Now, if you turn to the long and elaborate pedigree of the ancient

family of the Horseleighs of Clyfton Horseleigh, you will find no

mention whatever of this alliance, notwithstanding the privilege given

by the Sovereign and head of the Church; the said Sir John being therein

chronicled as marrying, at a date apparently earlier than the above, the

daughter and heiress of Richard Phelipson, of Montislope, in Nether

Wessex, a lady who outlived him, of which marriage there were issue two

daughters and a son, who succeeded him in his estates. How are we to

account for these, as it would seem, contemporaneous wives? A strange

local tradition only can help us, and this can be briefly told.

One evening in the autumn of the year 1540 or 1541, a young sailor,

whose Christian name was Roger, but whose surname is not known, landed

at his native place of Havenpool, on the South Wessex coast, after a

voyage in the Newfoundland trade, then newly sprung into existence. He

returned in the ship Primrose with a cargo of 'trayne oyle brought home

from the New Founde Lande,' to quote from the town records of the date.

During his absence of two summers and a winter, which made up the term

of a Newfoundland 'spell,' many unlooked-for changes had occurred within

the quiet little seaport, some of which closely affected Roger the

sailor. At the time of his departure his only sister Edith had become

the bride of one Stocker, a respectable townsman, and part owner of the

brig in which Roger had sailed; and it was to the house of this couple,

his only relatives, that the young man directed his steps. On trying the

door in Quay Street he found it locked, and then observed that the

windows were boarded up. Inquiring of a bystander, he learnt for the

first time of the death of his brother-in-law, though that event had

taken place nearly eighteen months before.

'And my sister Edith?' asked Roger.

'She's married again-as they do say, and hath been so these twelve

months. I don't vouch for the truth o't, though if she isn't she ought

to be.'

Roger's face grew dark. He was a man with a considerable reserve of

strong passion, and he asked his informant what he meant by speaking

thus.

The man explained that shortly after the young woman's bereavement a

stranger had come to the port. He had seen her moping on the quay, had

been attracted by her youth and loneliness, and in an extraordinarily

brief wooing had completely fascinated her-had carried her off, and, as

was reported, had married her. Though he had come by water, he was

supposed to live no very great distance off by land. They were last

heard of at Oozewood, in Upper Wessex, at the house of one Wall, a

timber-merchant, where, he believed, she still had a lodging, though her

husband, if he were lawfully that much, was but an occasional visitor to

the place.

'The stranger?' asked Roger. 'Did you see him? What manner of man was

he?'

'I liked him not,' said the other. 'He seemed of that kind that hath

something to conceal, and as he walked with her he ever and anon turned

his head and gazed behind him, as if he much feared an unwelcome

pursuer. But, faith,' continued he, 'it may have been the man's anxiety

only. Yet did I not like him.'

'Was he older than my sister?' Roger asked.

'Ay-much older; from a dozen to a score of years older. A man of some

position, maybe, playing an amorous game for the pleasure of the hour.

Who knoweth but that he have a wife already? Many have done the thing

hereabouts of late.'

Having paid a visit to the graves of his relatives, the sailor next day

went along the straight road which, then a lane, now a highway,

conducted to the curious little inland town named by the Havenpool man.

It is unnecessary to describe Oozewood on the South-Avon. It has a

railway at the present day; but thirty years of steam traffic past its

precincts have hardly modified its original features. Surrounded by a

sort of fresh-water lagoon, dividing it from meadows and coppice, its

ancient thatch and timber houses have barely made way even in the front

street for the ubiquitous modern brick and slate. It neither increases

nor diminishes in size; it is difficult to say what the inhabitants find

to do, for, though trades in woodware are still carried on, there cannot

be enough of this class of work nowadays to maintain all the

householders, the forests around having been so greatly thinned and

curtailed. At the time of this tradition the forests were dense,

artificers in wood abounded, and the timber trade was brisk. Every house

in the town, without exception, was of oak framework, filled in with

plaster, and covered with thatch, the chimney being the only brick

portion of the structure. Inquiry soon brought Roger the sailor to the

door of Wall, the timber-dealer referred to, but it was some time before

he was able to gain admission to the lodging of his sister, the people

having plainly received directions not to welcome strangers.

She was sitting in an upper room on one of the lath-backed, willow-

bottomed 'shepherd's' chairs, made on the spot then as to this day, and

as they were probably made there in the days of the Heptarchy. In her

lap was an infant, which she had been suckling, though now it had fallen

asleep; so had the young mother herself for a few minutes, under the

drowsing effects of solitude. Hearing footsteps on the stairs, she

awoke, started up with a glad cry, and ran to the door, opening which

she met her brother on the threshold.

'O, this is merry; I didn't expect 'ee!' she said. 'Ah, Roger-I thought

it was John.' Her tones fell to disappointment.

The sailor kissed her, looked at her sternly for a few moments, and

pointing to the infant, said, 'You mean the father of this?'

'Yes, my husband,' said Edith.

'I hope so,' he answered.

'Why, Roger, I'm married-of a truth am I!' she cried.

'Shame upon 'ee, if true! If not true, worse. Master Stocker was an

honest man, and ye should have respected his memory longer. Where is thy

husband?'

'He comes often. I thought it was he now. Our marriage has to be kept

secret for a while-it was done privily for certain reasons; but we was

married at church like honest folk-afore God we were, Roger, six months

after poor Stocker's death.'

''Twas too soon,' said Roger.

'I was living in a house alone; I had nowhere to go to. You were far

over sea in the New Found Land, and John took me and brought me here.'

'How often doth he come?' says Roger again.

'Once or twice weekly,' says she.

'I wish th' 'dst waited till I returned, dear Edy,' he said. 'It mid be

you are a wife-I hope so. But, if so, why this mystery? Why this mean

and cramped lodging in this lonely copse-circled town? Of what standing

is your husband, and of where?'

'He is of gentle breeding-his name is John. I am not free to tell his

family-name. He is said to be of London, for safety' sake; but he really

lives in the county next adjoining this.'

'Where in the next county?'

'I do not know. He has preferred not to tell me, that I may not have the

secret forced from me, to his and my hurt, by bringing the marriage to

the ears of his kinsfolk and friends.'

Her brother's face flushed. 'Our people have been honest townsmen, well-

reputed for long; why should you readily take such humbling from a

sojourner of whom th' 'st know nothing?'

They remained in constrained converse till her quick ear caught a sound,

for which she might have been waiting-a horse's footfall. 'It is John!'

said she. 'This is his night-Saturday.'

'Don't be frightened lest he should find me here!' said Roger. 'I am on

the point of leaving. I wish not to be a third party. Say nothing at all

about my visit, if it will incommode you so to do. I will see thee

before I go afloat again.'

Speaking thus he left the room, and descending the staircase let himself

out by the front door, thinking he might obtain a glimpse of the

approaching horseman. But that traveller had in the meantime gone

stealthily round to the back of the homestead, and peering along the

pinion-end of the house Roger discerned him unbridling and haltering his

horse with his own hands in the shed there.

Roger retired to the neighbouring inn called the Black Lamb, and

meditated. This mysterious method of approach determined him, after all,

not to leave the place till he had ascertained more definite facts of

his sister's position-whether she were the deluded victim of the

stranger or the wife she obviously believed herself to be. Having eaten

some supper, he left the inn, it being now about eleven o'clock. He

first looked into the shed, and, finding the horse still standing there,

waited irresolutely near the door of his sister's lodging. Half an hour

elapsed, and, while thinking he would climb into a loft hard by for a

night's rest, there seemed to be a movement within the shutters of the

sitting-room that his sister occupied. Roger hid himself behind a

faggot-stack near the back door, rightly divining that his sister's

visitor would emerge by the way he had entered. The door opened, and the

candle she held in her hand lighted for a moment the stranger's form,

showing it to be that of a tall and handsome personage, about forty

years of age, and apparently of a superior position in life. Edith was

assisting him to cloak himself, which being done he took leave of her

with a kiss and left the house. From the door she watched him bridle and

saddle his horse, and having mounted and waved an adieu to her as she

stood candle in hand, he turned out of the yard and rode away.

The horse which bore him was, or seemed to be, a little lame, and Roger

fancied from this that the rider's journey was not likely to be a long

one. Being light of foot he followed apace, having no great difficulty

on such a still night in keeping within earshot some few miles, the

horseman pausing more than once. In this pursuit Roger discovered the

rider to choose bridle-tracks and open commons in preference to any high

road. The distance soon began to prove a more trying one than he had

bargained for; and when out of breath and in some despair of being able

to ascertain the man's identity, he perceived an ass standing in the

starlight under a hayrick, from which the animal was helping itself to

periodic mouthfuls.

The story goes that Roger caught the ass, mounted, and again resumed the

trail of the unconscious horseman, which feat may have been possible to

a nautical young fellow, though one can hardly understand how a sailor

would ride such an animal without bridle or saddle, and strange to his

hands, unless the creature were extraordinarily docile. This question,

however, is immaterial. Suffice it to say that at dawn the following

morning Roger beheld his sister's lover or husband entering the gates of

a large and well-timbered park on the south-western verge of the White

Hart Forest (as it was then called), now known to everybody as the Vale

of Blackmoor. Thereupon the sailor discarded his steed, and finding for

himself an obscurer entrance to the same park a little further on, he

crossed the grass to reconnoitre.

He presently perceived amid the trees before him a mansion which, new to

himself, was one of the best known in the county at that time. Of this

fine manorial residence hardly a trace now remains; but a manuscript

dated some years later than the events we are regarding describes it in

terms from which the imagination may construct a singularly clear and

vivid picture. This record presents it as consisting of 'a faire yellow

freestone building, partly two and partly three storeys; a faire halle

and parlour, both waynscotted; a faire dyning roome and withdrawing

roome, and many good lodgings; a kitchen adjoyninge backwarde to one end

of the dwelling-house, with a faire passage from it into the halle,

parlour, and dyninge roome, and sellars adjoyninge.

'In the front of the house a square greene court, and a curious

gatehouse with lodgings in it, standing with the front of the house to

the south; in a large outer court three stables, a coach-house, a large

barne, and a stable for oxen and kyne, and all houses necessary.

'Without the gatehouse, paled in, a large square greene, in which

standeth a faire chappell; of the south-east side of the greene court,

towards the river, a large garden.

'Of the south-west side of the greene court is a large bowling greene,

with fower mounted walks about it, all walled about with a batteled

wall, and sett with all sorts of fruit; and out of it into the feildes

there are large walks under many tall elmes orderly planted.'

Then follows a description of the orchards and gardens; the servants'

offices, brewhouse, bakehouse, dairy, pigeon-houses, and corn-mill; the

river and its abundance of fish; the warren, the coppices, the walks;

ending thus-

'And all the country north of the house, open champaign, sandy feildes,

very dry and pleasant for all kindes of recreation, huntinge, and

hawkinge, and profitble for tillage . . . The house hath a large

prospect east, south, and west, over a very large and pleasant vale . .

. is seated from the good markett towns of Sherton Abbas three miles,

and Ivel a mile, that plentifully yield all manner of provision; and

within twelve miles of the south sea.'

It was on the grass before this seductive and picturesque structure that

the sailor stood at gaze under the elms in the dim dawn of Sunday

morning, and saw to his surprise his sister's lover and horse vanish

within the court of the building.

Perplexed and weary, Roger slowly retreated, more than ever convinced

that something was wrong in his sister's position. He crossed the

bowling green to the avenue of elms, and, bent on further research, was

about to climb into one of these, when, looking below, he saw a heap of

hay apparently for horses or deer. Into this he crept, and, having eaten

a crust of bread which he had hastily thrust into his pocket at the inn,

he curled up and fell asleep, the hay forming a comfortable bed, and

quite covering him over.

He slept soundly and long, and was awakened by the sound of a bell. On

peering from the hay he found the time had advanced to full day; the sun

was shining brightly. The bell was that of the 'faire chappell' on the

green outside the gatehouse, and it was calling to matins. Presently the

priest crossed the green to a little side-door in the chancel, and then

from the gateway of the mansion emerged the household, the tall man whom

Roger had seen with his sister on the previous night, on his arm being a

portly dame, and, running beside the pair, two little girls and a boy.

These all entered the chapel, and the bell having ceased and the

environs become clear, the sailor crept out from his hiding.

He sauntered towards the chapel, the opening words of the service being

audible within. While standing by the porch he saw a belated servitor

approaching from the kitchen-court to attend the service also. Roger

carelessly accosted him, and asked, as an idle wanderer, the name of the

family he had just seen cross over from the mansion.

'Od zounds! if ye modden be a stranger here in very truth, goodman. That

wer Sir John and his dame, and his children Elizabeth, Mary, and John.'

'I be from foreign parts. Sir John what d'ye call'n?'

'Master John Horseleigh, Knight, who had a'most as much lond by

inheritance of his mother as 'a had by his father, and likewise some by

his wife. Why, bain't his arms dree goolden horses' heads, and idden his

lady the daughter of Master Richard Phelipson, of Montislope, in Nether

Wessex, known to us all?'

'It mid be so, and yet it mid not. However, th' 'lt miss thy prayers for

such an honest knight's welfare, and I have to traipse seaward many

miles.'

He went onward, and as he walked continued saying to himself, 'Now to

that poor wronged fool Edy. The fond thing! I thought it; 'twas too

quick-she was ever amorous. What's to become of her! God wot! How be I

going to face her with the news, and how be I to hold it from her? To

bring this disgrace on my father's honoured name, a double-tongued

knave!' He turned and shook his fist at the chapel and all in it, and

resumed his way.

