, full

of purpose, in the opposite direction. When he had last entered the mead

he was an inhabitant of the Froom valley; in forty-eight hours he had

severed himself from that spot as completely as if he had never belonged

to it. All that appertained to him in the Froom valley now was

circumscribed by the portmanteau in his hand.

In making his preparations for departure he had unconsciously held a

faint, foolish hope that she would communicate with him and make up

their estrangement in some soft womanly way. But she had given no

signal, and it was too evident to him that her latest mood had grown to

be her fixed one, proving how well founded had been his impulse to set

her free.

He entered the Sallows, found his way in the dark to the garden-door of

the house, slipped under it a note to tell her of his departure, and

explaining its true reason to be a consciousness of her growing feeling

that he was an encumbrance and a humiliation. Of the direction of his

journey and of the date of his return he said nothing.

His course now took him into the high road, which he pursued for some

miles in a north-easterly direction, still spinning the thread of sad

inferences, and asking himself why he should ever return. At daybreak he

stood on the hill above Shottsford-Forum, and awaited a coach which

passed about this time along that highway towards Melchester and London.

CHAPTER VI

Some fifteen years after the date of the foregoing incidents, a man who

had dwelt in far countries, and viewed many cities, arrived at Roy-Town,

a roadside hamlet on the old western turnpike road, not five miles from

Froom-Everard, and put up at the Buck's Head, an isolated inn at that

spot. He was still barely of middle age, but it could be seen that a

haze of grey was settling upon the locks of his hair, and that his face

had lost colour and curve, as if by exposure to bleaching climates and

strange atmospheres, or from ailments incidental thereto. He seemed to

observe little around him, by reason of the intrusion of his musings

upon the scene. In truth Nicholas Long was just now the creature of old

hopes and fears consequent upon his arrival-this man who once had not

cared if his name were blotted out from that district. The evening light

showed wistful lines which he could not smooth away by the worldling's

gloss of nonchalance that he had learnt to fling over his face.

The Buck's Head was a somewhat unusual place for a man of this sort to

choose as a house of sojourn in preference to some Casterbridge inn four

miles further on. Before he left home it had been a lively old tavern at

which High-flyers, and Heralds, and Tally-hoes had changed horses on

their stages up and down the country; but now the house was rather

cavernous and chilly, the stable-roofs were hollow-backed, the landlord

was asthmatic, and the traffic gone.

He arrived in the afternoon, and when he had sent back the fly and was

having a nondescript meal, he put a question to the waiting-maid with a

mien of indifference.

'Squire Everard, of Froom-Everard Manor, has been dead some years, I

believe?'

She replied in the affirmative.

'And are any of the family left there still?'

'O no, bless you, sir! They sold the place years ago-Squire Everard's

son did-and went away. I've never heard where they went to. They came

quite to nothing.'

'Never heard anything of the young lady-the Squire's daughter?'

'No. You see 'twas before I came to these parts.'

When the waitress left the room, Nicholas pushed aside his plate and

gazed out of the window. He was not going over into the Froom Valley

altogether on Christine's account, but she had greatly animated his

motive in coming that way. Anyhow he would push on there now that he was

so near, and not ask questions here where he was liable to be wrongly

informed. The fundamental inquiry he had not ventured to make-whether

Christine had married before the family went away. He had abstained

because of an absurd dread of extinguishing hopeful surmise. That the

Everards had left their old home was bad enough intelligence for one

day.

Rising from the table he put on his hat and went out, ascending towards

the upland which divided this district from his native vale. The first

familiar feature that met his eye was a little spot on the distant sky-a

clump of trees standing on a barrow which surmounted a yet more remote

upland-a point where, in his childhood, he had believed people could

stand and see America. He reached the further verge of the plateau on

which he had entered. Ah, there was the valley-a greenish-grey stretch

of colour-still looking placid and serene, as though it had not much

missed him. If Christine was no longer there, why should he pause over

it this evening? His uncle and aunt were dead, and to-morrow would be

soon enough to inquire for remoter relatives. Thus, disinclined to go

further, he turned to retrace his way to the inn.

In the backward path he now perceived the figure of a woman, who had

been walking at a distance behind him; and as she drew nearer he began

to be startled. Surely, despite the variations introduced into that

figure by changing years, its ground-lines were those of Christine?

Nicholas had been sentimental enough to write to Christine immediately

on landing at Southampton a day or two before this, addressing his

letter at a venture to the old house, and merely telling her that he

planned to reach the Roy-Town inn on the present afternoon. The news of

the scattering of the Everards had dissipated his hope of hearing of

her; but here she was.

So they met-there, alone, on the open down by a pond, just as if the

meeting had been carefully arranged.

She threw up her veil. She was still beautiful, though the years had

touched her; a little more matronly-much more homely. Or was it only

that he was much less homely now-a man of the world-the sense of

homeliness being relative? Her face had grown to be pre-eminently of the

sort that would be called interesting. Her habiliments were of a demure

and sober cast, though she was one who had used to dress so airily and

so gaily. Years had laid on a few shadows too in this.

