Preface
An apology is perhaps needed for the neglect of contrast which isshown by presenting two consecutive stories of hangmen in such asmall collection as the following. But in the neighbourhood ofcounty-towns tales of executions used to form a large proportion ofthe local traditions; and though never personally acquainted withany chief operator at such scenes, the writer of these pages had asa boy the privilege of being on speaking terms with a man whoapplied for the office, and who sank into an incurable melancholybecause he failed to get it, some slight mitigation of his griefbeing to dwell upon striking episodes in the lives of those happierones who had held it with success and renown. His tale ofdisappointment used to cause some wonder why his ambition shouldhave taken such an unfortunate form, but its nobleness was neverquestioned. In those days, too, there was still living an old womanwho, for the cure of some eating disease, had been taken in heryouth to have her 'blood turned' by a convict's corpse, in themanner described in 'The Withered Arm.'
　　Since writing this story some years ago I have been reminded by anaged friend who knew 'Rhoda Brook' that, in relating her dream, myforgetfulness has weakened the facts our of which the tale grew. Inreality it was while lying down on a hot afternoon that the incubusoppressed her and she flung it off, with the results upon the bodyof the original as described. To my mind the occurrence of such avision in the daytime is more impressive than if it had happened ina midnight dream. Readers are therefore asked to correct themisrelation, which affords an instance of how our imperfect memoriesinsensibly formalize the fresh originality of living fact--fromwhose shape they slowly depart, as machine-made castings depart bydegrees from the sharp hand-work of the mould.
　　Among the many devices for concealing smuggled goods in caves andpits of the earth, that of planting an apple-tree in a tray or boxwhich was placed over the mouth of the pit is, I believe, unique,and it is detailed in one of the tales precisely as described by anold carrier of 'tubs'--a man who was afterwards in my father'semploy for over thirty years. I never gathered from hisreminiscences what means were adopted for lifting the tree, which,with its roots, earth, and receptacle, must have been ofconsiderable weight. There is no doubt, however, that the thing wasdone through many years. My informant often spoke, too, of thehorribly suffocating sensation produced by the pair of spirit-tubsslung upon the chest and back, after stumbling with the burden ofthem for several miles inland over a rough country and in darkness.
　　He said that though years of his youth and young manhood were spentin this irregular business, his profits from the same, taken alltogether, did not average the wages he might have earned in a steadyemployment, whilst the fatigues and risks were excessive.
　　I may add that the first story in the series turns upon a physicalpossibility that may attach to women of imaginative temperament, andthat is well supported by the experiences of medical men and otherobservers of such manifestations.
　　T. H.
　　April 1896.
An Imaginative Woman
When William Marchmill had finished his inquiries for lodgings at awell-known watering-place in Upper Wessex, he returned to the hotelto find his wife. She, with the children, had rambled along theshore, and Marchmill followed in the direction indicated by themilitary-looking hall-porter'By Jove, how far you've gone! I am quite out of breath,' Marchmillsaid, rather impatiently, when he came up with his wife, who wasreading as she walked, the three children being considerably furtherahead with the nurse.
　　Mrs. Marchmill started out of the reverie into which the book hadthrown her. 'Yes,' she said, 'you've been such a long time. I wastired of staying in that dreary hotel. But I am sorry if you havewanted me, Will?'
　　'Well, I have had trouble to suit myself. When you see the airy andcomfortable rooms heard of, you find they are stuffy anduncomfortable. Will you come and see if what I've fixed on will do?
　　There is not much room, I am afraid; hut I can light on nothingbetter. The town is rather full.'
　　The pair left the children and nurse to continue their ramble, andwent back together.
　　In age well-balanced, in personal appearance fairly matched, and indomestic requirements conformable, in temper this couple differed,though even here they did not often clash, he being equable, if notlymphatic, and she decidedly nervous and sanguine. It was to theirtastes and fancies, those smallest, greatest particulars, that nocommon denominator could be applied. Marchmill considered hiswife's likes and inclinations somewhat silly; she considered hissordid and material. The husband's business was that of a gunmakerin a thriving city northwards, and his soul was in that businessalways; the lady was best characterized by that superannuated phraseof elegance 'a votary of the muse.' An impressionable, palpitatingcreature was Ella, shrinking humanely from detailed knowledge of herhusband's trade whenever she reflected that everything hemanufactured had for its purpose the destruction of life. She couldonly recover her equanimity by assuring herself that some, at least,of his weapons were sooner or later used for the extermination ofhorrid vermin and animals almost as cruel to their inferiors inspecies as human beings were to theirs.
　　She had never antecedently regarded this occupation of his as anyobjection to having him for a husband. Indeed, the necessity ofgetting life-leased at all cost, a cardinal virtue which all goodmothers teach, kept her from thinking of it at all till she hadclosed with William, had passed the honeymoon, and reached thereflecting stage. Then, like a person who has stumbled upon someobject in the dark, she wondered what she had got; mentally walkedround it, estimated it; whether it were rare or common; containedgold, silver, or lead; were a clog or a pedestal, everything to heror nothing.
　　She came to some vague conclusions, and since then had kept herheart alive by pitying her proprietor's obtuseness and want ofrefinement, pitying herself, and letting off her delicate andethereal emotions in imaginative occupations, day-dreams, and night-sighs, which perhaps would not much have disturbed William if he hadknown of them.
　　Her figure was small, elegant, and slight in build, tripping, orrather bounding, in movement. She was dark-eyed, and had thatmarvellously bright and liquid sparkle in each pupil whichcharacterizes persons of Ella's cast of soul, and is too often acause of heartache to the possessor's male friends, ultimatelysometimes to herself. Her husband was a tall, long-featured man,with a brown beard; he had a pondering regard; and was, it must beadded, usually kind and tolerant to her. He spoke in squarelyshaped sentences, and was supremely satisfied with a condition ofsublunary things which made weapons a necessity.
　　Husband and wife walked till they had reached the house they were insearch of, which stood in a terrace facing the sea, and was frontedby a small garden of wind-proof and salt-proof evergreens, stonesteps leading up to the porch. It had its number in the row, but,being rather larger than the rest, was in addition sedulouslydistinguished as Coburg House by its landlady, though everybody elsecalled it 'Thirteen, New Parade.' The spot was bright and livelynow; but in winter it became necessary to place sandbags against thedoor, and to stuff up the keyhole against the wind and rain, whichhad worn the paint so thin that the priming and knotting showedthrough.
　　The householder, who bad been watching for the gentleman's return,met them in the passage, and showed the rooms. She informed themthat she was a professional man's widow, left in needy circumstancesby the rather sudden death of her husband, and she spoke anxiouslyof the conveniences of the establishment.
　　Mrs. Marchmill said that she liked the situation and the house; but,it being small, there would not be accommodation enough, unless shecould have all the rooms.
　　The landlady mused with an air of disappointment. She wanted thevisitors to be her tenants very badly, she said, with obvioushonesty. But unfortunately two of the rooms were occupiedpermanently by a bachelor gentleman. He did not pay season prices,it was true; but as he kept on his apartments all the year round,and was an extremely nice and interesting young man, who gave notrouble, she did not like to turn him out for a month's 'let,' evenat a high figure. 'Perhaps, however,' she added, 'he might offer togo for a time.'
　　They would not hear of this, and went back to the hotel, intendingto proceed to the agent's to inquire further. Hardly had they satdown to tea when the landlady called. Her gentleman, she said, hadbeen so obliging as to offer to give up his rooms for three or fourweeks rather than drive the new-comers away.
　　'It is very kind, but we won't inconvenience him in that way,' saidthe Marchmills.
　　'O, it won't inconvenience him, I assure you!' said the landladyeloquently. 'You see, he's a different sort of young man from most--dreamy, solitary, rather melancholy--and he cares more to be herewhen the south-westerly gales are beating against the door, and thesea washes over the Parade, and there's not a soul in the place,than he does now in the season. He'd just as soon be where, infact, he's going temporarily, to a little cottage on the Islandopposite, for a change.' She hoped therefore that they would come.
　　The Marchmill family accordingly took possession of the house nextday, and it seemed to suit them very well. After luncheon Mr.
　　Marchmill strolled out towards the pier, and Mrs. Marchmill, havingdespatched the children to their outdoor amusements on the sands,settled herself in more completely, examining this and that article,and testing the reflecting powers of the mirror in the wardrobedoor.
　　In the small back sitting-room, which had been the young bachelor's,she found furniture of a more personal nature than in the rest.
　　Shabby books, of correct rather than rare editions, were piled up ina queerly reserved manner in corners, as if the previous occupanthad not conceived the possibility that any incoming person of theseason's bringing could care to look inside them. The landladyhovered on the threshold to rectify anything that Mrs. Marchmillmight not find to her satisfaction.
　　'I'll make this my own little room,' said the latter, 'because thebooks are here. By the way, the person who has left seems to have agood many. He won't mind my reading some of them, Mrs. Hooper, Ihope?'
　　'O dear no, ma'am. Yes, he has a good many. You see, he is in theliterary line himself somewhat. He is a poet--yes, really a poet--and he has a little income of his own, which is enough to writeverses on, but not enough for cutting a figure, even if he caredto.'
　　'A poet! O, I did not know that.'
　　Mrs. Marchmill opened one of the books, and saw the owner's namewritten on the title-page. 'Dear me!' she continued; 'I know hisname very well--Robert Trewe--of course I do; and his writings! Andit is HIS rooms we have taken, and HIM we have turned out of hishome?'
　　Ella Marchmill, sitting down alone a few minutes later, thought withinterested surprise of Robert Trewe. Her own latter history willbest explain that interest. Herself the only daughter of astruggling man of letters, she had during the last year or two takento writing poems, in an endeavour to find a congenial channel inwhich to let flow her painfully embayed emotions, whose formerlimpidity and sparkle seemed departing in the stagnation caused bythe routine of a practical household and the gloom of bearingchildren to a commonplace father. These poems, subscribed with amasculine pseudonym, had appeared in various obscure magazines, andin two cases in rather prominent ones. In the second of the latterthe page which bore her effusion at the bottom, in smallish print,bore at the top, in large print, a few verses on the same subject bythis very man, Robert Trewe. Both of them had, in fact, been struckby a tragic incident reported in the daily papers, and had used itsimultaneously as an inspiration, the editor remarking in a noteupon the coincidence, and that the excellence of both poems promptedhim to give them together.
　　After that event Ella, otherwise 'John Ivy,' had watched with muchattention the appearance anywhere in print of verse bearing thesignature of Robert Trewe, who, with a man's unsusceptibility on thequestion of sex, had never once thought of passing himself off as awoman. To be sure, Mrs. Marchmill had satisfied herself with a sortof reason for doing the contrary in her case; that nobody mightbelieve in her inspiration if they found that the sentiments camefrom a pushing tradesman's wife, from the mother of three childrenby a matter-of-fact small-arms manufacturer.
　　Trewe's verse contrasted with that of the rank and file of recentminor poets in being impassioned rather than ingenious, luxuriantrather than finished. Neither symboliste nor decadent, he was apessimist in so far as that character applies to a man who looks atthe worst contingencies as well as the best in the human condition.
　　Being little attracted by excellences of form and rhythm apart fromcontent, he sometimes, when feeling outran his artistic speed,perpetrated sonnets in the loosely rhymed Elizabethan fashion, whichevery right-minded reviewer said he ought not to have done.
　　With sad and hopeless envy, Ella Marchmill had often and oftenscanned the rival poet's work, so much stronger as it always wasthan her own feeble lines. She had imitated him, and her inabilityto touch his level would send her into fits of despondency. Monthspassed away thus, till she observed from the publishers' list thatTrewe had collected his fugitive pieces into a volume, which wasduly issued, and was much or little praised according to chance, andhad a sale quite sufficient to pay for the printing.
　　This step onward had suggested to John Ivy the idea of collectingher pieces also, or at any rate of making up a book of her rhymes byadding many in manuscript to the few that had seen the light, forshe had been able to get no great number into print. A ruinouscharge was made for costs of publication; a few reviews noticed herpoor little volume; but nobody talked of it, nobody bought it, andit fell dead in a fortnight--if it had ever been alive.
　　The author's thoughts were diverted to another groove just then bythe discovery that she was going to have a third child, and thecollapse of her poetical venture had perhaps less effect upon hermind than it might have done if she had been domesticallyunoccupied. Her husband had paid the publisher's bill with thedoctor's, and there it all had ended for the time. But, though lessthan a poet of her century, Ella was more than a mere multiplier ofher kind, and latterly she had begun to feel the old afflatus oncemore. And now by an odd conjunction she found herself in the roomsof Robert Trewe.
　　She thoughtfully rose from her chair and searched the apartment withthe interest of a fellow-tradesman. Yes, the volume of his ownverse was among the rest. Though quite familiar with its contents,she read it here as if it spoke aloud to her, then called up Mrs.
　　Hooper, the landlady, for some trivial service, and inquired againabout the young man.
　　'Well, I'm sure you'd be interested in him, ma'am, if you could seehim, only he's so shy that I don't suppose you will.' Mrs. Hooperseemed nothing loth to minister to her tenant's curiosity about herpredecessor. 'Lived here long? Yes, nearly two years. He keeps onhis rooms even when he's not here: the soft air of this place suitshis chest, and he likes to be able to come back at any time. He ismostly writing or reading, and doesn't see many people, though, forthe matter of that, he is such a good, kind young fellow that folkswould only be too glad to be friendly with him if they knew him.
　　You don't meet kind-hearted people every day.'
　　'Ah, he's kind-hearted . . . and good.'
　　'Yes; he'll oblige me in anything if I ask him. "Mr. Trewe," I sayto him sometimes, "you are rather out of spirits." "Well, I am,Mrs. Hooper," he'll say, "though I don't know how you should find itout." "Why not take a little change?" I ask. Then in a day or twohe'll say that he will take a trip to Paris, or Norway, orsomewhere; and I assure you he comes back all the better for it.'
　　'Ah, indeed! His is a sensitive nature, no doubt.'
　　'Yes. Still he's odd in some things. Once when he had finished apoem of his composition late at night he walked up and down the roomrehearsing it; and the floors being so thin--jerry-built houses, youknow, though I say it myself--he kept me awake up above him till Iwished him further . . . But we get on very well.'
　　This was but the beginning of a series of conversations about therising poet as the days went on. On one of these occasions Mrs.
　　Hooper drew Ella's attention to what she had not noticed before:
　　minute scribblings in pencil on the wall-paper behind the curtainsat the head of the bed.
　　'O! let me look,' said Mrs. Marchmill, unable to conceal a rush oftender curiosity as she bent her pretty face close to the wall.
　　'These,' said Mrs. Hooper, with the manner of a woman who knewthings, 'are the very beginnings and first thoughts of his verses.
　　He has tried to rub most of them out, but you can read them still.
　　My belief is that he wakes up in the night, you know, with somerhyme in his head, and jots it down there on the wall lest he shouldforget it by the morning. Some of these very lines you see here Ihave seen afterwards in print in the magazines. Some are newer;indeed, I have not seen that one before. It must have been doneonly a few days ago.'
　　'O yes! . . . '
　　Ella Marchmill flushed without knowing why, and suddenly wished hercompanion would go away, now that the information was imparted. Anindescribable consciousness of personal interest rather thanliterary made her anxious to read the inscription alone; and sheaccordingly waited till she could do so, with a sense that a greatstore of emotion would be enjoyed in the act.
　　Perhaps because the sea was choppy outside the Island, Ella'shusband found it much pleasanter to go sailing and steaming aboutwithout his wife, who was a bad sailor, than with her. He did notdisdain to go thus alone on board the steamboats of the cheap-trippers, where there was dancing by moonlight, and where thecouples would come suddenly down with a lurch into each other'sarms; for, as he blandly told her, the company was too mixed for himto take her amid such scenes. Thus, while this thrivingmanufacturer got a great deal of change and sea-air out of hissojourn here, the life, external at least, of Ella was monotonousenough, and mainly consisted in passing a certain number of hourseach day in bathing and walking up and down a stretch of shore. Butthe poetic impulse having again waxed strong, she was possessed byan inner flame which left her hardly conscious of what wasproceeding around her.
　　She had read till she knew by heart Trewe's last little volume ofverses, and spent a great deal of time in vainly attempting to rivalsome of them, till, in her failure, she burst into tears. Thepersonal element in the magnetic attraction exercised by thiscircumambient, unapproachable master of hers was so much strongerthan the intellectual and abstract that she could not understand it.
　　To be sure, she was surrounded noon and night by his customaryenvironment, which literally whispered of him to her at everymoment; but he was a man she had never seen, and that all that movedher was the instinct to specialize a waiting emotion on the firstfit thing that came to hand did not, of course, suggest itself toElla.
　　In the natural way of passion under the too practical conditionswhich civilization has devised for its fruition, her husband's lovefor her had not survived, except in the form of fitful friendship,any more than, or even so much as, her own for him; and, being awoman of very living ardours, that required sustenance of some sort,they were beginning to feed on this chancing material, which was,indeed, of a quality far better than chance usually offers.
　　One day the children had been playing hide-and-seek in a closet,whence, in their excitement, they pulled out some clothing. Mrs.
　　Hooper explained that it belonged to Mr. Trewe, and hung it up inthe closet again. Possessed of her fantasy, Ella went later in theafternoon, when nobody was in that part of the house, opened thecloset, unhitched one of the articles, a mackintosh, and put it on,with the waterproof cap belonging to it.
　　'The mantle of Elijah!' she said. 'Would it might inspire me torival him, glorious genius that he is!'
　　Her eyes always grew wet when she thought like that, and she turnedto look at herself in the glass. HIS heart had beat inside thatcoat, and HIS brain had worked under that hat at levels of thoughtshe would never reach. The consciousness of her weakness beside himmade her feel quite sick. Before she had got the things off her thedoor opened, and her husband entered the room.
　　'What the devil--'
　　She blushed, and removed them'I found them in the closet here,' she said, 'and put them on in afreak. What have I else to do? You are always away!'
　　'Always away? Well . . . '
　　That evening she had a further talk with the landlady, who mightherself have nourished a half-tender regard for the poet, so readywas she to discourse ardently about him.
　　'You are interested in Mr. Trewe, I know, ma'am,' she said; 'and hehas just sent to say that he is going to call to-morrow afternoon tolook up some books of his that he wants, if I'll be in, and he mayselect them from your room?'
　　'O yes!'
　　'You could very well meet Mr Trewe then, if you'd like to be in theway!'
　　She promised with secret delight, and went to bed musing of him.
　　Next morning her husband observed: 'I've been thinking of what yousaid, Ell: that I have gone about a good deal and left you withoutmuch to amuse you. Perhaps it's true. To-day, as there's not muchsea, I'll take you with me on board the yacht.'
　　For the first time in her experience of such an offer Ella was notglad. But she accepted it for the moment. The time for setting outdrew near, and she went to get ready. She stood reflecting. Thelonging to see the poet she was now distinctly in love withoverpowered all other considerations.
　　'I don't want to go,' she said to herself. 'I can't bear to beaway! And I won't go.'
　　She told her husband that she had changed her mind about wishing tosail. He was indifferent, and went his way.
　　For the rest of the day the house was quiet, the children havinggone out upon the sands. The blinds waved in the sunshine to thesoft, steady stroke of the sea beyond the wall; and the notes of theGreen Silesian band, a troop of foreign gentlemen hired for theseason, had drawn almost all the residents and promenaders away fromthe vicinity of Coburg House. A knock was audible at the door.
　　Mrs. Marchmill did not hear any servant go to answer it, and shebecame impatient. The books were in the room where she sat; butnobody came up. She rang the bell.
　　'There is some person waiting at the door,' she said.
　　'O no, ma'am! He's gone long ago. I answered it.'
　　Mrs. Hooper came in herself.
　　'So disappointing!' she said. 'Mr. Trewe not coming after all!'
　　'But I heard him knock, I fancy!'
　　'No; that was somebody inquiring for lodgings who came to the wronghouse. I forgot to tell you that Mr. Trewe sent a note just beforelunch to say I needn't get any tea for him, as he should not requirethe books, and wouldn't come to select them.'
　　Ella was miserable, and for a long time could not even re-read hismournful ballad on 'Severed Lives,' so aching was her erratic littleheart, and so tearful her eyes. When the children came in with wetstockings, and ran up to her to tell her of their adventures, shecould not feel that she cared about them half as much as usual.
　　* * *'Mrs. Hooper, have you a photograph of--the gentleman who livedhere?' She was getting to be curiously shy in mentioning his name.
　　'Why, yes. It's in the ornamental frame on the mantelpiece in yourown bedroom, ma'am.'
　　'No; the Royal Duke and Duchess are in that.'
　　'Yes, so they are; but he's behind them. He belongs rightly to thatframe, which I bought on purpose; but as he went away he said:
　　"Cover me up from those strangers that are coming, for God's sake.
　　I don't want them staring at me, and I am sure they won't want mestaring at them." So I slipped in the Duke and Duchess temporarilyin front of him, as they had no frame, and Royalties are moresuitable for letting furnished than a private young man. If youtake 'em out you'll see him under. Lord, ma'am, he wouldn't mind ifhe knew it! He didn't think the next tenant would be such anattractive lady as you, or he wouldn't have thought of hidinghimself; perhaps.'
　　'Is he handsome?' she asked timidly.
　　'_I_ call him so. Some, perhaps, wouldn't.'
　　'Should I?' she asked, with eagerness.
　　'I think you would, though some would say he's more striking thanhandsome; a large-eyed thoughtful fellow, you know, with a veryelectric flash in his eye when he looks round quickly, such as you'dexpect a poet to be who doesn't get his living by it.'
　　'How old is he?'
　　'Several years older than yourself, ma'am; about thirty-one or two,I think.'
　　Ella was, as a matter of fact, a few months over thirty herself; butshe did not look nearly so much. Though so immature in nature, shewas entering on that tract of life in which emotional women begin tosuspect that last love may be stronger than first love; and shewould soon, alas, enter on the still more melancholy tract when atleast the vainer ones of her sex shrink from receiving a malevisitor otherwise than with their backs to the window or the blindshalf down. She reflected on Mrs. Hooper's remark, and said no moreabout age.
　　Just then a telegram was brought up. It came from her husband, whohad gone down the Channel as far as Budmouth with his friends in theyacht, and would not be able to get back till next day.
　　After her light dinner Ella idled about the shore with the childrentill dusk, thinking of the yet uncovered photograph in her room,with a serene sense of something ecstatic to come. For, with thesubtle luxuriousness of fancy in which this young woman was anadept, on learning that her husband was to be absent that night shehad refrained from incontinently rushing upstairs and opening thepicture-frame, preferring to reserve the inspection till she couldbe alone, and a more romantic tinge be imparted to the occasion bysilence, candles, solemn sea and stars outside, than was afforded bythe garish afternoon sunlight.
　　The children had been sent to bed, and Ella soon followed, though itwas not yet ten o'clock. To gratify her passionate curiosity shenow made her preparations, first getting rid of superfluous garmentsand putting on her dressing-gown, then arranging a chair in front ofthe table and reading several pages of Trewe's tenderest utterances.
　　Then she fetched the portrait-frame to the light, opened the back,took out the likeness, and set it up before her.
　　It was a striking countenance to look upon. The poet wore aluxuriant black moustache and imperial, and a slouched hat whichshaded the forehead. The large dark eyes, described by thelandlady, showed an unlimited capacity for misery; they looked outfrom beneath well-shaped brows as if they were reading the universein the microcosm of the confronter's face, and were not altogetheroverjoyed at what the spectacle portended.
　　Ella murmured in her lowest, richest, tenderest tone: 'And it's YOUwho've so cruelly eclipsed me these many times!'
　　As she gazed long at the portrait she fell into thought, till hereyes filled with tears, and she touched the cardboard with her lips.