Perhaps it was owing to the perplexity of his mind that, instead of

returning by the direct road towards his sister's obscure lodging in the

next county, he followed the highway to Casterbridge, some fifteen miles

off, where he remained drinking hard all that afternoon and evening, and

where he lay that and two or three succeeding nights, wandering thence

along the Anglebury road to some village that way, and lying the Friday

night after at his native place of Havenpool. The sight of the familiar

objects there seems to have stirred him anew to action, and the next

morning he was observed pursuing the way to Oozewood that he had

followed on the Saturday previous, reckoning, no doubt, that Saturday

night would, as before, be a time for finding Sir John with his sister

again.

He delayed to reach the place till just before sunset. His sister was

walking in the meadows at the foot of the garden, with a nursemaid who

carried the baby, and she looked up pensively when he approached.

Anxiety as to her position had already told upon her once rosy cheeks

and lucid eyes. But concern for herself and child was displaced for the

moment by her regard of Roger's worn and haggard face.

'Why-you are sick, Roger-you are tired! Where have you been these many

days? Why not keep me company a bit-my husband is much away? And we have

hardly spoke at all of dear father and of your voyage to the New Land.

Why did you go away so suddenly? There is a spare chamber at my

lodging.'

'Come indoors,' he said. 'We'll talk now-talk a good deal. As for him

[nodding to the child], better heave him into the river; better for him

and you!'

She forced a laugh, as if she tried to see a good joke in the remark,

and they went silently indoors.

'A miserable hole!' said Roger, looking round the room.

'Nay, but 'tis very pretty!'

'Not after what I've seen. Did he marry 'ee at church in orderly

fashion?'

'He did sure-at our church at Havenpool.'

'But in a privy way?'

'Ay-because of his friends-it was at night-time.'

'Ede, ye fond one-for all that he's not thy husband! Th' 'rt not his

wife; and the child is a bastard. He hath a wife and children of his own

rank, and bearing his name; and that's Sir John Horseleigh, of Clyfton

Horseleigh, and not plain Jack, as you think him, and your lawful

husband. The sacrament of marriage is no safeguard nowadays. The King's

new-made headship of the Church hath led men to practise these tricks

lightly.'

She had turned white. 'That's not true, Roger!' she said. 'You are in

liquor, my brother, and you know not what you say! Your seafaring years

have taught 'ee bad things!'

'Edith-I've seen them; wife and family-all. How canst-'

They were sitting in the gathered darkness, and at that moment steps

were heard without. 'Go out this way,' she said. 'It is my husband. He

must not see thee in this mood. Get away till to-morrow, Roger, as you

care for me.'

She pushed her brother through a door leading to the back stairs, and

almost as soon as it was closed her visitor entered. Roger, however, did

not retreat down the stairs; he stood and looked through the bobbin-

hole. If the visitor turned out to be Sir John, he had determined to

confront him.

It was the knight. She had struck a light on his entry, and he kissed

the child, and took Edith tenderly by the shoulders, looking into her

face.

'Something's gone awry wi' my dear!' he said. 'What is it? What's the

matter?'

'O, Jack!' she cried. 'I have heard such a fearsome rumour-what doth it

mean? He who told me is my best friend. He must be deceived! But who

deceived him, and why? Jack, I was just told that you had a wife living

when you married me, and have her still!'

'A wife?-H'm.'

'Yes, and children. Say no, say no!'

'By God! I have no lawful wife but you; and as for children, many or

few, they are all bastards, save this one alone!'

'And that you be Sir John Horseleigh of Clyfton?'

'I mid be. I have never said so to 'ee.'

'But Sir John is known to have a lady, and issue of her!'

The knight looked down. 'How did thy mind get filled with such as this?'

he asked.

'One of my kindred came.'

'A traitor! Why should he mar our life? Ah! you said you had a brother

at sea-where is he now?'

'Here!' came from close behind him. And flinging open the door, Roger

faced the intruder. 'Liar!' he said, 'to call thyself her husband!'

Sir John fired up, and made a rush at the sailor, who seized him by the

collar, and in the wrestle they both fell, Roger under. But in a few

seconds he contrived to extricate his right arm, and drawing from his

belt a knife which he wore attached to a cord round his neck he opened

it with his teeth, and struck it into the breast of Sir John stretched

above him. Edith had during these moments run into the next room to

place the child in safety, and when she came back the knight was

relaxing his hold on Roger's throat. He rolled over upon his back and

groaned.

The only witness of the scene save the three concerned was the

nursemaid, who had brought in the child on its father's arrival. She

stated afterwards that nobody suspected Sir John had received his death

wound; yet it was so, though he did not die for a long while, meaning

thereby an hour or two; that Mistress Edith continually endeavoured to

staunch the blood, calling her brother Roger a wretch, and ordering him

to get himself gone; on which order he acted, after a gloomy pause, by

opening the window, and letting himself down by the sill to the ground.

It was then that Sir John, in difficult accents, made his dying

declaration to the nurse and Edith, and, later, the apothecary; which

was to this purport, that the Dame Horseleigh who passed as his wife at

Clyfton, and who had borne him three children, was in truth and deed,

though unconsciously, the wife of another man. Sir John had married her

several years before, in the face of the whole county, as the widow of

one Decimus Strong, who had disappeared shortly after her union with

him, having adventured to the North to join the revolt of the Nobles,

and on that revolt being quelled retreated across the sea. Two years

ago, having discovered this man to be still living in France, and not

wishing to disturb the mind and happiness of her who believed herself

his wife, yet wishing for legitimate issue, Sir John had informed the

King of the facts, who had encouraged him to wed honestly, though

secretly, the young merchant's widow at Havenpool; she being, therefore,

his lawful wife, and she only. That to avoid all scandal and hubbub he

had purposed to let things remain as they were till fair opportunity

should arise of making the true case known with least pain to all

parties concerned, but that, having been thus suspected and attacked by

his own brother-in-law, his zest for such schemes and for all things had

died out in him, and he only wished to commend his soul to God.

That night, while the owls were hooting from the forest that encircled

the sleeping townlet, and the South-Avon was gurgling through the wooden

piles of the bridge, Sir John died there in the arms of his wife. She

concealed nothing of the cause of her husband's death save the subject

of the quarrel, which she felt it would be premature to announce just

then, and until proof of her status should be forthcoming. But before a

month had passed, it happened, to her inexpressible sorrow, that the

child of this clandestine union fell sick and died. From that hour all

interest in the name and fame of the Horseleighs forsook the younger of

the twain who called themselves wives of Sir John, and, being careless

about her own fame, she took no steps to assert her claims, her legal

position having, indeed, grown hateful to her in her horror at the

tragedy. And Sir William Byrt, the curate who had married her to her

husband, being an old man and feeble, was not disinclined to leave the

embers unstirred of such a fiery matter as this, and to assist her in

letting established things stand. Therefore, Edith retired with the

nurse, her only companion and friend, to her native town, where she

lived in absolute obscurity till her death in middle age. Her brother

was never seen again in England.

A strangely corroborative sequel to the story remains to be told.

Shortly after the death of Sir John Horseleigh, a soldier of fortune

returned from the Continent, called on Dame Horseleigh the fictitious,

living in widowed state at Clyfton Horseleigh, and, after a singularly

brief courtship, married her. The tradition at Havenpool and elsewhere

has ever been that this man was already her husband, Decimus Strong, who

remarried her for appearance' sake only.

The illegitimate son of this lady by Sir John succeeded to the estates

and honours, and his son after him, there being nobody on the alert to

investigate their pretensions. Little difference would it have made to

the present generation, however, had there been such a one, for the

family in all its branches, lawful and unlawful, has been extinct these

many score years, the last representative but one being killed at the

siege of Sherton Castle, while attacking in the service of the

Parliament, and the other being outlawed later in the same century for a

debt of ten pounds, and dying in the county jail. The mansion house and

its appurtenances were, as I have previously stated, destroyed,

excepting one small wing, which now forms part of a farmhouse, and is

visible as you pass along the railway from Casterbridge to Ivel. The

outline of the old bowling-green is also distinctly to be seen.

This, then, is the reason why the only lawful marriage of Sir John, as

recorded in the obscure register at Havenpool, does not appear in the

pedigree of the house of Horseleigh.

Spring 1893.

THE DUKE'S REAPPEARANCE-A FAMILY TRADITION

According to the kinsman who told me the story, Christopher Swetman's

house, on the outskirts of King's-Hintock village, was in those days

larger and better kept than when, many years later, it was sold to the

lord of the manor adjoining; after having been in the Swetman family, as

one may say, since the Conquest.

Some people would have it to be that the thing happened at the house

opposite, belonging to one Childs, with whose family the Swetmans

afterwards intermarried. But that it was at the original homestead of

the Swetmans can be shown in various ways; chiefly by the unbroken

traditions of the family, and indirectly by the evidence of the walls

themselves, which are the only ones thereabout with windows mullioned in

the Elizabethan manner, and plainly of a date anterior to the event;

while those of the other house might well have been erected fifty or

eighty years later, and probably were; since the choice of Swetman's

house by the fugitive was doubtless dictated by no other circumstance

than its then suitable loneliness.

It was a cloudy July morning just before dawn, the hour of two having

been struck by Swetman's one-handed clock on the stairs, that is still

preserved in the family. Christopher heard the strokes from his chamber,

immediately at the top of the staircase, and overlooking the front of

the house. He did not wonder that he was sleepless. The rumours and

excitements which had latterly stirred the neighbourhood, to the effect

that the rightful King of England had landed from Holland, at a port

only eighteen miles to the south-west of Swetman's house, were enough to

make wakeful and anxious even a contented yeoman like him. Some of the

villagers, intoxicated by the news, had thrown down their scythes, and

rushed to the ranks of the invader. Christopher Swetman had weighed both

sides of the question, and had remained at home.

Now as he lay thinking of these and other things he fancied that he

could hear the footfall of a man on the road leading up to his house-a

byway, which led scarce anywhere else; and therefore a tread was at any

time more apt to startle the inmates of the homestead than if it had

stood in a thoroughfare. The footfall came opposite the gate, and

stopped there. One minute, two minutes passed, and the pedestrian did

not proceed. Christopher Swetman got out of bed, and opened the

casement. 'Hoi! who's there?' cries he.

'A friend,' came from the darkness.

'And what mid ye want at this time o' night?' says Swetman.

'Shelter. I've lost my way.'

'What's thy name?'

There came no answer.

'Be ye one of King Monmouth's men?'

'He that asks no questions will hear no lies from me. I am a stranger;

and I am spent, and hungered. Can you let me lie with you to-night?'

Swetman was generous to people in trouble, and his house was roomy.

'Wait a bit,' he said, 'and I'll come down and have a look at thee,

anyhow.'

He struck a light, put on his clothes, and descended, taking his horn-

lantern from a nail in the passage, and lighting it before opening the

door. The rays fell on the form of a tall, dark man in cavalry

accoutrements and wearing a sword. He was pale with fatigue and covered

with mud, though the weather was dry.

'Prithee take no heed of my appearance,' said the stranger. 'But let me

in.'

That his visitor was in sore distress admitted of no doubt, and the

yeoman's natural humanity assisted the other's sad importunity and

gentle voice. Swetman took him in, not without a suspicion that this man

represented in some way Monmouth's cause, to which he was not unfriendly

in his secret heart. At his earnest request the new-comer was given a

suit of the yeoman's old clothes in exchange for his own, which, with

his sword, were hidden in a closet in Swetman's chamber; food was then

put before him and a lodging provided for him in a room at the back.

Here he slept till quite late in the morning, which was Sunday, the

sixth of July, and when he came down in the garments that he had

borrowed he met the household with a melancholy smile. Besides Swetman

himself, there were only his two daughters, Grace and Leonard (the

latter was, oddly enough, a woman's name here), and both had been

enjoined to secrecy. They asked no questions and received no

information; though the stranger regarded their fair countenances with

an interest almost too deep. Having partaken of their usual breakfast of

ham and cider he professed weariness and retired to the chamber whence

he had come.

In a couple of hours or thereabout he came down again, the two young

women having now gone off to morning service. Seeing Christopher

bustling about the house without assistance, he asked if he could do

anything to aid his host.

As he seemed anxious to hide all differences and appear as one of

themselves, Swetman set him to get vegetables from the garden and fetch

water from Buttock's Spring in the dip near the house (though the spring

was not called by that name till years after, by the way).

'And what can I do next?' says the stranger when these services had been

performed.

His meekness and docility struck Christopher much, and won upon him.

'Since you be minded to,' says the latter, 'you can take down the dishes

and spread the table for dinner. Take a pewter plate for thyself, but

the trenchers will do for we.'

But the other would not, and took a trencher likewise, in doing which he

spoke of the two girls and remarked how comely they were.

This quietude was put an end to by a stir out of doors, which was

sufficient to draw Swetman's attention to it, and he went out. Farm

hands who had gone off and joined the Duke on his arrival had begun to

come in with news that a midnight battle had been fought on the moors to

the north, the Duke's men, who had attacked, being entirely worsted; the

Duke himself, with one or two lords and other friends, had fled, no one

knew whither.

'There has been a battle,' says Swetman, on coming indoors after these

tidings, and looking earnestly at the stranger.

'May the victory be to the rightful in the end, whatever the issue now,'

says the other, with a sorrowful sigh.

'Dost really know nothing about it?' said Christopher. 'I could have

sworn you was one from that very battle!'

'I was here before three o' the clock this morning; and these men have

only arrived now.'

