‘For South Wessex, the year formed in many ways an extraordinary chronological3 frontier or transit-line, at which there occurred what one might call a precipice4 in Time. As in a geological “fault,” we had presented to us a sudden bringing of ancient and modern into absolute contact, such as probably in no other single year since the Conquest was ever witnessed in this part of the country.’
These observations led us onward5 to talk of the different personages, gentle and simple, who lived and moved within our narrow and peaceful horizon at that time; and of three people in particular, whose queer little history was oddly touched at points by the Exhibition, more concerned with it than that of anybody else who dwelt in those outlying shades of the world, Stickleford, Mellstock, and Egdon. First in prominence6 among these three came Wat Ollamoor—if that were his real name—whom the seniors in our party had known well.
He was a woman’s man, they said,—supremely so—externally little else. To men he was not attractive; perhaps a little repulsive7 at times. Musician, dandy, and company-man in practice; veterinary surgeon in theory, he lodged8 awhile in Mellstock village, coming from nobody knew where; though some said his first appearance in this neighbourhood had been as fiddle10-player in a show at Greenhill Fair.
Many a worthy11 villager envied him his power over unsophisticated maidenhood—a power which seemed sometimes to have a touch of the weird12 and wizardly in it. Personally he was not ill-favoured, though rather un-English, his complexion13 being a rich olive, his rank hair dark and rather clammy—made still clammier by secret ointments14, which, when he came fresh to a party, caused him to smell like ‘boys’-love’ (southernwood) steeped in lamp-oil. On occasion he wore curls—a double row—running almost horizontally around his head. But as these were sometimes noticeably absent, it was concluded that they were not altogether of Nature’s making. By girls whose love for him had turned to hatred15 he had been nicknamed ‘Mop,’ from this abundance of hair, which was long enough to rest upon his shoulders; as time passed the name more and more prevailed.
His fiddling16 possibly had the most to do with the fascination17 he exercised, for, to speak fairly, it could claim for itself a most peculiar18 and personal quality, like that in a moving preacher. There were tones in it which bred the immediate19 conviction that indolence and averseness to systematic20 application were all that lay between ‘Mop’ and the career of a second Paganini.
While playing he invariably closed his eyes; using no notes, and, as it were, allowing the violin to wander on at will into the most plaintive21 passages ever heard by rustic22 man. There was a certain lingual23 character in the supplicatory24 expressions he produced, which would well nigh have drawn25 an ache from the heart of a gate-post. He could make any child in the parish, who was at all sensitive to music, burst into tears in a few minutes by simply fiddling one of the old dance-tunes27 he almost entirely28 affected—country jigs29, reels, and ‘Favourite Quick Steps’ of the last century—some mutilated remains30 of which even now reappear as nameless phantoms31 in new quadrilles and gallops32, where they are recognized only by the curious, or by such old-fashioned and far-between people as have been thrown with men like Wat Ollamoor in their early life.
His date was a little later than that of the old Mellstock quire-band which comprised the Dewys, Mail, and the rest—in fact, he did not rise above the horizon thereabout till those well-known musicians were disbanded as ecclesiastical functionaries33. In their honest love of thoroughness they despised the new man’s style. Theophilus Dewy (Reuben the tranter’s younger brother) used to say there was no ‘plumness’ in it—no bowing, no solidity—it was all fantastical. And probably this was true. Anyhow, Mop had, very obviously, never bowed a note of church-music from his birth; he never once sat in the gallery of Mellstock church where the others had tuned34 their venerable psalmody so many hundreds of times; had never, in all likelihood, entered a church at all. All were devil’s tunes in his repertory. ‘He could no more play the Wold Hundredth to his true time than he could play the brazen35 serpent,’ the tranter would say. (The brazen serpent was supposed in Mellstock to be a musical instrument particularly hard to blow.)
Occasionally Mop could produce the aforesaid moving effect upon the souls of grown-up persons, especially young women of fragile and responsive organization. Such an one was Car’line Aspent. Though she was already engaged to be married before she met him, Car’line, of them all, was the most influenced by Mop Ollamoor’s heart-stealing melodies, to her discomfort36, nay, positive pain and ultimate injury. She was a pretty, invocating, weak-mouthed girl, whose chief defect as a companion with her sex was a tendency to peevishness37 now and then. At this time she was not a resident in Mellstock parish where Mop lodged, but lived some miles off at Stickleford, farther down the river.
How and where she first made acquaintance with him and his fiddling is not truly known, but the story was that it either began or was developed on one spring evening, when, in passing through Lower Mellstock, she chanced to pause on the bridge near his house to rest herself, and languidly leaned over the parapet. Mop was standing38 on his door-step, as was his custom, spinning the insidious39 thread of semi- and demi-semi-quavers from the E string of his fiddle for the benefit of passers-by, and laughing as the tears rolled down the cheeks of the little children hanging around him. Car’line pretended to be engrossed40 with the rippling41 of the stream under the arches, but in reality she was listening, as he knew. Presently the aching of the heart seized her simultaneously42 with a wild desire to glide43 airily in the mazes44 of an infinite dance. To shake off the fascination she resolved to go on, although it would be necessary to pass him as he played. On stealthily glancing ahead at the performer, she found to her relief that his eyes were closed in abandonment to instrumentation, and she strode on boldly. But when closer her step grew timid, her tread convulsed itself more and more accordantly with the time of the melody, till she very nearly danced along. Gaining another glance at him when immediately opposite, she saw that one of his eyes was open, quizzing her as he smiled at her emotional state. Her gait could not divest45 itself of its compelled capers46 till she had gone a long way past the house; and Car’line was unable to shake off the strange infatuation for hours.
After that day, whenever there was to be in the neighbourhood a dance to which she could get an invitation, and where Mop Ollamoor was to be the musician, Car’line contrived47 to be present, though it sometimes involved a walk of several miles; for he did not play so often in Stickleford as elsewhere.