　　Then she laughed with a nervous lightness, and wiped her eyes.
　　She thought how wicked she was, a woman having a husband and threechildren, to let her mind stray to a stranger in this unconscionablemanner. No, he was not a stranger! She knew his thoughts andfeelings as well as she knew her own; they were, in fact, the self-same thoughts and feelings as hers, which her husband distinctlylacked; perhaps luckily for himself; considering that he had toprovide for family expenses.
　　'He's nearer my real self, he's more intimate with the real me thanWill is, after all, even though I've never seen him,' she said.
　　She laid his book and picture on the table at the bedside, and whenshe was reclining on the pillow she re-read those of Robert Trewe'sverses which she had marked from time to time as most touching andtrue. Putting these aside, she set up the photograph on its edgeupon the coverlet, and contemplated it as she lay. Then she scannedagain by the light of the candle the half-obliterated pencillings onthe wall-paper beside her head. There they were--phrases, couplets,bouts-rimes, beginnings and middles of lines, ideas in the rough,like Shelley's scraps, and the least of them so intense, so sweet,so palpitating, that it seemed as if his very breath, warm andloving, fanned her cheeks from those walls, walls that hadsurrounded his head times and times as they surrounded her own now.
　　He must often have put up his hand so--with the pencil in it. Yes,the writing was sideways, as it would be if executed by one whoextended his arm thus.
　　These inscribed shapes of the poet's world,'Forms more real than living man,Nurslings of immortality,'
　　were, no doubt, the thoughts and spirit-strivings which had come tohim in the dead of night, when he could let himself go and have nofear of the frost of criticism. No doubt they had often beenwritten up hastily by the light of the moon, the rays of the lamp,in the blue-grey dawn, in full daylight perhaps never. And now herhair was dragging where his arm had lain when he secured thefugitive fancies; she was sleeping on a poet's lips, immersed in thevery essence of him, permeated by his spirit as by an ether.
　　While she was dreaming the minutes away thus, a footstep came uponthe stairs, and in a moment she heard her husband's heavy step onthe landing immediately without.
　　'Ell, where are you?'
　　What possessed her she could not have described, but, with aninstinctive objection to let her husband know what she had beendoing, she slipped the photograph under the pillow just as he flungopen the door, with the air of a man who had dined not badly.
　　'O, I beg pardon,' said William Marchmill. 'Have you a headache? Iam afraid I have disturbed you.'
　　'No, I've not got a headache,' said she. 'How is it you've come?'
　　'Well, we found we could get back in very good time after all, and Ididn't want to make another day of it, because of going somewhereelse to-morrow.'
　　'Shall I come down again?'
　　'O no. I'm as tired as a dog. I've had a good feed, and I shallturn in straight off. I want to get out at six o'clock to-morrow ifI can . . . I shan't disturb you by my getting up; it will be longbefore you are awake.' And he came forward into the room.
　　While her eyes followed his movements, Ella softly pushed thephotograph further out of sight.
　　'Sure you're not ill?' he asked, bending over her.
　　'No, only wicked!'
　　'Never mind that.' And he stooped and kissed her.
　　Next morning Marchmill was called at six o'clock; and in waking andyawning she heard him muttering to himself: 'What the deuce is thisthat's been crackling under me so?' Imagining her asleep hesearched round him and withdrew something. Through her half-openedeyes she perceived it to be Mr. Trewe.
　　'Well, I'm damned!' her husband exclaimed.
　　'What, dear?' said she.
　　'O, you are awake? Ha! ha!'
　　'What DO you mean?'
　　'Some bloke's photograph--a friend of our landlady's, I suppose. Iwonder how it came here; whisked off the table by accident perhapswhen they were making the bed.'
　　'I was looking at it yesterday, and it must have dropped in then.'
　　'O, he's a friend of yours? Bless his picturesque heart!'
　　Ella's loyalty to the object of her admiration could not endure tohear him ridiculed. 'He's a clever man!' she said, with a tremor inher gentle voice which she herself felt to be absurdly uncalled for.
　　'He is a rising poet--the gentleman who occupied two of these roomsbefore we came, though I've never seen him.'
　　'How do you know, if you've never seen him?'
　　'Mrs. Hooper told me when she showed me the photograph.'
　　'O; well, I must up and be off. I shall be home rather early.
　　Sorry I can't take you to-day, dear. Mind the children don't gogetting drowned.'
　　That day Mrs. Marchmill inquired if Mr. Trewe were likely to call atany other time.
　　'Yes,' said Mrs. Hooper. 'He's coming this day week to stay with afriend near here till you leave. He'll be sure to call.'
　　Marchmill did return quite early in the afternoon; and, opening someletters which had arrived in his absence, declared suddenly that heand his family would have to leave a week earlier than they hadexpected to do--in short, in three days.
　　'Surely we can stay a week longer?' she pleaded. 'I like it here.'
　　'I don't. It is getting rather slow.'
　　'Then you might leave me and the children!'
　　'How perverse you are, Ell! What's the use? And have to come tofetch you! No: we'll all return together; and we'll make out ourtime in North Wales or Brighton a little later on. Besides, you'vethree days longer yet.'
　　It seemed to be her doom not to meet the man for whose rival talentshe had a despairing admiration, and to whose person she was nowabsolutely attached. Yet she determined to make a last effort; andhaving gathered from her landlady that Trewe was living in a lonelyspot not far from the fashionable town on the Island opposite, shecrossed over in the packet from the neighbouring pier the followingafternoon.
　　What a useless journey it was! Ella knew but vaguely where thehouse stood, and when she fancied she had found it, and ventured toinquire of a pedestrian if he lived there, the answer returned bythe man was that he did not know. And if he did live there, howcould she call upon him? Some women might have the assurance to doit, but she had not. How crazy he would think her. She might haveasked him to call upon her, perhaps; but she had not the courage forthat, either. She lingered mournfully about the picturesque seasideeminence till it was time to return to the town and enter thesteamer for recrossing, reaching home for dinner without having beengreatly missed.
　　At the last moment, unexpectedly enough, her husband said that heshould have no objection to letting her and the children stay ontill the end of the week, since she wished to do so, if she feltherself able to get home without him. She concealed the pleasurethis extension of time gave her; and Marchmill went off the nextmorning alone.
　　But the week passed, and Trewe did not call.
　　On Saturday morning the remaining members of the Marchmill familydeparted from the place which had been productive of so much fervourin her. The dreary, dreary train; the sun shining in moted beamsupon the hot cushions; the dusty permanent way; the mean rows ofwire--these things were her accompaniment: while out of the windowthe deep blue sea-levels disappeared from her gaze, and with themher poet's home. Heavy-hearted, she tried to read, and weptinstead.
　　Mr. Marchmill was in a thriving way of business, and he and hisfamily lived in a large new house, which stood in rather extensivegrounds a few miles outside the city wherein he carried on histrade. Ella's life was lonely here, as the suburban life is apt tobe, particularly at certain seasons; and she had ample time toindulge her taste for lyric and elegiac composition. She had hardlygot back when she encountered a piece by Robert Trewe in the newnumber of her favourite magazine, which must have been writtenalmost immediately before her visit to Solentsea, for it containedthe very couplet she had seen pencilled on the wallpaper by the bed,and Mrs. Hooper had declared to be recent. Ella could resist nolonger, but seizing a pen impulsively, wrote to him as a brother-poet, using the name of John Ivy, congratulating him in her letteron his triumphant executions in metre and rhythm of thoughts thatmoved his soul, as compared with her own brow-beaten efforts in thesame pathetic trade.
　　To this address there came a response in a few days, little as shehad dared to hope for it--a civil and brief note, in which the youngpoet stated that, though he was not well acquainted with Mr. Ivy'sverse, he recalled the name as being one he had seen attached tosome very promising pieces; that he was glad to gain Mr. Ivy'sacquaintance by letter, and should certainly look with much interestfor his productions in the future.
　　There must have been something juvenile or timid in her own epistle,as one ostensibly coming from a man, she declared to herself; forTrewe quite adopted the tone of an elder and superior in this reply.
　　But what did it matter? he had replied; he had written to her withhis own hand from that very room she knew so well, for he was nowback again in his quarters.
　　The correspondence thus begun was continued for two months or more,Ella Marchmill sending him from time to time some that sheconsidered to be the best of her pieces, which he very kindlyaccepted, though he did not say he sedulously read them, nor did hesend her any of his own in return. Ella would have been more hurtat this than she was if she had not known that Trewe laboured underthe impression that she was one of his own sex.
　　Yet the situation was unsatisfactory. A flattering little voicetold her that, were he only to see her, matters would be otherwise.
　　No doubt she would have helped on this by making a frank confessionof womanhood, to begin with, if something had not happened, to herdelight, to render it unnecessary. A friend of her husband's, theeditor of the most important newspaper in the city and county, whowas dining with them one day, observed during their conversationabout the poet that his (the editor's) brother the landscape-painterwas a friend of Mr. Trewe's, and that the two men were at that verymoment in Wales together.
　　Ella was slightly acquainted with the editor's brother. The nextmorning down she sat and wrote, inviting him to stay at her housefor a short time on his way back, and requesting him to bring withhim, if practicable, his companion Mr. Trewe, whose acquaintance shewas anxious to make. The answer arrived after some few days. Hercorrespondent and his friend Trewe would have much satisfaction inaccepting her invitation on their way southward, which would be onsuch and such a day in the following week.
　　Ella was blithe and buoyant. Her scheme had succeeded; her belovedthough as yet unseen one was coming. "Behold, he standeth behindour wall; he looked forth at the windows, showing himself throughthe lattice," she thought ecstatically. "And, lo, the winter ispast, the rain is over and gone, the flowers appear on the earth,the time of the singing of birds is come, and the voice of theturtle is heard in our land."But it was necessary to consider the details of lodging and feedinghim. This she did most solicitously, and awaited the pregnant dayand hour.
　　It was about five in the afternoon when she heard a ring at the doorand the editor's brother's voice in the hall. Poetess as she was,or as she thought herself, she had not been too sublime that day todress with infinite trouble in a fashionable robe of rich material,having a faint resemblance to the chiton of the Greeks, a style justthen in vogue among ladies of an artistic and romantic turn, whichhad been obtained by Ella of her Bond Street dressmaker when she waslast in London. Her visitor entered the drawing-room. She lookedtowards his rear; nobody else came through the door. Where, in thename of the God of Love, was Robert Trewe?
　　'O, I'm sorry,' said the painter, after their introductory words hadbeen spoken. 'Trewe is a curious fellow, you know, Mrs. Marchmill.
　　He said he'd come; then he said he couldn't. He's rather dusty.
　　We've been doing a few miles with knapsacks, you know; and he wantedto get on home.'
　　'He--he's not coming?'
　　'He's not; and he asked me to make his apologies.'
　　'When did you p-p-part from him?' she asked, her nether lip startingoff quivering so much that it was like a tremolo-stop opened in herspeech. She longed to run away from this dreadful bore and cry hereyes out.
　　'Just now, in the turnpike road yonder there.'
　　'What! he has actually gone past my gates?'
　　'Yes. When we got to them--handsome gates they are, too, the finestbit of modern wrought-iron work I have seen--when we came to them westopped, talking there a little while, and then he wished me good-bye and went on. The truth is, he's a little bit depressed justnow, and doesn't want to see anybody. He's a very good fellow, anda warm friend, but a little uncertain and gloomy sometimes; hethinks too much of things. His poetry is rather too erotic andpassionate, you know, for some tastes; and he has just come in for aterrible slating from the -- Review that was published yesterday; hesaw a copy of it at the station by accident. Perhaps you've readit?'
　　'No.'
　　'So much the better. O, it is not worth thinking of; just one ofthose articles written to order, to please the narrow-minded set ofsubscribers upon whom the circulation depends. But he's upset byit. He says it is the misrepresentation that hurts him so; that,though he can stand a fair attack, he can't stand lies that he'spowerless to refute and stop from spreading. That's just Trewe'sweak point. He lives so much by himself that these things affecthim much more than they would if he were in the bustle offashionable or commercial life. So he wouldn't come here, makingthe excuse that it all looked so new and monied--if you'll pardon--'
　　'But--he must have known--there was sympathy here! Has he neversaid anything about getting letters from this address?'
　　'Yes, yes, he has, from John Ivy--perhaps a relative of yours, hethought, visiting here at the time?'
　　'Did he--like Ivy, did he say?'
　　'Well, I don't know that he took any great interest in Ivy.'
　　'Or in his poems?'
　　'Or in his poems--so far as I know, that is.'
　　Robert Trewe took no interest in her house, in her poems, or intheir writer. As soon as she could get away she went into thenursery and tried to let off her emotion by unnecessarily kissingthe children, till she had a sudden sense of disgust at beingreminded how plain-looking they were, like their father.
　　The obtuse and single-minded landscape-painter never once perceivedfrom her conversation that it was only Trewe she wanted, and nothimself. He made the best of his visit, seeming to enjoy thesociety of Ella's husband, who also took a great fancy to him, andshowed him everywhere about the neighbourhood, neither of themnoticing Ella's mood.
　　The painter had been gone only a day or two when, while sittingupstairs alone one morning, she glanced over the London paper justarrived, and read the following paragraph:-'SUICIDE OF A POET'Mr. Robert Trewe, who has been favourably known for some years asone of our rising lyrists, committed suicide at his lodgings atSolentsea on Saturday evening last by shooting himself in the righttemple with a revolver. Readers hardly need to be reminded that Mr.
　　Trewe has recently attracted the attention of a much wider publicthan had hitherto known him, by his new volume of verse, mostly ofan impassioned kind, entitled "Lyrics to a Woman Unknown," which hasbeen already favourably noticed in these pages for the extraordinarygamut of feeling it traverses, and which has been made the subjectof a severe, if not ferocious, criticism in the -- Review. It issupposed, though not certainly known, that the article may havepartially conduced to the sad act, as a copy of the review inquestion was found on his writing-table; and he has been observed tobe in a somewhat depressed state of mind since the critiqueappeared.'
　　Then came the report of the inquest, at which the following letterwas read, it having been addressed to a friend at a distance:-'DEAR -,--Before these lines reach your hands I shall be deliveredfrom the inconveniences of seeing, hearing, and knowing more of thethings around me. I will not trouble you by giving my reasons forthe step I have taken, though I can assure you they were sound andlogical. Perhaps had I been blessed with a mother, or a sister, ora female friend of another sort tenderly devoted to me, I might havethought it worth while to continue my present existence. I havelong dreamt of such an unattainable creature, as you know, and she,this undiscoverable, elusive one, inspired my last volume; theimaginary woman alone, for, in spite of what has been said in somequarters, there is no real woman behind the title. She hascontinued to the last unrevealed, unmet, unwon. I think itdesirable to mention this in order that no blame may attach to anyreal woman as having been the cause of my decease by cruel orcavalier treatment of me. Tell my landlady that I am sorry to havecaused her this unpleasantness; but my occupancy of the rooms willsoon be forgotten. There are ample funds in my name at the bank topay all expenses. R. TREWE.'
　　Ella sat for a while as if stunned, then rushed into the adjoiningchamber and flung herself upon her face on the bed.
　　Her grief and distraction shook her to pieces; and she lay in thisfrenzy of sorrow for more than an hour. Broken words came every nowand then from her quivering lips: 'O, if he had only known of me--known of me--me! . . . O, if I had only once met him--only once; andput my hand upon his hot forehead--kissed him--let him know how Iloved him--that I would have suffered shame and scorn, would havelived and died, for him! Perhaps it would have saved his dear life!
　　. . . But no--it was not allowed! God is a jealous God; and thathappiness was not for him and me!'
　　All possibilities were over; the meeting was stultified. Yet it wasalmost visible to her in her fantasy even now, though it could neverbe substantiated -'The hour which might have been, yet might not be,Which man's and woman's heart conceived and bore,Yet whereof life was barren.'
　　She wrote to the landlady at Solentsea in the third person, in assubdued a style as she could command, enclosing a postal order for asovereign, and informing Mrs. Hooper that Mrs. Marchmill had seen inthe papers the sad account of the poet's death, and having been, asMrs. Hooper was aware, much interested in Mr. Trewe during her stayat Coburg House, she would be obliged if Mrs. Hooper could obtain asmall portion of his hair before his coffin was closed down, andsend it her as a memorial of him, as also the photograph that was inthe frame.
　　By the return-post a letter arrived containing what had beenrequested. Ella wept over the portrait and secured it in herprivate drawer; the lock of hair she tied with white ribbon and putin her bosom, whence she drew it and kissed it every now and then insome unobserved nook.
　　'What's the matter?' said her husband, looking up from his newspaperon one of these occasions. 'Crying over something? A lock of hair?
　　Whose is it?'
　　'He's dead!' she murmured.
　　'Who?'
　　'I don't want to tell you, Will, just now, unless you insist!' shesaid, a sob hanging heavy in her voice.
　　'O, all right.'
　　'Do you mind my refusing? I will tell you some day.'
　　'It doesn't matter in the least, of course.'
　　He walked away whistling a few bars of no tune in particular; andwhen he had got down to his factory in the city the subject cameinto Marchmill's head again.
　　He, too, was aware that a suicide had taken place recently at thehouse they had occupied at Solentsea. Having seen the volume ofpoems in his wife's hand of late, and heard fragments of thelandlady's conversation about Trewe when they were her tenants, heall at once said to himself; 'Why of course it's he! How the devildid she get to know him? What sly animals women are!'
　　Then he placidly dismissed the matter, and went on with his dailyaffairs. By this time Ella at home had come to a determination.
　　Mrs. Hooper, in sending the hair and photograph, had informed her ofthe day of the funeral; and as the morning and noon wore on anoverpowering wish to know where they were laying him took possessionof the sympathetic woman. Caring very little now what her husbandor any one else might think of her eccentricities; she wroteMarchmill a brief note, stating that she was called away for theafternoon and evening, but would return on the following morning.
　　This she left on his desk, and having given the same information tothe servants, went out of the house on foot.
　　When Mr. Marchmill reached home early in the afternoon the servantslooked anxious. The nurse took him privately aside, and hinted thather mistress's sadness during the past few days had been such thatshe feared she had gone out to drown herself. Marchmill reflected.
　　Upon the whole he thought that she had not done that. Withoutsaying whither he was bound he also started off, telling them not tosit up for him. He drove to the railway-station, and took a ticketfor Solentsea.
　　It was dark when he reached the place, though he had come by a fasttrain, and he knew that if his wife had preceded him thither itcould only have been by a slower train, arriving not a great whilebefore his own. The season at Solentsea was now past: the paradewas gloomy, and the flys were few and cheap. He asked the way tothe Cemetery, and soon reached it. The gate was locked, but thekeeper let him in, declaring, however, that there was nobody withinthe precincts. Although it was not late, the autumnal darkness hadnow become intense; and he found some difficulty in keeping to theserpentine path which led to the quarter where, as the man had toldhim, the one or two interments for the day had taken place. Hestepped upon the grass, and, stumbling over some pegs, stooped nowand then to discern if possible a figure against the sky.
　　He could see none; but lighting on a spot where the soil wastrodden, beheld a crouching object beside a newly made grave. Sheheard him, and sprang up.
　　'Ell, how silly this is!' he said indignantly. 'Running away fromhome--I never heard such a thing! Of course I am not jealous ofthis unfortunate man; but it is too ridiculous that you, a marriedwoman with three children and a fourth coming, should go losing yourhead like this over a dead lover! . . . Do you know you were lockedin? You might not have been able to get out all night.'
　　She did not answer.
　　'I hope it didn't go far between you and him, for your own sake.'
　　'Don't insult me, Will.'
　　'Mind, I won't have any more of this sort of thing; do you hear?'
　　'Very well,' she said.
　　He drew her arm within his own, and conducted her out of theCemetery. It was impossible to get back that night; and not wishingto be recognized in their present sorry condition, he took her to amiserable little coffee-house close to the station, whence theydeparted early in the morning, travelling almost without speaking,under the sense that it was one of those dreary situations occurringin married life which words could not mend, and reaching their owndoor at noon.
　　The months passed, and neither of the twain ever ventured to start aconversation upon this episode. Ella seemed to be only toofrequently in a sad and listless mood, which might almost have beencalled pining. The time was approaching when she would have toundergo the stress of childbirth for a fourth time, and thatapparently did not tend to raise her spirits.
　　'I don't think I shall get over it this time!' she said one day.
　　'Pooh! what childish foreboding! Why shouldn't it be as well now asever?'
　　She shook her head. 'I feel almost sure I am going to die; and Ishould be glad, if it were not for Nelly, and Frank, and Tiny.'
　　'And me!'
　　'You'll soon find somebody to fill my place,' she murmured, with asad smile. 'And you'll have a perfect right to; I assure you ofthat.'
　　'Ell, you are not thinking still about that--poetical friend ofyours?'
　　She neither admitted nor denied the charge. 'I am not going to getover my illness this time,' she reiterated. 'Something tells me Ishan't.'
　　This view of things was rather a bad beginning, as it usually is;and, in fact, six weeks later, in the month of May, she was lying inher room, pulseless and bloodless, with hardly strength enough leftto follow up one feeble breath with another, the infant for whoseunnecessary life she was slowly parting with her own being fat andwell. Just before her death she spoke to Marchmill softly:-'Will, I want to confess to you the entire circumstances of that--about you know what--that time we visited Solentsea. I can't tellwhat possessed me--how I could forget you so, my husband! But I hadgot into a morbid state: I thought you had been unkind; that youhad neglected me; that you weren't up to my intellectual level,while he was, and far above it. I wanted a fuller appreciator,perhaps, rather than another lover--'
　　She could get no further then for very exhaustion; and she went offin sudden collapse a few hours later, without having said anythingmore to her husband on the subject of her love for the poet.
　　William Marchmill, in truth, like most husbands of several years'
　　standing, was little disturbed by retrospective jealousies, and hadnot shown the least anxiety to press her for confessions concerninga man dead and gone beyond any power of inconveniencing him more.
　　But when she had been buried a couple of years it chanced one daythat, in turning over some forgotten papers that he wished todestroy before his second wife entered the house, he lighted on alock of hair in an envelope, with the photograph of the deceasedpoet, a date being written on the back in his late wife's hand. Itwas that of the time they spent at Solentsea.
　　Marchmill looked long and musingly at the hair and portrait, forsomething struck him. Fetching the little boy who had been thedeath of his mother, now a noisy toddler, he took him on his knee,held the lock of hair against the child's head, and set up thephotograph on the table behind, so that he could closely compare thefeatures each countenance presented. There were undoubtedly strongtraces of resemblance; the dreamy and peculiar expression of thepoet's face sat, as the transmitted idea, upon the child's, and thehair was of the same hue.
　　'I'm damned if I didn't think so!' murmured Marchmill. 'Then sheDID play me false with that fellow at the lodgings! Let me see:
　　the dates--the second week in August . . . the third week in May . .
　　. Yes . . . yes . . . Get away, you poor little brat! You arenothing to me!'
　　1893.
The Three Strangers
Among the few features of agricultural England which retain anappearance but little modified by the lapse of centuries, may bereckoned the high, grassy and furzy downs, coombs, or ewe-leases, asthey are indifferently called, that fill a large area of certaincounties in the south and south-west. If any mark of humanoccupation is met with hereon, it usually takes the form of thesolitary cottage of some shepherd.
　　Fifty years ago such a lonely cottage stood on such a down, and maypossibly be standing there now. In spite of its loneliness,however, the spot, by actual measurement, was not more than fivemiles from a county-town. Yet that affected it little. Five milesof irregular upland, during the long inimical seasons, with theirsleets, snows, rains, and mists, afford withdrawing space enough toisolate a Timon or a Nebuchadnezzar; much less, in fair weather, toplease that less repellent tribe, the poets, philosophers, artists,and others who 'conceive and meditate of pleasant things.'