'True,' said the yeoman. 'But still, I think-'

'Do not press your question,' the stranger urged. 'I am in a strait, and

can refuse a helper nothing; such inquiry is, therefore, unfair.'

'True again,' said Swetman, and held his tongue.

The daughters of the house returned from church, where the service had

been hurried by reason of the excitement. To their father's questioning

if they had spoken of him who sojourned there they replied that they had

said never a word; which, indeed, was true, as events proved.

He bade them serve the dinner; and, as the visitor had withdrawn since

the news of the battle, prepared to take a platter to him upstairs. But

he preferred to come down and dine with the family.

During the afternoon more fugitives passed through the village, but

Christopher Swetman, his visitor, and his family kept indoors. In the

evening, however, Swetman came out from his gate, and, harkening in

silence to these tidings and more, wondered what might be in store for

him for his last night's work.

He returned homeward by a path across the mead that skirted his own

orchard. Passing here, he heard the voice of his daughter Leonard

expostulating inside the hedge, her words being: 'Don't ye, sir; don't!

I prithee let me go!'

'Why, sweetheart?'

'Because I've a-promised another!'

Peeping through, as he could not help doing, he saw the girl struggling

in the arms of the stranger, who was attempting to kiss her; but finding

her resistance to be genuine, and her distress unfeigned, he reluctantly

let her go.

Swetman's face grew dark, for his girls were more to him than himself.

He hastened on, meditating moodily all the way. He entered the gate, and

made straight for the orchard. When he reached it his daughter had

disappeared, but the stranger was still standing there.

'Sir!' said the yeoman, his anger having in no wise abated, 'I've seen

what has happened! I have taken 'ee into my house, at some jeopardy to

myself; and, whoever you be, the least I expected of 'ee was to treat

the maidens with a seemly respect. You have not done it, and I no longer

trust you. I am the more watchful over them in that they are motherless;

and I must ask 'ee to go after dark this night!'

The stranger seemed dazed at discovering what his impulse had brought

down upon his head, and his pale face grew paler. He did not reply for a

time. When he did speak his soft voice was thick with feeling.

'Sir,' says he, 'I own that I am in the wrong, if you take the matter

gravely. We do not what we would but what we must. Though I have not

injured your daughter as a woman, I have been treacherous to her as a

hostess and friend in need. I'll go, as you say; I can do no less. I

shall doubtless find a refuge elsewhere.'

They walked towards the house in silence, where Swetman insisted that

his guest should have supper before departing. By the time this was

eaten it was dusk and the stranger announced that he was ready.

They went upstairs to where the garments and sword lay hidden, till the

departing one said that on further thought he would ask another favour:

that he should be allowed to retain the clothes he wore, and that his

host would keep the others and the sword till he, the speaker, should

come or send for them.

'As you will,' said Swetman. 'The gain is on my side; for those clouts

were but kept to dress a scarecrow next fall.'

'They suit my case,' said the stranger sadly. 'However much they may

misfit me, they do not misfit my sorry fortune now!'

'Nay, then,' said Christopher relenting, 'I was too hasty. Sh'lt bide!'

But the other would not, saying that it was better that things should

take their course. Notwithstanding that Swetman importuned him, he only

added, 'If I never come again, do with my belongings as you list. In the

pocket you will find a gold snuff-box, and in the snuff-box fifty gold

pieces.'

'But keep 'em for thy use, man!' said the yeoman.

'No,' says the parting guest; 'they are foreign pieces and would harm me

if I were taken. Do as I bid thee. Put away these things again and take

especial charge of the sword. It belonged to my father's father and I

value it much. But something more common becomes me now.'

Saying which, he took, as he went downstairs, one of the ash sticks used

by Swetman himself for walking with. The yeoman lighted him out to the

garden hatch, where he disappeared through Clammers Gate by the road

that crosses King's-Hintock Park to Evershead.

Christopher returned to the upstairs chamber, and sat down on his bed

reflecting. Then he examined the things left behind, and surely enough

in one of the pockets the gold snuff-box was revealed, containing the

fifty gold pieces as stated by the fugitive. The yeoman next looked at

the sword which its owner had stated to have belonged to his

grandfather. It was two-edged, so that he almost feared to handle it. On

the blade was inscribed the words 'ANDREA FERARA,' and among the many

fine chasings were a rose and crown, the plume of the Prince of Wales,

and two portraits; portraits of a man and a woman, the man's having the

face of the first King Charles, and the woman's, apparently, that of his

Queen.

Swetman, much awed and surprised, returned the articles to the closet,

and went downstairs pondering. Of his surmise he said nothing to his

daughters, merely declaring to them that the gentleman was gone; and

never revealing that he had been an eye-witness of the unpleasant scene

in the orchard that was the immediate cause of the departure.

Nothing occurred in Hintock during the week that followed, beyond the

fitful arrival of more decided tidings concerning the utter defeat of

the Duke's army and his own disappearance at an early stage of the

battle. Then it was told that Monmouth was taken, not in his own clothes

but in the disguise of a countryman. He had been sent to London, and was

confined in the Tower.

The possibility that his guest had been no other than the Duke made

Swetman unspeakably sorry now; his heart smote him at the thought that,

acting so harshly for such a small breach of good faith, he might have

been the means of forwarding the unhappy fugitive's capture. On the

girls coming up to him he said, 'Get away with ye, wenches: I fear you

have been the ruin of an unfortunate man!'

On the Tuesday night following, when the yeoman was sleeping as usual in

his chamber, he was, he said, conscious of the entry of some one.

Opening his eyes, he beheld by the light of the moon, which shone upon

the front of his house, the figure of a man who seemed to be the

stranger moving from the door towards the closet. He was dressed

somewhat differently now, but the face was quite that of his late guest

in its tragical pensiveness, as was also the tallness of his figure. He

neared the closet; and, feeling his visitor to be within his rights,

Christopher refrained from stirring. The personage turned his large

haggard eyes upon the bed where Swetman lay, and then withdrew from

their hiding the articles that belonged to him, again giving a hard gaze

at Christopher as he went noiselessly out of the chamber with his

properties on his arm. His retreat down the stairs was just audible, and

also his departure by the side door, through which entrance or exit was

easy to those who knew the place.

Nothing further happened, and towards morning Swetman slept. To avoid

all risk he said not a word to the girls of the visit of the night, and

certainly not to any one outside the house; for it was dangerous at that

time to avow anything.

Among the killed in opposing the recent rising had been a younger

brother of the lord of the manor, who lived at King's-Hintock Court hard

by. Seeing the latter ride past in mourning clothes next day, Swetman

ventured to condole with him.

'He'd no business there!' answered the other. His words and manner

showed the bitterness that was mingled with his regret. 'But say no more

of him. You know what has happened since, I suppose?'

'I know that they say Monmouth is taken, Sir Thomas, but I can't think

it true,' answered Swetman.

'O zounds! 'tis true enough,' cried the knight, 'and that's not all. The

Duke was executed on Tower Hill two days ago.'

'D'ye say it verily?' says Swetman.

'And a very hard death he had, worse luck for 'n,' said Sir Thomas.

'Well, 'tis over for him and over for my brother. But not for the rest.

There'll be searchings and siftings down here anon; and happy is the man

who has had nothing to do with this matter!'

Now Swetman had hardly heard the latter words, so much was he confounded

by the strangeness of the tidings that the Duke had come to his death on

the previous Tuesday. For it had been only the night before this present

day of Friday that he had seen his former guest, whom he had ceased to

doubt could be other than the Duke, come into his chamber and fetch away

his accoutrements as he had promised.

'It couldn't have been a vision,' said Christopher to himself when the

knight had ridden on. 'But I'll go straight and see if the things be in

the closet still; and thus I shall surely learn if 'twere a vision or

no.'

To the closet he went, which he had not looked into since the stranger's

departure. And searching behind the articles placed to conceal the

things hidden, he found that, as he had never doubted, they were gone.

When the rumour spread abroad in the West that the man beheaded in the

Tower was not indeed the Duke, but one of his officers taken after the

battle, and that the Duke had been assisted to escape out of the

country, Swetman found in it an explanation of what so deeply mystified

him. That his visitor might have been a friend of the Duke's, whom the

Duke had asked to fetch the things in a last request, Swetman would

never admit. His belief in the rumour that Monmouth lived, like that of

thousands of others, continued to the end of his days.

Such, briefly, concluded my kinsman, is the tradition which has been

handed down in Christopher Swetman's family for the last two hundred

years.

A MERE INTERLUDE

CHAPTER I

The traveller in school-books, who vouched in dryest tones for the

fidelity to fact of the following narrative, used to add a ring of truth

to it by opening with a nicety of criticism on the heroine's

personality. People were wrong, he declared, when they surmised that

Baptista Trewthen was a young woman with scarcely emotions or character.

There was nothing in her to love, and nothing to hate-so ran the general

opinion. That she showed few positive qualities was true. The colours

and tones which changing events paint on the faces of active womankind

were looked for in vain upon hers. But still waters run deep; and no

crisis had come in the years of her early maidenhood to demonstrate what

lay hidden within her, like metal in a mine.

She was the daughter of a small farmer in St. Maria's, one of the Isles

of Lyonesse beyond Off-Wessex, who had spent a large sum, as there

understood, on her education, by sending her to the mainland for two

years. At nineteen she was entered at the Training College for Teachers,

and at twenty-one nominated to a school in the country, near Tor-upon-

Sea, whither she proceeded after the Christmas examination and holidays.

The months passed by from winter to spring and summer, and Baptista

applied herself to her new duties as best she could, till an uneventful

year had elapsed. Then an air of abstraction pervaded her bearing as she

walked to and fro, twice a day, and she showed the traits of a person

who had something on her mind. A widow, by name Mrs. Wace, in whose

house Baptista Trewthen had been provided with a sitting-room and

bedroom till the school-house should be built, noticed this change in

her youthful tenant's manner, and at last ventured to press her with a

few questions.

'It has nothing to do with the place, nor with you,' said Miss Trewthen.

'Then it is the salary?'

'No, nor the salary.'

'Then it is something you have heard from home, my dear.'

Baptista was silent for a few moments. 'It is Mr. Heddegan,' she

murmured. 'Him they used to call David Heddegan before he got his

money.'

'And who is the Mr. Heddegan they used to call David?'

'An old bachelor at Giant's Town, St. Maria's, with no relations

whatever, who lives about a stone's throw from father's. When I was a

child he used to take me on his knee and say he'd marry me some day. Now

I am a woman the jest has turned earnest, and he is anxious to do it.

And father and mother says I can't do better than have him.'

'He's well off?'

'Yes-he's the richest man we know-as a friend and neighbour.'

'How much older did you say he was than yourself?'

'I didn't say. Twenty years at least.'

'And an unpleasant man in the bargain perhaps?'

'No-he's not unpleasant.'

'Well, child, all I can say is that I'd resist any such engagement if

it's not palatable to 'ee. You are comfortable here, in my little house,

I hope. All the parish like 'ee: and I've never been so cheerful, since

my poor husband left me to wear his wings, as I've been with 'ee as my

lodger.'

The schoolmistress assured her landlady that she could return the

sentiment. 'But here comes my perplexity,' she said. 'I don't like

keeping school. Ah, you are surprised-you didn't suspect it. That's

because I've concealed my feeling. Well, I simply hate school. I don't

care for children-they are unpleasant, troublesome little things, whom

nothing would delight so much as to hear that you had fallen down dead.

Yet I would even put up with them if it was not for the inspector. For

three months before his visit I didn't sleep soundly. And the Committee

of Council are always changing the Code, so that you don't know what to

teach, and what to leave untaught. I think father and mother are right.

They say I shall never excel as a schoolmistress if I dislike the work

so, and that therefore I ought to get settled by marrying Mr. Heddegan.

Between us two, I like him better than school; but I don't like him

quite so much as to wish to marry him.'

These conversations, once begun, were continued from day to day; till at

length the young girl's elderly friend and landlady threw in her opinion

on the side of Miss Trewthen's parents. All things considered, she

declared, the uncertainty of the school, the labour, Baptista's natural

dislike for teaching, it would be as well to take what fate offered, and

make the best of matters by wedding her father's old neighbour and

prosperous friend.

The Easter holidays came round, and Baptista went to spend them as usual

in her native isle, going by train into Off-Wessex and crossing by

packet from Pen-zephyr. When she returned in the middle of April her

face wore a more settled aspect.

'Well?' said the expectant Mrs. Wace.

'I have agreed to have him as my husband,' said Baptista, in an off-hand

way. 'Heaven knows if it will be for the best or not. But I have agreed

to do it, and so the matter is settled.'

Mrs. Wace commended her; but Baptista did not care to dwell on the

subject; so that allusion to it was very infrequent between them.

Nevertheless, among other things, she repeated to the widow from time to

time in monosyllabic remarks that the wedding was really impending; that

it was arranged for the summer, and that she had given notice of leaving

the school at the August holidays. Later on she announced more

specifically that her marriage was to take place immediately after her

return home at the beginning of the month aforesaid.

She now corresponded regularly with Mr. Heddegan. Her letters from him

were seen, at least on the outside, and in part within, by Mrs. Wace.

Had she read more of their interiors than the occasional sentences shown

her by Baptista she would have perceived that the scratchy, rusty

handwriting of Miss Trewthen's betrothed conveyed little more matter

than details of their future housekeeping, and his preparations for the

same, with innumerable 'my dears' sprinkled in disconnectedly, to show

the depth of his affection without the inconveniences of syntax.