The next evidences of his influence over her were singular enough, and it would require a neurologist to fully48 explain them. She would be sitting quietly, any evening after dark, in the house of her father, the parish clerk, which stood in the middle of Stickleford village street, this being the highroad between Lower Mellstock and Moreford, five miles eastward49. Here, without a moment’s warning, and in the midst of a general conversation between her father, sister, and the young man before alluded50 to, who devotedly52 wooed her in ignorance of her infatuation, she would start from her seat in the chimney-corner as if she had received a galvanic shock, and spring convulsively towards the ceiling; then she would burst into tears, and it was not till some half-hour had passed that she grew calm as usual. Her father, knowing her hysterical53 tendencies, was always excessively anxious about this trait in his youngest girl, and feared the attack to be a species of epileptic fit. Not so her sister Julia. Julia had found out what was the cause. At the moment before the jumping, only an exceptionally sensitive ear situated54 in the chimney-nook could have caught from down the flue the beat of a man’s footstep along the highway without. But it was in that footfall, for which she had been waiting, that the origin of Car’line’s involuntary springing lay. The pedestrian was Mop Ollamoor, as the girl well knew; but his business that way was not to visit her; he sought another woman whom he spoke55 of as his Intended, and who lived at Moreford, two miles farther on. On one, and only one, occasion did it happen that Car’line could not control her utterance56; it was when her sister alone chanced to be present. ‘Oh—oh—oh—!’ she cried. ‘He’s going to her, and not coming to me!’
To do the fiddler justice he had not at first thought greatly of, or spoken much to, this girl of impressionable mould. But he had soon found out her secret, and could not resist a little by-play with her too easily hurt heart, as an interlude between his more serious performances at Moreford. The two became well acquainted, though only by stealth, hardly a soul in Stickleford except her sister, and her lover Ned Hipcroft, being aware of the attachment58. Her father disapproved59 of her coldness to Ned; her sister, too, hoped she might get over this nervous passion for a man of whom so little was known. The ultimate result was that Car’line’s manly60 and simple wooer Edward found his suit becoming practically hopeless. He was a respectable mechanic, in a far sounder position than Mop the nominal61 horse-doctor; but when, before leaving her, Ned put his flat and final question, would she marry him, then and there, now or never, it was with little expectation of obtaining more than the negative she gave him. Though her father supported him and her sister supported him, he could not play the fiddle so as to draw your soul out of your body like a spider’s thread, as Mop did, till you felt as limp as withy-wind and yearned62 for something to cling to. Indeed, Hipcroft had not the slightest ear for music; could not sing two notes in tune26, much less play them.
The No he had expected and got from her, in spite of a preliminary encouragement, gave Ned a new start in life. It had been uttered in such a tone of sad entreaty63 that he resolved to persecute64 her no more; she should not even be distressed65 by a sight of his form in the distant perspective of the street and lane. He left the place, and his natural course was to London.
The railway to South Wessex was in process of construction, but it was not as yet opened for traffic; and Hipcroft reached the capital by a six days’ trudge66 on foot, as many a better man had done before him. He was one of the last of the artisan class who used that now extinct method of travel to the great centres of labour, so customary then from time immemorial.
In London he lived and worked regularly at his trade. More fortunate than many, his disinterested67 willingness recommended him from the first. During the ensuing four years he was never out of employment. He neither advanced nor receded68 in the modern sense; he improved as a workman, but he did not shift one jot69 in social position. About his love for Car’line he maintained a rigid70 silence. No doubt he often thought of her; but being always occupied, and having no relations at Stickleford, he held no communication with that part of the country, and showed no desire to return. In his quiet lodging71 in Lambeth he moved about after working-hours with the facility of a woman, doing his own cooking, attending to his stocking-heels, and shaping himself by degrees to a life-long bachelorhood. For this conduct one is bound to advance the canonical72 reason that time could not efface73 from his heart the image of little Car’line Aspent—and it may be in part true; but there was also the inference that his was a nature not greatly dependent upon the ministrations of the other sex for its comforts.
The fourth year of his residence as a mechanic in London was the year of the Hyde-Park Exhibition already mentioned, and at the construction of this huge glass-house, then unexampled in the world’s history, he worked daily. It was an era of great hope and activity among the nations and industries. Though Hipcroft was, in his small way, a central man in the movement, he plodded74 on with his usual outward placidity75. Yet for him, too, the year was destined76 to have its surprises, for when the bustle77 of getting the building ready for the opening day was past, the ceremonies had been witnessed, and people were flocking thither78 from all parts of the globe, he received a letter from Car’line. Till that day the silence of four years between himself and Stickleford had never been broken.
She informed her old lover, in an uncertain penmanship which suggested a trembling hand, of the trouble she had been put to in ascertaining79 his address, and then broached80 the subject which had prompted her to write. Four years ago, she said with the greatest delicacy81 of which she was capable, she had been so foolish as to refuse him. Her wilful82 wrong-headedness had since been a grief to her many times, and of late particularly. As for Mr. Ollamoor, he had been absent almost as long as Ned—she did not know where. She would gladly marry Ned now if he were to ask her again, and be a tender little wife to him till her life’s end.
A tide of warm feeling must have surged through Ned Hipcroft’s frame on receipt of this news, if we may judge by the issue. Unquestionably he loved her still, even if not to the exclusion83 of every other happiness. This from his Car’line, she who had been dead to him these many years, alive to him again as of old, was in itself a pleasant, gratifying thing. Ned had grown so resigned to, or satisfied with, his lonely lot, that he probably would not have shown much jubilation84 at anything. Still, a certain ardour of preoccupation, after his first surprise, revealed how deeply her confession85 of faith in him had stirred him. Measured and methodical in his ways, he did not answer the letter that day, nor the next, nor the next. He was having ‘a good think.’ When he did answer it, there was a great deal of sound reasoning mixed in with the unmistakable tenderness of his reply; but the tenderness itself was sufficient to reveal that he was pleased with her straightforward86 frankness; that the anchorage she had once obtained in his heart was renewable, if it had not been continuously firm.