　　Some old earthen camp or barrow, some clump of trees, at least somestarved fragment of ancient hedge is usually taken advantage of inthe erection of these forlorn dwellings. But, in the present case,such a kind of shelter had been disregarded. Higher Crowstairs, asthe house was called, stood quite detached and undefended. The onlyreason for its precise situation seemed to be the crossing of twofootpaths at right angles hard by, which may have crossed there andthus for a good five hundred years. Hence the house was exposed tothe elements on all sides. But, though the wind up here blewunmistakably when it did blow, and the rain hit hard whenever itfell, the various weathers of the winter season were not quite soformidable on the coomb as they were imagined to be by dwellers onlow ground. The raw rimes were not so pernicious as in the hollows,and the frosts were scarcely so severe. When the shepherd and hisfamily who tenanted the house were pitied for their sufferings fromthe exposure, they said that upon the whole they were lessinconvenienced by 'wuzzes and flames' (hoarses and phlegms) thanwhen they had lived by the stream of a snug neighbouring valley.
　　The night of March 28, 182-, was precisely one of the nights thatwere wont to call forth these expressions of commiseration. Thelevel rainstorm smote walls, slopes, and hedges like the clothyardshafts of Senlac and Crecy. Such sheep and outdoor animals as hadno shelter stood with their buttocks to the winds; while the tailsof little birds trying to roost on some scraggy thorn were blowninside-out like umbrellas. The gable-end of the cottage was stainedwith wet, and the eavesdroppings flapped against the wall. Yetnever was commiseration for the shepherd more misplaced. For thatcheerful rustic was entertaining a large party in glorification ofthe christening of his second girl.
　　The guests had arrived before the rain began to fall, and they wereall now assembled in the chief or living room of the dwelling. Aglance into the apartment at eight o'clock on this eventful eveningwould have resulted in the opinion that it was as cosy andcomfortable a nook as could be wished for in boisterous weather.
　　The calling of its inhabitant was proclaimed by a number of highly-polished sheep-crooks without stems that were hung ornamentally overthe fireplace, the curl of each shining crook varying from theantiquated type engraved in the patriarchal pictures of old familyBibles to the most approved fashion of the last local sheep-fair.
　　The room was lighted by half-a-dozen candles, having wicks only atrifle smaller than the grease which enveloped them, in candlesticksthat were never used but at high-days, holy-days, and family feasts.
　　The lights were scattered about the room, two of them standing onthe chimney-piece. This position of candles was in itselfsignificant. Candles on the chimney-piece always meant a party.
　　On the hearth, in front of a back-brand to give substance, blazed afire of thorns, that crackled 'like the laughter of the fool.'
　　Nineteen persons were gathered here. Of these, five women, wearinggowns of various bright hues, sat in chairs along the wall; girlsshy and not shy filled the window-bench; four men, including CharleyJake the hedge-carpenter, Elijah New the parish-clerk, and JohnPitcher, a neighbouring dairyman, the shepherd's father-in-law,lolled in the settle; a young man and maid, who were blushing overtentative pourparlers on a life-companionship, sat beneath thecorner-cupboard; and an elderly engaged man of fifty or upward movedrestlessly about from spots where his betrothed was not to the spotwhere she was. Enjoyment was pretty general, and so much the moreprevailed in being unhampered by conventional restrictions.
　　Absolute confidence in each other's good opinion begat perfect ease,while the finishing stroke of manner, amounting to a truly princelyserenity, was lent to the majority by the absence of any expressionor trait denoting that they wished to get on in the world, enlargetheir minds, or do any eclipsing thing whatever--which nowadays sogenerally nips the bloom and bonhomie of all except the two extremesof the social scale.
　　Shepherd Fennel had married well, his wife being a dairyman'sdaughter from a vale at a distance, who brought fifty guineas in herpocket--and kept them there, till they should be required forministering to the needs of a coming family. This frugal woman hadbeen somewhat exercised as to the character that should be given tothe gathering. A sit-still party had its advantages; but anundisturbed position of ease in chairs and settles was apt to leadon the men to such an unconscionable deal of toping that they wouldsometimes fairly drink the house dry. A dancing-party was thealternative; but this, while avoiding the foregoing objection on thescore of good drink, had a counterbalancing disadvantage in thematter of good victuals, the ravenous appetites engendered by theexercise causing immense havoc in the buttery. Shepherdess Fennelfell back upon the intermediate plan of mingling short dances withshort periods of talk and singing, so as to hinder any ungovernablerage in either. But this scheme was entirely confined to her owngentle mind: the shepherd himself was in the mood to exhibit themost reckless phases of hospitality.
　　The fiddler was a boy of those parts, about twelve years of age, whohad a wonderful dexterity in jigs and reels, though his fingers wereso small and short as to necessitate a constant shifting for thehigh notes, from which he scrambled back to the first position withsounds not of unmixed purity of tone. At seven the shrill tweedle-dee of this youngster had begun, accompanied by a booming ground-bass from Elijah New, the parish-clerk, who had thoughtfully broughtwith him his favourite musical instrument, the serpent. Dancing wasinstantaneous, Mrs. Fennel privately enjoining the players on noaccount to let the dance exceed the length of a quarter of an hour.
　　But Elijah and the boy, in the excitement of their position, quiteforgot the injunction. Moreover, Oliver Giles, a man of seventeen,one of the dancers, who was enamoured of his partner, a fair girl ofthirty-three rolling years, had recklessly handed a new crown-pieceto the musicians, as a bribe to keep going as long as they hadmuscle and wind. Mrs. Fennel, seeing the steam begin to generate onthe countenances of her guests, crossed over and touched thefiddler's elbow and put her hand on the serpent's mouth. But theytook no notice, and fearing she might lose her character of genialhostess if she were to interfere too markedly, she retired and satdown helpless. And so the dance whizzed on with cumulative fury,the performers moving in their planet-like courses, direct andretrograde, from apogee to perigee, till the hand of the well-kickedclock at the bottom of the room had travelled over the circumferenceof an hour.
　　While these cheerful events were in course of enactment withinFennel's pastoral dwelling, an incident having considerable bearingon the party had occurred in the gloomy night without. Mrs.
　　Fennel's concern about the growing fierceness of the dancecorresponded in point of time with the ascent of a human figure tothe solitary hill of Higher Crowstairs from the direction of thedistant town. This personage strode on through the rain without apause, following the little-worn path which, further on in itscourse, skirted the shepherd's cottage.
　　It was nearly the time of full moon, and on this account, though thesky was lined with a uniform sheet of dripping cloud, ordinaryobjects out of doors were readily visible. The sad wan lightrevealed the lonely pedestrian to be a man of supple frame; his gaitsuggested that he had somewhat passed the period of perfect andinstinctive agility, though not so far as to be otherwise than rapidof motion when occasion required. At a rough guess, he might havebeen about forty years of age. He appeared tall, but a recruitingsergeant, or other person accustomed to the judging of men's heightsby the eye, would have discerned that this was chiefly owing to hisgauntness, and that he was not more than five-feet-eight or nine.
　　Notwithstanding the regularity of his tread, there was caution init, as in that of one who mentally feels his way; and despite thefact that it was not a black coat nor a dark garment of any sortthat he wore, there was something about him which suggested that henaturally belonged to the black-coated tribes of men. His clotheswere of fustian, and his boots hobnailed, yet in his progress heshowed not the mud-accustomed bearing of hobnailed and fustianedpeasantry.
　　By the time that he had arrived abreast of the shepherd's premisesthe rain came down, or rather came along, with yet more determinedviolence. The outskirts of the little settlement partially brokethe force of wind and rain, and this induced him to stand still.
　　The most salient of the shepherd's domestic erections was an emptysty at the forward corner of his hedgeless garden, for in theselatitudes the principle of masking the homelier features of yourestablishment by a conventional frontage was unknown. Thetraveller's eye was attracted to this small building by the pallidshine of the wet slates that covered it. He turned aside, and,finding it empty, stood under the pent-roof for shelter.
　　While he stood, the boom of the serpent within the adjacent house,and the lesser strains of the fiddler, reached the spot as anaccompaniment to the surging hiss of the flying rain on the sod, itslouder beating on the cabbage-leaves of the garden, on the eight orten beehives just discernible by the path, and its dripping from theeaves into a row of buckets and pans that had been placed under thewalls of the cottage. For at Higher Crowstairs, as at all suchelevated domiciles, the grand difficulty of housekeeping was aninsufficiency of water; and a casual rainfall was utilized byturning out, as catchers, every utensil that the house contained.
　　Some queer stories might be told of the contrivances for economy insuds and dish-waters that are absolutely necessitated in uplandhabitations during the droughts of summer. But at this season therewere no such exigencies; a mere acceptance of what the skiesbestowed was sufficient for an abundant store.
　　At last the notes of the serpent ceased and the house was silent.
　　This cessation of activity aroused the solitary pedestrian from thereverie into which he had lapsed, and, emerging from the shed, withan apparently new intention, he walked up the path to the house-door. Arrived here, his first act was to kneel down on a largestone beside the row of vessels, and to drink a copious draught fromone of them. Having quenched his thirst he rose and lifted his handto knock, but paused with his eye upon the panel. Since the darksurface of the wood revealed absolutely nothing, it was evident thathe must be mentally looking through the door, as if he wished tomeasure thereby all the possibilities that a house of this sortmight include, and how they might bear upon the question of hisentry.
　　In his indecision he turned and surveyed the scene around. Not asoul was anywhere visible. The garden-path stretched downward fromhis feet, gleaming like the track of a snail; the roof of the littlewell (mostly dry), the well-cover, the top rail of the garden-gate,were varnished with the same dull liquid glaze; while, far away inthe vale, a faint whiteness of more than usual extent showed thatthe rivers were high in the meads. Beyond all this winked a fewbleared lamplights through the beating drops--lights that denotedthe situation of the county-town from which he had appeared to come.
　　The absence of all notes of life in that direction seemed to clinchhis intentions, and he knocked at the door.
　　Within, a desultory chat had taken the place of movement and musicalsound. The hedge-carpenter was suggesting a song to the company,which nobody just then was inclined to undertake, so that the knockafforded a not unwelcome diversion.
　　'Walk in!' said the shepherd promptly.
　　The latch clicked upward, and out of the night our pedestrianappeared upon the door-mat. The shepherd arose, snuffed two of thenearest candles, and turned to look at him.
　　Their light disclosed that the stranger was dark in complexion andnot unprepossessing as to feature. His hat, which for a moment hedid not remove, hung low over his eyes, without concealing that theywere large, open, and determined, moving with a flash rather than aglance round the room. He seemed pleased with his survey, and,baring his shaggy head, said, in a rich deep voice, 'The rain is soheavy, friends, that I ask leave to come in and rest awhile.'
　　'To be sure, stranger,' said the shepherd. 'And faith, you've beenlucky in choosing your time, for we are having a bit of a fling fora glad cause--though, to be sure, a man could hardly wish that gladcause to happen more than once a year.'
　　'Nor less,' spoke up a woman. 'For 'tis best to get your familyover and done with, as soon as you can, so as to be all the earlierout of the fag o't.'
　　'And what may be this glad cause?' asked the stranger.
　　'A birth and christening,' said the shepherd.
　　The stranger hoped his host might not be made unhappy either by toomany or too few of such episodes, and being invited by a gesture toa pull at the mug, he readily acquiesced. His manner, which, beforeentering, had been so dubious, was now altogether that of a carelessand candid man.
　　'Late to be traipsing athwart this coomb--hey?' said the engaged manof fifty.
　　'Late it is, master, as you say.--I'll take a seat in the chimney-corner, if you have nothing to urge against it, ma'am; for I am alittle moist on the side that was next the rain.'
　　Mrs. Shepherd Fennel assented, and made room for the self-invitedcomer, who, having got completely inside the chimney-corner,stretched out his legs and his arms with the expansiveness of aperson quite at home.
　　'Yes, I am rather cracked in the vamp,' he said freely, seeing thatthe eyes of the shepherd's wife fell upon his boots, 'and I am notwell fitted either. I have had some rough times lately, and havebeen forced to pick up what I can get in the way of wearing, but Imust find a suit better fit for working-days when I reach home.'
　　'One of hereabouts?' she inquired.
　　'Not quite that--further up the country.'
　　'I thought so. And so be I; and by your tongue you come from myneighbourhood.'
　　'But you would hardly have heard of me,' he said quickly. 'My timewould be long before yours, ma'am, you see.'
　　This testimony to the youthfulness of his hostess had the effect ofstopping her cross-examination.
　　'There is only one thing more wanted to make me happy,' continuedthe new-comer. 'And that is a little baccy, which I am sorry to sayI am out of.'
　　'I'll fill your pipe,' said the shepherd.
　　'I must ask you to lend me a pipe likewise.'
　　'A smoker, and no pipe about 'ee?'
　　'I have dropped it somewhere on the road.'
　　The shepherd filled and handed him a new clay pipe, saying, as hedid so, 'Hand me your baccy-box--I'll fill that too, now I am aboutit.'
　　The man went through the movement of searching his pockets.
　　'Lost that too?' said his entertainer, with some surprise.
　　'I am afraid so,' said the man with some confusion. 'Give it to mein a screw of paper.' Lighting his pipe at the candle with asuction that drew the whole flame into the bowl, he resettledhimself in the corner and bent his looks upon the faint steam fromhis damp legs, as if he wished to say no more.
　　Meanwhile the general body of guests had been taking little noticeof this visitor by reason of an absorbing discussion in which theywere engaged with the band about a tune for the next dance. Thematter being settled, they were about to stand up when aninterruption came in the shape of another knock at the door.
　　At sound of the same the man in the chimney-corner took up the pokerand began stirring the brands as if doing it thoroughly were the oneaim of his existence; and a second time the shepherd said, 'Walkin!' In a moment another man stood upon the straw-woven door-mat.
　　He too was a stranger.
　　This individual was one of a type radically different from thefirst. There was more of the commonplace in his manner, and acertain jovial cosmopolitanism sat upon his features. He wasseveral years older than the first arrival, his hair being slightlyfrosted, his eyebrows bristly, and his whiskers cut back from hischeeks. His face was rather full and flabby, and yet it was notaltogether a face without power. A few grog-blossoms marked theneighbourhood of his nose. He flung back his long drab greatcoat,revealing that beneath it he wore a suit of cinder-gray shadethroughout, large heavy seals, of some metal or other that wouldtake a polish, dangling from his fob as his only personal ornament.
　　Shaking the water-drops from his low-crowned glazed hat, he said, 'Imust ask for a few minutes' shelter, comrades, or I shall be wettedto my skin before I get to Casterbridge.'
　　'Make yourself at home, master,' said the shepherd, perhaps a trifleless heartily than on the first occasion. Not that Fennel had theleast tinge of niggardliness in his composition; but the room wasfar from large, spare chairs were not numerous, and damp companionswere not altogether desirable at close quarters for the women andgirls in their bright-coloured gowns.
　　However, the second comer, after taking off his greatcoat, andhanging his hat on a nail in one of the ceiling-beams as if he hadbeen specially invited to put it there, advanced and sat down at thetable. This had been pushed so closely into the chimney-corner, togive all available room to the dancers, that its inner edge grazedthe elbow of the man who had ensconced himself by the fire; and thusthe two strangers were brought into close companionship. Theynodded to each other by way of breaking the ice of unacquaintance,and the first stranger handed his neighbour the family mug--a hugevessel of brown ware, having its upper edge worn away like athreshold by the rub of whole generations of thirsty lips that hadgone the way of all flesh, and bearing the following inscriptionburnt upon its rotund side in yellow lettersTHERE IS NO FUNUNTiLL i CUM.
　　The other man, nothing loth, raised the mug to his lips, and drankon, and on, and on--till a curious blueness overspread thecountenance of the shepherd's wife, who had regarded with no littlesurprise the first stranger's free offer to the second of what didnot belong to him to dispense.
　　'I knew it!' said the toper to the shepherd with much satisfaction.
　　'When I walked up your garden before coming in, and saw the hivesall of a row, I said to myself; "Where there's bees there's honey,and where there's honey there's mead." But mead of such a trulycomfortable sort as this I really didn't expect to meet in my olderdays.' He took yet another pull at the mug, till it assumed anominous elevation.
　　'Glad you enjoy it!' said the shepherd warmly.
　　'It is goodish mead,' assented Mrs. Fennel, with an absence ofenthusiasm which seemed to say that it was possible to buy praisefor one's cellar at too heavy a price. 'It is trouble enough tomake--and really I hardly think we shall make any more. For honeysells well, and we ourselves can make shift with a drop o' smallmead and metheglin for common use from the comb-washings."'O, but you'll never have the heart!' reproachfully cried thestranger in cinder-gray, after taking up the mug a third time andsetting it down empty. 'I love mead, when 'tis old like this, as Ilove to go to church o' Sundays, or to relieve the needy any day ofthe week.'
　　'Ha, ha, ha!' said the man in the chimney-corner, who, in spite ofthe taciturnity induced by the pipe of tobacco, could not or wouldnot refrain from this slight testimony to his comrade's humour.
　　Now the old mead of those days, brewed of the purest first-year ormaiden honey, four pounds to the gallon--with its due complement ofwhite of eggs, cinnamon, ginger, cloves, mace, rosemary, yeast, andprocesses of working, bottling, and cellaring--tasted remarkablystrong; but it did not taste so strong as it actually was. Hence,presently, the stranger in cinder-gray at the table, moved by itscreeping influence, unbuttoned his waistcoat, threw himself back inhis chair, spread his legs, and made his presence felt in variousways.
　　'Well, well, as I say,' he resumed, 'I am going to Casterbridge, andto Casterbridge I must go. I should have been almost there by thistime; but the rain drove me into your dwelling, and I'm not sorryfor it.'
　　'You don't live in Casterbridge?' said the shepherd.
　　'Not as yet; though I shortly mean to move there.'
　　'Going to set up in trade, perhaps?'
　　'No, no,' said the shepherd's wife. 'It is easy to see that thegentleman is rich, and don't want to work at anything.'
　　The cinder-gray stranger paused, as if to consider whether he wouldaccept that definition of himself. He presently rejected it byanswering, 'Rich is not quite the word for me, dame. I do work, andI must work. And even if I only get to Casterbridge by midnight Imust begin work there at eight to-morrow morning. Yes, het or wet,blow or snow, famine or sword, my day's work to-morrow must bedone.'
　　'Poor man! Then, in spite o' seeming, you be worse off than we?'
　　replied the shepherd's wife.
　　''Tis the nature of my trade, men and maidens. 'Tis the nature ofmy trade more than my poverty . . . But really and truly I must upand off, or I shan't get a lodging in the town.' However, thespeaker did not move, and directly added, 'There's time for one moredraught of friendship before I go; and I'd perform it at once if themug were not dry.'
　　'Here's a mug o' small,' said Mrs. Fennel. 'Small, we call it,though to be sure 'tis only the first wash o' the combs.'
　　'No,' said the stranger disdainfully. 'I won't spoil your firstkindness by partaking o' your second.'
　　'Certainly not,' broke in Fennel. 'We don't increase and multiplyevery day, and I'll fill the mug again.' He went away to the darkplace under the stairs where the barrel stood. The shepherdessfollowed him.
　　'Why should you do this?' she said reproachfully, as soon as theywere alone. 'He's emptied it once, though it held enough for tenpeople; and now he's not contented wi' the small, but must needscall for more o' the strong! And a stranger unbeknown to any of us.
　　For my part, I don't like the look o' the man at all.'
　　'But he's in the house, my honey; and 'tis a wet night, and achristening. Daze it, what's a cup of mead more or less? There'llbe plenty more next bee-burning.'
　　'Very well--this time, then,' she answered, looking wistfully at thebarrel. 'But what is the man's calling, and where is he one of;that he should come in and join us like this?'
　　'I don't know. I'll ask him again.'
　　The catastrophe of having the mug drained dry at one pull by thestranger in cinder-gray was effectually guarded against this time byMrs. Fennel. She poured out his allowance in a small cup, keepingthe large one at a discreet distance from him. When he had tossedoff his portion the shepherd renewed his inquiry about thestranger's occupation.
　　The latter did not immediately reply, and the man in the chimney-corner, with sudden demonstrativeness, said, 'Anybody may know mytrade--I'm a wheelwright.'
　　'A very good trade for these parts,' said the shepherd.
　　'And anybody may know mine--if they've the sense to find it out,'
　　said the stranger in cinder-gray.
　　'You may generally tell what a man is by his claws,' observed thehedge-carpenter, looking at his own hands. 'My fingers be as fullof thorns as an old pin-cushion is of pins.'
　　The hands of the man in the chimney-corner instinctively sought theshade, and he gazed into the fire as he resumed his pipe. The manat the table took up the hedge-carpenter's remark, and addedsmartly, 'True; but the oddity of my trade is that, instead ofsetting a mark upon me, it sets a mark upon my customers.'
　　No observation being offered by anybody in elucidation of thisenigma, the shepherd's wife once more called for a song. The sameobstacles presented themselves as at the former time--one had novoice, another had forgotten the first verse. The stranger at thetable, whose soul had now risen to a good working temperature,relieved the difficulty by exclaiming that, to start the company, hewould sing himself. Thrusting one thumb into the arm-hole of hiswaistcoat, he waved the other hand in the air, and, with anextemporizing gaze at the shining sheep-crooks above themantelpiece, began:-'O my trade it is the rarest one,Simple shepherds all -My trade is a sight to see;For my customers I tie, and take them up on high,And waft 'em to a far countree!'
　　The room was silent when he had finished the verse--with oneexception, that of the man in the chimney-corner, who, at thesinger's word, 'Chorus! 'joined him in a deep bass voice of musicalrelish -'And waft 'em to a far countree!'
　　Oliver Giles, John Pitcher the dairyman, the parish-clerk, theengaged man of fifty, the row of young women against the wall,seemed lost in thought not of the gayest kind. The shepherd lookedmeditatively on the ground, the shepherdess gazed keenly at thesinger, and with some suspicion; she was doubting whether thisstranger were merely singing an old song from recollection, or wascomposing one there and then for the occasion. All were asperplexed at the obscure revelation as the guests at Belshazzar'sFeast, except the man in the chimney-corner, who quietly said,'Second verse, stranger,' and smoked on.
　　The singer thoroughly moistened himself from his lips inwards, andwent on with the next stanza as requested:-'My tools are but common ones,Simple shepherds all -My tools are no sight to see:
　　A little hempen string, and a post whereon to swing,Are implements enough for me!'
　　Shepherd Fennel glanced round. There was no longer any doubt thatthe stranger was answering his question rhythmically. The guestsone and all started back with suppressed exclamations. The youngwoman engaged to the man of fifty fainted half-way, and would haveproceeded, but finding him wanting in alacrity for catching her shesat down trembling.
　　'O, he's the--!' whispered the people in the background, mentioningthe name of an ominous public officer. 'He's come to do it! 'Tisto be at Casterbridge jail to-morrow--the man for sheep-stealing--the poor clock-maker we heard of; who used to live away atShottsford and had no work to do--Timothy Summers, whose family werea-starving, and so he went out of Shottsford by the high-road, andtook a sheep in open daylight, defying the farmer and the farmer'swife and the farmer's lad, and every man jack among 'em. He' (andthey nodded towards the stranger of the deadly trade) 'is come fromup the country to do it because there's not enough to do in his owncounty-town, and he's got the place here now our own county man'sdead; he's going to live in the same cottage under the prison wall.'
　　The stranger in cinder-gray took no notice of this whispered stringof observations, but again wetted his lips. Seeing that his friendin the chimney-corner was the only one who reciprocated hisjoviality in any way, he held out his cup towards that appreciativecomrade, who also held out his own. They clinked together, the eyesof the rest of the room hanging upon the singer's actions. Heparted his lips for the third verse; but at that moment anotherknock was audible upon the door. This time the knock was faint andhesitating.