CHAPTER II

It was the end of July-dry, too dry, even for the season, the delicate

green herbs and vegetables that grew in this favoured end of the kingdom

tasting rather of the watering-pot than of the pure fresh moisture from

the skies. Baptista's boxes were packed, and one Saturday morning she

departed by a waggonette to the station, and thence by train to Pen-

zephyr, from which port she was, as usual, to cross the water

immediately to her home, and become Mr. Heddegan's wife on the Wednesday

of the week following.

She might have returned a week sooner. But though the wedding day had

loomed so near, and the banns were out, she delayed her departure till

this last moment, saying it was not necessary for her to be at home long

beforehand. As Mr. Heddegan was older than herself, she said, she was to

be married in her ordinary summer bonnet and grey silk frock, and there

were no preparations to make that had not been amply made by her parents

and intended husband.

In due time, after a hot and tedious journey, she reached Pen-zephyr.

She here obtained some refreshment, and then went towards the pier,

where she learnt to her surprise that the little steamboat plying

between the town and the islands had left at eleven o'clock; the usual

hour of departure in the afternoon having been forestalled in

consequence of the fogs which had for a few days prevailed towards

evening, making twilight navigation dangerous.

This being Saturday, there was now no other boat till Tuesday, and it

became obvious that here she would have to remain for the three days,

unless her friends should think fit to rig out one of the island'

sailing-boats and come to fetch her-a not very likely contingency, the

sea distance being nearly forty miles.

Baptista, however, had been detained in Pen-zephyr on more than one

occasion before, either on account of bad weather or some such reason as

the present, and she was therefore not in any personal alarm. But, as

she was to be married on the following Wednesday, the delay was

certainly inconvenient to a more than ordinary degree, since it would

leave less than a day's interval between her arrival and the wedding

ceremony.

Apart from this awkwardness she did not much mind the accident. It was

indeed curious to see how little she minded. Perhaps it would not be too

much to say that, although she was going to do the critical deed of her

life quite willingly, she experienced an indefinable relief at the

postponement of her meeting with Heddegan. But her manner after making

discovery of the hindrance was quiet and subdued, even to passivity

itself; as was instanced by her having, at the moment of receiving

information that the steamer had sailed, replied 'Oh,' so coolly to the

porter with her luggage, that he was almost disappointed at her lack of

disappointment.

The question now was, should she return again to Mrs. Wace, in the

village of Lower Wessex, or wait in the town at which she had arrived.

She would have preferred to go back, but the distance was too great;

moreover, having left the place for good, and somewhat dramatically, to

become a bride, a return, even for so short a space, would have been a

trifle humiliating.

Leaving, then, her boxes at the station, her next anxiety was to secure

a respectable, or rather genteel, lodging in the popular seaside resort

confronting her. To this end she looked about the town, in which, though

she had passed through it half-a-dozen times, she was practically a

stranger.

Baptista found a room to suit her over a fruiterer's shop; where she

made herself at home, and set herself in order after her journey. An

early cup of tea having revived her spirits she walked out to

reconnoitre.

Being a schoolmistress she avoided looking at the schools, and having a

sort of trade connection with books, she avoided looking at the

booksellers; but wearying of the other shops she inspected the churches;

not that for her own part she cared much about ecclesiastical edifices;

but tourists looked at them, and so would she-a proceeding for which no

one would have credited her with any great originality, such, for

instance, as that she subsequently showed herself to possess. The

churches soon oppressed her. She tried the Museum, but came out because

it seemed lonely and tedious.

Yet the town and the walks in this land of strawberries, these

headquarters of early English flowers and fruit, were then, as always,

attractive. From the more picturesque streets she went to the town

gardens, and the Pier, and the Harbour, and looked at the men at work

there, loading and unloading as in the time of the Phoenicians.

'Not Baptista? Yes, Baptista it is!'

The words were uttered behind her. Turning round she gave a start, and

became confused, even agitated, for a moment. Then she said in her usual

undemonstrative manner, 'O-is it really you, Charles?'

Without speaking again at once, and with a half-smile, the new-comer

glanced her over. There was much criticism, and some resentment-even

temper-in his eye.

'I am going home,' continued she. 'But I have missed the boat.'

He scarcely seemed to take in the meaning of this explanation, in the

intensity of his critical survey. 'Teaching still? What a fine

schoolmistress you make, Baptista, I warrant!' he said with a slight

flavour of sarcasm, which was not lost upon her.

'I know I am nothing to brag of,' she replied. 'That's why I have given

up.'

'O-given up? You astonish me.'

'I hate the profession.'

'Perhaps that's because I am in it.'

'O no, it isn't. But I am going to enter on another life altogether. I

am going to be married next week to Mr. David Heddegan.'

The young man-fortified as he was by a natural cynical pride and

passionateness-winced at this unexpected reply, notwithstanding.

'Who is Mr. David Heddegan?' he asked, as indifferently as lay in his

power.

She informed him the bearer of the name was a general merchant of

Giant's Town, St. Maria's island-her father's nearest neighbour and

oldest friend.

'Then we shan't see anything more of you on the mainland?' inquired the

schoolmaster.

'O, I don't know about that,' said Miss Trewthen.

'Here endeth the career of the belle of the boarding-school your father

was foolish enough to send you to. A "general merchant's" wife in the

Lyonesse Isles. Will you sell pounds of soap and pennyworths of tin

tacks, or whole bars of saponaceous matter, and great tenpenny nails?'

'He's not in such a small way as that!' she almost pleaded. 'He owns

ships, though they are rather little ones!'

'O, well, it is much the same. Come, let us walk on; it is tedious to

stand still. I thought you would be a failure in education,' he

continued, when she obeyed him and strolled ahead. 'You never showed

power that way. You remind me much of some of those women who think they

are sure to be great actresses if they go on the stage, because they

have a pretty face, and forget that what we require is acting. But you

found your mistake, didn't you?'

'Don't taunt me, Charles.' It was noticeable that the young

schoolmaster's tone caused her no anger or retaliatory passion; far

otherwise: there was a tear in her eye. 'How is it you are at Pen-

zephyr?' she inquired.

'I don't taunt you. I speak the truth, purely in a friendly way, as I

should to any one I wished well. Though for that matter I might have

some excuse even for taunting you. Such a terrible hurry as you've been

in. I hate a woman who is in such a hurry.'

'How do you mean that?'

'Why-to be somebody's wife or other-anything's wife rather than

nobody's. You couldn't wait for me, O, no. Well, thank God, I'm cured of

all that!'

'How merciless you are!' she said bitterly. 'Wait for you? What does

that mean, Charley? You never showed-anything to wait for-anything

special towards me.'

'O come, Baptista dear; come!'

'What I mean is, nothing definite,' she expostulated. 'I suppose you

liked me a little; but it seemed to me to be only a pastime on your

part, and that you never meant to make an honourable engagement of it.'

'There, that's just it! You girls expect a man to mean business at the

first look. No man when he first becomes interested in a woman has any

definite scheme of engagement to marry her in his mind, unless he is

meaning a vulgar mercenary marriage. However, I did at last mean an

honourable engagement, as you call it, come to that.'

'But you never said so, and an indefinite courtship soon injures a

woman's position and credit, sooner than you think.'

'Baptista, I solemnly declare that in six months I should have asked you

to marry me.'

She walked along in silence, looking on the ground, and appearing very

uncomfortable. Presently he said, 'Would you have waited for me if you

had known?' To this she whispered in a sorrowful whisper, 'Yes!'

They went still farther in silence-passing along one of the beautiful

walks on the outskirts of the town, yet not observant of scene or

situation. Her shoulder and his were close together, and he clasped his

fingers round the small of her arm-quite lightly, and without any

attempt at impetus; yet the act seemed to say, 'Now I hold you, and my

will must be yours.'

Recurring to a previous question of hers he said, 'I have merely run

down here for a day or two from school near Trufal, before going off to

the north for the rest of my holiday. I have seen my relations at

Redrutin quite lately, so I am not going there this time. How little I

thought of meeting you! How very different the circumstances would have

been if, instead of parting again as we must in half-an-hour or so,

possibly for ever, you had been now just going off with me, as my wife,

on our honeymoon trip. Ha-ha-well-so humorous is life!'

She stopped suddenly. 'I must go back now-this is altogether too

painful, Charley! It is not at all a kind mood you are in to-day.'

'I don't want to pain you-you know I do not,' he said more gently. 'Only

it just exasperates me-this you are going to do. I wish you would not.'

'What?'

'Marry him. There, now I have showed you my true sentiments.'

'I must do it now,' said she.

'Why?' he asked, dropping the off-hand masterful tone he had hitherto

spoken in, and becoming earnest; still holding her arm, however, as if

she were his chattel to be taken up or put down at will. 'It is never

too late to break off a marriage that's distasteful to you. Now I'll say

one thing; and it is truth: I wish you would marry me instead of him,

even now, at the last moment, though you have served me so badly.'

'O, it is not possible to think of that!' she answered hastily, shaking

her head. 'When I get home all will be prepared-it is ready even now-the

things for the party, the furniture, Mr. Heddegan's new suit, and

everything. I should require the courage of a tropical lion to go home

there and say I wouldn't carry out my promise!'

'Then go, in Heaven's name! But there would be no necessity for you to

go home and face them in that way. If we were to marry, it would have to

be at once, instantly; or not at all. I should think your affection not

worth the having unless you agreed to come back with me to Trufal this

evening, where we could be married by licence on Monday morning. And

then no Mr. David Heddegan or anybody else could get you away from me.'

'I must go home by the Tuesday boat,' she faltered. 'What would they

think if I did not come?'

'You could go home by that boat just the same. All the difference would

be that I should go with you. You could leave me on the quay, where I'd

have a smoke, while you went and saw your father and mother privately;

you could then tell them what you had done, and that I was waiting not

far off; that I was a school-master in a fairly good position, and a

young man you had known when you were at the Training College. Then I

would come boldly forward; and they would see that it could not be

altered, and so you wouldn't suffer a lifelong misery by being the wife

of a wretched old gaffer you don't like at all. Now, honestly; you do

like me best, don't you, Baptista?'

'Yes.'

'Then we will do as I say.'

She did not pronounce a clear affirmative. But that she consented to the

novel proposition at some moment or other of that walk was apparent by

what occurred a little later.

CHAPTER III

An enterprise of such pith required, indeed, less talking than

consideration. The first thing they did in carrying it out was to return

to the railway station, where Baptista took from her luggage a small

trunk of immediate necessaries which she would in any case have required

after missing the boat. That same afternoon they travelled up the line

to Trufal.

Charles Stow (as his name was), despite his disdainful indifference to

things, was very careful of appearances, and made the journey

independently of her though in the same train. He told her where she

could get board and lodgings in the city; and with merely a distant nod

to her of a provisional kind, went off to his own quarters, and to see

about the licence.

On Sunday she saw him in the morning across the nave of the pro-

cathedral. In the afternoon they walked together in the fields, where he

told her that the licence would be ready next day, and would be

available the day after, when the ceremony could be performed as early

after eight o'clock as they should choose.

His courtship, thus renewed after an interval of two years, was as

impetuous, violent even, as it was short. The next day came and passed,

and the final arrangements were made. Their agreement was to get the

ceremony over as soon as they possibly could the next morning, so as to

go on to Pen-zephyr at once, and reach that place in time for the boat's

departure the same day. It was in obedience to Baptista's earnest

request that Stow consented thus to make the whole journey to Lyonesse

by land and water at one heat, and not break it at Pen-zephyr; she

seemed to be oppressed with a dread of lingering anywhere, this great

first act of disobedience to her parents once accomplished, with the

weight on her mind that her home had to be convulsed by the disclosure

of it. To face her difficulties over the water immediately she had

created them was, however, a course more desired by Baptista than by her

lover; though for once he gave way.

The next morning was bright and warm as those which had preceded it. By

six o'clock it seemed nearly noon, as is often the case in that part of

England in the summer season. By nine they were husband and wife. They

packed up and departed by the earliest train after the service; and on

the way discussed at length what she should say on meeting her parents,

Charley dictating the turn of each phrase. In her anxiety they had

travelled so early that when they reached Pen-zephyr they found there

were nearly two hours on their hands before the steamer's time of

sailing.

Baptista was extremely reluctant to be seen promenading the streets of

the watering-place with her husband till, as above stated, the household

at Giant's Town should know the unexpected course of events from her own

lips; and it was just possible, if not likely, that some Lyonessian

might be prowling about there, or even have come across the sea to look

for her. To meet any one to whom she was known, and to have to reply to

awkward questions about the strange young man at her side before her

well-framed announcement had been delivered at proper time and place,

was a thing she could not contemplate with equanimity. So, instead of

looking at the shops and harbour, they went along the coast a little

way.

The heat of the morning was by this time intense. They clambered up on

some cliffs, and while sitting there, looking around at St. Michael's

Mount and other objects, Charles said to her that he thought he would

run down to the beach at their feet, and take just one plunge into the

sea.

Baptista did not much like the idea of being left alone; it was gloomy,

she said. But he assured her he would not be gone more than a quarter of

an hour at the outside, and she passively assented.

Down he went, disappeared, appeared again, and looked back. Then he

again proceeded, and vanished, till, as a small waxen object, she saw

him emerge from the nook that had screened him, cross the white fringe

of foam, and walk into the undulating mass of blue. Once in the water he

seemed less inclined to hurry than before; he remained a long time; and,

unable either to appreciate his skill or criticize his want of it at

that distance, she withdrew her eyes from the spot, and gazed at the

still outline of St. Michael's-now beautifully toned in grey.