He told her—and as he wrote his lips twitched87 humorously over the few gentle words of raillery he indited88 among the rest of his sentences—that it was all very well for her to come round at this time of day. Why wouldn’t she have him when he wanted her? She had no doubt learned that he was not married, but suppose his affections had since been fixed89 on another? She ought to beg his pardon. Still, he was not the man to forget her. But considering how he had been used, and what he had suffered, she could not quite expect him to go down to Stickleford and fetch her. But if she would come to him, and say she was sorry, as was only fair; why, yes, he would marry her, knowing what a good little woman she was at the core. He added that the request for her to come to him was a less one to make than it would have been when he first left Stickleford, or even a few months ago; for the new railway into South Wessex was now open, and there had just begun to be run wonderfully contrived special trains, called excursion-trains, on account of the Great Exhibition; so that she could come up easily alone.
She said in her reply how good it was of him to treat her so generously, after her hot and cold treatment of him; that though she felt frightened at the magnitude of the journey, and was never as yet in a railway-train, having only seen one pass at a distance, she embraced his offer with all her heart; and would, indeed, own to him how sorry she was, and beg his pardon, and try to be a good wife always, and make up for lost time.
The remaining details of when and where were soon settled, Car’line informing him, for her ready identification in the crowd, that she would be wearing ‘my new sprigged-laylock cotton gown,’ and Ned gaily90 responding that, having married her the morning after her arrival, he would make a day of it by taking her to the Exhibition. One early summer afternoon, accordingly, he came from his place of work, and hastened towards Waterloo Station to meet her. It was as wet and chilly91 as an English June day can occasionally be, but as he waited on the platform in the drizzle92 he glowed inwardly, and seemed to have something to live for again.
The ‘excursion-train’—an absolutely new departure in the history of travel—was still a novelty on the Wessex line, and probably everywhere. Crowds of people had flocked to all the stations on the way up to witness the unwonted sight of so long a train’s passage, even where they did not take advantage of the opportunity it offered. The seats for the humbler class of travellers in these early experiments in steam-locomotion, were open trucks, without any protection whatever from the wind and rain; and damp weather having set in with the afternoon, the unfortunate occupants of these vehicles were, on the train drawing up at the London terminus, found to be in a pitiable condition from their long journey; blue-faced, stiff-necked, sneezing, rain-beaten, chilled to the marrow93, many of the men being hatless; in fact, they resembled people who had been out all night in an open boat on a rough sea, rather than inland excursionists for pleasure. The women had in some degree protected themselves by turning up the skirts of their gowns over their heads, but as by this arrangement they were additionally exposed about the hips94, they were all more or less in a sorry plight95.
In the bustle and crush of alighting forms of both sexes which followed the entry of the huge concatenation into the station, Ned Hipcroft soon discerned the slim little figure his eye was in search of, in the sprigged lilac, as described. She came up to him with a frightened smile—still pretty, though so damp, weather-beaten, and shivering from long exposure to the wind.
‘O Ned!’ she sputtered96, ‘I—I—’ He clasped her in his arms and kissed her, whereupon she burst into a flood of tears.
‘You are wet, my poor dear! I hope you’ll not get cold,’ he said. And surveying her and her multifarious surrounding packages, he noticed that by the hand she led a toddling97 child—a little girl of three or so—whose hood9 was as clammy and tender face as blue as those of the other travellers.
‘Yes, Ned. She’s mine.’
‘Yours?’
‘Yes—my own!’
‘Your own child?’
‘Yes!’
‘Well—as God’s in—’
‘Ned, I didn’t name it in my letter, because, you see, it would have been so hard to explain! I thought that when we met I could tell you how she happened to be born, so much better than in writing! I hope you’ll excuse it this once, dear Ned, and not scold me, now I’ve come so many, many miles!’
‘This means Mr. Mop Ollamoor, I reckon!’ said Hipcroft, gazing palely at them from the distance of the yard or two to which he had withdrawn99 with a start.
Car’line gasped100. ‘But he’s been gone away for years!’ she supplicated101. ‘And I never had a young man before! And I was so onlucky to be catched the first time, though some of the girls down there go on like anything!’
Ned remained in silence, pondering.
‘You’ll forgive me, dear Ned?’ she added, beginning to sob102 outright103. ‘I haven’t taken ’ee in after all, because—because you can pack us back again, if you want to; though ’tis hundreds o’ miles, and so wet, and night a-coming on, and I with no money!’
A more pitiable picture than the pair of helpless creatures presented was never seen on a rainy day, as they stood on the great, gaunt, puddled platform, a whiff of drizzle blowing under the roof upon them now and then; the pretty attire105 in which they had started from Stickleford in the early morning bemuddled and sodden106, weariness on their faces, and fear of him in their eyes; for the child began to look as if she thought she too had done some wrong, remaining in an appalled107 silence till the tears rolled down her chubby108 cheeks.
‘What’s the matter, my little maid?’ said Ned mechanically.
‘I do want to go home!’ she let out, in tones that told of a bursting heart. ‘And my totties be cold, an’ I shan’t have no bread an’ butter no more!’
‘I don’t know what to say to it all!’ declared Ned, his own eye moist as he turned and walked a few steps with his head down; then regarded them again point blank. From the child escaped troubled breaths and silently welling tears.
‘Want some bread and butter, do ’ee?’ he said, with factitious hardness.
‘Ye-e-s!’
‘Well, I daresay I can get ’ee a bit! Naturally, you must want some. And you, too, for that matter, Car’line.’
‘I do feel a little hungered. But I can keep it off,’ she murmured.
‘Folk shouldn’t do that,’ he said gruffly. . . . ‘There come along!’ he caught up the child, as he added, ‘You must bide109 here to-night, anyhow, I s’pose! What can you do otherwise? I’ll get ’ee some tea and victuals110; and as for this job, I’m sure I don’t know what to say! This is the way out.’
They pursued their way, without speaking, to Ned’s lodgings111, which were not far off. There he dried them and made them comfortable, and prepared tea; they thankfully sat down. The ready-made household of which he suddenly found himself the head imparted a cosy112 aspect to his room, and a paternal113 one to himself. Presently he turned to the child and kissed her now blooming cheeks; and, looking wistfully at Car’line, kissed her also.
‘I don’t see how I can send ’ee back all them miles,’ he growled114, ‘now you’ve come all the way o’ purpose to join me. But you must trust me, Car’line, and show you’ve real faith in me. Well, do you feel better now, my little woman?’
The child nodded, her mouth being otherwise occupied.