　　The company seemed scared; the shepherd looked with consternationtowards the entrance, and it was with some effort that he resistedhis alarmed wife's deprecatory glance, and uttered for the thirdtime the welcoming words, 'Walk in!'
　　The door was gently opened, and another man stood upon the mat. He,like those who had preceded him, was a stranger. This time it was ashort, small personage, of fair complexion, and dressed in a decentsuit of dark clothes.
　　'Can you tell me the way to--?' he began: when, gazing round theroom to observe the nature of the company amongst whom he hadfallen, his eyes lighted on the stranger in cinder-gray. It wasjust at the instant when the latter, who had thrown his mind intohis song with such a will that he scarcely heeded the interruption,silenced all whispers and inquiries by bursting into his thirdverse:-'To-morrow is my working day,Simple shepherds all -To-morrow is a working day for me:
　　For the farmer's sheep is slain, and the lad who did it ta'en,And on his soul may God ha' merc-y!'
　　The stranger in the chimney-corner, waving cups with the singer soheartily that his mead splashed over on the hearth, repeated in hisbass voice as before:-'And on his soul may God ha' merc-y!'
　　All this time the third stranger had been standing in the doorway.
　　Finding now that he did not come forward or go on speaking, theguests particularly regarded him. They noticed to their surprisethat he stood before them the picture of abject terror--his kneestrembling, his hand shaking so violently that the door-latch bywhich he supported himself rattled audibly: his white lips wereparted, and his eyes fixed on the merry officer of justice in themiddle of the room. A moment more and he had turned, closed thedoor, and fled.
　　'What a man can it be?' said the shepherd.
　　The rest, between the awfulness of their late discovery and the oddconduct of this third visitor, looked as if they knew not what tothink, and said nothing. Instinctively they withdrew further andfurther from the grim gentleman in their midst, whom some of themseemed to take for the Prince of Darkness himself; till they formeda remote circle, an empty space of floor being left between them andhim -' . . . circulus, cujus centrum diabolus.'
　　The room was so silent--though there were more than twenty people init--that nothing could be heard but the patter of the rain againstthe window-shutters, accompanied by the occasional hiss of a straydrop that fell down the chimney into the fire, and the steadypuffing of the man in the corner, who had now resumed his pipe oflong clay.
　　The stillness was unexpectedly broken. The distant sound of a gunreverberated through the air--apparently from the direction of thecounty-town.
　　'Be jiggered!' cried the stranger who had sung the song, jumping up.
　　'What does that mean?' asked several.
　　'A prisoner escaped from the jail--that's what it means.'
　　All listened. The sound was repeated, and none of them spoke butthe man in the chimney-corner, who said quietly, 'I've often beentold that in this county they fire a gun at such times; but I neverheard it till now.'
　　'I wonder if it is MY man?' murmured the personage in cinder-gray.
　　'Surely it is!' said the shepherd involuntarily. 'And surely we'vezeed him! That little man who looked in at the door by now, andquivered like a leaf when he zeed ye and heard your song!'
　　'His teeth chattered, and the breath went out of his body,' said thedairyman.
　　'And his heart seemed to sink within him like a stone,' said OliverGiles.
　　'And he bolted as if he'd been shot at,' said the hedge-carpenter.
　　'True--his teeth chattered, and his heart seemed to sink; and hebolted as if he'd been shot at,' slowly summed up the man in thechimney-corner.
　　'I didn't notice it,' remarked the hangman.
　　'We were all a-wondering what made him run off in such a fright,'
　　faltered one of the women against the wall, 'and now 'tisexplained!'
　　The firing of the alarm-gun went on at intervals, low and sullenly,and their suspicions became a certainty. The sinister gentleman incinder-gray roused himself. 'Is there a constable here?' he asked,in thick tones. 'If so, let him step forward.'
　　The engaged man of fifty stepped quavering out from the wall, hisbetrothed beginning to sob on the back of the chair.
　　'You are a sworn constable?'
　　'I be, sir.'
　　'Then pursue the criminal at once, with assistance, and bring himback here. He can't have gone far.'
　　'I will, sir, I will--when I've got my staff. I'll go home and getit, and come sharp here, and start in a body.'
　　'Staff!--never mind your staff; the man'll be gone!'
　　'But I can't do nothing without my staff--can I, William, and John,and Charles Jake? No; for there's the king's royal crown a paintedon en in yaller and gold, and the lion and the unicorn, so as when Iraise en up and hit my prisoner, 'tis made a lawful blow thereby. Iwouldn't 'tempt to take up a man without my staff--no, not I. If Ihadn't the law to gie me courage, why, instead o' my taking up himhe might take up me!'
　　'Now, I'm a king's man myself; and can give you authority enough forthis,' said the formidable officer in gray. 'Now then, all of ye,be ready. Have ye any lanterns?'
　　'Yes--have ye any lanterns?--I demand it!' said the constable.
　　'And the rest of you able-bodied--'
　　'Able-bodied men--yes--the rest of ye!' said the constable.
　　'Have you some good stout staves and pitch-forks--'
　　'Staves and pitchforks--in the name o' the law! And take 'em in yerhands and go in quest, and do as we in authority tell ye!'
　　Thus aroused, the men prepared to give chase. The evidence was,indeed, though circumstantial, so convincing, that but littleargument was needed to show the shepherd's guests that after whatthey had seen it would look very much like connivance if they didnot instantly pursue the unhappy third stranger, who could not asyet have gone more than a few hundred yards over such unevencountry.
　　A shepherd is always well provided with lanterns; and, lightingthese hastily, and with hurdle-staves in their hands, they pouredout of the door, taking a direction along the crest of the hill,away from the town, the rain having fortunately a little abated.
　　Disturbed by the noise, or possibly by unpleasant dreams of herbaptism, the child who had been christened began to cry heart-brokenly in the room overhead. These notes of grief came downthrough the chinks of the floor to the ears of the women below, whojumped up one by one, and seemed glad of the excuse to ascend andcomfort the baby, for the incidents of the last half-hour greatlyoppressed them. Thus in the space of two or three minutes the roomon the ground-floor was deserted quite.
　　But it was not for long. Hardly had the sound of footsteps diedaway when a man returned round the corner of the house from thedirection the pursuers had taken. Peeping in at the door, andseeing nobody there, he entered leisurely. It was the stranger ofthe chimney-corner, who had gone out with the rest. The motive ofhis return was shown by his helping himself to a cut piece ofskimmer-cake that lay on a ledge beside where he had sat, and whichhe had apparently forgotten to take with him. He also poured outhalf a cup more mead from the quantity that remained, ravenouslyeating and drinking these as he stood. He had not finished whenanother figure came in just as quietly--his friend in cinder-gray.
　　'O--you here?' said the latter, smiling. 'I thought you had gone tohelp in the capture.' And this speaker also revealed the object ofhis return by looking solicitously round for the fascinating mug ofold mead.
　　'And I thought you had gone,' said the other, continuing hisskimmer-cake with some effort.
　　'Well, on second thoughts, I felt there were enough without me,'
　　said the first confidentially, 'and such a night as it is, too.
　　Besides, 'tis the business o' the Government to take care of itscriminals--not mine.'
　　'True; so it is. And I felt as you did, that there were enoughwithout me.'
　　'I don't want to break my limbs running over the humps and hollowsof this wild country.'
　　'Nor I neither, between you and me.'
　　'These shepherd-people are used to it--simple-minded souls, youknow, stirred up to anything in a moment. They'll have him readyfor me before the morning, and no trouble to me at all.'
　　'They'll have him, and we shall have saved ourselves all labour inthe matter.'
　　'True, true. Well, my way is to Casterbridge; and 'tis as much asmy legs will do to take me that far. Going the same way?'
　　'No, I am sorry to say! I have to get home over there' (he noddedindefinitely to the right), 'and I feel as you do, that it is quiteenough for my legs to do before bedtime.'
　　The other had by this time finished the mead in the mug, afterwhich, shaking hands heartily at the door, and wishing each otherwell, they went their several ways.
　　In the meantime the company of pursuers had reached the end of thehog's-back elevation which dominated this part of the down. Theyhad decided on no particular plan of action; and, finding that theman of the baleful trade was no longer in their company, they seemedquite unable to form any such plan now. They descended in alldirections down the hill, and straightway several of the party fellinto the snare set by Nature for all misguided midnight ramblersover this part of the cretaceous formation. The 'lanchets,' orflint slopes, which belted the escarpment at intervals of a dozenyards, took the less cautious ones unawares, and losing theirfooting on the rubbly steep they slid sharply downwards, thelanterns rolling from their hands to the bottom, and there lying ontheir sides till the horn was scorched through.
　　When they had again gathered themselves together, the shepherd, asthe man who knew the country best, took the lead, and guided themround these treacherous inclines. The lanterns, which seemed ratherto dazzle their eyes and warn the fugitive than to assist them inthe exploration, were extinguished, due silence was observed; and inthis more rational order they plunged into the vale. It was agrassy, briery, moist defile, affording some shelter to any personwho had sought it; but the party perambulated it in vain, andascended on the other side. Here they wandered apart, and after aninterval closed together again to report progress.
　　At the second time of closing in they found themselves near a lonelyash, the single tree on this part of the coomb, probably sown thereby a passing bird some fifty years before. And here, standing alittle to one side of the trunk, as motionless as the trunk itself;appeared the man they were in quest of; his outline being welldefined against the sky beyond. The band noiselessly drew up andfaced him.
　　'Your money or your life!' said the constable sternly to the stillfigure.
　　'No, no,' whispered John Pitcher. ''Tisn't our side ought to saythat. That's the doctrine of vagabonds like him, and we be on theside of the law.'
　　'Well, well,' replied the constable impatiently; 'I must saysomething, mustn't I? and if you had all the weight o' thisundertaking upon your mind, perhaps you'd say the wrong thing too!--Prisoner at the bar, surrender, in the name of the Father--theCrown, I mane!'
　　The man under the tree seemed now to notice them for the first time,and, giving them no opportunity whatever for exhibiting theircourage, he strolled slowly towards them. He was, indeed, thelittle man, the third stranger; but his trepidation had in a greatmeasure gone.
　　'Well, travellers,' he said, 'did I hear ye speak to me?'
　　'You did: you've got to come and be our prisoner at once!' said theconstable. 'We arrest 'ee on the charge of not biding inCasterbridge jail in a decent proper manner to be hung to-morrowmorning. Neighbours, do your duty, and seize the culpet!'
　　On hearing the charge, the man seemed enlightened, and, saying notanother word, resigned himself with preternatural civility to thesearch-party, who, with their staves in their hands, surrounded himon all sides, and marched him back towards the shepherd's cottage.
　　It was eleven o'clock by the time they arrived. The light shiningfrom the open door, a sound of men's voices within, proclaimed tothem as they approached the house that some new events had arisen intheir absence. On entering they discovered the shepherd's livingroom to be invaded by two officers from Casterbridge jail, and awell-known magistrate who lived at the nearest country-seat,intelligence of the escape having become generally circulated.
　　'Gentlemen,' said the constable, 'I have brought back your man--notwithout risk and danger; but every one must do his duty! He isinside this circle of able-bodied persons, who have lent me usefulaid, considering their ignorance of Crown work. Men, bring forwardyour prisoner!' And the third stranger was led to the light.
　　'Who is this?' said one of the officials.
　　'The man,' said the constable.
　　'Certainly not,' said the turnkey; and the first corroborated hisstatement.
　　'But how can it be otherwise?' asked the constable. 'Or why was heso terrified at sight o' the singing instrument of the law who satthere?' Here he related the strange behaviour of the third strangeron entering the house during the hangman's song.
　　'Can't understand it,' said the officer coolly. 'All I know is thatit is not the condemned man. He's quite a different character fromthis one; a gauntish fellow, with dark hair and eyes, rather good-looking, and with a musical bass voice that if you heard it onceyou'd never mistake as long as you lived.'
　　'Why, souls--'twas the man in the chimney-corner!'
　　'Hey--what?' said the magistrate, coming forward after inquiringparticulars from the shepherd in the background. 'Haven't you gotthe man after all?'
　　'Well, sir,' said the constable, 'he's the man we were in search of,that's true; and yet he's not the man we were in search of. For theman we were in search of was not the man we wanted, sir, if youunderstand my every-day way; for 'twas the man in the chimney-corner!'
　　'A pretty kettle of fish altogether!' said the magistrate. 'You hadbetter start for the other man at once.'
　　The prisoner now spoke for the first time. The mention of the manin the chimney-corner seemed to have moved him as nothing else coulddo. 'Sir,' he said, stepping forward to the magistrate, 'take nomore trouble about me. The time is come when I may as well speak.
　　I have done nothing; my crime is that the condemned man is mybrother. Early this afternoon I left home at Shottsford to tramp itall the way to Casterbridge jail to bid him farewell. I wasbenighted, and called here to rest and ask the way. When I openedthe door I saw before me the very man, my brother, that I thought tosee in the condemned cell at Casterbridge. He was in this chimney-corner; and jammed close to him, so that he could not have got outif he had tried, was the executioner who'd come to take his life,singing a song about it and not knowing that it was his victim whowas close by, joining in to save appearances. My brother looked aglance of agony at me, and I knew he meant, "Don't reveal what yousee; my life depends on it." I was so terror-struck that I couldhardly stand, and, not knowing what I did, I turned and hurriedaway.'
　　The narrator's manner and tone had the stamp of truth, and his storymade a great impression on all around. 'And do you know where yourbrother is at the present time?' asked the magistrate.
　　'I do not. I have never seen him since I closed this door.'
　　'I can testify to that, for we've been between ye ever since,' saidthe constable.
　　'Where does he think to fly to?--what is his occupation?'
　　'He's a watch-and-clock-maker, sir.'
　　''A said 'a was a wheelwright--a wicked rogue,' said the constable.
　　'The wheels of clocks and watches he meant, no doubt,' said ShepherdFennel. 'I thought his hands were palish for's trade.'
　　'Well, it appears to me that nothing can be gained by retaining thispoor man in custody,' said the magistrate; 'your business lies withthe other, unquestionably.'
　　And so the little man was released off-hand; but he looked nothingthe less sad on that account, it being beyond the power ofmagistrate or constable to raze out the written troubles in hisbrain, for they concerned another whom he regarded with moresolicitude than himself. When this was done, and the man had gonehis way, the night was found to be so far advanced that it wasdeemed useless to renew the search before the next morning.
　　Next day, accordingly, the quest for the clever sheep-stealer becamegeneral and keen, to all appearance at least. But the intendedpunishment was cruelly disproportioned to the transgression, and thesympathy of a great many country-folk in that district was stronglyon the side of the fugitive. Moreover, his marvellous coolness anddaring in hob-and-nobbing with the hangman, under the unprecedentedcircumstances of the shepherd's party, won their admiration. Sothat it may be questioned if all those who ostensibly madethemselves so busy in exploring woods and fields and lanes werequite so thorough when it came to the private examination of theirown lofts and outhouses. Stories were afloat of a mysterious figurebeing occasionally seen in some old overgrown trackway or other,remote from turnpike roads; but when a search was instituted in anyof these suspected quarters nobody was found. Thus the days andweeks passed without tidings.
　　In brief; the bass-voiced man of the chimney-corner was neverrecaptured. Some said that he went across the sea, others that hedid not, but buried himself in the depths of a populous city. Atany rate, the gentleman in cinder-gray never did his morning's workat Casterbridge, nor met anywhere at all, for business purposes, thegenial comrade with whom he had passed an hour of relaxation in thelonely house on the coomb.
　　The grass has long been green on the graves of Shepherd Fennel andhis frugal wife; the guests who made up the christening party havemainly followed their entertainers to the tomb; the baby in whosehonour they all had met is a matron in the sere and yellow leaf.
　　But the arrival of the three strangers at the shepherd's that night,and the details connected therewith, is a story as well known asever in the country about Higher Crowstairs.
　　March 1883.
The Withered Arm Chapter 1
It was an eighty-cow dairy, and the troop of milkers, regular andsupernumerary, were all at work; for, though the time of year was asyet but early April, the feed lay entirely in water-meadows, and thecows were 'in full pail.' The hour was about six in the evening,and three-fourths of the large, red, rectangular animals having beenfinished off, there was opportunity for a little conversation.
　　'He do bring home his bride to-morrow, I hear. They've come as faras Anglebury to-day.'
　　The voice seemed to proceed from the belly of the cow called Cherry,but the speaker was a milking-woman, whose face was buried in theflank of that motionless beast.
　　'Hav' anybody seen her?' said another.
　　There was a negative response from the first. 'Though they sayshe's a rosy-cheeked, tisty-tosty little body enough,' she added;and as the milkmaid spoke she turned her face so that she couldglance past her cow's tail to the other side of the barton, where athin, fading woman of thirty milked somewhat apart from the rest.
　　'Years younger than he, they say,' continued the second, with also aglance of reflectiveness in the same direction.
　　'How old do you call him, then?'
　　'Thirty or so.'
　　'More like forty,' broke in an old milkman near, in a long whitepinafore or 'wropper,' and with the brim of his hat tied down, sothat he looked like a woman. ''A was born before our Great Weir wasbuilded, and I hadn't man's wages when I laved water there.'
　　The discussion waxed so warm that the purr of the milk-streamsbecame jerky, till a voice from another cow's belly cried withauthority, 'Now then, what the Turk do it matter to us about FarmerLodge's age, or Farmer Lodge's new mis'ess? I shall have to pay himnine pound a year for the rent of every one of these milchers,whatever his age or hers. Get on with your work, or 'twill be darkafore we have done. The evening is pinking in a'ready.' Thisspeaker was the dairyman himself; by whom the milkmaids and men wereemployed.
　　Nothing more was said publicly about Farmer Lodge's wedding, but thefirst woman murmured under her cow to her next neighbour, ''Tis hardfor SHE,' signifying the thin worn milkmaid aforesaid.
　　'O no,' said the second. 'He ha'n't spoke to Rhoda Brook foryears.'
　　When the milking was done they washed their pails and hung them on amany-forked stand made of the peeled limb of an oak-tree, setupright in the earth, and resembling a colossal antlered horn. Themajority then dispersed in various directions homeward. The thinwoman who had not spoken was joined by a boy of twelve orthereabout, and the twain went away up the field also.
　　Their course lay apart from that of the others, to a lonely spothigh above the water-meads, and not far from the border of EgdonHeath, whose dark countenance was visible in the distance as theydrew nigh to their home.
　　'They've just been saying down in barton that your father brings hisyoung wife home from Anglebury to-morrow,' the woman observed. 'Ishall want to send you for a few things to market, and you'll bepretty sure to meet 'em.'
　　'Yes, mother,' said the boy. 'Is father married then?'
　　'Yes . . . You can give her a look, and tell me what's she's like,if you do see her.'
　　'Yes, mother.'
　　'If she's dark or fair, and if she's tall--as tall as I. And if sheseems like a woman who has ever worked for a living, or one that hasbeen always well off, and has never done anything, and shows marksof the lady on her, as I expect she do.'
　　'Yes.'
　　They crept up the hill in the twilight, and entered the cottage. Itwas built of mud-walls, the surface of which had been washed by manyrains into channels and depressions that left none of the originalflat face visible; while here and there in the thatch above a raftershowed like a bone protruding through the skin.
　　She was kneeling down in the chimney-corner, before two pieces ofturf laid together with the heather inwards, blowing at the red-hotashes with her breath till the turves flamed. The radiance lit herpale cheek, and made her dark eyes, that had once been handsome,seem handsome anew. 'Yes,' she resumed, 'see if she is dark orfair, and if you can, notice if her hands be white; if not, see ifthey look as though she had ever done housework, or are milker'shands like mine.'
　　The boy again promised, inattentively this time, his mother notobserving that he was cutting a notch with his pocket-knife in thebeech-backed chair.
The Withered Arm Chapter 2
The road from Anglebury to Holmstoke is in general level; but thereis one place where a sharp ascent breaks its monotony. Farmershomeward-bound from the former market-town, who trot all the rest ofthe way, walk their horses up this short incline.
　　The next evening, while the sun was yet bright, a handsome new gig,with a lemon-coloured body and red wheels, was spinning westwardalong the level highway at the heels of a powerful mare. The driverwas a yeoman in the prime of life, cleanly shaven like an actor, hisface being toned to that bluish-vermilion hue which so often gracesa thriving farmer's features when returning home after successfuldealings in the town. Beside him sat a woman, many years hisjunior--almost, indeed, a girl. Her face too was fresh in colour,but it was of a totally different quality--soft and evanescent, likethe light under a heap of rose-petals.
　　Few people travelled this way, for it was not a main road; and thelong white riband of gravel that stretched before them was empty,save of one small scarce-moving speck, which presently resolveditself into the figure of boy, who was creeping on at a snail'space, and continually looking behind him--the heavy bundle hecarried being some excuse for, if not the reason of, hisdilatoriness. When the bouncing gig-party slowed at the bottom ofthe incline above mentioned, the pedestrian was only a few yards infront. Supporting the large bundle by putting one hand on his hip,he turned and looked straight at the farmer's wife as though hewould read her through and through, pacing along abreast of thehorse.
　　The low sun was full in her face, rendering every feature, shade,and contour distinct, from the curve of her little nostril to thecolour of her eyes. The farmer, though he seemed annoyed at theboy's persistent presence, did not order him to get out of the way;and thus the lad preceded them, his hard gaze never leaving her,till they reached the top of the ascent, when the farmer trotted onwith relief in his lineaments--having taken no outward notice of theboy whatever.
　　'How that poor lad stared at me!' said the young wife.
　　'Yes, dear; I saw that he did.'
　　'He is one of the village, I suppose?'
　　'One of the neighbourhood. I think he lives with his mother a mileor two off.'
　　'He knows who we are, no doubt?'
　　'O yes. You must expect to be stared at just at first, my prettyGertrude.'
　　'I do,--though I think the poor boy may have looked at us in thehope we might relieve him of his heavy load, rather than fromcuriosity.'
　　'O no,' said her husband off-handedly. 'These country lads willcarry a hundredweight once they get it on their backs; besides hispack had more size than weight in it. Now, then, another mile and Ishall be able to show you our house in the distance--if it is nottoo dark before we get there.' The wheels spun round, and particlesflew from their periphery as before, till a white house of ampledimensions revealed itself, with farm-buildings and ricks at theback.
　　Meanwhile the boy had quickened his pace, and turning up a by-lanesome mile and half short of the white farmstead, ascended towardsthe leaner pastures, and so on to the cottage of his mother.
　　She had reached home after her day's milking at the outlying dairy,and was washing cabbage at the doorway in the declining light.
　　'Hold up the net a moment,' she said, without preface, as the boycame up.
　　He flung down his bundle, held the edge of the cabbage-net, and asshe filled its meshes with the dripping leaves she went on, 'Well,did you see her?'
　　'Yes; quite plain.'
　　'Is she ladylike?'
　　'Yes; and more. A lady complete.'
　　'Is she young?'
　　'Well, she's growed up, and her ways be quite a woman's.'
　　'Of course. What colour is her hair and face?'
　　'Her hair is lightish, and her face as comely as a live doll's.'
　　'Her eyes, then, are not dark like mine?'
　　'No--of a bluish turn, and her mouth is very nice and red; and whenshe smiles, her teeth show white.'
　　'Is she tall?' said the woman sharply.
　　'I couldn't see. She was sitting down.'
　　'Then do you go to Holmstoke church to-morrow morning: she's sureto be there. Go early and notice her walking in, and come home andtell me if she's taller than I.'
　　'Very well, mother. But why don't you go and see for yourself?'
　　'_I_ go to see her! I wouldn't look up at her if she were to passmy window this instant. She was with Mr. Lodge, of course. Whatdid he say or do?'
　　'Just the same as usual.'
　　'Took no notice of you?'
　　'None.'