Her anxiety for the hour of departure, and to cope at once with the

approaching incidents that she would have to manipulate as best she

could, sent her into a reverie. It was now Tuesday; she would reach home

in the evening-a very late time they would say; but, as the delay was a

pure accident, they would deem her marriage to Mr. Heddegan to- morrow

still practicable. Then Charles would have to be produced from the

background. It was a terrible undertaking to think of, and she almost

regretted her temerity in wedding so hastily that morning. The rage of

her father would be so crushing; the reproaches of her mother so bitter;

and perhaps Charles would answer hotly, and perhaps cause estrangement

till death. There had obviously been no alarm about her at St. Maria's,

or somebody would have sailed across to inquire for her. She had, in a

letter written at the beginning of the week, spoken of the hour at which

she intended to leave her country schoolhouse; and from this her friends

had probably perceived that by such timing she would run a risk of

losing the Saturday boat. She had missed it, and as a consequence sat

here on the shore as Mrs. Charles Stow.

This brought her to the present, and she turned from the outline of St.

Michael's Mount to look about for her husband's form. He was, as far as

she could discover, no longer in the sea. Then he was dressing. By

moving a few steps she could see where his clothes lay. But Charles was

not beside them.

Baptista looked back again at the water in bewilderment, as if her

senses were the victim of some sleight of hand. Not a speck or spot

resembling a man's head or face showed anywhere. By this time she was

alarmed, and her alarm intensified when she perceived a little beyond

the scene of her husband's bathing a small area of water, the quality of

whose surface differed from that of the surrounding expanse as the

coarse vegetation of some foul patch in a mead differs from the fine

green of the remainder. Elsewhere it looked flexuous, here it looked

vermiculated and lumpy, and her marine experiences suggested to her in a

moment that two currents met and caused a turmoil at this place.

She descended as hastily as her trembling limbs would allow. The way

down was terribly long, and before reaching the heap of clothes it

occurred to her that, after all, it would be best to run first for help.

Hastening along in a lateral direction she proceeded inland till she met

a man, and soon afterwards two others. To them she exclaimed, 'I think a

gentleman who was bathing is in some danger. I cannot see him as I

could. Will you please run and help him, at once, if you will be so

kind?'

She did not think of turning to show them the exact spot, indicating it

vaguely by the direction of her hand, and still going on her way with

the idea of gaining more assistance. When she deemed, in her faintness,

that she had carried the alarm far enough, she faced about and dragged

herself back again. Before reaching the now dreaded spot she met one of

the men.

'We can see nothing at all, Miss,' he declared.

Having gained the beach, she found the tide in, and no sign of Charley's

clothes. The other men whom she had besought to come had disappeared, it

must have been in some other direction, for she had not met them going

away. They, finding nothing, had probably thought her alarm a mere

conjecture, and given up the quest.

Baptista sank down upon the stones near at hand. Where Charley had

undressed was now sea. There could not be the least doubt that he was

drowned, and his body sucked under by the current; while his clothes,

lying within high-water mark, had probably been carried away by the

rising tide.

She remained in a stupor for some minutes, till a strange sensation

succeeded the aforesaid perceptions, mystifying her intelligence, and

leaving her physically almost inert. With his personal disappearance,

the last three days of her life with him seemed to be swallowed up, also

his image, in her mind's eye, waned curiously, receded far away, grew

stranger and stranger, less and less real. Their meeting and marriage

had been so sudden, unpremeditated, adventurous, that she could hardly

believe that she had played her part in such a reckless drama. Of all

the few hours of her life with Charles, the portion that most insisted

in coming back to memory was their fortuitous encounter on the previous

Saturday, and those bitter reprimands with which he had begun the

attack, as it might be called, which had piqued her to an unexpected

consummation.

A sort of cruelty, an imperiousness, even in his warmth, had

characterized Charles Stow. As a lover he had ever been a bit of a

tyrant; and it might pretty truly have been said that he had stung her

into marriage with him at last. Still more alien from her life did these

reflections operate to make him; and then they would be chased away by

an interval of passionate weeping and mad regret. Finally, there

returned upon the confused mind of the young wife the recollection that

she was on her way homeward, and that the packet would sail in three-

quarters of an hour.

Except the parasol in her hand, all she possessed was at the station

awaiting her onward journey.

She looked in that direction; and, entering one of those undemonstrative

phases so common with her, walked quietly on.

At first she made straight for the railway; but suddenly turning she

went to a shop and wrote an anonymous line announcing his death by

drowning to the only person she had ever heard Charles mention as a

relative. Posting this stealthily, and with a fearful look around her,

she seemed to acquire a terror of the late events, pursuing her way to

the station as if followed by a spectre.

When she got to the office she asked for the luggage that she had left

there on the Saturday as well as the trunk left on the morning just

lapsed. All were put in the boat, and she herself followed. Quickly as

these things had been done, the whole proceeding, nevertheless, had been

almost automatic on Baptista's part, ere she had come to any definite

conclusion on her course.

Just before the bell rang she heard a conversation on the pier, which

removed the last shade of doubt from her mind, if any had existed, that

she was Charles Stow's widow. The sentences were but fragmentary, but

she could easily piece them out.

'A man drowned-swam out too far-was a stranger to the place-people in

boat-saw him go down-couldn't get there in time.'

The news was little more definite than this as yet; though it may as

well be stated once for all that the statement was true. Charley, with

the over-confidence of his nature, had ventured out too far for his

strength, and succumbed in the absence of assistance, his lifeless body

being at that moment suspended in the transparent mid-depths of the bay.

His clothes, however, had merely been gently lifted by the rising tide,

and floated into a nook hard by, where they lay out of sight of the

passers-by till a day or two after.

CHAPTER IV

In ten minutes they were steaming out of the harbour for their voyage of

four or five hours, at whose ending she would have to tell her strange

story.

As Pen-zephyr and all its environing scenes disappeared behind Mousehole

and St. Clement's Isle, Baptista's ephemeral, meteor-like husband

impressed her yet more as a fantasy. She was still in such a trance-

like state that she had been an hour on the little packet-boat before

she became aware of the agitating fact that Mr. Heddegan was on board

with her. Involuntarily she slipped from her left hand the symbol of her

wifehood.

'Hee-hee! Well, the truth is, I wouldn't interrupt 'ee. "I reckon she

don't see me, or won't see me," I said, "and what's the hurry? She'll

see enough o' me soon!" I hope ye be well, mee deer?'

He was a hale, well-conditioned man of about five and fifty, of the

complexion common to those whose lives are passed on the bluffs and

beaches of an ocean isle. He extended the four quarters of his face in a

genial smile, and his hand for a grasp of the same magnitude. She gave

her own in surprised docility, and he continued: 'I couldn't help coming

across to meet 'ee. What an unfortunate thing you missing the boat and

not coming Saturday! They meant to have warned 'ee that the time was

changed, but forgot it at the last moment. The truth is that I should

have informed 'ee myself; but I was that busy finishing up a job last

week, so as to have this week free, that I trusted to your father for

attending to these little things. However, so plain and quiet as it is

all to be, it really do not matter so much as it might otherwise have

done, and I hope ye haven't been greatly put out. Now, if you'd sooner

that I should not be seen talking to 'ee-if 'ee feel shy at all before

strangers-just say. I'll leave 'ee to yourself till we get home.'

'Thank you much. I am indeed a little tired, Mr. Heddegan.'

He nodded urbane acquiescence, strolled away immediately, and minutely

inspected the surface of the funnel, till some female passengers of

Giant's Town tittered at what they must have thought a rebuff-for the

approaching wedding was known to many on St. Maria's Island, though to

nobody elsewhere. Baptista coloured at their satire, and called him

back, and forced herself to commune with him in at least a mechanically

friendly manner.

The opening event had been thus different from her expectation, and she

had adumbrated no act to meet it. Taken aback she passively allowed

circumstances to pilot her along; and so the voyage was made.

It was near dusk when they touched the pier of Giant's Town, where

several friends and neighbours stood awaiting them. Her father had a

lantern in his hand. Her mother, too, was there, reproachfully glad that

the delay had at last ended so simply. Mrs. Trewthen and her daughter

went together along the Giant's Walk, or promenade, to the house, rather

in advance of her husband and Mr. Heddegan, who talked in loud tones

which reached the women over their shoulders.

Some would have called Mrs. Trewthen a good mother; but though well

meaning she was maladroit, and her intentions missed their mark. This

might have been partly attributable to the slight deafness from which

she suffered. Now, as usual, the chief utterances came from her lips.

'Ah, yes, I'm so glad, my child, that you've got over safe. It is all

ready, and everything so well arranged, that nothing but misfortune

could hinder you settling as, with God's grace, becomes 'ee. Close to

your mother's door a'most, 'twill be a great blessing, I'm sure; and I

was very glad to find from your letters that you'd held your word

sacred. That's right-make your word your bond always. Mrs. Wace seems to

be a sensible woman. I hope the Lord will do for her as he's doing for

you no long time hence. And how did 'ee get over the terrible journey

from Tor-upon-Sea to Pen-zephyr? Once you'd done with the railway, of

course, you seemed quite at home. Well, Baptista, conduct yourself

seemly, and all will be well.'

Thus admonished, Baptista entered the house, her father and Mr. Heddegan

immediately at her back. Her mother had been so didactic that she had

felt herself absolutely unable to broach the subjects in the centre of

her mind.

The familiar room, with the dark ceiling, the well-spread table, the old

chairs, had never before spoken so eloquently of the times ere she knew

or had heard of Charley Stow. She went upstairs to take off her things,

her mother remaining below to complete the disposition of the supper,

and attend to the preparation of to-morrow's meal, altogether composing

such an array of pies, from pies of fish to pies of turnips, as was

never heard of outside the Western Duchy. Baptista, once alone, sat down

and did nothing; and was called before she had taken off her bonnet.

'I'm coming,' she cried, jumping up, and speedily disapparelling

herself, brushed her hair with a few touches and went down.

Two or three of Mr. Heddegan's and her father's friends had dropped in,

and expressed their sympathy for the delay she had been subjected to.

The meal was a most merry one except to Baptista. She had desired

privacy, and there was none; and to break the news was already a greater

difficulty than it had been at first. Everything around her, animate and

inanimate, great and small, insisted that she had come home to be

married; and she could not get a chance to say nay.

One or two people sang songs, as overtures to the melody of the morrow,

till at length bedtime came, and they all withdrew, her mother having

retired a little earlier. When Baptista found herself again alone in her

bedroom the case stood as before: she had come home with much to say,

and she had said nothing.

It was now growing clear even to herself that Charles being dead, she

had not determination sufficient within her to break tidings which, had

he been alive, would have imperatively announced themselves. And thus

with the stroke of midnight came the turning of the scale; her story

should remain untold. It was not that upon the whole she thought it best

not to attempt to tell it; but that she could not undertake so explosive

a matter. To stop the wedding now would cause a convulsion in Giant's

Town little short of volcanic. Weakened, tired, and terrified as she had

been by the day's adventures, she could not make herself the author of

such a catastrophe. But how refuse Heddegan without telling? It really

seemed to her as if her marriage with Mr. Heddegan were about to take

place as if nothing had intervened.

Morning came. The events of the previous days were cut off from her

present existence by scene and sentiment more completely than ever.

Charles Stow had grown to be a special being of whom, owing to his

character, she entertained rather fearful than loving memory. Baptista

could hear when she awoke that her parents were already moving about

downstairs. But she did not rise till her mother's rather rough voice

resounded up the staircase as it had done on the preceding evening.

'Baptista! Come, time to be stirring! The man will be here, by heaven's

blessing, in three-quarters of an hour. He has looked in already for a

minute or two-and says he's going to the church to see if things be well

forward.'

Baptista arose, looked out of the window, and took the easy course. When

she emerged from the regions above she was arrayed in her new silk frock

and best stockings, wearing a linen jacket over the former for

breakfasting, and her common slippers over the latter, not to spoil the

new ones on the rough precincts of the dwelling.

It is unnecessary to dwell at any great length on this part of the

morning's proceedings. She revealed nothing; and married Heddegan, as

she had given her word to do, on that appointed August day.

CHAPTER V

Mr. Heddegan forgave the coldness of his bride's manner during and after

the wedding ceremony, full well aware that there had been considerable

reluctance on her part to acquiesce in this neighbourly arrangement,

and, as a philosopher of long standing, holding that whatever Baptista's

attitude now, the conditions would probably be much the same six months

hence as those which ruled among other married couples.

An absolutely unexpected shock was given to Baptista's listless mind

about an hour after the wedding service. They had nearly finished the

mid-day dinner when the now husband said to her father, 'We think of

starting about two. And the breeze being so fair we shall bring up

inside Pen-zephyr new pier about six at least.'

'What-are we going to Pen-zephyr?' said Baptista. 'I don't know anything

of it.'

'Didn't you tell her?' asked her father of Heddegan.

It transpired that, owing to the delay in her arrival, this proposal

too, among other things, had in the hurry not been mentioned to her,

except some time ago as a general suggestion that they would go

somewhere. Heddegan had imagined that any trip would be pleasant, and

one to the mainland the pleasantest of all.

She looked so distressed at the announcement that her husband willingly

offered to give it up, though he had not had a holiday off the island

for a whole year. Then she pondered on the inconvenience of staying at

Giant's Town, where all the inhabitants were bonded, by the

circumstances of their situation, into a sort of family party, which

permitted and encouraged on such occasions as these oral criticism that

was apt to disturb the equanimity of newly married girls, and would

especially worry Baptista in her strange situation. Hence, unexpectedly,

she agreed not to disorganize her husband's plans for the wedding jaunt,

and it was settled that, as originally intended, they should proceed in

a neighbour's sailing boat to the metropolis of the district.