‘I did trust you, Ned, in coming; and I shall always!’
Thus, without any definite agreement to forgive her, he tacitly acquiesced115 in the fate that Heaven had sent him; and on the day of their marriage (which was not quite so soon as he had expected it could be, on account of the time necessary for banns) he took her to the Exhibition when they came back from church, as he had promised. While standing near a large mirror in one of the courts devoted51 to furniture, Car’line started, for in the glass appeared the reflection of a form exactly resembling Mop Ollamoor’s—so exactly, that it seemed impossible to believe anybody but that artist in person to be the original. On passing round the objects which hemmed116 in Ned, her, and the child from a direct view, no Mop was to be seen. Whether he were really in London or not at that time was never known; and Car’line always stoutly117 denied that her readiness to go and meet Ned in town arose from any rumour118 that Mop had also gone thither; which denial there was no reasonable ground for doubting.
And then the year glided119 away, and the Exhibition folded itself up and became a thing of the past. The park trees that had been enclosed for six months were again exposed to the winds and storms, and the sod grew green anew. Ned found that Car’line resolved herself into a very good wife and companion, though she had made herself what is called cheap to him; but in that she was like another domestic article, a cheap tea-pot, which often brews120 better tea than a dear one. One autumn Hipcroft found himself with but little work to do, and a prospect121 of less for the winter. Both being country born and bred, they fancied they would like to live again in their natural atmosphere. It was accordingly decided122 between them that they should leave the pent-up London lodging, and that Ned should seek out employment near his native place, his wife and her daughter staying with Car’line’s father during the search for occupation and an abode123 of their own.
Tinglings of pleasure pervaded124 Car’line’s spasmodic little frame as she journeyed down with Ned to the place she had left two or three years before, in silence and under a cloud. To return to where she had once been despised, a smiling London wife with a distinct London accent, was a triumph which the world did not witness every day.
The train did not stop at the petty roadside station that lay nearest to Stickleford, and the trio went on to Casterbridge. Ned thought it a good opportunity to make a few preliminary inquiries125 for employment at workshops in the borough126 where he had been known; and feeling cold from her journey, and it being dry underfoot and only dusk as yet, with a moon on the point of rising, Car’line and her little girl walked on toward Stickleford, leaving Ned to follow at a quicker pace, and pick her up at a certain half-way house, widely known as an inn.
The woman and child pursued the well-remembered way comfortably enough, though they were both becoming wearied. In the course of three miles they had passed Heedless-William’s Pond, the familiar landmark127 by Bloom’s End, and were drawing near the Quiet Woman Inn, a lone57 roadside hostel128 on the lower verge129 of the Egdon Heath, since and for many years abolished. In stepping up towards it Car’line heard more voices within than had formerly130 been customary at such an hour, and she learned that an auction131 of fat stock had been held near the spot that afternoon. The child would be the better for a rest as well as herself, she thought, and she entered.
The guests and customers overflowed132 into the passage, and Car’line had no sooner crossed the threshold than a man whom she remembered by sight came forward with glass and mug in his hands towards a friend leaning against the wall; but, seeing her, very gallantly133 offered her a drink of the liquor, which was gin-and-beer hot, pouring her out a tumblerful and saying, in a moment or two: ‘Surely, ’tis little Car’line Aspent that was—down at Stickleford?’
She assented134, and, though she did not exactly want this beverage135, she drank it since it was offered, and her entertainer begged her to come in farther and sit down. Once within the room she found that all the persons present were seated close against the walls, and there being a chair vacant she did the same. An explanation of their position occurred the next moment. In the opposite corner stood Mop, rosining his bow and looking just the same as ever. The company had cleared the middle of the room for dancing, and they were about to dance again. As she wore a veil to keep off the wind she did not think he had recognized her, or could possibly guess the identity of the child; and to her satisfied surprise she found that she could confront him quite calmly—mistress of herself in the dignity her London life had given her. Before she had quite emptied her glass the dance was called, the dancers formed in two lines, the music sounded, and the figure began.
Then matters changed for Car’line. A tremor136 quickened itself to life in her, and her hand so shook that she could hardly set down her glass. It was not the dance nor the dancers, but the notes of that old violin which thrilled the London wife, these having still all the witchery that she had so well known of yore, and under which she had used to lose her power of independent will. How it all came back! There was the fiddling figure against the wall; the large, oily, mop-like head of him, and beneath the mop the face with closed eyes.
After the first moments of paralyzed reverie the familiar tune in the familiar rendering137 made her laugh and shed tears simultaneously. Then a man at the bottom of the dance, whose partner had dropped away, stretched out his hand and beckoned138 to her to take the place. She did not want to dance; she entreated139 by signs to be left where she was, but she was entreating140 of the tune and its player rather than of the dancing man. The saltatory tendency which the fiddler and his cunning instrument had ever been able to start in her was seizing Car’line just as it had done in earlier years, possibly assisted by the gin-and-beer hot. Tired as she was she grasped her little girl by the hand, and plunging141 in at the bottom of the figure, whirled about with the rest. She found that her companions were mostly people of the neighbouring hamlets and farms—Bloom’s End, Mellstock, Lewgate, and elsewhere; and by degrees she was recognized as she convulsively danced on, wishing that Mop would cease and let her heart rest from the aching he caused, and her feet also.
After long and many minutes the dance ended, when she was urged to fortify142 herself with more gin-and-beer; which she did, feeling very weak and overpowered with hysteric emotion. She refrained from unveiling, to keep Mop in ignorance of her presence, if possible. Several of the guests having left, Car’line hastily wiped her lips and also turned to go; but, according to the account of some who remained, at that very moment a five-handed reel was proposed, in which two or three begged her to join.
She declined on the plea of being tired and having to walk to Stickleford, when Mop began aggressively tweedling ‘My Fancy-Lad,’ in D major, as the air to which the reel was to be footed. He must have recognized her, though she did not know it, for it was the strain of all seductive strains which she was least able to resist—the one he had played when she was leaning over the bridge at the date of their first acquaintance. Car’line stepped despairingly into the middle of the room with the other four.