　　Next day the mother put a clean shirt on the boy, and started himoff for Holmstoke church. He reached the ancient little pile whenthe door was just being opened, and he was the first to enter.
　　Taking his seat by the font, he watched all the parishioners filein. The well-to-do Farmer Lodge came nearly last; and his youngwife, who accompanied him, walked up the aisle with the shynessnatural to a modest woman who had appeared thus for the first time.
　　As all other eyes were fixed upon her, the youth's stare was notnoticed now.
　　When he reached home his mother said, 'Well?' before he had enteredthe room.
　　'She is not tall. She is rather short,' he replied.
　　'Ah!' said his mother, with satisfaction.
　　'But she's very pretty--very. In fact, she's lovely.'
　　The youthful freshness of the yeoman's wife had evidently made animpression even on the somewhat hard nature of the boy.
　　'That's all I want to hear,' said his mother quickly. 'Now, spreadthe table-cloth. The hare you caught is very tender; but mind thatnobody catches you.--You've never told me what sort of hands shehad.'
　　'I have never seen 'em. She never took off her gloves.'
　　'What did she wear this morning?'
　　'A white bonnet and a silver-coloured gownd. It whewed and whistledso loud when it rubbed against the pews that the lady coloured upmore than ever for very shame at the noise, and pulled it in to keepit from touching; but when she pushed into her seat, it whewed morethan ever. Mr. Lodge, he seemed pleased, and his waistcoat stuckout, and his great golden seals hung like a lord's; but she seemedto wish her noisy gownd anywhere but on her.'
　　'Not she! However, that will do now.'
　　These descriptions of the newly-married couple were continued fromtime to time by the boy at his mother's request, after any chanceencounter he had had with them. But Rhoda Brook, though she mighteasily have seen young Mrs. Lodge for herself by walking a couple ofmiles, would never attempt an excursion towards the quarter wherethe farmhouse lay. Neither did she, at the daily milking in thedairyman's yard on Lodge's outlying second farm, ever speak on thesubject of the recent marriage. The dairyman, who rented the cowsof Lodge, and knew perfectly the tall milkmaid's history, with manlykindliness always kept the gossip in the cow-barton from annoyingRhoda. But the atmosphere thereabout was full of the subject duringthe first days of Mrs. Lodge's arrival; and from her boy'sdescription and the casual words of the other milkers, Rhoda Brookcould raise a mental image of the unconscious Mrs Lodge that wasrealistic as a photograph.
The Withered Arm Chapter 3
One night, two or three weeks after the bridal return, when the boywas gone to bed, Rhoda sat a long time over the turf ashes that shehad raked out in front of her to extinguish them. She contemplatedso intently the new wife, as presented to her in her mind's eye overthe embers, that she forgot the lapse of time. At last, weariedwith her day's work, she too retired.
　　But the figure which had occupied her so much during this and theprevious days was not to be banished at night. For the first timeGertrude Lodge visited the supplanted woman in her dreams. RhodaBrook dreamed--since her assertion that she really saw, beforefalling asleep, was not to be believed--that the young wife, in thepale silk dress and white bonnet, but with features shockinglydistorted, and wrinkled as by age, was sitting upon her chest as shelay. The pressure of Mrs. Lodge's person grew heavier; the blueeyes peered cruelly into her face; and then the figure thrustforward its left hand mockingly, so as to make the wedding-ring itwore glitter in Rhoda's eyes. Maddened mentally, and nearlysuffocated by pressure, the sleeper struggled; the incubus, stillregarding her, withdrew to the foot of the bed, only, however, tocome forward by degrees, resume her seat, and flash her left hand asbefore.
　　Gasping for breath, Rhoda, in a last desperate effort, swung out herright hand, seized the confronting spectre by its obtrusive leftarm, and whirled it backward to the floor, starting up herself asshe did so with a low cry.
　　'O, merciful heaven!' she cried, sitting on the edge of the bed in acold sweat; 'that was not a dream--she was here!'
　　She could feel her antagonist's arm within her grasp even now--thevery flesh and bone of it, as it seemed. She looked on the floorwhither she had whirled the spectre, but there was nothing to beseen.
　　Rhoda Brook slept no more that night, and when she went milking atthe next dawn they noticed how pale and haggard she looked. Themilk that she drew quivered into the pail; her hand had not calmedeven yet, and still retained the feel of the arm. She came home tobreakfast as wearily as if it had been suppertime.
　　'What was that noise in your chimmer, mother, last night?' said herson. 'You fell off the bed, surely?'
　　'Did you hear anything fall? At what time?'
　　'Just when the clock struck two.'
　　She could not explain, and when the meal was done went silentlyabout her household work, the boy assisting her, for he hated goingafield on the farms, and she indulged his reluctance. Betweeneleven and twelve the garden-gate clicked, and she lifted her eyesto the window. At the bottom of the garden, within the gate, stoodthe woman of her vision. Rhoda seemed transfixed.
　　'Ah, she said she would come!' exclaimed the boy, also observingher.
　　'Said so--when? How does she know us?'
　　'I have seen and spoken to her. I talked to her yesterday.'
　　'I told you,' said the mother, flushing indignantly, 'never to speakto anybody in that house, or go near the place.'
　　'I did not speak to her till she spoke to me. And I did not go nearthe place. I met her in the road.'
　　'What did you tell her?'
　　'Nothing. She said, "Are you the poor boy who had to bring theheavy load from market?" And she looked at my boots, and said theywould not keep my feet dry if it came on wet, because they were socracked. I told her I lived with my mother, and we had enough to doto keep ourselves, and that's how it was; and she said then, "I'llcome and bring you some better boots, and see your mother." Shegives away things to other folks in the meads besides us.'
　　Mrs. Lodge was by this time close to the door--not in her silk, asRhoda had seen her in the bed-chamber, but in a morning hat, andgown of common light material, which became her better than silk.
　　On her arm she carried a basket.
　　The impression remaining from the night's experience was stillstrong. Brook had almost expected to see the wrinkles, the scorn,and the cruelty on her visitor's face.
　　She would have escaped an interview, had escape been possible.
　　There was, however, no backdoor to the cottage, and in an instantthe boy had lifted the latch to Mrs. Lodge's gentle knock.
　　'I see I have come to the right house,' said she, glancing at thelad, and smiling. 'But I was not sure till you opened the door.'
　　The figure and action were those of the phantom; but her voice wasso indescribably sweet, her glance so winning, her smile so tender,so unlike that of Rhoda's midnight visitant, that the latter couldhardly believe the evidence of her senses. She was truly glad thatshe had not hidden away in sheer aversion, as she had been inclinedto do. In her basket Mrs. Lodge brought the pair of boots that shehad promised to the boy, and other useful articles.
　　At these proofs of a kindly feeling towards her and hers Rhoda'sheart reproached her bitterly. This innocent young thing shouldhave her blessing and not her curse. When she left them a lightseemed gone from the dwelling. Two days later she came again toknow if the boots fitted; and less than a fortnight after that paidRhoda another call. On this occasion the boy was absent.
　　'I walk a good deal,' said Mrs. Lodge, 'and your house is thenearest outside our own parish. I hope you are well. You don'tlook quite well.'
　　Rhoda said she was well enough; and, indeed, though the paler of thetwo, there was more of the strength that endures in her well-definedfeatures and large frame, than in the soft-cheeked young womanbefore her. The conversation became quite confidential as regardedtheir powers and weaknesses; and when Mrs. Lodge was leaving, Rhodasaid, 'I hope you will find this air agree with you, ma'am, and notsuffer from the damp of the water-meads.'
　　The younger one replied that there was not much doubt of it, hergeneral health being usually good. 'Though, now you remind me,' sheadded, 'I have one little ailment which puzzles me. It is nothingserious, but I cannot make it out.'
　　She uncovered her left hand and arm; and their outline confrontedRhoda's gaze as the exact original of the limb she had beheld andseized in her dream. Upon the pink round surface of the arm werefaint marks of an unhealthy colour, as if produced by a rough grasp.
　　Rhoda's eyes became riveted on the discolorations; she fancied thatshe discerned in them the shape of her own four fingers.
　　'How did it happen?' she said mechanically.
　　'I cannot tell,' replied Mrs. Lodge, shaking her head. 'One nightwhen I was sound asleep, dreaming I was away in some strange place,a pain suddenly shot into my arm there, and was so keen as to awakenme. I must have struck it in the daytime, I suppose, though I don'tremember doing so.' She added, laughing, 'I tell my dear husbandthat it looks just as if he had flown into a rage and struck methere. O, I daresay it will soon disappear.'
　　'Ha, ha! Yes . . . On what night did it come?'
　　Mrs. Lodge considered, and said it would be a fortnight ago on themorrow. 'When I awoke I could not remember where I was,' she added,'till the clock striking two reminded me.'
　　She had named the night and the hour of Rhoda's spectral encounter,and Brook felt like a guilty thing. The artless disclosure startledher; she did not reason on the freaks of coincidence; and all thescenery of that ghastly night returned with double vividness to hermind.
　　'O, can it be,' she said to herself, when her visitor had departed,'that I exercise a malignant power over people against my own will?'
　　She knew that she had been slily called a witch since her fall; butnever having understood why that particular stigma had been attachedto her, it had passed disregarded. Could this be the explanation,and had such things as this ever happened before?
The Withered Arm Chapter 4
The summer drew on, and Rhoda Brook almost dreaded to meet Mrs.
　　Lodge again, notwithstanding that her feeling for the young wifeamounted well-nigh to affection. Something in her own individualityseemed to convict Rhoda of crime. Yet a fatality sometimes woulddirect the steps of the latter to the outskirts of Holmstokewhenever she left her house for any other purpose than her dailywork; and hence it happened that their next encounter was out ofdoors. Rhoda could not avoid the subject which had so mystifiedher, and after the first few words she stammered, 'I hope your--armis well again, ma'am?' She had perceived with consternation thatGertrude Lodge carried her left arm stiffly.
　　'No; it is not quite well. Indeed it is no better at all; it israther worse. It pains me dreadfully sometimes.'
　　'Perhaps you had better go to a doctor, ma'am.'
　　She replied that she had already seen a doctor. Her husband hadinsisted upon her going to one. But the surgeon had not seemed tounderstand the afflicted limb at all; he had told her to bathe it inhot water, and she had bathed it, but the treatment had done nogood.
　　'Will you let me see it?' said the milkwoman.
　　Mrs. Lodge pushed up her sleeve and disclosed the place, which was afew inches above the wrist. As soon as Rhoda Brook saw it, shecould hardly preserve her composure. There was nothing of thenature of a wound, but the arm at that point had a shrivelled look,and the outline of the four fingers appeared more distinct than atthe former time. Moreover, she fancied that they were imprinted inprecisely the relative position of her clutch upon the arm in thetrance; the first finger towards Gertrude's wrist, and the fourthtowards her elbow.
　　What the impress resembled seemed to have struck Gertrude herselfsince their last meeting. 'It looks almost like finger-marks,' shesaid; adding with a faint laugh, 'my husband says it is as if somewitch, or the devil himself, had taken hold of me there, and blastedthe flesh.'
　　Rhoda shivered. 'That's fancy,' she said hurriedly. 'I wouldn'tmind it, if I were you.'
　　'I shouldn't so much mind it,' said the younger, with hesitation,'if--if I hadn't a notion that it makes my husband--dislike me--no,love me less. Men think so much of personal appearance.'
　　'Some do--he for one.'
　　'Yes; and he was very proud of mine, at first.'
　　'Keep your arm covered from his sight.'
　　'Ah--he knows the disfigurement is there!' She tried to hide thetears that filled her eyes.
　　'Well, ma'am, I earnestly hope it will go away soon.'
　　And so the milkwoman's mind was chained anew to the subject by ahorrid sort of spell as she returned home. The sense of having beenguilty of an act of malignity increased, affect as she might toridicule her superstition. In her secret heart Rhoda did notaltogether object to a slight diminution of her successor's beauty,by whatever means it had come about; but she did not wish to inflictupon her physical pain. For though this pretty young woman hadrendered impossible any reparation which Lodge might have made Rhodafor his past conduct, everything like resentment at the unconscioususurpation had quite passed away from the elder's mind.
　　If the sweet and kindly Gertrude Lodge only knew of the scene in thebed-chamber, what would she think? Not to inform her of it seemedtreachery in the presence of her friendliness; but tell she couldnot of her own accord--neither could she devise a remedy.
　　She mused upon the matter the greater part of the night; and thenext day, after the morning milking, set out to obtain anotherglimpse of Gertrude Lodge if she could, being held to her by agruesome fascination. By watching the house from a distance themilkmaid was presently able to discern the farmer's wife in a rideshe was taking alone--probably to join her husband in some distantfield. Mrs. Lodge perceived her, and cantered in her direction.
　　'Good morning, Rhoda!' Gertrude said, when she had come up. 'I wasgoing to call.'
　　Rhoda noticed that Mrs. Lodge held the reins with some difficulty.
　　'I hope--the bad arm,' said Rhoda.
　　'They tell me there is possibly one way by which I might be able tofind out the cause, and so perhaps the cure, of it,' replied theother anxiously. 'It is by going to some clever man over in EgdonHeath. They did not know if he was still alive--and I cannotremember his name at this moment; but they said that you knew moreof his movements than anybody else hereabout, and could tell me ifhe were still to be consulted. Dear me--what was his name? But youknow.'
　　'Not Conjuror Trendle?' said her thin companion, turning pale.
　　'Trendle--yes. Is he alive?'
　　'I believe so,' said Rhoda, with reluctance.
　　'Why do you call him conjuror?'
　　'Well--they say--they used to say he was a--he had powers otherfolks have not.'
　　'O, how could my people be so superstitious as to recommend a man ofthat sort! I thought they meant some medical man. I shall think nomore of him.'
　　Rhoda looked relieved, and Mrs. Lodge rode on. The milkwoman hadinwardly seen, from the moment she heard of her having beenmentioned as a reference for this man, that there must exist asarcastic feeling among the work-folk that a sorceress would knowthe whereabouts of the exorcist. They suspected her, then. A shorttime ago this would have given no concern to a woman of her common-sense. But she had a haunting reason to be superstitious now; andshe had been seized with sudden dread that this Conjuror Trendlemight name her as the malignant influence which was blasting thefair person of Gertrude, and so lead her friend to hate her forever, and to treat her as some fiend in human shape.
　　But all was not over. Two days after, a shadow intruded into thewindow-pattern thrown on Rhoda Brook's floor by the afternoon sun.
　　The woman opened the door at once, almost breathlessly.
　　'Are you alone?' said Gertrude. She seemed to be no less harassedand anxious than Brook herself.
　　'Yes,' said Rhoda.
　　'The place on my arm seems worse, and troubles me!' the youngfarmer's wife went on. 'It is so mysterious! I do hope it will notbe an incurable wound. I have again been thinking of what they saidabout Conjuror Trendle. I don't really believe in such men, but Ishould not mind just visiting him, from curiosity--though on noaccount must my husband know. Is it far to where he lives?'
　　'Yes--five miles,' said Rhoda backwardly. 'In the heart of Egdon.'
　　'Well, I should have to walk. Could not you go with me to show methe way--say to-morrow afternoon?'
　　'O, not I--that is,' the milkwoman murmured, with a start of dismay.
　　Again the dread seized her that something to do with her fierce actin the dream might be revealed, and her character in the eyes of themost useful friend she had ever had be ruined irretrievably.
　　Mrs. Lodge urged, and Rhoda finally assented, though with muchmisgiving. Sad as the journey would be to her, she could notconscientiously stand in the way of a possible remedy for herpatron's strange affliction. It was agreed that, to escapesuspicion of their mystic intent, they should meet at the edge ofthe heath at the corner of a plantation which was visible from thespot where they now stood.
The Withered Arm Chapter 5
By the next afternoon Rhoda would have done anything to escape thisinquiry. But she had promised to go. Moreover, there was a horridfascination at times in becoming instrumental in throwing suchpossible light on her own character as would reveal her to besomething greater in the occult world than she had ever herselfsuspected.
　　She started just before the time of day mentioned between them, andhalf-an-hour's brisk walking brought her to the south-easternextension of the Egdon tract of country, where the fir plantationwas. A slight figure, cloaked and veiled, was already there. Rhodarecognized, almost with a shudder, that Mrs. Lodge bore her left armin a sling.
　　They hardly spoke to each other, and immediately set out on theirclimb into the interior of this solemn country, which stood highabove the rich alluvial soil they had left half-an-hour before. Itwas a long walk; thick clouds made the atmosphere dark, though itwas as yet only early afternoon; and the wind howled dismally overthe hills of the heath--not improbably the same heath which hadwitnessed the agony of the Wessex King Ina, presented to after-agesas Lear. Gertrude Lodge talked most, Rhoda replying withmonosyllabic preoccupation. She had a strange dislike to walking onthe side of her companion where hung the afflicted arm, moving roundto the other when inadvertently near it. Much heather had beenbrushed by their feet when they descended upon a cart-track, besidewhich stood the house of the man they sought.
　　He did not profess his remedial practices openly, or care anythingabout their continuance, his direct interests being those of adealer in furze, turf, 'sharp sand,' and other local products.
　　Indeed, he affected not to believe largely in his own powers, andwhen warts that had been shown him for cure miraculouslydisappeared--which it must be owned they infallibly did--he wouldsay lightly, 'O, I only drink a glass of grog upon 'em--perhaps it'sall chance,' and immediately turn the subject.
　　He was at home when they arrived, having in fact seen themdescending into his valley. He was a gray-bearded man, with areddish face, and he looked singularly at Rhoda the first moment hebeheld her. Mrs. Lodge told him her errand; and then with words ofself-disparagement he examined her arm.
　　'Medicine can't cure it,' he said promptly. ''Tis the work of anenemy.'
　　Rhoda shrank into herself, and drew back.
　　'An enemy? What enemy?' asked Mrs. Lodge.
　　He shook his head. 'That's best known to yourself,' he said. 'Ifyou like, I can show the person to you, though I shall not myselfknow who it is. I can do no more; and don't wish to do that.'
　　She pressed him; on which he told Rhoda to wait outside where shestood, and took Mrs. Lodge into the room. It opened immediatelyfrom the door; and, as the latter remained ajar, Rhoda Brook couldsee the proceedings without taking part in them. He brought atumbler from the dresser, nearly filled it with water, and fetchingan egg, prepared it in some private way; after which he broke it onthe edge of the glass, so that the white went in and the yolkremained. As it was getting gloomy, he took the glass and itscontents to the window, and told Gertrude to watch them closely.
　　They leant over the table together, and the milkwoman could see theopaline hue of the egg-fluid changing form as it sank in the water,but she was not near enough to define the shape that it assumed.
　　'Do you catch the likeness of any face or figure as you look?'
　　demanded the conjuror of the young woman.
　　She murmured a reply, in tones so low as to be inaudible to Rhoda,and continued to gaze intently into the glass. Rhoda turned, andwalked a few steps away.
　　When Mrs. Lodge came out, and her face was met by the light, itappeared exceedingly pale--as pale as Rhoda's--against the sad dunshades of the upland's garniture. Trendle shut the door behind her,and they at once started homeward together. But Rhoda perceivedthat her companion had quite changed.
　　'Did he charge much?' she asked tentatively.
　　'O no--nothing. He would not take a farthing,' said Gertrude.
　　'And what did you see?' inquired Rhoda.
　　'Nothing I--care to speak of.' The constraint in her manner wasremarkable; her face was so rigid as to wear an oldened aspect,faintly suggestive of the face in Rhoda's bed-chamber.
　　'Was it you who first proposed coming here?' Mrs. Lodge suddenlyinquired, after a long pause. 'How very odd, if you did!'
　　'No. But I am not sorry we have come, all things considered,' shereplied. For the first time a sense of triumph possessed her, andshe did not altogether deplore that the young thing at her sideshould learn that their lives had been antagonized by otherinfluences than their own.
　　The subject was no more alluded to during the long and dreary walkhome. But in some way or other a story was whispered about themany-dairied lowland that winter that Mrs. Lodge's gradual loss ofthe use of her left arm was owing to her being 'overlooked' by RhodaBrook. The latter kept her own counsel about the incubus, but herface grew sadder and thinner; and in the spring she and her boydisappeared from the neighbourhood of Holmstoke.
The Withered Arm Chapter 6
Half-a-dozen years passed away, and Mr. and Mrs. Lodge's marriedexperience sank into prosiness, and worse. The farmer was usuallygloomy and silent: the woman whom he had wooed for her grace andbeauty was contorted and disfigured in the left limb; moreover, shehad brought him no child, which rendered it likely that he would bethe last of a family who had occupied that valley for some twohundred years. He thought of Rhoda Brook and her son; and fearedthis might be a judgment from heaven upon him.
　　The once blithe-hearted and enlightened Gertrude was changing intoan irritable, superstitious woman, whose whole time was given toexperimenting upon her ailment with every quack remedy she cameacross. She was honestly attached to her husband, and was eversecretly hoping against hope to win back his heart again byregaining some at least of her personal beauty. Hence it arose thather closet was lined with bottles, packets, and ointment-pots ofevery description--nay, bunches of mystic herbs, charms, and booksof necromancy, which in her schoolgirl time she would have ridiculedas folly.
　　'Damned if you won't poison yourself with these apothecary messesand witch mixtures some time or other,' said her husband, when hiseye chanced to fall upon the multitudinous array.
　　She did not reply, but turned her sad, soft glance upon him in suchheart-swollen reproach that he looked sorry for his words, andadded, 'I only meant it for your good, you know, Gertrude.'
　　'I'll clear out the whole lot, and destroy them,' said she huskily,'and try such remedies no more!'
　　'You want somebody to cheer you,' he observed. 'I once thought ofadopting a boy; but he is too old now. And he is gone away I don'tknow where.'
　　She guessed to whom he alluded; for Rhoda Brook's story had in thecourse of years become known to her; though not a word had everpassed between her husband and herself on the subject. Neither hadshe ever spoken to him of her visit to Conjuror Trendle, and of whatwas revealed to her, or she thought was revealed to her, by thatsolitary heath-man.
　　She was now five-and-twenty; but she seemed older.
　　'Six years of marriage, and only a few months of love,' shesometimes whispered to herself. And then she thought of theapparent cause, and said, with a tragic glance at her witheringlimb, 'If I could only again be as I was when he first saw me!'
　　She obediently destroyed her nostrums and charms; but there remaineda hankering wish to try something else--some other sort of curealtogether. She had never revisited Trendle since she had beenconducted to the house of the solitary by Rhoda against her will;but it now suddenly occurred to Gertrude that she would, in a lastdesperate effort at deliverance from this seeming curse, again seekout the man, if he yet lived. He was entitled to a certaincredence, for the indistinct form he had raised in the glass hadundoubtedly resembled the only woman in the world who--as she nowknew, though not then--could have a reason for bearing her ill-will.
　　The visit should be paid.
　　This time she went alone, though she nearly got lost on the heath,and roamed a considerable distance out of her way. Trendle's housewas reached at last, however: he was not indoors, and instead ofwaiting at the cottage, she went to where his bent figure waspointed out to her at work a long way off. Trendle remembered her,and laying down the handful of furze-roots which he was gatheringand throwing into a heap, he offered to accompany her in herhomeward direction, as the distance was considerable and the dayswere short. So they walked together, his head bowed nearly to theearth, and his form of a colour with it.
　　'You can send away warts and other excrescences I know,' she said;'why can't you send away this?' And the arm was uncovered.
　　'You think too much of my powers!' said Trendle; 'and I am old andweak now, too. No, no; it is too much for me to attempt in my ownperson. What have ye tried?'
　　She named to him some of the hundred medicaments and counterspellswhich she had adopted from time to time. He shook his head.
　　'Some were good enough,' he said approvingly; 'but not many of themfor such as this. This is of the nature of a blight, not of thenature of a wound; and if you ever do throw it off; it will be allat once.'