In this way they arrived at Pen-zephyr without difficulty or mishap.

Bidding adieu to Jenkin and his man, who had sailed them over, they

strolled arm in arm off the pier, Baptista silent, cold, and obedient.

Heddegan had arranged to take her as far as Plymouth before their

return, but to go no further than where they had landed that day. Their

first business was to find an inn; and in this they had unexpected

difficulty, since for some reason or other-possibly the fine weather-

many of the nearest at hand were full of tourists and commercial

travellers. He led her on till he reached a tavern which, though

comparatively unpretending, stood in as attractive a spot as any in the

town; and this, somewhat to their surprise after their previous

experience, they found apparently empty. The considerate old man,

thinking that Baptista was educated to artistic notions, though he

himself was deficient in them, had decided that it was most desirable to

have, on such an occasion as the present, an apartment with 'a good

view' (the expression being one he had often heard in use among

tourists); and he therefore asked for a favourite room on the first

floor, from which a bow-window protruded, for the express purpose of

affording such an outlook.

The landlady, after some hesitation, said she was sorry that particular

apartment was engaged; the next one, however, or any other in the house,

was unoccupied.

'The gentleman who has the best one will give it up to-morrow, and then

you can change into it,' she added, as Mr. Heddegan hesitated about

taking the adjoining and less commanding one.

'We shall be gone to-morrow, and shan't want it,' he said.

Wishing not to lose customers, the landlady earnestly continued that

since he was bent on having the best room, perhaps the other gentleman

would not object to move at once into the one they despised, since,

though nothing could be seen from the window, the room was equally

large.

'Well, if he doesn't care for a view,' said Mr. Heddegan, with the air

of a highly artistic man who did.

'O no-I am sure he doesn't,' she said. 'I can promise that you shall

have the room you want. If you would not object to go for a walk for

half an hour, I could have it ready, and your things in it, and a nice

tea laid in the bow-window by the time you come back?'

This proposal was deemed satisfactory by the fussy old tradesman, and

they went out. Baptista nervously conducted him in an opposite direction

to her walk of the former day in other company, showing on her wan face,

had he observed it, how much she was beginning to regret her sacrificial

step for mending matters that morning.

She took advantage of a moment when her husband's back was turned to

inquire casually in a shop if anything had been heard of the gentleman

who was sucked down in the eddy while bathing.

The shopman said, 'Yes, his body has been washed ashore,' and had just

handed Baptista a newspaper on which she discerned the heading, 'A

Schoolmaster drowned while bathing,' when her husband turned to join

her. She might have pursued the subject without raising suspicion; but

it was more than flesh and blood could do, and completing a small

purchase almost ran out of the shop.

'What is your terrible hurry, mee deer?' said Heddegan, hastening after.

'I don't know-I don't want to stay in shops,' she gasped.

'And we won't,' he said. 'They are suffocating this weather. Let's go

back and have some tay!'

They found the much desired apartment awaiting their entry. It was a

sort of combination bed and sitting-room, and the table was prettily

spread with high tea in the bow-window, a bunch of flowers in the midst,

and a best-parlour chair on each side. Here they shared the meal by the

ruddy light of the vanishing sun. But though the view had been engaged,

regardless of expense, exclusively for Baptista's pleasure, she did not

direct any keen attention out of the window. Her gaze as often fell on

the floor and walls of the room as elsewhere, and on the table as much

as on either, beholding nothing at all.

But there was a change. Opposite her seat was the door, upon which her

eyes presently became riveted like those of a little bird upon a snake.

For, on a peg at the back of the door, there hung a hat; such a hat-

surely, from its peculiar make, the actual hat-that had been worn by

Charles. Conviction grew to certainty when she saw a railway ticket

sticking up from the band. Charles had put the ticket there-she had

noticed the act.

Her teeth almost chattered; she murmured something incoherent. Her

husband jumped up and said, 'You are not well! What is it? What shall I

get 'ee?'

'Smelling salts!' she said, quickly and desperately; 'at that chemist's

shop you were in just now.'

He jumped up like the anxious old man that he was, caught up his own hat

from a back table, and without observing the other hastened out and

downstairs.

Left alone she gazed and gazed at the back of the door, then

spasmodically rang the bell. An honest-looking country maid-servant

appeared in response.

'A hat!' murmured Baptista, pointing with her finger. 'It does not

belong to us.'

'O yes, I'll take it away,' said the young woman with some hurry. 'It

belongs to the other gentleman.'

She spoke with a certain awkwardness, and took the hat out of the room.

Baptista had recovered her outward composure. 'The other gentleman?' she

said. 'Where is the other gentleman?'

'He's in the next room, ma'am. He removed out of this to oblige 'ee.'

'How can you say so? I should hear him if he were there,' said Baptista,

sufficiently recovered to argue down an apparent untruth.

'He's there,' said the girl, hardily.

'Then it is strange that he makes no noise,' said Mrs. Heddegan,

convicting the girl of falsity by a look.

'He makes no noise; but it is not strange,' said the servant.

All at once a dread took possession of the bride's heart, like a cold

hand laid thereon; for it flashed upon her that there was a possibility

of reconciling the girl's statement with her own knowledge of facts.

'Why does he make no noise?' she weakly said.

The waiting-maid was silent, and looked at her questioner. 'If I tell

you, ma'am, you won't tell missis?' she whispered.

Baptista promised.

'Because he's a-lying dead!' said the girl. 'He's the schoolmaster that

was drownded yesterday.'

'O!' said the bride, covering her eyes. 'Then he was in this room till

just now?'

'Yes,' said the maid, thinking the young lady's agitation natural

enough. 'And I told missis that I thought she oughtn't to have done it,

because I don't hold it right to keep visitors so much in the dark where

death's concerned; but she said the gentleman didn't die of anything

infectious; she was a poor, honest, innkeeper's wife, she says, who had

to get her living by making hay while the sun sheened. And owing to the

drownded gentleman being brought here, she said, it kept so many people

away that we were empty, though all the other houses were full. So when

your good man set his mind upon the room, and she would have lost good

paying folk if he'd not had it, it wasn't to be supposed, she said, that

she'd let anything stand in the way. Ye won't say that I've told ye,

please, m'm? All the linen has been changed, and as the inquest won't be

till to-morrow, after you are gone, she thought you wouldn't know a word

of it, being strangers here.'

The returning footsteps of her husband broke off further narration.

Baptista waved her hand, for she could not speak. The waiting-maid

quickly withdrew, and Mr. Heddegan entered with the smelling salts and

other nostrums.

'Any better?' he questioned.

'I don't like the hotel,' she exclaimed, almost simultaneously. 'I can't

bear it-it doesn't suit me!'

'Is that all that's the matter?' he returned pettishly (this being the

first time of his showing such a mood). 'Upon my heart and life such

trifling is trying to any man's temper, Baptista! Sending me about from

here to yond, and then when I come back saying 'ee don't like the place

that I have sunk so much money and words to get for 'ee. 'Od dang it

all, 'tis enough to-But I won't say any more at present, mee deer,

though it is just too much to expect to turn out of the house now. We

shan't get another quiet place at this time of the evening-every other

inn in the town is bustling with rackety folk of one sort and t'other,

while here 'tis as quiet as the grave-the country, I would say. So bide

still, d'ye hear, and to-morrow we shall be out of the town altogether-

as early as you like.'

The obstinacy of age had, in short, overmastered its complaisance, and

the young woman said no more. The simple course of telling him that in

the adjoining room lay a corpse which had lately occupied their own

might, it would have seemed, have been an effectual one without further

disclosure, but to allude to that subject, however it was disguised, was

more than Heddegan's young wife had strength for. Horror broke her down.

In the contingency one thing only presented itself to her paralyzed

regard-that here she was doomed to abide, in a hideous contiguity to the

dead husband and the living, and her conjecture did, in fact, bear

itself out. That night she lay between the two men she had married-

Heddegan on the one hand, and on the other through the partition against

which the bed stood, Charles Stow.

CHAPTER VI

Kindly time had withdrawn the foregoing event three days from the

present of Baptista Heddegan. It was ten o'clock in the morning; she had

been ill, not in an ordinary or definite sense, but in a state of cold

stupefaction, from which it was difficult to arouse her so much as to

say a few sentences. When questioned she had replied that she was pretty

well.

Their trip, as such, had been something of a failure. They had gone on

as far as Falmouth, but here he had given way to her entreaties to

return home. This they could not very well do without repassing through

Pen-zephyr, at which place they had now again arrived.

In the train she had seen a weekly local paper, and read there a

paragraph detailing the inquest on Charles. It was added that the

funeral was to take place at his native town of Redrutin on Friday.

After reading this she had shown no reluctance to enter the fatal

neighbourhood of the tragedy, only stipulating that they should take

their rest at a different lodging from the first; and now comparatively

braced up and calm-indeed a cooler creature altogether than when last in

the town, she said to David that she wanted to walk out for a while, as

they had plenty of time on their hands.

'To a shop as usual, I suppose, mee deer?'

'Partly for shopping,' she said. 'And it will be best for you, dear, to

stay in after trotting about so much, and have a good rest while I am

gone.'

He assented; and Baptista sallied forth. As she had stated, her first

visit was made to a shop, a draper's. Without the exercise of much

choice she purchased a black bonnet and veil, also a black stuff gown; a

black mantle she already wore. These articles were made up into a parcel

which, in spite of the saleswoman's offers, her customer said she would

take with her. Bearing it on her arm she turned to the railway, and at

the station got a ticket for Redrutin.

Thus it appeared that, on her recovery from the paralyzed mood of the

former day, while she had resolved not to blast utterly the happiness of

her present husband by revealing the history of the departed one, she

had also determined to indulge a certain odd, inconsequent, feminine

sentiment of decency, to the small extent to which it could do no harm

to any person. At Redrutin she emerged from the railway carriage in the

black attire purchased at the shop, having during the transit made the

change in the empty compartment she had chosen. The other clothes were

now in the bandbox and parcel. Leaving these at the cloak-room she

proceeded onward, and after a wary survey reached the side of a hill

whence a view of the burial ground could be obtained.

It was now a little before two o'clock. While Baptista waited a funeral

procession ascended the road. Baptista hastened across, and by the time

the procession entered the cemetery gates she had unobtrusively joined

it.

In addition to the schoolmaster's own relatives (not a few), the

paragraph in the newspapers of his death by drowning had drawn together

many neighbours, acquaintances, and onlookers. Among them she passed

unnoticed, and with a quiet step pursued the winding path to the chapel,

and afterwards thence to the grave. When all was over, and the relatives

and idlers had withdrawn, she stepped to the edge of the chasm. From

beneath her mantle she drew a little bunch of forget-me- nots, and

dropped them in upon the coffin. In a few minutes she also turned and

went away from the cemetery. By five o'clock she was again in Pen-

zephyr.

'You have been a mortal long time!' said her husband, crossly. 'I

allowed you an hour at most, mee deer.'

'It occupied me longer,' said she.

'Well-I reckon it is wasting words to complain. Hang it, ye look so

tired and wisht that I can't find heart to say what I would!'

'I am-weary and wisht, David; I am. We can get home to-morrow for

certain, I hope?'

'We can. And please God we will!' said Mr. Heddegan heartily, as if he

too were weary of his brief honeymoon. 'I must be into business again on

Monday morning at latest.'

They left by the next morning steamer, and in the afternoon took up

their residence in their own house at Giant's Town.

The hour that she reached the island it was as if a material weight had

been removed from Baptista's shoulders. Her husband attributed the

change to the influence of the local breezes after the hot-house

atmosphere of the mainland. However that might be, settled here, a few

doors from her mother's dwelling, she recovered in no very long time

much of her customary bearing, which was never very demonstrative. She

accepted her position calmly, and faintly smiled when her neighbours

learned to call her Mrs. Heddegan, and said she seemed likely to become

the leader of fashion in Giant's Town.

Her husband was a man who had made considerably more money by trade than

her father had done: and perhaps the greater profusion of surroundings

at her command than she had heretofore been mistress of, was not without

an effect upon her. One week, two weeks, three weeks passed; and, being

pre-eminently a young woman who allowed things to drift, she did nothing

whatever either to disclose or conceal traces of her first marriage; or

to learn if there existed possibilities-which there undoubtedly did-by

which that hasty contract might become revealed to those about her at

any unexpected moment.

While yet within the first month of her marriage, and on an evening just

before sunset, Baptista was standing within her garden adjoining the

house, when she saw passing along the road a personage clad in a greasy

black coat and battered tall hat, which, common enough in the slums of a

city, had an odd appearance in St. Maria's. The tramp, as he seemed to

be, marked her at once-bonnetless and unwrapped as she was her features

were plainly recognizable-and with an air of friendly surprise came and

leant over the wall.

'What! don't you know me?' said he.

She had some dim recollection of his face, but said that she was not

acquainted with him.

'Why, your witness to be sure, ma'am. Don't you mind the man that was

mending the church-window when you and your intended husband walked up

to be made one; and the clerk called me down from the ladder, and I came

and did my part by writing my name and occupation?'

Baptista glanced quickly around; her husband was out of earshot. That

would have been of less importance but for the fact that the wedding

witnessed by this personage had not been the wedding with Mr. Heddegan,

but the one on the day previous.

'I've had a misfortune since then, that's pulled me under,' continued

her friend. 'But don't let me damp yer wedded joy by naming the

particulars. Yes, I've seen changes since; though 'tis but a short time

ago-let me see, only a month next week, I think; for 'twere the first or

second day in August.'