Reels were resorted to hereabouts at this time by the more robust143 spirits, for the reduction of superfluous144 energy which the ordinary figure-dances were not powerful enough to exhaust. As everybody knows, or does not know, the five reelers stood in the form of a cross, the reel being performed by each line of three alternately, the persons who successively came to the middle place dancing in both directions. Car’line soon found herself in this place, the axis145 of the whole performance, and could not get out of it, the tune turning into the first part without giving her opportunity. And now she began to suspect that Mop did know her, and was doing this on purpose, though whenever she stole a glance at him his closed eyes betokened146 obliviousness147 to everything outside his own brain. She continued to wend her way through the figure of 8 that was formed by her course, the fiddler introducing into his notes the wild and agonizing148 sweetness of a living voice in one too highly wrought149; its pathos150 running high and running low in endless variation, projecting through her nerves excruciating spasms151, a sort of blissful torture. The room swam, the tune was endless; and in about a quarter of an hour the only other woman in the figure dropped out exhausted152, and sank panting on a bench.
The reel instantly resolved itself into a four-handed one. Car’line would have given anything to leave off; but she had, or fancied she had, no power, while Mop played such tunes; and thus another ten minutes slipped by, a haze153 of dust now clouding the candles, the floor being of stone, sanded. Then another dancer fell out—one of the men—and went into the passage, in a frantic154 search for liquor. To turn the figure into a three-handed reel was the work of a second, Mop modulating155 at the same time into ‘The Fairy Dance,’ as better suited to the contracted movement, and no less one of those foods of love which, as manufactured by his bow, had always intoxicated156 her.
In a reel for three there was no rest whatever, and four or five minutes were enough to make her remaining two partners, now thoroughly157 blown, stamp their last bar and, like their predecessors158, limp off into the next room to get something to drink. Car’line, half-stifled inside her veil, was left dancing alone, the apartment now being empty of everybody save herself, Mop, and their little girl.
She flung up the veil, and cast her eyes upon him, as if imploring159 him to withdraw himself and his acoustic160 magnetism161 from the atmosphere. Mop opened one of his own orbs162, as though for the first time, fixed it peeringly upon her, and smiling dreamily, threw into his strains the reserve of expression which he could not afford to waste on a big and noisy dance. Crowds of little chromatic163 subtleties164, capable of drawing tears from a statue, proceeded straightway from the ancient fiddle, as if it were dying of the emotion which had been pent up within it ever since its banishment165 from some Italian city where it first took shape and sound. There was that in the look of Mop’s one dark eye which said: ‘You cannot leave off, dear, whether you would or no!’ and it bred in her a paroxysm of desperation that defied him to tire her down.
She thus continued to dance alone, defiantly166 as she thought, but in truth slavishly and abjectly167, subject to every wave of the melody, and probed by the gimlet-like gaze of her fascinator’s open eye; keeping up at the same time a feeble smile in his face, as a feint to signify it was still her own pleasure which led her on. A terrified embarrassment168 as to what she could say to him if she were to leave off, had its unrecognized share in keeping her going. The child, who was beginning to be distressed by the strange situation, came up and said: ‘Stop, mother, stop, and let’s go home!’ as she seized Car’line’s hand.
Suddenly Car’line sank staggering to the floor; and rolling over on her face, prone169 she remained. Mop’s fiddle thereupon emitted an elfin shriek170 of finality; stepping quickly down from the nine-gallon beer-cask which had formed his rostrum, he went to the little girl, who disconsolately171 bent172 over her mother.
The guests who had gone into the back-room for liquor and change of air, hearing something unusual, trooped back hitherward, where they endeavoured to revive poor, weak Car’line by blowing her with the bellows173 and opening the window. Ned, her husband, who had been detained in Casterbridge, as aforesaid, came along the road at this juncture174, and hearing excited voices through the open casement175, and to his great surprise, the mention of his wife’s name, he entered amid the rest upon the scene. Car’line was now in convulsions, weeping violently, and for a long time nothing could be done with her. While he was sending for a cart to take her onward to Stickleford Hipcroft anxiously inquired how it had all happened; and then the assembly explained that a fiddler formerly known in the locality had lately revisited his old haunts, and had taken upon himself without invitation to play that evening at the inn.
Ned demanded the fiddler’s name, and they said Ollamoor.
‘Ah!’ exclaimed Ned, looking round him. ‘Where is he, and where—where’s my little girl?’
Ollamoor had disappeared, and so had the child. Hipcroft was in ordinary a quiet and tractable176 fellow, but a determination which was to be feared settled in his face now. ‘Blast him!’ he cried. ‘I’ll beat his skull177 in for’n, if I swing for it to-morrow!’
He had rushed to the poker178 which lay on the hearth179, and hastened down the passage, the people following. Outside the house, on the other side of the highway, a mass of dark heath-land rose sullenly180 upward to its not easily accessible interior, a ravined plateau, whereon jutted181 into the sky, at the distance of a couple of miles, the fir-woods of Mistover backed by the Yalbury coppices—a place of Dantesque gloom at this hour, which would have afforded secure hiding for a battery of artillery182, much less a man and a child.
Some other men plunged183 thitherward with him, and more went along the road. They were gone about twenty minutes altogether, returning without result to the inn. Ned sat down in the settle, and clasped his forehead with his hands.
‘Well—what a fool the man is, and hev been all these years, if he thinks the child his, as a’ do seem to!’ they whispered. ‘And everybody else knowing otherwise!’
‘No, I don’t think ’tis mine!’ cried Ned hoarsely184, as he looked up from his hands. ‘But she is mine, all the same! Ha’n’t I nussed her? Ha’n’t I fed her and teached her? Ha’n’t I played wi’ her? O, little Carry—gone with that rogue—gone!’
‘You ha’n’t lost your mis’ess, anyhow,’ they said to console him. ‘She’s throwed up the sperrits, and she is feeling better, and she’s more to ’ee than a child that isn’t yours.’
‘She isn’t! She’s not so particular much to me, especially now she’s lost the little maid! But Carry’s everything!’
‘Well, ver’ like you’ll find her to-morrow.’
‘Ah—but shall I? Yet he can’t hurt her—surely he can’t! Well—how’s Car’line now? I am ready. Is the cart here?’