　　'If I only could!'
　　'There is only one chance of doing it known to me. It has neverfailed in kindred afflictions,--that I can declare. But it is hardto carry out, and especially for a woman.'
　　'Tell me!' said she.
　　'You must touch with the limb the neck of a man who's been hanged.'
　　She started a little at the image he had raised.
　　'Before he's cold--just after he's cut down,' continued the conjurorimpassively.
　　'How can that do good?'
　　'It will turn the blood and change the constitution. But, as I say,to do it is hard. You must get into jail, and wait for him whenhe's brought off the gallows. Lots have done it, though perhaps notsuch pretty women as you. I used to send dozens for skincomplaints. But that was in former times. The last I sent was in'13--near twenty years ago.'
　　He had no more to tell her; and, when he had put her into a straighttrack homeward, turned and left her, refusing all money as at first.
The Withered Arm Chapter 7
The communication sank deep into Gertrude's mind. Her nature wasrather a timid one; and probably of all remedies that the whitewizard could have suggested there was not one which would havefilled her with so much aversion as this, not to speak of theimmense obstacles in the way of its adoption.
　　Casterbridge, the county-town, was a dozen or fifteen miles off; andthough in those days, when men were executed for horse-stealing,arson, and burglary, an assize seldom passed without a hanging, itwas not likely that she could get access to the body of the criminalunaided. And the fear of her husband's anger made her reluctant tobreathe a word of Trendle's suggestion to him or to anybody abouthim.
　　She did nothing for months, and patiently bore her disfigurement asbefore. But her woman's nature, craving for renewed love, throughthe medium of renewed beauty (she was but twenty-five), was everstimulating her to try what, at any rate, could hardly do her anyharm. 'What came by a spell will go by a spell surely,' she wouldsay. Whenever her imagination pictured the act she shrank in terrorfrom the possibility of it: then the words of the conjuror, 'Itwill turn your blood,' were seen to be capable of a scientific noless than a ghastly interpretation; the mastering desire returned,and urged her on again.
　　There was at this time but one county paper, and that her husbandonly occasionally borrowed. But old-fashioned days had old-fashioned means, and news was extensively conveyed by word of mouthfrom market to market, or from fair to fair, so that, whenever suchan event as an execution was about to take place, few within aradius of twenty miles were ignorant of the coming sight; and, sofar as Holmstoke was concerned, some enthusiasts had been known towalk all the way to Casterbridge and back in one day, solely towitness the spectacle. The next assizes were in March; and whenGertrude Lodge heard that they had been held, she inquiredstealthily at the inn as to the result, as soon as she could findopportunity.
　　She was, however, too late. The time at which the sentences were tobe carried out had arrived, and to make the journey and obtainadmission at such short notice required at least her husband'sassistance. She dared not tell him, for she had found by delicateexperiment that these smouldering village beliefs made him furiousif mentioned, partly because he half entertained them himself. Itwas therefore necessary to wait for another opportunity.
　　Her determination received a fillip from learning that two epilepticchildren had attended from this very village of Holmstoke many yearsbefore with beneficial results, though the experiment had beenstrongly condemned by the neighbouring clergy. April, May, June,passed; and it is no overstatement to say that by the end of thelast-named month Gertrude well-nigh longed for the death of afellow-creature. Instead of her formal prayers each night, herunconscious prayer was, 'O Lord, hang some guilty or innocent personsoon!'
　　This time she made earlier inquiries, and was altogether moresystematic in her proceedings. Moreover, the season was summer,between the haymaking and the harvest, and in the leisure thusafforded him her husband had been holiday-taking away from home.
　　The assizes were in July, and she went to the inn as before. Therewas to be one execution--only one--for arson.
　　Her greatest problem was not how to get to Casterbridge, but whatmeans she should adopt for obtaining admission to the jail. Thoughaccess for such purposes had formerly never been denied, the customhad fallen into desuetude; and in contemplating her possibledifficulties, she was again almost driven to fall back upon herhusband. But, on sounding him about the assizes, he was souncommunicative, so more than usually cold, that she did notproceed, and decided that whatever she did she would do alone.
　　Fortune, obdurate hitherto, showed her unexpected favour. On theThursday before the Saturday fixed for the execution, Lodge remarkedto her that he was going away from home for another day or two onbusiness at a fair, and that he was sorry he could not take her withhim.
　　She exhibited on this occasion so much readiness to stay at homethat he looked at her in surprise. Time had been when she wouldhave shown deep disappointment at the loss of such a jaunt.
　　However, he lapsed into his usual taciturnity, and on the day namedleft Holmstoke.
　　It was now her turn. She at first had thought of driving, but onreflection held that driving would not do, since it wouldnecessitate her keeping to the turnpike-road, and so increase bytenfold the risk of her ghastly errand being found out. She decidedto ride, and avoid the beaten track, notwithstanding that in herhusband's stables there was no animal just at present which by anystretch of imagination could be considered a lady's mount, in spiteof his promise before marriage to always keep a mare for her. Hehad, however, many cart-horses, fine ones of their kind; and amongthe rest was a serviceable creature, an equine Amazon, with a backas broad as a sofa, on which Gertrude had occasionally taken anairing when unwell. This horse she chose.
　　On Friday afternoon one of the men brought it round. She wasdressed, and before going down looked at her shrivelled arm. 'Ah!'
　　she said to it, 'if it had not been for you this terrible ordealwould have been saved me!'
　　When strapping up the bundle in which she carried a few articles ofclothing, she took occasion to say to the servant, 'I take these incase I should not get back to-night from the person I am going tovisit. Don't be alarmed if I am not in by ten, and close up thehouse as usual. I shall be at home to-morrow for certain.' Shemeant then to privately tell her husband: the deed accomplished wasnot like the deed projected. He would almost certainly forgive her.
　　And then the pretty palpitating Gertrude Lodge went from herhusband's homestead; but though her goal was Casterbridge she didnot take the direct route thither through Stickleford. Her cunningcourse at first was in precisely the opposite direction. As soon asshe was out of sight, however, she turned to the left, by a roadwhich led into Egdon, and on entering the heath wheeled round, andset out in the true course, due westerly. A more private way downthe county could not be imagined; and as to direction, she hadmerely to keep her horse's head to a point a little to the right ofthe sun. She knew that she would light upon a furze-cutter orcottager of some sort from time to time, from whom she might correcther bearing.
　　Though the date was comparatively recent, Egdon was much lessfragmentary in character than now. The attempts--successful andotherwise--at cultivation on the lower slopes, which intrude andbreak up the original heath into small detached heaths, had not beencarried far; Enclosure Acts had not taken effect, and the banks andfences which now exclude the cattle of those villagers who formerlyenjoyed rights of commonage thereon, and the carts of those who hadturbary privileges which kept them in firing all the year round,were not erected. Gertrude, therefore, rode along with no otherobstacles than the prickly furze bushes, the mats of heather, thewhite water-courses, and the natural steeps and declivities of theground.
　　Her horse was sure, if heavy-footed and slow, and though a draughtanimal, was easy-paced; had it been otherwise, she was not a womanwho could have ventured to ride over such a bit of country with ahalf-dead arm. It was therefore nearly eight o'clock when she drewrein to breathe the mare on the last outlying high point of heath-land towards Casterbridge, previous to leaving Egdon for thecultivated valleys.
　　She halted before a pool called Rushy-pond, flanked by the ends oftwo hedges; a railing ran through the centre of the pond, dividingit in half. Over the railing she saw the low green country; overthe green trees the roofs of the town; over the roofs a white flatfacade, denoting the entrance to the county jail. On the roof ofthis front specks were moving about; they seemed to be workmenerecting something. Her flesh crept. She descended slowly, and wassoon amid corn-fields and pastures. In another half-hour, when itwas almost dusk, Gertrude reached the White Hart, the first inn ofthe town on that side.
　　Little surprise was excited by her arrival; farmers' wives rode onhorseback then more than they do now; though, for that matter, Mrs.
　　Lodge was not imagined to be a wife at all; the innkeeper supposedher some harum-skarum young woman who had come to attend 'hang-fair'
　　next day. Neither her husband nor herself ever dealt inCasterbridge market, so that she was unknown. While dismounting shebeheld a crowd of boys standing at the door of a harness-maker'sshop just above the inn, looking inside it with deep interest.
　　'What is going on there?' she asked of the ostler.
　　'Making the rope for to-morrow.'
　　She throbbed responsively, and contracted her arm.
　　''Tis sold by the inch afterwards,' the man continued. 'I could getyou a bit, miss, for nothing, if you'd like?'
　　She hastily repudiated any such wish, all the more from a curiouscreeping feeling that the condemned wretch's destiny was becominginterwoven with her own; and having engaged a room for the night,sat down to think.
　　Up to this time she had formed but the vaguest notions about hermeans of obtaining access to the prison. The words of the cunning-man returned to her mind. He had implied that she should use herbeauty, impaired though it was, as a pass-key. In her inexperienceshe knew little about jail functionaries; she had heard of a high-sheriff and an under-sheriff; but dimly only. She knew, however,that there must be a hangman, and to the hangman she determined toapply.
The Withered Arm Chapter 8
At this date, and for several years after, there was a hangman toalmost every jail. Gertrude found, on inquiry, that theCasterbridge official dwelt in a lonely cottage by a deep slow riverflowing under the cliff on which the prison buildings were situate--the stream being the self-same one, though she did not know it,which watered the Stickleford and Holmstoke meads lower down in itscourse.
　　Having changed her dress, and before she had eaten or drunk--for shecould not take her ease till she had ascertained some particulars--Gertrude pursued her way by a path along the water-side to thecottage indicated. Passing thus the outskirts of the jail, shediscerned on the level roof over the gateway three rectangular linesagainst the sky, where the specks had been moving in her distantview; she recognized what the erection was, and passed quickly on.
　　Another hundred yards brought her to the executioner's house, whicha boy pointed out It stood close to the same stream, and was hard bya weir, the waters of which emitted a steady roar.
　　While she stood hesitating the door opened, and an old man cameforth shading a candle with one hand. Locking the door on theoutside, he turned to a flight of wooden steps fixed against the endof the cottage, and began to ascend them, this being evidently thestaircase to his bedroom. Gertrude hastened forward, but by thetime she reached the foot of the ladder he was at the top. Shecalled to him loudly enough to be heard above the roar of the weir;he looked down and said, 'What d'ye want here?'
　　'To speak to you a minute.'
　　The candle-light, such as it was, fell upon her imploring, pale,upturned face, and Davies (as the hangman was called) backed downthe ladder. 'I was just going to bed,' he said; '"Early to bed andearly to rise," but I don't mind stopping a minute for such a one asyou. Come into house.' He reopened the door, and preceded her tothe room within.
　　The implements of his daily work, which was that of a jobbinggardener, stood in a corner, and seeing probably that she lookedrural, he said, 'If you want me to undertake country work I can'tcome, for I never leave Casterbridge for gentle nor simple--not I.
　　My real calling is officer of justice,' he added formally.
　　'Yes, yes! That's it. To-morrow!'
　　'Ah! I thought so. Well, what's the matter about that? 'Tis nouse to come here about the knot--folks do come continually, but Itell 'em one knot is as merciful as another if ye keep it under theear. Is the unfortunate man a relation; or, I should say, perhaps'
　　(looking at her dress) 'a person who's been in your employ?'
　　'No. What time is the execution?'
　　'The same as usual--twelve o'clock, or as soon after as the Londonmail-coach gets in. We always wait for that, in case of areprieve.'
　　'O--a reprieve--I hope not!' she said involuntarily,'Well,--hee, hee!--as a matter of business, so do I! But still, ifever a young fellow deserved to be let off, this one does; only justturned eighteen, and only present by chance when the rick was fired.
　　Howsomever, there's not much risk of it, as they are obliged to makean example of him, there having been so much destruction of propertythat way lately.'
　　'I mean,' she explained, 'that I want to touch him for a charm, acure of an affliction, by the advice of a man who has proved thevirtue of the remedy.'
　　'O yes, miss! Now I understand. I've had such people come in pastyears. But it didn't strike me that you looked of a sort to requireblood-turning. What's the complaint? The wrong kind for this, I'llbe bound.'
　　'My arm.' She reluctantly showed the withered skin.
　　'Ah--'tis all a-scram!' said the hangman, examining it.
　　'Yes,' said she.
　　'Well,' he continued, with interest, 'that IS the class o' subject,I'm bound to admit! I like the look of the place; it is truly assuitable for the cure as any I ever saw. 'Twas a knowing-man thatsent 'ee, whoever he was.'
　　'You can contrive for me all that's necessary?' she saidbreathlessly.
　　'You should really have gone to the governor of the jail, and yourdoctor with 'ee, and given your name and address--that's how it usedto be done, if I recollect. Still, perhaps, I can manage it for atrifling fee.'
　　'O, thank you! I would rather do it this way, as I should like itkept private.'
　　'Lover not to know, eh?'
　　'No--husband.'
　　'Aha! Very well. I'll get ee' a touch of the corpse.'
　　'Where is it now?' she said, shuddering.
　　'It?--HE, you mean; he's living yet. Just inside that little smallwinder up there in the glum.' He signified the jail on the cliffabove.
　　She thought of her husband and her friends. 'Yes, of course,' shesaid; 'and how am I to proceed?'
　　He took her to the door. 'Now, do you be waiting at the littlewicket in the wall, that you'll find up there in the lane, not laterthan one o'clock. I will open it from the inside, as I shan't comehome to dinner till he's cut down. Good-night. Be punctual; and ifyou don't want anybody to know 'ee, wear a veil. Ah--once I hadsuch a daughter as you!'
　　She went away, and climbed the path above, to assure herself thatshe would be able to find the wicket next day. Its outline was soonvisible to her--a narrow opening in the outer wall of the prisonprecincts. The steep was so great that, having reached the wicket,she stopped a moment to breathe; and, looking back upon the water-side cot, saw the hangman again ascending his outdoor staircase. Heentered the loft or chamber to which it led, and in a few minutesextinguished his light.
　　The town clock struck ten, and she returned to the White Hart as shehad come.
The Withered Arm Chapter 9
It was one o'clock on Saturday. Gertrude Lodge, having beenadmitted to the jail as above described, was sitting in a waiting-room within the second gate, which stood under a classic archway ofashlar, then comparatively modern, and bearing the inscription,'COVNTY JAIL: 1793.' This had been the facade she saw from theheath the day before. Near at hand was a passage to the roof onwhich the gallows stood.
　　The town was thronged, and the market suspended; but Gertrude hadseen scarcely a soul. Having kept her room till the hour of theappointment, she had proceeded to the spot by a way which avoidedthe open space below the cliff where the spectators had gathered;but she could, even now, hear the multitudinous babble of theirvoices, out of which rose at intervals the hoarse croak of a singlevoice uttering the words, 'Last dying speech and confession!' Therehad been no reprieve, and the execution was over; but the crowdstill waited to see the body taken down.
　　Soon the persistent girl heard a trampling overhead, then a handbeckoned to her, and, following directions, she went out and crossedthe inner paved court beyond the gatehouse, her knees trembling sothat she could scarcely walk. One of her arms was out of itssleeve, and only covered by her shawl.
　　On the spot at which she had now arrived were two trestles, andbefore she could think of their purpose she heard heavy feetdescending stairs somewhere at her back. Turn her head she wouldnot, or could not, and, rigid in this position, she was conscious ofa rough coffin passing her shoulder, borne by four men. It wasopen, and in it lay the body of a young man, wearing the smockfrockof a rustic, and fustian breeches. The corpse had been thrown intothe coffin so hastily that the skirt of the smockfrock was hangingover. The burden was temporarily deposited on the trestles.
　　By this time the young woman's state was such that a gray mistseemed to float before her eyes, on account of which, and the veilshe wore, she could scarcely discern anything: it was as though shehad nearly died, but was held up by a sort of galvanism.
　　'Now!' said a voice close at hand, and she was just conscious thatthe word had been addressed to her.
　　By a last strenuous effort she advanced, at the same time hearingpersons approaching behind her. She bared her poor curst arm; andDavies, uncovering the face of the corpse, took Gertrude's hand, andheld it so that her arm lay across the dead man's neck, upon a linethe colour of an unripe blackberry, which surrounded it.
　　Gertrude shrieked: 'the turn o' the blood,' predicted by theconjuror, had taken place. But at that moment a second shriek rentthe air of the enclosure: it was not Gertrude's, and its effectupon her was to make her start round.
　　Immediately behind her stood Rhoda Brook, her face drawn, and hereyes red with weeping. Behind Rhoda stood Gertrude's own husband;his countenance lined, his eyes dim, but without a tear.
　　'D-n you! what are you doing here?' he said hoarsely.
　　'Hussy--to come between us and our child now!' cried Rhoda. 'Thisis the meaning of what Satan showed me in the vision! You are likeher at last!' And clutching the bare arm of the younger woman, shepulled her unresistingly back against the wall. Immediately Brookhad loosened her hold the fragile young Gertrude slid down againstthe feet of her husband. When he lifted her up she was unconscious.
　　The mere sight of the twain had been enough to suggest to her thatthe dead young man was Rhoda's son. At that time the relatives ofan executed convict had the privilege of claiming the body forburial, if they chose to do so; and it was for this purpose thatLodge was awaiting the inquest with Rhoda. He had been summoned byher as soon as the young man was taken in the crime, and atdifferent times since; and he had attended in court during thetrial. This was the 'holiday' he had been indulging in of late.
　　The two wretched parents had wished to avoid exposure; and hence hadcome themselves for the body, a waggon and sheet for its conveyanceand covering being in waiting outside.
　　Gertrude's case was so serious that it was deemed advisable to callto her the surgeon who was at hand. She was taken out of the jailinto the town; but she never reached home alive. Her delicatevitality, sapped perhaps by the paralyzed arm, collapsed under thedouble shock that followed the severe strain, physical and mental,to which she had subjected herself during the previous twenty-fourhours. Her blood had been 'turned' indeed--too far. Her death tookplace in the town three days after.
　　Her husband was never seen in Casterbridge again; once only in theold market-place at Anglebury, which he had so much frequented, andvery seldom in public anywhere. Burdened at first with moodinessand remorse, he eventually changed for the better, and appeared as achastened and thoughtful man. Soon after attending the funeral ofhis poor young wife he took steps towards giving up the farms inHolmstoke and the adjoining parish, and, having sold every head ofhis stock, he went away to Port-Bredy, at the other end of thecounty, living there in solitary lodgings till his death two yearslater of a painless decline. It was then found that he hadbequeathed the whole of his not inconsiderable property to areformatory for boys, subject to the payment of a small annuity toRhoda Brook, if she could be found to claim it.
　　For some time she could not be found; but eventually she reappearedin her old parish,--absolutely refusing, however, to have anythingto do with the provision made for her. Her monotonous milking atthe dairy was resumed, and followed for many long years, till herform became bent, and her once abundant dark hair white and wornaway at the forehead--perhaps by long pressure against the cows.
　　Here, sometimes, those who knew her experiences would stand andobserve her, and wonder what sombre thoughts were beating insidethat impassive, wrinkled brow, to the rhythm of the alternatingmilk-streams.
　　('Blackwood's Magazine,' January 1888.)
Fellow-Townsmen Chapter 1
The north road from Casterbridge is tedious and lonely, especiallyin winter-time. Along a part of its course it connects with Long-Ash Lane, a monotonous track without a village or hamlet for manymiles, and with very seldom a turning. Unapprized wayfarers who aretoo old, or too young, or in other respects too weak for thedistance to be traversed, but who, nevertheless, have to walk it,say, as they look wistfully ahead, 'Once at the top of that hill,and I must surely see the end of Long-Ash Lane!' But they reach thehilltop, and Long-Ash Lane stretches in front as mercilessly asbefore.
　　Some few years ago a certain farmer was riding through this lane inthe gloom of a winter evening. The farmer's friend, a dairyman, wasriding beside him. A few paces in the rear rode the farmer's man.
　　All three were well horsed on strong, round-barrelled cobs; and tobe well horsed was to be in better spirits about Long-Ash Lane thanpoor pedestrians could attain to during its passage.
　　But the farmer did not talk much to his friend as he rode along.
　　The enterprise which had brought him there filled his mind; for intruth it was important. Not altogether so important was it,perhaps, when estimated by its value to society at large; but if thetrue measure of a deed be proportionate to the space it occupies inthe heart of him who undertakes it, Farmer Charles Darton's businessto-night could hold its own with the business of kings.
　　He was a large farmer. His turnover, as it is called, was probablythirty thousand pounds a year. He had a great many draught horses,a great many milch cows, and of sheep a multitude. This comfortableposition was, however, none of his own making. It had been createdby his father, a man of a very different stamp from the presentrepresentative of the line.
　　Darton, the father, had been a one-idea'd character, with abuttoned-up pocket and a chink-like eye brimming with commercialsubtlety. In Darton the son, this trade subtlety had becometransmuted into emotional, and the harshness had disappeared; hewould have been called a sad man but for his constant care not todivide himself from lively friends by piping notes out of harmonywith theirs. Contemplative, he allowed his mind to be a quietmeeting-place for memories and hopes. So that, naturally enough,since succeeding to the agricultural calling, and up to his presentage of thirty-two, he had neither advanced nor receded as acapitalist--a stationary result which did not agitate one of hisunambitious, unstrategic nature, since he had all that he desired.
　　The motive of his expedition tonight showed the same absence ofanxious regard for Number One.
　　The party rode on in the slow, safe trot proper to night-time andbad roads, Farmer Darton's head jigging rather unromantically up anddown against the sky, and his motions being repeated with bolderemphasis by his friend Japheth Johns; while those of the latter weretravestied in jerks still less softened by art in the person of thelad who attended them. A pair of whitish objects hung one on eachside of the latter, bumping against him at each step, and stillfurther spoiling the grace of his seat. On close inspection theymight have been perceived to be open rush baskets--one containing aturkey, and the other some bottles of wine.
　　'D'ye feel ye can meet your fate like a man, neighbour Darton?'
　　asked Johns, breaking a silence which had lasted while five-and-twenty hedgerow trees had glided by.
　　Mr. Darton with a half-laugh murmured, 'Ay--call it my fate!
　　Hanging and wiving go by destiny.' And then they were silent again.
　　The darkness thickened rapidly, at intervals shutting down on theland in a perceptible flap, like the wave of a wing. The customaryclose of day was accelerated by a simultaneous blurring of the air.
　　With the fall of night had come a mist just damp enough toincommode, but not sufficient to saturate them. Countrymen as theywere--born, as may be said, with only an open door between them andthe four seasons--they regarded the mist but as an addedobscuration, and ignored its humid quality.
　　They were travelling in a direction that was enlivened by no moderncurrent of traffic, the place of Darton's pilgrimage being an old-fashioned village--one of the Hintocks (several villages of thatname, with a distinctive prefix or affix, lying thereabout)--wherethe people make the best cider and cider-wine in all Wessex, andwhere the dunghills smell of pomace instead of stable refuse aselsewhere. The lane was sometimes so narrow that the brambles ofthe hedge, which hung forward like anglers' rods over a stream,scratched their hats and curry-combed their whiskers as they passed.
　　Yet this neglected lane had been a highway to Queen Elizabeth'ssubjects and the cavalcades of the past. Its day was over now, andits history as a national artery done for ever.
　　'Why I have decided to marry her,' resumed Darton (in a measuredmusical voice of confidence which revealed a good deal of hiscomposition), as he glanced round to see that the lad was not toonear, 'is not only that I like her, but that I can do no better,even from a fairly practical point of view. That I might ha' lookedhigher is possibly true, though it is really all nonsense. I havehad experience enough in looking above me. "No more superior womenfor me," said I--you know when. Sally is a comely, independent,simple character, with no make-up about her, who'll think me as mucha superior to her as I used to think--you know who I mean--was tome.'