'Yes-that's when it was,' said another man, a sailor, who had come up

with a pipe in his mouth, and felt it necessary to join in (Baptista

having receded to escape further speech). 'For that was the first time I

set foot in Giant's Town; and her husband took her to him the same day.'

A dialogue then proceeded between the two men outside the wall, which

Baptista could not help hearing.

'Ay, I signed the book that made her one flesh,' repeated the decayed

glazier. 'Where's her goodman?'

'About the premises somewhere; but you don't see 'em together much,'

replied the sailor in an undertone. 'You see, he's older than she.'

'Older? I should never have thought it from my own observation,' said

the glazier. 'He was a remarkably handsome man.'

'Handsome? Well, there he is-we can see for ourselves.'

David Heddegan had, indeed, just shown himself at the upper end of the

garden; and the glazier, looking in bewilderment from the husband to the

wife, saw the latter turn pale.

Now that decayed glazier was a far-seeing and cunning man-too far-seeing

and cunning to allow himself to thrive by simple and straightforward

means-and he held his peace, till he could read more plainly the meaning

of this riddle, merely adding carelessly, 'Well-marriage do alter a man,

'tis true. I should never ha' knowed him!'

He then stared oddly at the disconcerted Baptista, and moving on to

where he could again address her, asked her to do him a good turn, since

he once had done the same for her. Understanding that he meant money,

she handed him some, at which he thanked her, and instantly went away.

CHAPTER VII

She had escaped exposure on this occasion; but the incident had been an

awkward one, and should have suggested to Baptista that sooner or later

the secret must leak out. As it was, she suspected that at any rate she

had not heard the last of the glazier.

In a day or two, when her husband had gone to the old town on the other

side of the island, there came a gentle tap at the door, and the worthy

witness of her first marriage made his appearance a second time.

'It took me hours to get to the bottom of the mystery-hours!' he said

with a gaze of deep confederacy which offended her pride very deeply.

'But thanks to a good intellect I've done it. Now, ma'am, I'm not a man

to tell tales, even when a tale would be so good as this. But I'm going

back to the mainland again, and a little assistance would be as rain on

thirsty ground.'

'I helped you two days ago,' began Baptista.

'Yes-but what was that, my good lady? Not enough to pay my passage to

Pen-zephyr. I came over on your account, for I thought there was a

mystery somewhere. Now I must go back on my own. Mind this-'twould be

very awkward for you if your old man were to know. He's a queer temper,

though he may be fond.'

She knew as well as her visitor how awkward it would be; and the hush-

money she paid was heavy that day. She had, however, the satisfaction of

watching the man to the steamer, and seeing him diminish out of sight.

But Baptista perceived that the system into which she had been led of

purchasing silence thus was one fatal to her peace of mind, particularly

if it had to be continued.

Hearing no more from the glazier she hoped the difficulty was past. But

another week only had gone by, when, as she was pacing the Giant's Walk

(the name given to the promenade), she met the same personage in the

company of a fat woman carrying a bundle.

'This is the lady, my dear,' he said to his companion. 'This, ma'am, is

my wife. We've come to settle in the town for a time, if so be we can

find room.'

'That you won't do,' said she. 'Nobody can live here who is not

privileged.'

'I am privileged,' said the glazier, 'by my trade.'

Baptista went on, but in the afternoon she received a visit from the

man's wife. This honest woman began to depict, in forcible colours, the

necessity for keeping up the concealment.

'I will intercede with my husband, ma'am,' she said. 'He's a true man if

rightly managed; and I'll beg him to consider your position. 'Tis a very

nice house you've got here,' she added, glancing round, 'and well worth

a little sacrifice to keep it.'

The unlucky Baptista staved off the danger on this third occasion as she

had done on the previous two. But she formed a resolve that, if the

attack were once more to be repeated she would face a revelation-worse

though that must now be than before she had attempted to purchase

silence by bribes. Her tormentors, never believing her capable of acting

upon such an intention, came again; but she shut the door in their

faces. They retreated, muttering something; but she went to the back of

the house, where David Heddegan was.

She looked at him, unconscious of all. The case was serious; she knew

that well; and all the more serious in that she liked him better now

than she had done at first. Yet, as she herself began to see, the secret

was one that was sure to disclose itself. Her name and Charles's stood

indelibly written in the registers; and though a month only had passed

as yet it was a wonder that his clandestine union with her had not

already been discovered by his friends. Thus spurring herself to the

inevitable, she spoke to Heddegan.

'David, come indoors. I have something to tell you.'

He hardly regarded her at first. She had discerned that during the last

week or two he had seemed preoccupied, as if some private business

harassed him. She repeated her request. He replied with a sigh, 'Yes,

certainly, mee deer.'

When they had reached the sitting-room and shut the door she repeated,

faintly, 'David, I have something to tell you-a sort of tragedy I have

concealed. You will hate me for having so far deceived you; but perhaps

my telling you voluntarily will make you think a little better of me

than you would do otherwise.'

'Tragedy?' he said, awakening to interest. 'Much you can know about

tragedies, mee deer, that have been in the world so short a time!'

She saw that he suspected nothing, and it made her task the harder. But

on she went steadily. 'It is about something that happened before we

were married,' she said.

'Indeed!'

'Not a very long time before-a short time. And it is about a lover,' she

faltered.

'I don't much mind that,' he said mildly. 'In truth, I was in hopes

'twas more.'

'In hopes!'

'Well, yes.'

This screwed her up to the necessary effort. 'I met my old sweetheart.

He scorned me, chid me, dared me, and I went and married him. We were

coming straight here to tell you all what we had done; but he was

drowned; and I thought I would say nothing about him: and I married you,

David, for the sake of peace and quietness. I've tried to keep it from

you, but have found I cannot. There-that's the substance of it, and you

can never, never forgive me, I am sure!'

She spoke desperately. But the old man, instead of turning black or

blue, or slaying her in his indignation, jumped up from his chair, and

began to caper around the room in quite an ecstatic emotion.

'O, happy thing! How well it falls out!' he exclaimed, snapping his,

fingers over his head. 'Ha-ha-the knot is cut-I see a way out of my

trouble-ha-ha!' She looked at him without uttering a sound, till, as he

still continued smiling joyfully, she said, 'O-what do you mean! Is it

done to torment me?'

'No-no! O, mee deer, your story helps me out of the most heart-aching

quandary a poor man ever found himself in! You see, it is this-I've got

a tragedy, too; and unless you had had one to tell, I could never have

seen my way to tell mine!'

'What is yours-what is it?' she asked, with altogether a new view of

things.

'Well-it is a bouncer; mine is a bouncer!' said he, looking on the

ground and wiping his eyes.

'Not worse than mine?'

'Well-that depends upon how you look at it. Yours had to do with the

past alone; and I don't mind it. You see, we've been married a month,

and it don't jar upon me as it would if we'd only been married a day or

two. Now mine refers to past, present, and future; so that-'

'Past, present, and future!' she murmured. 'It never occurred to me that

you had a tragedy, too.'

'But I have!' he said, shaking his head. 'In fact, four.'

'Then tell 'em!' cried the young woman.

'I will-I will. But be considerate, I beg 'ee, mee deer. Well-I wasn't a

bachelor when I married 'ee, any more than you were a spinster. Just as

you was a widow-woman, I was a widow-man.

'Ah!' said she, with some surprise. 'But is that all?-then we are nicely

balanced,' she added, relieved.

'No-it is not all. There's the point. I am not only a widower.'

'O, David!'

'I am a widower with four tragedies-that is to say, four strapping

girls-the eldest taller than you. Don't 'ee look so struck-dumb-like! It

fell out in this way. I knew the poor woman, their mother, in Pen-

zephyr for some years; and-to cut a long story short-I privately married

her at last, just before she died. I kept the matter secret, but it is

getting known among the people here by degrees. I've long felt for the

children-that it is my duty to have them here, and do something for

them. I have not had courage to break it to 'ee, but I've seen lately

that it would soon come to your ears, and that hev worried me.'

'Are they educated?' said the ex-schoolmistress.

'No. I am sorry to say they have been much neglected; in truth, they can

hardly read. And so I thought that by marrying a young schoolmistress I

should get some one in the house who could teach 'em, and bring 'em into

genteel condition, all for nothing. You see, they are growed up too tall

to be sent to school.'

'O, mercy!' she almost moaned. 'Four great girls to teach the rudiments

to, and have always in the house with me spelling over their books; and

I hate teaching, it kills me. I am bitterly punished-I am, I am!'

'You'll get used to 'em, mee deer, and the balance of secrets-mine

against yours-will comfort your heart with a sense of justice. I could

send for 'em this week very well-and I will! In faith, I could send this

very day. Baptista, you have relieved me of all my difficulty!'

Thus the interview ended, so far as this matter was concerned. Baptista

was too stupefied to say more, and when she went away to her room she

wept from very mortification at Mr. Heddegan's duplicity. Education, the

one thing she abhorred; the shame of it to delude a young wife so!

The next meal came round. As they sat, Baptista would not suffer her

eyes to turn towards him. He did not attempt to intrude upon her

reserve, but every now and then looked under the table and chuckled with

satisfaction at the aspect of affairs. 'How very well matched we be!' he

said, comfortably.

Next day, when the steamer came in, Baptista saw her husband rush down

to meet it; and soon after there appeared at her door four tall,

hipless, shoulderless girls, dwindling in height and size from the

eldest to the youngest, like a row of Pan pipes; at the head of them

standing Heddegan. He smiled pleasantly through the grey fringe of his

whiskers and beard, and turning to the girls said, 'Now come forrard,

and shake hands properly with your stepmother.'

Thus she made their acquaintance, and he went out, leaving them

together. On examination the poor girls turned out to be not only plain-

looking, which she could have forgiven, but to have such a lamentably

meagre intellectual equipment as to be hopelessly inadequate as

companions. Even the eldest, almost her own age, could only read with

difficulty words of two syllables; and taste in dress was beyond their

comprehension. In the long vista of future years she saw nothing but

dreary drudgery at her detested old trade without prospect of reward.

She went about quite despairing during the next few days-an unpromising,

unfortunate mood for a woman who had not been married six weeks. From

her parents she concealed everything. They had been amongst the few

acquaintances of Heddegan who knew nothing of his secret, and were

indignant enough when they saw such a ready-made household foisted upon

their only child. But she would not support them in their remonstrances.

'No, you don't yet know all,' she said.

Thus Baptista had sense enough to see the retributive fairness of this

issue. For some time, whenever conversation arose between her and

Heddegan, which was not often, she always said, 'I am miserable, and you

know it. Yet I don't wish things to be otherwise.'

But one day when he asked, 'How do you like 'em now?' her answer was

unexpected. 'Much better than I did,' she said, quietly. 'I may like

them very much some day.'

This was the beginning of a serener season for the chastened spirit of

Baptista Heddegan. She had, in truth, discovered, underneath the crust

of uncouthness and meagre articulation which was due to their

Troglodytean existence, that her unwelcomed daughters had natures that

were unselfish almost to sublimity. The harsh discipline accorded to

their young lives before their mother's wrong had been righted, had

operated less to crush them than to lift them above all personal

ambition. They considered the world and its contents in a purely

objective way, and their own lot seemed only to affect them as that of

certain human beings among the rest, whose troubles they knew rather

than suffered.

This was such an entirely new way of regarding life to a woman of

Baptista's nature, that her attention, from being first arrested by it,

became deeply interested. By imperceptible pulses her heart expanded in

sympathy with theirs. The sentences of her tragi-comedy, her life,

confused till now, became clearer daily. That in humanity, as

exemplified by these girls, there was nothing to dislike, but infinitely

much to pity, she learnt with the lapse of each week in their company.

She grew to like the girls of unpromising exterior, and from liking she

got to love them; till they formed an unexpected point of junction

between her own and her husband's interests, generating a sterling

friendship at least, between a pair in whose existence there had

threatened to be neither friendship nor love.

October, 1885. October, 1885.

THE HAND OF ETHELBERTA-A COMEDY IN CHAPTERS By Thomas Hardy

"Vitae post-scenia celant."-Lucretius.