She was lifted into the vehicle, and they sadly lumbered185 on toward Stickleford. Next day she was calmer; but the fits were still upon her; and her will seemed shattered. For the child she appeared to show singularly little anxiety, though Ned was nearly distracted. It was nevertheless quite expected that the impish Mop would restore the lost one after a freak of a day or two; but time went on, and neither he nor she could be heard of, and Hipcroft murmured that perhaps he was exercising upon her some unholy musical charm, as he had done upon Car’line herself. Weeks passed, and still they could obtain no clue either to the fiddler’s whereabouts or the girl’s; and how he could have induced her to go with him remained a mystery.
Then Ned, who had obtained only temporary employment in the neighbourhood, took a sudden hatred toward his native district, and a rumour reaching his ears through the police that a somewhat similar man and child had been seen at a fair near London, he playing a violin, she dancing on stilts186, a new interest in the capital took possession of Hipcroft with an intensity187 which would scarcely allow him time to pack before returning thither.
He did not, however, find the lost one, though he made it the entire business of his over-hours to stand about in by-streets in the hope of discovering her, and would start up in the night, saying, ‘That rascal’s torturing her to maintain him!’ To which his wife would answer peevishly188, ‘Don’t ’ee raft yourself so, Ned! You prevent my getting a bit o’ rest! He won’t hurt her!’ and fall asleep again.
That Carry and her father had emigrated to America was the general opinion; Mop, no doubt, finding the girl a highly desirable companion when he had trained her to keep him by her earnings189 as a dancer. There, for that matter, they may be performing in some capacity now, though he must be an old scamp verging190 on threescore-and-ten, and she a woman of four-and-forty.
May 1893,
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1
substantive
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| adj.表示实在的；本质的、实质性的；独立的；n.实词，实名词；独立存在的实体 | |
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2
nay
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| adv.不；n.反对票，投反对票者 | |
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3
chronological
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| adj.按年月顺序排列的，年代学的 | |
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4
precipice
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| n.悬崖，危急的处境 | |
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5
onward
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| adj.向前的，前进的；adv.向前，前进，在先 | |
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6
prominence
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| n.突出；显著；杰出；重要 | |
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repulsive
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| adj.排斥的，使人反感的 | |
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8
lodged
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| v.存放( lodge的过去式和过去分词 )；暂住；埋入；（权利、权威等）归属 | |
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9
hood
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| n.头巾，兜帽，覆盖；v.罩上，以头巾覆盖 | |
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10
fiddle
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| n.小提琴；vi.拉提琴；不停拨弄，乱动 | |
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worthy
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| adj.(of)值得的，配得上的；有价值的 | |
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weird
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| adj.古怪的，离奇的；怪诞的，神秘而可怕的 | |
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13
complexion
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| n.肤色；情况，局面；气质，性格 | |
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14
ointments
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| n.软膏( ointment的名词复数 )；扫兴的人；煞风景的事物；药膏 | |
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15
hatred
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| n.憎恶，憎恨，仇恨 | |
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16
fiddling
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| 微小的 | |
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17
fascination
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| n.令人着迷的事物，魅力，迷恋 | |
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18
peculiar
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| adj.古怪的，异常的；特殊的，特有的 | |
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19
immediate
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| adj.立即的；直接的，最接近的；紧靠的 | |
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20
systematic
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| adj.有系统的，有计划的，有方法的 | |
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21
plaintive
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| adj.可怜的，伤心的 | |
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22
rustic
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| adj.乡村的，有乡村特色的；n.乡下人，乡巴佬 | |
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23
lingual
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| adj.语言的；舌的 | |
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24
supplicatory
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| adj.恳求的，祈愿的 | |
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25
drawn
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| v.拖，拉，拔出；adj.憔悴的，紧张的 | |
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26
tune
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| n.调子；和谐，协调；v.调音，调节，调整 | |
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27
tunes
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| n.曲调，曲子( tune的名词复数 )v.调音( tune的第三人称单数 )；调整；（给收音机、电视等）调谐；使协调 | |
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28
entirely
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| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
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29
jigs
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| n.快步舞（曲）极快地( jig的名词复数 )；夹具v.（使）上下急动( jig的第三人称单数 ) | |
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30
remains
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| n.剩余物，残留物；遗体，遗迹 | |
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31
phantoms
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| n.鬼怪，幽灵( phantom的名词复数 ) | |
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32
gallops
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| （马等）奔驰，骑马奔驰( gallop的名词复数 ) | |
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33
functionaries
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| n.公职人员，官员( functionary的名词复数 ) | |
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34
tuned
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| adj.调谐的，已调谐的v.调音( tune的过去式和过去分词 )；调整；（给收音机、电视等）调谐；使协调 | |
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35
brazen
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| adj.厚脸皮的，无耻的，坚硬的 | |
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36
discomfort
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| n.不舒服，不安，难过，困难，不方便 | |
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37
peevishness
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| 脾气不好；爱发牢骚 | |
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38
standing
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| n.持续，地位；adj.永久的，不动的，直立的，不流动的 | |
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39
insidious
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| adj.阴险的，隐匿的，暗中为害的，（疾病）不知不觉之间加剧 | |
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40
engrossed
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| adj.全神贯注的 | |
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41
rippling
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| 起涟漪的，潺潺流水般声音的 | |
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42
simultaneously
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| adv.同时发生地，同时进行地 | |
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43
glide
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| n./v.溜，滑行；(时间)消逝 | |
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44
mazes
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| 迷宫( maze的名词复数 )； 纷繁复杂的规则； 复杂难懂的细节； 迷宫图 | |
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45
divest
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| v.脱去，剥除 | |
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46
capers
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| n.开玩笑( caper的名词复数 )；刺山柑v.跳跃，雀跃( caper的第三人称单数 ) | |
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47
contrived
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| adj.不自然的，做作的；虚构的 | |
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48
fully
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| adv.完全地，全部地，彻底地；充分地 | |
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49
eastward
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| adv.向东；adj.向东的；n.东方，东部 | |
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50
alluded
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| 提及，暗指( allude的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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51
devoted
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| adj.忠诚的，忠实的，热心的，献身于...的 | |
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52
devotedly
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| 专心地； 恩爱地； 忠实地； 一心一意地 | |
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53
hysterical
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| adj.情绪异常激动的，歇斯底里般的 | |
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54
situated
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| adj.坐落在...的，处于某种境地的 | |
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55
spoke
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| n.（车轮的）辐条；轮辐；破坏某人的计划；阻挠某人的行动 v.讲，谈（speak的过去式）；说；演说；从某种观点来说 | |
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56