　　'Ay,' said Johns. 'However, I shouldn't call Sally Hall simple.
　　Primary, because no Sally is; secondary, because if some could be,this one wouldn't. 'Tis a wrong denomination to apply to a woman,Charles, and affects me, as your best man, like cold water. 'Tislike recommending a stage play by saying there's neither murder,villainy, nor harm of any sort in it, when that's what you've paidyour half-crown to see.'
　　'Well; may your opinion do you good. Mine's a different one.' Andturning the conversation from the philosophical to the practical,Darton expressed a hope that the said Sally had received what he'dsent on by the carrier that day.
　　Johns wanted to know what that was.
　　'It is a dress,' said Darton. 'Not exactly a wedding-dress; thoughshe may use it as one if she likes. It is rather serviceable thanshowy--suitable for the winter weather.'
　　'Good,' said Johns. 'Serviceable is a wise word in a bridegroom. Icommend ye, Charles.'
　　'For,' said Darton, 'why should a woman dress up like a rope-dancerbecause she's going to do the most solemn deed of her life exceptdying?'
　　'Faith, why? But she will, because she will, I suppose,' saidDairyman Johns.
　　'H'm,' said Darton.
　　The lane they followed had been nearly straight for several miles,but it now took a turn, and winding uncertainly for some distanceforked into two. By night country roads are apt to reveal ungainlyqualities which pass without observation during day; and thoughDarton had travelled this way before, he had not done so frequently,Sally having been wooed at the house of a relative near his own. Henever remembered seeing at this spot a pair of alternative wayslooking so equally probable as these two did now. Johns rode on afew steps.
　　'Don't be out of heart, sonny,' he cried. 'Here's a handpost.
　　Enoch--come and climm this post, and tell us the way.'
　　The lad dismounted, and jumped into the hedge where the post stoodunder a tree.
　　'Unstrap the baskets, or you'll smash up that wine!' cried Darton,as the young man began spasmodically to climb the post, baskets andall.
　　'Was there ever less head in a brainless world?' said Johns. 'Here,simple Nocky, I'll do it.' He leapt off, and with much puffingclimbed the post, striking a match when he reached the top, andmoving the light along the arm, the lad standing and gazing at thespectacle.
　　'I have faced tantalization these twenty years with a temper as mildas milk!' said Japheth; 'but such things as this don't come short ofdevilry!' And flinging the match away, he slipped down to theground.
　　'What's the matter?' asked Darton.
　　'Not a letter, sacred or heathen--not so much as would tell us theway to the great fireplace--ever I should sin to say it! Either themoss and mildew have eat away the words, or we have arrived in aland where the natyves have lost the art o' writing, and should ha'
　　brought our compass like Christopher Columbus.'
　　'Let us take the straightest road,' said Darton placidly; 'I shan'tbe sorry to get there--'tis a tiresome ride. I would have driven ifI had known.'
　　'Nor I neither, sir,' said Enoch. 'These straps plough my shoulderlike a zull. If 'tis much further to your lady's home, MaisterDarton, I shall ask to be let carry half of these good things in myinnerds--hee, hee!'
　　'Don't you be such a reforming radical, Enoch,' said Johns sternly.
　　'Here, I'll take the turkey.'
　　This being done, they went forward by the right-hand lane, whichascended a hill, the left winding away under a plantation. The pit-a-pat of their horses' hoofs lessened up the slope; and the ironicaldirecting-post stood in solitude as before, holding out its blankarms to the raw breeze, which brought a snore from the wood as ifSkrymir the Giant were sleeping there.
Fellow-Townsmen Chapter 2
Three miles to the left of the travellers, along the road they hadnot followed, rose an old house with mullioned windows of Ham-hillstone, and chimneys of lavish solidity. It stood at the top of aslope beside King's-Hintock village-street; and immediately in frontof it grew a large sycamore-tree, whose bared roots formed aconvenient staircase from the road below to the front door of thedwelling. Its situation gave the house what little distinctive nameit possessed, namely, 'The Knap.' Some forty yards off a brookdribbled past, which, for its size, made a great deal of noise. Atthe back was a dairy barton, accessible for vehicles and live-stockby a side 'drong.' Thus much only of the character of the homesteadcould be divined out of doors at this shady evening-time.
　　But within there was plenty of light to see by, as plenty wasconstrued at Hintock. Beside a Tudor fireplace, whose moulded four-centred arch was nearly hidden by a figured blue-cloth blower, wereseated two women--mother and daughter--Mrs. Hall, and Sarah, orSally; for this was a part of the world where the lattermodification had not as yet been effaced as a vulgarity by the marchof intellect. The owner of the name was the young woman by whosemeans Mr. Darton proposed to put an end to his bachelor condition onthe approaching day.
　　The mother's bereavement had been so long ago as not to leave muchmark of its occurrence upon her now, either in face or clothes. Shehad resumed the mob-cap of her early married life, enlivening itswhiteness by a few rose-du-Barry ribbons. Sally required no suchaids to pinkness. Roseate good-nature lit up her gaze; her featuresshowed curves of decision and judgment; and she might have beenregarded without much mistake as a warm-hearted, quick-spirited,handsome girl.
　　She did most of the talking, her mother listening with a half-absentair, as she picked up fragments of red-hot wood ember with thetongs, and piled them upon the brands. But the number of speechesthat passed was very small in proportion to the meanings exchanged.
　　Long experience together often enabled them to see the course ofthought in each other's minds without a word being spoken. Behindthem, in the centre of the room, the table was spread for supper,certain whiffs of air laden with fat vapours, which ever and anonentered from the kitchen, denoting its preparation there.
　　'The new gown he was going to send you stays about on the way likehimself,' Sally's mother was saying.
　　'Yes, not finished, I daresay,' cried Sally independently. 'Lord, Ishouldn't be amazed if it didn't come at all! Young men make suchkind promises when they are near you, and forget 'em when they goaway. But he doesn't intend it as a wedding-gown--he gives it to memerely as a gown to wear when I like--a travelling-dress is what itwould be called by some. Come rathe or come late it don't muchmatter, as I have a dress of my own to fall back upon. But whattime is it?'
　　She went to the family clock and opened the glass, for the hour wasnot otherwise discernible by night, and indeed at all times wasrather a thing to be investigated than beheld, so much more wallthan window was there in the apartment. 'It is nearly eight,' saidshe.
　　'Eight o'clock, and neither dress nor man,' said Mrs. Hall.
　　'Mother, if you think to tantalize me by talking like that, you aremuch mistaken! Let him be as late as he will--or stay awayaltogether--I don't care,' said Sally. But a tender, minute quaverin the negation showed that there was something forced in thatstatement.
　　Mrs. Hall perceived it, and drily observed that she was not so sureabout Sally not caring. 'But perhaps you don't care so much as Ido, after all,' she said. 'For I see what you don't, that it is agood and flourishing match for you; a very honourable offer in Mr.
　　Darton. And I think I see a kind husband in him. So pray God'twill go smooth, and wind up well.'
　　Sally would not listen to misgivings. Of course it would gosmoothly, she asserted. 'How you are up and down, mother!' she wenton. 'At this moment, whatever hinders him, we are not so anxious tosee him as he is to be here, and his thought runs on before him, andsettles down upon us like the star in the east. Hark!' sheexclaimed, with a breath of relief, her eyes sparkling. 'I heardsomething. Yes--here they are!'
　　The next moment her mother's slower ear also distinguished thefamiliar reverberation occasioned by footsteps clambering up theroots of the sycamore.
　　'Yes it sounds like them at last,' she said. 'Well, it is not sovery late after all, considering the distance.'
　　The footfall ceased, and they arose, expecting a knock. They beganto think it might have been, after all, some neighbouring villagerunder Bacchic influence, giving the centre of the road a wide berth,when their doubts were dispelled by the new-comer's entry into thepassage. The door of the room was gently opened, and thereappeared, not the pair of travellers with whom we have already madeacquaintance, but a pale-faced man in the garb of extreme poverty--almost in rags.
　　'O, it's a tramp--gracious me!' said Sally, starting back.
　　His cheeks and eye-orbits were deep concaves--rather, it might be,from natural weakness of constitution than irregular living, thoughthere were indications that he had led no careful life. He gazed atthe two women fixedly for a moment: then with an abashed,humiliated demeanour, dropped his glance to the floor, and sank intoa chair without uttering a word.
　　Sally was in advance of her mother, who had remained standing by thefire. She now tried to discern the visitor across the candles.
　　'Why--mother,' said Sally faintly, turning back to Mrs. Hall. 'Itis Phil, from Australia!'
　　Mrs. Hall started, and grew pale, and a fit of coughing seized theman with the ragged clothes. 'To come home like this!' she said.
　　'O, Philip--are you ill?'
　　'No, no, mother,' replied he impatiently, as soon as he could speak.
　　'But for God's sake how do you come here--and just now too?'
　　'Well, I am here,' said the man. 'How it is I hardly know. I'vecome home, mother, because I was driven to it. Things were againstme out there, and went from bad to worse.'
　　'Then why didn't you let us know?--you've not writ a line for thelast two or three years.'
　　The son admitted sadly that he had not. He said that he had hopedand thought he might fetch up again, and be able to send good news.
　　Then he had been obliged to abandon that hope, and had finally comehome from sheer necessity--previously to making a new start. 'Yes,things are very bad with me,' he repeated, perceiving theircommiserating glances at his clothes.
　　They brought him nearer the fire, took his hat from his thin hand,which was so small and smooth as to show that his attempts to fetchup again had not been in a manual direction. His mother resumed herinquiries, and dubiously asked if he had chosen to come thatparticular night for any special reason.
　　For no reason, he told her. His arrival had been quite at random.
　　Then Philip Hall looked round the room, and saw for the first timethat the table was laid somewhat luxuriously, and for a largernumber than themselves; and that an air of festivity pervaded theirdress. He asked quickly what was going on.
　　'Sally is going to be married in a day or two,' replied the mother;and she explained how Mr. Darton, Sally's intended husband, wascoming there that night with the groomsman, Mr. Johns, and otherdetails. 'We thought it must be their step when we heard you,' saidMrs. Hall.
　　The needy wanderer looked again on the floor. 'I see--I see,' hemurmured. 'Why, indeed, should I have come to-night? Such folk asI are not wanted here at these times, naturally. And I have nobusiness here--spoiling other people's happiness.'
　　'Phil,' said his mother, with a tear in her eye, but with a thinnessof lip and severity of manner which were presumably not more thanpast events justified; 'since you speak like that to me, I'll speakhonestly to you. For these three years you have taken no thoughtfor us. You left home with a good supply of money, and strength andeducation, and you ought to have made good use of it all. But youcome back like a beggar; and that you come in a very awkward timefor us cannot be denied. Your return to-night may do us much harm.
　　But mind--you are welcome to this home as long as it is mine. Idon't wish to turn you adrift. We will make the best of a bad job;and I hope you are not seriously ill?'
　　'O no. I have only this infernal cough.'
　　She looked at him anxiously. 'I think you had better go to bed atonce,' she said.
　　'Well--I shall be out of the way there,' said the son wearily.
　　'Having ruined myself, don't let me ruin you by being seen in thesetogs, for Heaven's sake. Who do you say Sally is going to bemarried to--a Farmer Darton?'
　　'Yes--a gentleman-farmer--quite a wealthy man. Far better instation than she could have expected. It is a good thing,altogether.'
　　'Well done, little Sal!' said her brother, brightening and lookingup at her with a smile. 'I ought to have written; but perhaps Ihave thought of you all the more. But let me get out of sight. Iwould rather go and jump into the river than be seen here. But haveyou anything I can drink? I am confoundedly thirsty with my longtramp.'
　　'Yes, yes, we will bring something upstairs to you,' said Sally,with grief in her face.
　　'Ay, that will do nicely. But, Sally and mother--' He stopped, andthey waited. 'Mother, I have not told you all,' he resumed slowly,still looking on the floor between his knees. 'Sad as what you seeof me is, there's worse behind.'
　　His mother gazed upon him in grieved suspense, and Sally went andleant upon the bureau, listening for every sound, and sighing.
　　Suddenly she turned round, saying, 'Let them come, I don't care!
　　Philip, tell the worst, and take your time.'
　　'Well, then,' said the unhappy Phil, 'I am not the only one in thismess. Would to Heaven I were! But--'
　　'O, Phil!'
　　'I have a wife as destitute as I.'
　　'A wife?' said his mother.
　　'Unhappily!'
　　'A wife! Yes, that is the way with sons!'
　　'And besides--' said he.
　　'Besides! O, Philip, surely--'
　　'I have two little children.'
　　'Wife and children!' whispered Mrs. Hall, sinking down confounded.
　　'Poor little things!' said Sally involuntarily.
　　His mother turned again to him. 'I suppose these helpless beingsare left in Australia?'
　　'No. They are in England.'
　　'Well, I can only hope you've left them in a respectable place.'
　　'I have not left them at all. They are here--within a few yards ofus. In short, they are in the stable.'
　　'Where?'
　　'In the stable. I did not like to bring them indoors till I hadseen you, mother, and broken the bad news a bit to you. They werevery tired, and are resting out there on some straw.'
　　Mrs. Hall's fortitude visibly broke down. She had been brought upnot without refinement, and was even more moved by such a collapseof genteel aims as this than a substantial dairyman's widow would inordinary have been moved. 'Well, it must be borne,' she said, in alow voice, with her hands tightly joined. 'A starving son, astarving wife, starving children! Let it be. But why is this cometo us now, to-day, to-night? Could no other misfortune happen tohelpless women than this, which will quite upset my poor girl'schance of a happy life? Why have you done us this wrong, Philip?
　　What respectable man will come here, and marry open-eyed into afamily of vagabonds?'
　　'Nonsense, mother!' said Sally vehemently, while her face flushed.
　　'Charley isn't the man to desert me. But if he should be, and won'tmarry me because Phil's come, let him go and marry elsewhere. Iwon't be ashamed of my own flesh and blood for any man in England--not I!' And then Sally turned away and burst into tears.
　　'Wait till you are twenty years older and you will tell a differenttale,' replied her mother.
　　The son stood up. 'Mother,' he said bitterly, 'as I have come, so Iwill go. All I ask of you is that you will allow me and mine to liein your stable to-night. I give you my word that we'll be gone bybreak of day, and trouble you no further!'
　　Mrs. Hall, the mother, changed at that. 'O no,' she answeredhastily; 'never shall it be said that I sent any of my own familyfrom my door. Bring 'em in, Philip, or take me out to them.'
　　'We will put 'em all into the large bedroom,' said Sally,brightening, 'and make up a large fire. Let's go and help them in,and call Rebekah.' (Rebekah was the woman who assisted at the dairyand housework; she lived in a cottage hard by with her husband, whoattended to the cows.)Sally went to fetch a lantern from the back-kitchen, but her brothersaid, 'You won't want a light. I lit the lantern that was hangingthere.'
　　'What must we call your wife?' asked Mrs. Hall.
　　'Helena,' said Philip.
　　With shawls over their heads they proceeded towards the back door.
　　'One minute before you go,' interrupted Philip. 'I--I haven'tconfessed all.'
　　'Then Heaven help us!' said Mrs. Hall, pushing to the door andclasping her hands in calm despair.
　　'We passed through Evershead as we came,' he continued, 'and I justlooked in at the "Sow-and-Acorn" to see if old Mike still kept onthere as usual. The carrier had come in from Sherton Abbas at thatmoment, and guessing that I was bound for this place--for I think heknew me--he asked me to bring on a dressmaker's parcel for Sallythat was marked "immediate." My wife had walked on with thechildren. 'Twas a flimsy parcel, and the paper was torn, and Ifound on looking at it that it was a thick warm gown. I didn't wishyou to see poor Helena in a shabby state. I was ashamed that youshould--'twas not what she was born to. I untied the parcel in theroad, took it on to her where she was waiting in the Lower Barn, andtold her I had managed to get it for her, and that she was to ask noquestion. She, poor thing, must have supposed I obtained it ontrust, through having reached a place where I was known, for she putit on gladly enough. She has it on now. Sally has other gowns, Idaresay.'
　　Sally looked at her mother, speechless.
　　'You have others, I daresay!' repeated Phil, with a sick man'simpatience. 'I thought to myself, "Better Sally cry than Helenafreeze." Well, is the dress of great consequence? 'Twas nothingvery ornamental, as far as I could see.'
　　'No--no; not of consequence,' returned Sally sadly, adding in agentle voice, 'You will not mind if I lend her another instead ofthat one, will you?'
　　Philip's agitation at the confession had brought on another attackof the cough, which seemed to shake him to pieces. He was soobviously unfit to sit in a chair that they helped him upstairs atonce; and having hastily given him a cordial and kindled the bedroomfire, they descended to fetch their unhappy new relations.
Fellow-Townsmen Chapter 3
It was with strange feelings that the girl and her mother, lately socheerful, passed out of the back door into the open air of thebarton, laden with hay scents and the herby breath of cows. A finesleet had begun to fall, and they trotted across the yard quickly.
　　The stable-door was open; a light shone from it--from the lanternwhich always hung there, and which Philip had lighted, as he said.
　　Softly nearing the door, Mrs. Hall pronounced the name 'Helena!'
　　There was no answer for the moment. Looking in she was taken bysurprise. Two people appeared before her. For one, instead of thedrabbish woman she had expected, Mrs. Hall saw a pale, dark-eyed,ladylike creature, whose personality ruled her attire rather thanwas ruled by it. She was in a new and handsome gown, of course, andan old bonnet. She was standing up, agitated; her hand was held byher companion--none else than Sally's affianced, Farmer CharlesDarton, upon whose fine figure the pale stranger's eyes were fixed,as his were fixed upon her. His other hand held the rein of hishorse, which was standing saddled as if just led in.
　　At sight of Mrs. Hall they both turned, looking at her in a wayneither quite conscious nor unconscious, and without seeming torecollect that words were necessary as a solution to the scene. Inanother moment Sally entered also, when Mr. Darton dropped hiscompanion's hand, led the horse aside, and came to greet hisbetrothed and Mrs. Hall.
　　'Ah!' he said, smiling--with something like forced composure--'thisis a roundabout way of arriving, you will say, my dear Mrs. Hall.
　　But we lost our way, which made us late. I saw a light here, andled in my horse at once--my friend Johns and my man have gone backto the little inn with theirs, not to crowd you too much. No soonerhad I entered than I saw that this lady had taken temporary shelterhere--and found I was intruding.'
　　'She is my daughter-in-law,' said Mrs. Hall calmly. 'My son, too,is in the house, but he has gone to bed unwell.'
　　Sally had stood staring wonderingly at the scene until this moment,hardly recognizing Darton's shake of the hand. The spell that boundher was broken by her perceiving the two little children seated on aheap of hay. She suddenly went forward, spoke to them, and took oneon her arm and the other in her hand.
　　'And two children?' said Mr. Darton, showing thus that he had notbeen there long enough as yet to understand the situation.
　　'My grandchildren,' said Mrs. Hall, with as much affected ease asbefore.
　　Philip Hall's wife, in spite of this interruption to her firstrencounter, seemed scarcely so much affected by it as to feel anyone's presence in addition to Mr. Darton's. However, arousingherself by a quick reflection, she threw a sudden critical glance ofher sad eyes upon Mrs. Hall; and, apparently finding hersatisfactory, advanced to her in a meek initiative. Then Sally andthe stranger spoke some friendly words to each other, and Sally wenton with the children into the house. Mrs. Hall and Helena followed,and Mr. Darton followed these, looking at Helena's dress andoutline, and listening to her voice like a man in a dream.
　　By the time the others reached the house Sally had already goneupstairs with the tired children. She rapped against the wall forRebekah to come in and help to attend to them, Rebekah's house beinga little 'spit-and-dab' cabin leaning against the substantial stone-work of Mrs. Hall's taller erection. When she came a bed was madeup for the little ones, and some supper given to them. Ondescending the stairs after seeing this done Sally went to thesitting-room. Young Mrs. Hall entered it just in advance of her,having in the interim retired with her mother-in-law to take off herbonnet, and otherwise make herself presentable. Hence it wasevident that no further communication could have passed between herand Mr. Darton since their brief interview in the stable.
　　Mr. Japheth Johns now opportunely arrived, and broke up therestraint of the company, after a few orthodox meteorologicalcommentaries had passed between him and Mrs. Hall by way ofintroduction. They at once sat down to supper, the present of wineand turkey not being produced for consumption to-night, lest thepremature display of those gifts should seem to throw doubt on Mrs.
　　Hall's capacities as a provider.
　　'Drink hearty, Mr. Johns--drink hearty,' said that matronmagnanimously. 'Such as it is there's plenty of. But perhapscider-wine is not to your taste?--though there's body in it.'
　　'Quite the contrairy, ma'am--quite the contrairy,' said thedairyman. 'For though I inherit the malt-liquor principle from myfather, I am a cider-drinker on my mother's side. She came fromthese parts, you know. And there's this to be said for't--'tis amore peaceful liquor, and don't lie about a man like your hotterdrinks. With care, one may live on it a twelvemonth withoutknocking down a neighbour, or getting a black eye from an oldacquaintance.'
　　The general conversation thus begun was continued briskly, though itwas in the main restricted to Mrs. Hall and Japheth, who in truthrequired but little help from anybody. There being slight call uponSally's tongue, she had ample leisure to do what her heart mostdesired, namely, watch her intended husband and her sister-in-lawwith a view of elucidating the strange momentary scene in which hermother and herself had surprised them in the stable. If that scenemeant anything, it meant, at least, that they had met before. Thatthere had been no time for explanations Sally could see, for theirmanner was still one of suppressed amazement at each other'spresence there. Darton's eyes, too, fell continually on the gownworn by Helena as if this were an added riddle to his perplexity;though to Sally it was the one feature in the case which was nomystery. He seemed to feel that fate had impishly changed his vis-a-vis in the lover's jig he was about to foot; that while the gownhad been expected to enclose a Sally, a Helena's face looked outfrom the bodice; that some long-lost hand met his own from thesleeves.
　　Sally could see that whatever Helena might know of Darton, she knewnothing of how the dress entered into his embarrassment. And atmoments the young girl would have persuaded herself that Darton'slooks at her sister-in-law were entirely the fruit of the clothesquery. But surely at other times a more extensive range ofspeculation and sentiment was expressed by her lover's eye than thatwhich the changed dress would account for.
　　Sally's independence made her one of the least jealous of women.
　　But there was something in the relations of these two visitors whichought to be explained.
　　Japheth Johns continued to converse in his well-known style,interspersing his talk with some private reflections on the positionof Darton and Sally, which, though the sparkle in his eye showedthem to be highly entertaining to himself, were apparently not quitecommunicable to the company. At last he withdrew for the night,going off to the roadside inn half-a-mile back, whither Dartonpromised to follow him in a few minutes.
　　Half-an-hour passed, and then Mr. Darton also rose to leave, Sallyand her sister-in-law simultaneously wishing him good-night as theyretired upstairs to their rooms. But on his arriving at the frontdoor with Mrs. Hall a sharp shower of rain began to come down, whenthe widow suggested that he should return to the fire-side till thestorm ceased.
　　Darton accepted her proposal, but insisted that, as it was gettinglate, and she was obviously tired, she should not sit up on hisaccount, since he could let himself out of the house, and wouldquite enjoy smoking a pipe by the hearth alone. Mrs. Hall assented;and Darton was left by himself. He spread his knees to the brands,lit up his tobacco as he had said, and sat gazing into the fire, andat the notches of the chimney-crook which hung above.
　　An occasional drop of rain rolled down the chimney with a hiss, andstill he smoked on; but not like a man whose mind was at rest. Inthe long run, however, despite his meditations, early hours afieldand a long ride in the open air produced their natural result. Hebegan to doze.