'I received your letter,' she said, when the momentary embarrassment of

their first approach had passed. 'And I thought I would walk across the

hills to-day, as it was fine. I have just called at the inn, and they

told me you were out. I was now on my way homeward.'

He hardly listened to this, though he intently gazed at her.

'Christine,' he said, 'one word. Are you free?'

'I-I am in a certain sense,' she replied, colouring.

The announcement had a magical effect. The intervening time between past

and present closed up for him, and moved by an impulse which he had

combated for fifteen years, he seized her two hands and drew her towards

him.

She started back, and became almost a mere acquaintance. 'I have to tell

you,' she gasped, 'that I have-been married.'

Nicholas's rose-coloured dream was immediately toned down to a greyish

tinge.

'I did not marry till many years after you had left,' she continued in

the humble tones of one confessing to a crime. 'Oh Nic,' she cried

reproachfully, 'how could you stay away so long?'

'Whom did you marry?'

'Mr. Bellston.'

'I-ought to have expected it.' He was going to add, 'And is he dead?'

but he checked himself. Her dress unmistakably suggested widowhood; and

she had said she was free.

'I must now hasten home,' said she. 'I felt that, considering my

shortcomings at our parting so many years ago, I owed you the initiative

now.'

'There is some of your old generosity in that. I'll walk with you, if I

may. Where are you living, Christine?'

'In the same house, but not on the old conditions. I have part of it on

lease; the farmer now tenanting the premises found the whole more than

he wanted, and the owner allowed me to keep what rooms I chose. I am

poor now, you know, Nicholas, and almost friendless. My brother sold the

Froom-Everard estate when it came to him, and the person who bought it

turned our home into a farmhouse. Till my father's death my husband and

I lived in the manor-house with him, so that I have never lived away

from the spot.'

She was poor. That, and the change of name, sufficiently accounted for

the inn-servant's ignorance of her continued existence within the walls

of her old home.

It was growing dusk, and he still walked with her. A woman's head arose

from the declivity before them, and as she drew nearer, Christine asked

him to go back.

'This is the wife of the farmer who shares the house,' she said. 'She is

accustomed to come out and meet me whenever I walk far and am benighted.

I am obliged to walk everywhere now.'

The farmer's wife, seeing that Christine was not alone, paused in her

advance, and Nicholas said, 'Dear Christine, if you are obliged to do

these things, I am not, and what wealth I can command you may command

likewise. They say rolling stones gather no moss; but they gather dross

sometimes. I was one of the pioneers to the gold-fields, you know, and

made a sufficient fortune there for my wants. What is more, I kept it.

When I had done this I was coming home, but hearing of my uncle's death

I changed my plan, travelled, speculated, and increased my fortune. Now,

before we part: you remember you stood with me at the altar once, and

therefore I speak with less preparation than I should otherwise use.

Before we part then I ask, shall another again intrude between us? Or

shall we complete the union we began?'

She trembled-just as she had done at that very minute of standing with

him in the church, to which he had recalled her mind. 'I will not enter

into that now, dear Nicholas,' she replied. 'There will be more to talk

of and consider first-more to explain, which it would have spoiled this

meeting to have entered into now.'

'Yes, yes; but-'

'Further than the brief answer I first gave, Nic, don't press me to-

night. I still have the old affection for you, or I should not have

sought you. Let that suffice for the moment.'

'Very well, dear one. And when shall I call to see you?'

'I will write and fix an hour. I will tell you everything of my history

then.'

And thus they parted, Nicholas feeling that he had not come here

fruitlessly. When she and her companion were out of sight he retraced

his steps to Roy-Town, where he made himself as comfortable as he could

in the deserted old inn of his boyhood's days. He missed her

companionship this evening more than he had done at any time during the

whole fifteen years; and it was as though instead of separation there

had been constant communion with her throughout that period. The tones

of her voice had stirred his heart in a nook which had lain stagnant

ever since he last heard them. They recalled the woman to whom he had

once lifted his eyes as to a goddess. Her announcement that she had been

another's came as a little shock to him, and he did not now lift his

eyes to her in precisely the same way as he had lifted them at first.

But he forgave her for marrying Bellston; what could he expect after

fifteen years?

He slept at Roy-Town that night, and in the morning there was a short

note from her, repeating more emphatically her statement of the previous

evening-that she wished to inform him clearly of her circumstances, and

to calmly consider with him the position in which she was placed. Would

he call upon her on Sunday afternoon, when she was sure to be alone?

'Nic,' she wrote on, 'what a cosmopolite you are! I expected to find my

old yeoman still; but I was quite awed in the presence of such a citizen

of the world. Did I seem rusty and unpractised? Ah-you seemed so once to

me!'