utterance
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| n.用言语表达，话语，言语 | |
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57
lone
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| adj.孤寂的，单独的；唯一的 | |
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58
attachment
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| n.附属物，附件；依恋；依附 | |
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59
disapproved
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| v.不赞成( disapprove的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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60
manly
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| adj.有男子气概的；adv.男子般地，果断地 | |
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61
nominal
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| adj.名义上的；(金额、租金)微不足道的 | |
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62
yearned
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| 渴望，切盼，向往( yearn的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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63
entreaty
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| n.恳求，哀求 | |
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64
persecute
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| vt.迫害，虐待；纠缠，骚扰 | |
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65
distressed
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| 痛苦的 | |
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66
trudge
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| v.步履艰难地走；n.跋涉，费力艰难的步行 | |
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67
disinterested
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| adj.不关心的，不感兴趣的 | |
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68
receded
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| v.逐渐远离( recede的过去式和过去分词 )；向后倾斜；自原处后退或避开别人的注视；尤指问题 | |
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69
jot
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| n.少量；vi.草草记下；vt.匆匆写下 | |
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70
rigid
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| adj.严格的，死板的；刚硬的，僵硬的 | |
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71
lodging
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| n.寄宿，住所；(大学生的)校外宿舍 | |
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72
canonical
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| n.权威的；典型的 | |
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73
efface
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| v.擦掉，抹去 | |
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74
plodded
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| v.沉重缓慢地走（路）( plod的过去式和过去分词 )；努力从事；沉闷地苦干；缓慢进行（尤指艰难枯燥的工作） | |
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75
placidity
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| n.平静，安静，温和 | |
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76
destined
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| adj.命中注定的；(for)以…为目的地的 | |
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77
bustle
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| v.喧扰地忙乱，匆忙，奔忙；n.忙碌；喧闹 | |
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78
thither
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| adv.向那里；adj.在那边的，对岸的 | |
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79
ascertaining
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| v.弄清，确定，查明( ascertain的现在分词 ) | |
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80
broached
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| v.谈起( broach的过去式和过去分词 )；打开并开始用；用凿子扩大（或修光）；（在桶上）钻孔取液体 | |
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81
delicacy
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| n.精致，细微，微妙，精良；美味，佳肴 | |
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82
wilful
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| adj.任性的，故意的 | |
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83
exclusion
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| n.拒绝，排除，排斥，远足，远途旅行 | |
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84
jubilation
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| n.欢庆，喜悦 | |
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85
confession
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| n.自白，供认，承认 | |
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86
straightforward
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| adj.正直的，坦率的；易懂的，简单的 | |
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87
twitched
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| vt.& vi.（使）抽动，（使）颤动（twitch的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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88
indited
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| v.写（文章，信等）创作，赋诗，创作( indite的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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89
fixed
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| adj.固定的，不变的，准备好的；(计算机)固定的 | |
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90
gaily
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| adv.欢乐地，高兴地 | |
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91
chilly
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| adj.凉快的，寒冷的 | |
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92
drizzle
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| v.下毛毛雨；n.毛毛雨，蒙蒙细雨 | |
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93
marrow
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| n.骨髓；精华；活力 | |
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94
hips
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| abbr.high impact polystyrene 高冲击强度聚苯乙烯，耐冲性聚苯乙烯n.臀部( hip的名词复数 )；[建筑学]屋脊；臀围（尺寸）；臀部…的 | |
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95
plight
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| n.困境，境况，誓约，艰难；vt.宣誓，保证，约定 | |
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96
sputtered
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| v.唾沫飞溅( sputter的过去式和过去分词 )；发劈啪声；喷出；飞溅出 | |
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97
toddling
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| v.（幼儿等）东倒西歪地走( toddle的现在分词 )；蹒跚行走；溜达；散步 | |
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98
curiously
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| adv.有求知欲地；好问地；奇特地 | |
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99
withdrawn
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| vt.收回；使退出；vi.撤退，退出 | |
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100
gasped
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| v.喘气( gasp的过去式和过去分词 )；喘息；倒抽气；很想要 | |
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101
supplicated
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| v.祈求，哀求，恳求( supplicate的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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102
sob
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| n.空间轨道的轰炸机；呜咽，哭泣 | |
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103
outright
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| adv.坦率地；彻底地；立即；adj.无疑的；彻底的 | |
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104
groaned
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| v.呻吟( groan的过去式和过去分词 )；发牢骚；抱怨；受苦 | |
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105
attire
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| v.穿衣，装扮[同]array；n.衣着；盛装 | |
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106
sodden
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| adj.浑身湿透的；v.使浸透；使呆头呆脑 | |
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107
appalled
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| v.使惊骇，使充满恐惧( appall的过去式和过去分词)adj.惊骇的；丧胆的 | |
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108
chubby
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| adj.丰满的，圆胖的 | |
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109
bide
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| v.忍耐；等候；住 | |
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110
victuals
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| n.食物；食品 | |
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111
lodgings
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| n. 出租的房舍, 寄宿舍 | |
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112
cosy
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| adj.温暖而舒适的，安逸的 | |
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113
paternal
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| adj.父亲的，像父亲的，父系的，父方的 | |
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114
growled
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| v.（动物）发狺狺声， （雷）作隆隆声( growl的过去式和过去分词 )；低声咆哮着说 | |
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115
acquiesced
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| v.默认，默许( acquiesce的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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116
hemmed
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| 缝…的褶边( hem的过去式和过去分词 )； 包围 | |
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117
stoutly
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| adv.牢固地，粗壮的 | |
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118
rumour
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| n.谣言，谣传，传闻 | |
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119
glided
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| v.滑动( glide的过去式和过去分词 )；掠过；（鸟或飞机 ） 滑翔 | |
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120
brews
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| n.（尤指某地酿造的）啤酒( brew的名词复数 )；酿造物的种类；（茶）一次的冲泡量；（不同思想、环境、事件的）交融v.调制( brew的第三人称单数 )；酝酿；沏（茶）；煮（咖啡） | |
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121
prospect
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| n.前景，前途；景色，视野 | |
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122
decided
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| adj.决定了的，坚决的；明显的，明确的 | |