CONTENTS

PREFACE

1. A STREET IN ANGLEBURY-A HEATH NEAR IT-INSIDE THE 'RED LION' INN

2. CHRISTOPHER'S HOUSE-SANDBOURNE TOWN-SANDBOURNE MOOR

3. SANDBOURNE MOOR (continued)

4. SANDBOURNE PIER-ROAD TO WYNDWAY-BALL-ROOM IN WYNDWAY HOUSE

5. AT THE WINDOW-THE ROAD HOME

6. THE SHORE BY WYNDWAY

7. THE DINING-ROOM OF A TOWN HOUSE-THE BUTLER'S PANTRY

8. CHRISTOPHER'S LODGINGS-THE GROUNDS ABOUT ROOKINGTON

9. A LADY'S DRAWING-ROOMS-ETHELBERTA'S DRESSING-ROOM

10. LADY PETHERWIN'S HOUSE

11. SANDBOURNE AND ITS NEIGHBOURHOOD-SOME LONDON STREETS

12. ARROWTHORNE PARK AND LODGE

13. THE LODGE (continued)-THE COPSE BEHIND

14. A TURNPIKE ROAD

15. AN INNER ROOM AT THE LODGE

16. A LARGE PUBLIC HALL

17. ETHELBERTA'S HOUSE

18. NEAR SANDBOURNE-LONDON STREETS-ETHELBERTA'S

19. ETHELBERTA'S DRAWING-ROOM

20. THE NEIGHBOURHOOD OF THE HALL-THE ROAD HOME

21. A STREET-NEIGH'S ROOMS-CHRISTOPHER'S ROOMS

22. ETHELBERTA'S HOUSE

23. ETHELBERTA'S HOUSE (continued)

24. ETHELBERTA'S HOUSE (continued)-THE BRITISH MUSEUM

25. THE ROYAL ACADEMY-THE FARNFIELD ESTATE

26. ETHELBERTA'S DRAWING-ROOM

27. MRS. BELMAINE'S-CRIPPLEGATE CHURCH

28. ETHELBERTA'S-MR. CHICKEREL'S ROOM

29. ETHELBERTA'S DRESSING-ROOM-MR. DONCASTLE'S HOUSE

30. ON THE HOUSETOP

31. KNOLLSEA-A LOFTY DOWN-A RUINED CASTLE

32. A ROOM IN ENCKWORTH COURT

33. THE ENGLISH CHANNEL-NORMANDY

34. THE H�TEL BEAU S�JOUR AND SPOTS NEAR IT

35. THE HOTEL (continued), AND THE QUAY IN FRONT

36. THE HOUSE IN TOWN

37. KNOLLSEA-AN ORNAMENTAL VILLA

38. ENCKWORTH COURT

39. KNOLLSEA-MELCHESTER

40. MELCHESTER (continued)

41. WORKSHOPS-AN INN-THE STREET

42. THE DONCASTLES' RESIDENCE, AND OUTSIDE THE SAME

43. THE RAILWAY-THE SEA-THE SHORE BEYOND

44. SANDBOURNE-A LONELY HEATH-THE 'RED LION'-THE HIGHWAY

45. KNOLLSEA-THE ROAD THENCE-ENCKWORTH

46. ENCKWORTH (continued)-THE ANGLEBURY HIGHWAY

47. ENCKWORTH AND ITS PRECINCTS-MELCHESTER

SEQUEL. ANGLEBURY-ENCKWORTH-SANDBOURNE

PREFACE

This somewhat frivolous narrative was produced as an interlude between

stories of a more sober design, and it was given the sub-title of a

comedy to indicate-though not quite accurately-the aim of the

performance. A high degree of probability was not attempted in the

arrangement of the incidents, and there was expected of the reader a

certain lightness of mood, which should inform him with a good-natured

willingness to accept the production in the spirit in which it was

offered. The characters themselves, however, were meant to be consistent

and human.

On its first appearance the novel suffered, perhaps deservedly, for what

was involved in these intentions-for its quality of unexpectedness in

particular-that unforgivable sin in the critic's sight-the immediate

precursor of 'Ethelberta' having been a purely rural tale. Moreover, in

its choice of medium, and line of perspective, it undertook a delicate

task: to excite interest in a drama-if such a dignified word may be used

in the connection-wherein servants were as important as, or more

important than, their masters; wherein the drawing-room was sketched in

many cases from the point of view of the servants' hall. Such a reversal

of the social foreground has, perhaps, since grown more welcome, and

readers even of the finer crusted kind may now be disposed to pardon a

writer for presenting the sons and daughters of Mr. and Mrs. Chickerel

as beings who come within the scope of a congenial regard. T. H.

December 1895.

1. A STREET IN ANGLEBURY-A HEATH NEAR IT-INSIDE THE 'RED LION' INN

Young Mrs. Petherwin stepped from the door of an old and well-appointed

inn in a Wessex town to take a country walk. By her look and carriage

she appeared to belong to that gentle order of society which has no

worldly sorrow except when its jewellery gets stolen; but, as a fact not

generally known, her claim to distinction was rather one of brains than

of blood. She was the daughter of a gentleman who lived in a large house

not his own, and began life as a baby christened Ethelberta after an

infant of title who does not come into the story at all, having merely

furnished Ethelberta's mother with a subject of contemplation. She

became teacher in a school, was praised by examiners, admired by

gentlemen, not admired by gentlewomen, was touched up with

accomplishments by masters who were coaxed into painstaking by her many

graces, and, entering a mansion as governess to the daughter thereof,

was stealthily married by the son. He, a minor like herself, died from a

chill caught during the wedding tour, and a few weeks later was followed

into the grave by Sir Ralph Petherwin, his unforgiving father, who had

bequeathed his wealth to his wife absolutely.

These calamities were a sufficient reason to Lady Petherwin for

pardoning all concerned. She took by the hand the forlorn Ethelberta-who

seemed rather a detached bride than a widow-and finished her education

by placing her for two or three years in a boarding-school at Bonn.

Latterly she had brought the girl to England to live under her roof as

daughter and companion, the condition attached being that Ethelberta was

never openly to recognize her relations, for reasons which will

hereafter appear.

The elegant young lady, as she had a full right to be called if she

cared for the definition, arrested all the local attention when she

emerged into the summer-evening light with that diadem-and-sceptre

bearing-many people for reasons of heredity discovering such graces only

in those whose vestibules are lined with ancestral mail, forgetting that

a bear may be taught to dance. While this air of hers lasted, even the

inanimate objects in the street appeared to know that she was there; but

from a way she had of carelessly overthrowing her dignity by versatile

moods, one could not calculate upon its presence to a certainty when she

was round corners or in little lanes which demanded no repression of

animal spirits.

'Well to be sure!' exclaimed a milkman, regarding her. 'We should freeze

in our beds if 'twere not for the sun, and, dang me! if she isn't a

pretty piece. A man could make a meal between them eyes and chin-eh,

hostler? Odd nation dang my old sides if he couldn't!'

The speaker, who had been carrying a pair of pails on a yoke, deposited

them upon the edge of the pavement in front of the inn, and straightened

his back to an excruciating perpendicular. His remarks had been

addressed to a rickety person, wearing a waistcoat of that preternatural

length from the top to the bottom button which prevails among men who

have to do with horses. He was sweeping straws from the carriage-way

beneath the stone arch that formed a passage to the stables behind.

'Never mind the cursing and swearing, or somebody who's never out of

hearing may clap yer name down in his black book,' said the hostler,

also pausing, and lifting his eyes to the mullioned and transomed

windows and moulded parapet above him-not to study them as features of

ancient architecture, but just to give as healthful a stretch to the

eyes as his acquaintance had done to his back. 'Michael, a old man like

you ought to think about other things, and not be looking two ways at

your time of life. Pouncing upon young flesh like a carrion crow-'tis a

vile thing in a old man.'

''Tis; and yet 'tis not, for 'tis a naterel taste,' said the milkman,

again surveying Ethelberta, who had now paused upon a bridge in full

view, to look down the river. 'Now, if a poor needy feller like myself

could only catch her alone when she's dressed up to the nines for some

grand party, and carry her off to some lonely place-sakes, what a pot of

jewels and goold things I warrant he'd find about her! 'Twould pay en

for his trouble.'

'I don't dispute the picter; but 'tis sly and untimely to think such

roguery. Though I've had thoughts like it, 'tis true, about high women-

Lord forgive me for't.'

'And that figure of fashion standing there is a widow woman, so I hear?'

'Lady-not a penny less than lady. Ay, a thing of twenty-one or

thereabouts.'

'A widow lady and twenty-one. 'Tis a backward age for a body who's so

forward in her state of life.'

'Well, be that as 'twill, here's my showings for her age. She was about

the figure of two or three-and-twenty when a' got off the carriage last

night, tired out wi' boaming about the country; and nineteen this

morning when she came downstairs after a sleep round the clock and a

clane-washed face: so I thought to myself, twenty-one, I thought.'

'And what's the young woman's name, make so bold, hostler?'

'Ay, and the house were all in a stoor with her and the old woman, and

their boxes and camp-kettles, that they carry to wash in because hand-

basons bain't big enough, and I don't know what all; and t'other folk

stopping here were no more than dirt thencefor'ard.'

'I suppose they've come out of some noble city a long way herefrom?'

'And there was her hair up in buckle as if she'd never seen a clay-cold

man at all. However, to cut a long story short, all I know besides about

'em is that the name upon their luggage is Lady Petherwin, and she's the

widow of a city gentleman, who was a man of valour in the Lord Mayor's

Show.'

'Who's that chap in the gaiters and pack at his back, come out of the

door but now?' said the milkman, nodding towards a figure of that

description who had just emerged from the inn and trudged off in the

direction taken by the lady-now out of sight.

'Chap in the gaiters? Chok' it all-why, the father of that nobleman that

you call chap in the gaiters used to be hand in glove with half the

Queen's court.'

'What d'ye tell o'?'

'That man's father was one of the mayor and corporation of Sandbourne,

and was that familiar with men of money, that he'd slap 'em upon the

shoulder as you or I or any other poor fool would the clerk of the

parish.'

'O, what's my lordlin's name, make so bold, then?'

'Ay, the toppermost class nowadays have left off the use of wheels for

the good of their constitutions, so they traipse and walk for many years

up foreign hills, where you can see nothing but snow and fog, till

there's no more left to walk up; and if they reach home alive, and

ha'n't got too old and weared out, they walk and see a little of their

own parishes. So they tower about with a pack and a stick and a clane

white pocket-handkerchief over their hats just as you see he's got on

his. He's been staying here a night, and is off now again. "Young man,

young man," I think to myself, "if your shoulders were bent like a bandy

and your knees bowed out as mine be, till there is not an inch of

straight bone or gristle in 'ee, th' wouldstn't go doing hard work for

play 'a b'lieve."'

'True, true, upon my song. Such a pain as I have had in my lynes all

this day to be sure; words don't know what shipwreck I suffer in these

lynes o' mine-that they do not! And what was this young widow lady's

maiden name, then, hostler? Folk have been peeping after her, that's

true; but they don't seem to know much about her family.'

'And while I've tended horses fifty year that other folk might straddle

'em, here I be now not a penny the better! Often-times, when I see so

many good things about, I feel inclined to help myself in common justice

to my pocket.

"Work hard and be poor, Do nothing and get more."

But I draw in the horns of my mind and think to myself, "Forbear, John

Hostler, forbear!"-Her maiden name? Faith, I don't know the woman's

maiden name, though she said to me, "Good evening, John;" but I had no

memory of ever seeing her afore-no, no more than the dead inside church-

hatch-where I shall soon be likewise-I had not. "Ay, my nabs," I think

to myself, "more know Tom Fool than Tom Fool knows."'

'More know Tom Fool-what rambling old canticle is it you say, hostler?'

inquired the milkman, lifting his ear. 'Let's have it again-a good

saying well spit out is a Christmas fire to my withered heart. More know

Tom Fool-'

'Than Tom Fool knows,' said the hostler.

'Ah! That's the very feeling I've feeled over and over again, hostler,

but not in such gifted language. 'Tis a thought I've had in me for

years, and never could lick into shape!-O-ho-ho-ho! Splendid! Say it

again, hostler, say it again! To hear my own poor notion that had no

name brought into form like that-I wouldn't ha' lost it for the world!

More know Tom Fool than-than-h-ho-ho-ho-ho!'

'Don't let your sense o' vitness break out in such uproar, for heaven's

sake, or folk will surely think you've been laughing at the lady and

gentleman. Well, here's at it again-Night t'ee, Michael.' And the

hostler went on with his sweeping.

'Night t'ee, hostler, I must move too,' said the milkman, shouldering

his yoke, and walking off; and there reached the inn in a gradual

diminuendo, as he receded up the street, shaking his head convulsively,

'More know-Tom Fool-than Tom Fool-ho-ho-ho-ho-ho!'

The 'Red Lion,' as the inn or hotel was called which of late years had

become the fashion among tourists, because of the absence from its

precincts of all that was fashionable and new, stood near the middle of

the town, and formed a corner where in winter the winds whistled and

assembled their forces previous to plunging helter-skelter along the

streets. In summer it was a fresh and pleasant spot, convenient for such

quiet characters as sojourned there to study the geology and beautiful

natural features of the country round.

The lady whose appearance had asserted a difference between herself and

the Anglebury people, without too clearly showing what that difference

was, passed out of the town in a few moments and, following the highway

across meadows fed by the Froom, she crossed the railway and soon got

into a lonely heath. She had been watching the base of a cloud as it

closed down upon the line of a distant ridge, like an upper upon a lower

eyelid, shutting in the gaze of the evening sun. She was about to return

before dusk came on, when she heard a commotion in the air immediately

behind and above her head. The saunterer looked up and saw a wild-duck

flying along with the greatest violence, just in its rear being another

large bird, which a countryman would have pronounced to be one of the

biggest duck-hawks that he had ever beheld. The hawk neared its intended

victim, and the duck screamed and redoubled its efforts.

Ethelberta impulsively started off in a rapid run that would have made a

little dog bark with delight and run after, her object being, if

possible, to see the end of this desperate struggle for a life so small

and unheard-of. Her stateliness went away, and it could be forgiven for

not remaining; for her feet suddenly became as quick as fingers, and she

raced along over the uneven ground with such force of tread that, being

a woman slightly heavier than gossamer, her patent heels punched little

D's in the soil with unerring accuracy wherever it was bare, crippled

the heather-twigs where it was not, and sucked the swampy places with a

sound of quick kisses.

Her rate of advance was not to be compared with that of the two birds,

though she went swiftly enough to keep them well in sight in such an

open place as that around her, having at one point in the journey been

so near that she could hear the whisk of the duck's feathers against the

wind as it lifted and lowered its wings. When the bird seemed to be but

a few yards from its enemy she saw it strike downwards, and after a

level flight of a quarter of a minute, vanish. The hawk swooped after,

and Ethelberta now perceived a whitely shining oval of still water,

looking amid the swarthy level of the heath like a hole through to a

nether sky.