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123
abode
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| n.住处，住所 | |
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124
pervaded
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| v.遍及，弥漫( pervade的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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125
inquiries
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| n.调查( inquiry的名词复数 )；疑问；探究；打听 | |
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126
borough
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| n.享有自治权的市镇；(英)自治市镇 | |
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127
landmark
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| n.陆标，划时代的事，地界标 | |
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128
hostel
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| n.（学生）宿舍，招待所 | |
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129
verge
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| n.边，边缘；v.接近，濒临 | |
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130
formerly
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| adv.从前，以前 | |
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131
auction
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| n.拍卖；拍卖会；vt.拍卖 | |
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132
overflowed
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| 溢出的 | |
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133
gallantly
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| adv. 漂亮地，勇敢地，献殷勤地 | |
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134
assented
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| 同意，赞成( assent的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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135
beverage
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| n.(水，酒等之外的)饮料 | |
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136
tremor
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| n.震动，颤动，战栗，兴奋，地震 | |
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137
rendering
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| n.表现，描写 | |
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138
beckoned
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| v.（用头或手的动作）示意，召唤( beckon的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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139
entreated
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| 恳求，乞求( entreat的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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140
entreating
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| 恳求，乞求( entreat的现在分词 ) | |
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141
plunging
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| adj.跳进的，突进的v.颠簸( plunge的现在分词 )；暴跌；骤降；突降 | |
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142
fortify
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| v.强化防御，为…设防；加强，强化 | |
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143
robust
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| adj.强壮的，强健的，粗野的，需要体力的，浓的 | |
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144
superfluous
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| adj.过多的，过剩的，多余的 | |
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145
axis
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| n.轴，轴线，中心线；坐标轴，基准线 | |
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146
betokened
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| v.预示，表示( betoken的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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147
obliviousness
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148
agonizing
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| adj.痛苦难忍的；使人苦恼的v.使极度痛苦；折磨(agonize的ing形式) | |
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149
wrought
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| v.引起；以…原料制作；运转；adj.制造的 | |
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150
pathos
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| n.哀婉，悲怆 | |
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151
spasms
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| n.痉挛( spasm的名词复数 )；抽搐；（能量、行为等的）突发；发作 | |
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152
exhausted
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| adj.极其疲惫的，精疲力尽的 | |
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153
haze
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| n.霾，烟雾；懵懂，迷糊；vi.(over)变模糊 | |
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154
frantic
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| adj.狂乱的，错乱的，激昂的 | |
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155
modulating
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| 调整( modulate的现在分词 )； （对波幅、频率的）调制； 转调； 调整或改变（嗓音）的音调 | |
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156
intoxicated
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| 喝醉的，极其兴奋的 | |
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157
thoroughly
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| adv.完全地，彻底地，十足地 | |
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158
predecessors
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| n.前任( predecessor的名词复数 )；前辈；（被取代的）原有事物；前身 | |
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159
imploring
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| 恳求的，哀求的 | |
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160
acoustic
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| adj.听觉的，声音的；(乐器)原声的 | |
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161
magnetism
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| n.磁性，吸引力，磁学 | |
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162
orbs
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| abbr.off-reservation boarding school 在校寄宿学校n.球，天体，圆形物( orb的名词复数 ) | |
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163
chromatic
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| adj.色彩的，颜色的 | |
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164
subtleties
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| 细微( subtlety的名词复数 )； 精细； 巧妙； 细微的差别等 | |
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165
banishment
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| n.放逐，驱逐 | |
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166
defiantly
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| adv.挑战地，大胆对抗地 | |
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167
abjectly
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| 凄惨地； 绝望地； 糟透地； 悲惨地 | |
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168
embarrassment
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| n.尴尬；使人为难的人(事物)；障碍；窘迫 | |
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169
prone
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| adj.(to)易于…的，很可能…的；俯卧的 | |
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170
shriek
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| v./n.尖叫，叫喊 | |
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171
disconsolately
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| adv.悲伤地，愁闷地；哭丧着脸 | |
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172
bent
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| n.爱好，癖好；adj.弯的；决心的，一心的 | |
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173
bellows
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| n.风箱；发出吼叫声，咆哮（尤指因痛苦）( bellow的名词复数 )；（愤怒地）说出（某事），大叫v.发出吼叫声，咆哮（尤指因痛苦）( bellow的第三人称单数 )；（愤怒地）说出（某事），大叫 | |
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174
juncture
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| n.时刻，关键时刻，紧要关头 | |
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175
casement
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| n.竖铰链窗；窗扉 | |
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176
tractable
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| adj.易驾驭的；温顺的 | |
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177
skull
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| n.头骨；颅骨 | |
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178
poker
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| n.扑克；vt.烙制 | |
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179
hearth
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| n.壁炉炉床，壁炉地面 | |
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180
sullenly
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| 不高兴地，绷着脸，忧郁地 | |
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181
jutted
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| v.（使）突出( jut的过去式和过去分词 )；伸出；（从…）突出；高出 | |
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182
artillery
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| n.(军)火炮，大炮；炮兵(部队) | |
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183
plunged
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| v.颠簸( plunge的过去式和过去分词 )；暴跌；骤降；突降 | |
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184
hoarsely
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| adv.嘶哑地 | |
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185
lumbered
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| 砍伐（lumber的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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186
stilts
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| n.（支撑建筑物高出地面或水面的）桩子，支柱( stilt的名词复数 )；高跷 | |
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187
intensity
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| n.强烈，剧烈；强度；烈度 | |
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188
peevishly
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| adv．暴躁地 | |
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189
earnings
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| n.工资收人；利润，利益，所得 | |
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190
verging
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| 接近，逼近（verge的现在分词形式） | |
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