　　How long he remained in this half-unconscious state he did not know.
　　He suddenly opened his eyes. The back-brand had burnt itself intwo, and ceased to flame; the light which he had placed on themantelpiece had nearly gone out. But in spite of these deficienciesthere was a light in the apartment, and it came from elsewhere.
　　Turning his head he saw Philip Hall's wife standing at the entranceof the room with a bed-candle in one hand, a small brass tea-kettlein the other, and HIS gown, as it certainly seemed, still upon her.
　　'Helena!' said Darton, starting up.
　　Her countenance expressed dismay, and her first words were anapology. 'I--did not know you were here, Mr. Darton,' she said,while a blush flashed to her cheek. 'I thought every one hadretired--I was coming to make a little water boil; my husband seemsto be worse. But perhaps the kitchen fire can be lighted up again.'
　　'Don't go on my account. By all means put it on here as youintended,' said Darton. 'Allow me to help you.' He went forward totake the kettle from her hand, but she did not allow him, and placedit on the fire herself.
　　They stood some way apart, one on each side of the fireplace,waiting till the water should boil, the candle on the mantel betweenthem, and Helena with her eyes on the kettle. Darton was the firstto break the silence. 'Shall I call Sally?' he said.
　　'O no,' she quickly returned. 'We have given trouble enoughalready. We have no right here. But we are the sport of fate, andwere obliged to come.'
　　'No right here!' said he in surprise.
　　'None. I can't explain it now,' answered Helena. 'This kettle isvery slow.'
　　There was another pause; the proverbial dilatoriness of watched potswas never more clearly exemplified.
　　Helena's face was of that sort which seems to ask for assistancewithout the owner's knowledge--the very antipodes of Sally's, whichwas self-reliance expressed. Darton's eyes travelled from thekettle to Helena's face, then back to the kettle, then to the facefor rather a longer time. 'So I am not to know anything of themystery that has distracted me all the evening?' he said. 'How isit that a woman, who refused me because (as I supposed) my positionwas not good enough for her taste, is found to be the wife of a manwho certainly seems to be worse off than I?'
　　'He had the prior claim,' said she.
　　'What! you knew him at that time?'
　　'Yes, yes! Please say no more,' she implored.
　　'Whatever my errors, I have paid for them during the last fiveyears!'
　　The heart of Darton was subject to sudden overflowings. He was kindto a fault. 'I am sorry from my soul,' he said, involuntarilyapproaching her. Helena withdrew a step or two, at which he becameconscious of his movement, and quickly took his former place. Herehe stood without speaking, and the little kettle began to sing.
　　'Well, you might have been my wife if you had chosen,' he said atlast. 'But that's all past and gone. However, if you are in anytrouble or poverty I shall be glad to be of service, and as yourrelation by marriage I shall have a right to be. Does your uncleknow of your distress?'
　　'My uncle is dead. He left me without a farthing. And now we havetwo children to maintain.'
　　'What, left you nothing? How could he be so cruel as that?'
　　'I disgraced myself in his eyes.'
　　'Now,' said Darton earnestly, 'let me take care of the children, atleast while you are so unsettled. YOU belong to another, so Icannot take care of you.'
　　'Yes you can,' said a voice; and suddenly a third figure stoodbeside them. It was Sally. 'You can, since you seem to wish to?'
　　she repeated. 'She no longer belongs to another . . . My poorbrother is dead!'
　　Her face was red, her eyes sparkled, and all the woman came to thefront. 'I have heard it!' she went on to him passionately. 'Youcan protect her now as well as the children!' She turned then toher agitated sister-in-law. 'I heard something,' said Sally (in agentle murmur, differing much from her previous passionate words),'and I went into his room. It must have been the moment you left.
　　He went off so quickly, and weakly, and it was so unexpected, that Icouldn't leave even to call you.'
　　Darton was just able to gather from the confused discourse whichfollowed that, during his sleep by the fire, this brother whom hehad never seen had become worse; and that during Helena's absencefor water the end had unexpectedly come. The two young womenhastened upstairs, and he was again left alone.
　　After standing there a short time he went to the front door andlooked out; till, softly closing it behind him, he advanced andstood under the large sycamore-tree. The stars were flickeringcoldly, and the dampness which had just descended upon the earth inrain now sent up a chill from it. Darton was in a strange position,and he felt it. The unexpected appearance, in deep poverty, ofHelena--a young lady, daughter of a deceased naval officer, who hadbeen brought up by her uncle, a solicitor, and had refused Darton inmarriage years ago--the passionate, almost angry demeanour of Sallyat discovering them, the abrupt announcement that Helena was awidow; all this coming together was a conjuncture difficult to copewith in a moment, and made him question whether he ought to leavethe house or offer assistance. But for Sally's manner he wouldunhesitatingly have done the latter.
　　He was still standing under the tree when the door in front of himopened, and Mrs. Hall came out. She went round to the garden-gateat the side without seeing him. Darton followed her, intending tospeak.
　　Pausing outside, as if in thought, she proceeded to a spot where thesun came earliest in spring-time, and where the north wind neverblew; it was where the row of beehives stood under the wall.
　　Discerning her object, he waited till she had accomplished it.
　　It was the universal custom thereabout to wake the bees by tappingat their hives whenever a death occurred in the household, under thebelief that if this were not done the bees themselves would pineaway and perish during the ensuing year. As soon as an interiorbuzzing responded to her tap at the first hive Mrs. Hall went on tothe second, and thus passed down the row. As soon as she came backhe met her.
　　'What can I do in this trouble, Mrs. Hall?' he said.
　　'O--nothing, thank you, nothing,' she said in a tearful voice, nowjust perceiving him. 'We have called Rebekah and her husband, andthey will do everything necessary.' She told him in a few words theparticulars of her son's arrival, broken in health--indeed, atdeath's very door, though they did not suspect it--and suggested, asthe result of a conversation between her and her daughter, that thewedding should be postponed.
　　'Yes, of course,' said Darton. 'I think now to go straight to theinn and tell Johns what has happened.' It was not till after he hadshaken hands with her that he turned hesitatingly and added, 'Willyou tell the mother of his children that, as they are now leftfatherless, I shall be glad to take the eldest of them, if it wouldbe any convenience to her and to you?'
　　Mrs. Hall promised that her son's widow should he told of the offer,and they parted. He retired down the rooty slope and disappeared inthe direction of the inn, where he informed Johns of thecircumstances. Meanwhile Mrs. Hall had entered the house, Sally wasdownstairs in the sitting-room alone, and her mother explained toher that Darton had readily assented to the postponement.
　　'No doubt he has,' said Sally, with sad emphasis. 'It is not putoff for a week, or a month, or a year. I shall never marry him, andshe will!'
Fellow-Townsmen Chapter 4
Time passed, and the household on the Knap became again serene underthe composing influences of daily routine. A desultory, verydesultory correspondence, dragged on between Sally Hall and Darton,who, not quite knowing how to take her petulant words on the nightof her brother's death, had continued passive thus long. Helena andher children remained at the dairy-house, almost of necessity, andDarton therefore deemed it advisable to stay away.
　　One day, seven months later on, when Mr. Darton was as usual at hisfarm, twenty miles from Hintock, a note reached him from Helena.
　　She thanked him for his kind offer about her children, which hermother-in-law had duly communicated, and stated that she would beglad to accept it as regarded the eldest, the boy. Helena had, intruth, good need to do so, for her uncle had left her penniless, andall application to some relatives in the north had failed. Therewas, besides, as she said, no good school near Hintock to which shecould send the child.
　　On a fine summer day the boy came. He was accompanied half-way bySally and his mother--to the 'White Horse,' at Chalk Newton--wherehe was handed over to Darton's bailiff in a shining spring-cart, whomet them there.
　　He was entered as a day-scholar at a popular school at Casterbridge,three or four miles from Darton's, having first been taught byDarton to ride a forest-pony, on which he cantered to and from theaforesaid fount of knowledge, and (as Darton hoped) brought away apromising headful of the same at each diurnal expedition. Thethoughtful taciturnity into which Darton had latterly fallen wasquite dissipated by the presence of this boy.
　　When the Christmas holidays came it was arranged that he shouldspend them with his mother. The journey was, for some reason orother, performed in two stages, as at his coming, except that Dartonin person took the place of the bailiff, and that the boy andhimself rode on horseback.
　　Reaching the renowned 'White Horse,' Darton inquired if Miss andyoung Mrs. Hall were there to meet little Philip (as they had agreedto be). He was answered by the appearance of Helena alone at thedoor.
　　'At the last moment Sally would not come,' she faltered.
　　That meeting practically settled the point towards which these long-severed persons were converging. But nothing was broached about itfor some time yet. Sally Hall had, in fact, imparted the firstdecisive motion to events by refusing to accompany Helena. She soongave them a second move by writing the following note'[Private.]
　　'DEAR CHARLES,--Living here so long and intimately with Helena, Ihave naturally learnt her history, especially that of it whichrefers to you. I am sure she would accept you as a husband at theproper time, and I think you ought to give her the opportunity. Youinquire in an old note if I am sorry that I showed temper (which itWASN'T) that night when I heard you talking to her. No, Charles, Iam not sorry at all for what I said then.--Yours sincerely, SALLYHALL.'
　　Thus set in train, the transfer of Darton's heart back to itsoriginal quarters proceeded by mere lapse of time. In the followingJuly, Darton went to his friend Japheth to ask him at last to fulfilthe bridal office which had been in abeyance since the previousJanuary twelvemonths.
　　'With all my heart, man o' constancy!' said Dairyman Johns warmly.
　　'I've lost most of my genteel fair complexion haymaking this hotweather, 'tis true, but I'll do your business as well as them thatlook better. There be scents and good hair-oil in the world yet,thank God, and they'll take off the roughest o' my edge. I'llcompliment her. "Better late than never, Sally Hall," I'll say.'
　　'It is not Sally,' said Darton hurriedly. 'It is young Mrs. Hall.'
　　Japheth's face, as soon as he really comprehended, became a pictureof reproachful dismay. 'Not Sally?' he said. 'Why not Sally? Ican't believe it! Young Mrs. Hall! Well, well--where's yourwisdom?'
　　Darton shortly explained particulars; but Johns would not bereconciled. 'She was a woman worth having if ever woman was,' hecried. 'And now to let her go!'
　　'But I suppose I can marry where I like,' said Darton.
　　'H'm,' replied the dairyman, lifting his eyebrows expressively.
　　'This don't become you, Charles--it really do not. If I had donesuch a thing you would have sworn I was a curst no'thern fool to bedrawn off the scent by such a red-herring doll-oll-oll.'
　　Farmer Darton responded in such sharp terms to this laconic opinionthat the two friends finally parted in a way they had never partedbefore. Johns was to be no groomsman to Darton after all. He hadflatly declined. Darton went off sorry, and even unhappy,particularly as Japheth was about to leave that side of the county,so that the words which had divided them were not likely to beexplained away or softened down.
　　A short time after the interview Darton was united to Helena at asimple matter-of fact wedding; and she and her little girl joinedthe boy who had already grown to look on Darton's house as home.
　　For some months the farmer experienced an unprecedented happinessand satisfaction. There had been a flaw in his life, and it was asneatly mended as was humanly possible. But after a season thestream of events followed less clearly, and there were shades in hisreveries. Helena was a fragile woman, of little staying power,physically or morally, and since the time that he had originallyknown her--eight or ten years before--she had been severely tried.
　　She had loved herself out, in short, and was now occasionally givento moping. Sometimes she spoke regretfully of the gentilities ofher early life, and instead of comparing her present state with hercondition as the wife of the unlucky Hall, she mused rather on whatit had been before she took the first fatal step of clandestinelymarrying him. She did not care to please such people as those withwhom she was thrown as a thriving farmer's wife. She allowed thepretty trifles of agricultural domesticity to glide by her as sorrydetails, and had it not been for the children Darton's house wouldhave seemed but little brighter than it had been before.
　　This led to occasional unpleasantness, until Darton sometimesdeclared to himself that such endeavours as his to rectify earlydeviations of the heart by harking back to the old point mostlyfailed of success. 'Perhaps Johns was right,' he would say. 'Ishould have gone on with Sally. Better go with the tide and makethe best of its course than stem it at the risk of a capsize.' Buthe kept these unmelodious thoughts to himself, and was outwardlyconsiderate and kind.
　　This somewhat barren tract of his life had extended to less than ayear and a half when his ponderings were cut short by the loss ofthe woman they concerned. When she was in her grave he thoughtbetter of her than when she had been alive; the farm was a worseplace without her than with her, after all. No woman short ofdivine could have gone through such an experience as hers with herfirst husband without becoming a little soured. Her stagnantsympathies, her sometimes unreasonable manner, had covered a heartfrank and well meaning, and originally hopeful and warm. She lefthim a tiny red infant in white wrappings. To make life as easy aspossible to this touching object became at once his care.
　　As this child learnt to walk and talk Darton learnt to seefeasibility in a scheme which pleased him. Revolving the experimentwhich he had hitherto made upon life, he fancied he had gainedwisdom from his mistakes and caution from his miscarriages.
　　What the scheme was needs no penetration to discover. Once more hehad opportunity to recast and rectify his ill-wrought situations byreturning to Sally Hall, who still lived quietly on under hermother's roof at Hintock. Helena had been a woman to lend pathosand refinement to a home; Sally was the woman to brighten it. Shewould not, as Helena did, despise the rural simplicities of afarmer's fireside. Moreover, she had a pre-eminent qualificationfor Darton's household; no other woman could make so desirable amother to her brother's two children and Darton's one as Sally--while Darton, now that Helena had gone, was a more promising husbandfor Sally than he had ever been when liable to reminders from anuncured sentimental wound.
　　Darton was not a man to act rapidly, and the working out of hisreparative designs might have been delayed for some time. But therecame a winter evening precisely like the one which had darkened overthat former ride to Hintock, and he asked himself why he shouldpostpone longer, when the very landscape called for a repetition ofthat attempt.
　　He told his man to saddle the mare, booted and spurred himself witha younger horseman's nicety, kissed the two youngest children, androde off. To make the journey a complete parallel to the first, hewould fain have had his old acquaintance Japheth Johns with him.
　　But Johns, alas! was missing. His removal to the other side of thecounty had left unrepaired the breach which had arisen between himand Darton; and though Darton had forgiven him a hundred times, asJohns had probably forgiven Darton, the effort of reunion in presentcircumstances was one not likely to be made.
　　He screwed himself up to as cheerful a pitch as he could without hisformer crony, and became content with his own thoughts as he rode,instead of the words of a companion. The sun went down; the boughsappeared scratched in like an etching against the sky; old crookedmen with faggots at their backs said 'Good-night, sir,' and Dartonreplied 'Good-night' right heartily.
　　By the time he reached the forking roads it was getting as dark asit had been on the occasion when Johns climbed the directing-post.
　　Darton made no mistake this time. 'Nor shall I be able to mistake,thank Heaven, when I arrive,' he murmured. It gave him peculiarsatisfaction to think that the proposed marriage, like his first,was of the nature of setting in order things long awry, and not amomentary freak of fancy.
　　Nothing hindered the smoothness of his journey, which seemed nothalf its former length. Though dark, it was only between five andsix o'clock when the bulky chimneys of Mrs. Hall's residenceappeared in view behind the sycamore-tree. On second thoughts heretreated and put up at the ale-house as in former time; and when hehad plumed himself before the inn mirror, called for something todrink, and smoothed out the incipient wrinkles of care, he walked onto the Knap with a quick step.
Fellow-Townsmen Chapter 5
That evening Sally was making 'pinners' for the milkers, who werenow increased by two, for her mother and herself no longer joined inmilking the cows themselves. But upon the whole there was littlechange in the household economy, and not much in its appearance,beyond such minor particulars as that the crack over the window,which had been a hundred years coming, was a trifle wider; that thebeams were a shade blacker; that the influence of modernism hadsupplanted the open chimney corner by a grate; that Rebekah, who hadworn a cap when she had plenty of hair, had left it off now she hadscarce any, because it was reported that caps were not fashionable;and that Sally's face had naturally assumed a more womanly andexperienced cast.
　　Mrs. Hall was actually lifting coals with the tongs, as she had usedto do.
　　'Five years ago this very night, if I am not mistaken--' she said,laying on an ember.
　　'Not this very night--though 'twas one night this week,' said thecorrect Sally.
　　'Well, 'tis near enough. Five years ago Mr. Darton came to marryyou, and my poor boy Phil came home to die.' She sighed. 'Ah,Sally,' she presently said, 'if you had managed well Mr. Dartonwould have had you, Helena or none.'
　　'Don't be sentimental about that, mother,' begged Sally. 'I didn'tcare to manage well in such a case. Though I liked him, I wasn't soanxious. I would never have married the man in the midst of such ahitch as that was,' she added with decision; 'and I don't think Iwould if he were to ask me now.'
　　'I am not sure about that, unless you have another in your eye.'
　　'I wouldn't; and I'll tell you why. I could hardly marry him forlove at this time o' day. And as we've quite enough to live on ifwe give up the dairy to-morrow, I should have no need to marry forany meaner reason . . . I am quite happy enough as I am, and there'san end of it.'
　　Now it was not long after this dialogue that there came a mild rapat the door, and in a moment there entered Rebekah, looking asthough a ghost had arrived. The fact was that that accomplishedskimmer and churner (now a resident in the house) had overheard thedesultory observations between mother and daughter, and on openingthe door to Mr. Darton thought the coincidence must have a grislymeaning in it. Mrs. Hall welcomed the farmer with warm surprise, asdid Sally, and for a moment they rather wanted words.
　　'Can you push up the chimney-crook for me, Mr Darton? the notcheshitch,' said the matron. He did it, and the homely little actbridged over the awkward consciousness that he had been a strangerfor four years.
　　Mrs. Hall soon saw what he had come for, and left the principalstogether while she went to prepare him a late tea, smiling atSally's recent hasty assertions of indifference, when she saw howcivil Sally was. When tea was ready she joined them. She fanciedthat Darton did not look so confident as when he had arrived; butSally was quite light-hearted, and the meal passed pleasantly.
　　About seven he took his leave of them. Mrs. Hall went as far as thedoor to light him down the slope. On the doorstep he said frankly--'I came to ask your daughter to marry me; chose the night andeverything, with an eye to a favourable answer. But she won't.'
　　'Then she's a very ungrateful girl!' emphatically said Mrs. Hall.
　　Darton paused to shape his sentence, and asked, 'I--I supposethere's nobody else more favoured?'
　　'I can't say that there is, or that there isn't,' answered Mrs.
　　Hall. 'She's private in some things. I'm on your side, however,Mr. Darton, and I'll talk to her.'
　　'Thank 'ee, thank 'ee!' said the farmer in a gayer accent; and withthis assurance the not very satisfactory visit came to an end.
　　Darton descended the roots of the sycamore, the light was withdrawn,and the door closed. At the bottom of the slope he nearly ranagainst a man about to ascend.
　　'Can a jack-o'-lent believe his few senses on such a dark night, orcan't he?' exclaimed one whose utterance Darton recognized in amoment, despite its unexpectedness. 'I dare not swear he can,though I fain would!' The speaker was Johns.
　　Darton said he was glad of this opportunity, bad as it was, ofputting an end to the silence of years, and asked the dairyman whathe was travelling that way for.
　　Japheth showed the old jovial confidence in a moment. 'I'm going tosee your--relations--as they always seem to me,' he said--'Mrs. Halland Sally. Well, Charles, the fact is I find the naturalbarbarousness of man is much increased by a bachelor life, and, asyour leavings were always good enough for me, I'm tryingcivilization here.' He nodded towards the house.
　　'Not with Sally--to marry her?' said Darton, feeling something likea rill of ice water between his shoulders.
　　'Yes, by the help of Providence and my personal charms. And I thinkI shall get her. I am this road every week--my present dairy isonly four miles off, you know, and I see her through the window.
　　'Tis rather odd that I was going to speak practical to-night to herfor the first time. You've just called?'
　　'Yes, for a short while. But she didn't say a word about you.'
　　'A good sign, a good sign. Now that decides me. I'll swing themallet and get her answer this very night as I planned.'
　　A few more remarks, and Darton, wishing his friend joy of Sally in aslightly hollow tone of jocularity, bade him good-bye. Johnspromised to write particulars, and ascended, and was lost in theshade of the house and tree. A rectangle of light appeared whenJohns was admitted, and all was dark again.
　　'Happy Japheth!' said Darton. 'This then is the explanation!'
　　He determined to return home that night. In a quarter of an hour hepassed out of the village, and the next day went about his swede-lifting and storing as if nothing had occurred.
　　He waited and waited to hear from Johns whether the wedding-day wasfixed: but no letter came. He learnt not a single particular till,meeting Johns one day at a horse-auction, Darton exclaimed genially--rather more genially than he felt--'When is the joyful day to be?'
　　To his great surprise a reciprocity of gladness was not conspicuousin Johns. 'Not at all,' he said, in a very subdued tone. ''Tis abad job; she won't have me.'
　　Darton held his breath till he said with treacherous solicitude,'Try again--'tis coyness.'
　　'O no,' said Johns decisively. 'There's been none of that. Wetalked it over dozens of times in the most fair and square way. Shetells me plainly, I don't suit her. 'Twould be simply annoying herto ask her again. Ah, Charles, you threw a prize away when you lether slip five years ago.'
　　'I did--I did,' said Darton.
　　He returned from that auction with a new set of feelings in play.
　　He had certainly made a surprising mistake in thinking Johns hissuccessful rival. It really seemed as if he might hope for Sallyafter all.
　　This time, being rather pressed by business, Darton had recourse topen-and-ink, and wrote her as manly and straightforward a proposalas any woman could wish to receive. The reply came promptly:-'DEAR MR. DARTON,--I am as sensible as any woman can be of thegoodness that leads you to make me this offer a second time. Betterwomen than I would be proud of the honour, for when I read your nicelong speeches on mangold-wurzel, and such like topics, at theCasterbridge Farmers' Club, I do feel it an honour, I assure you.
　　But my answer is just the same as before. I will not try to explainwhat, in truth, I cannot explain--my reasons; I will simply say thatI must decline to be married to you. With good wishes as in formertimes, I am, your faithful friend,'SALLY HALL.'
　　Darton dropped the letter hopelessly. Beyond the negative, therewas just a possibility of sarcasm in it--'nice long speeches onmangold-wurzel' had a suspicious sound. However, sarcasm or none,there was the answer, and he had to be content.
　　He proceeded to seek relief in a business which at this timeengrossed much of his attention--that of clearing up a curiousmistake just current in the county, that he had been nearly ruinedby the recent failure of a local bank. A farmer named Darton hadlost heavily, and the similarity of name had probably led to theerror. Belief in it was so persistent that it demanded several daysof letter-writing to set matters straight, and persuade the worldthat he was as solvent as ever he had been in his life. He hadhardly concluded this worrying task when, to his delight, anotherletter arrived in the handwriting of Sally.
　　Darton tore it open; it was very short.
　　'DEAR MR. DARTON,--We have been so alarmed these last few days bythe report that you were ruined by the stoppage of --'s Bank, that,now it is contradicted I hasten, by my mother's wish, to say howtruly glad we are to find there is no foundation for the report.
　　After your kindness to my poor brother's children, I can do no lessthan write at such a moment. We had a letter from each of them afew days ago.--Your faithful friend,'SALLY HALL.'
　　'Mercenary little woman!' said Darton to himself with a smile.
　　'Then that was the secret of her refusal this time--she thought Iwas ruined.'
　　Now, such was Darton, that as hours went on he could not helpfeeling too generously towards Sally to condemn her in this. Whatdid he want in a wife? he asked himself. Love and integrity. Whatnext? Worldly wisdom. And was there really more than worldlywisdom in her refusal to go aboard a sinking ship? She now knew itwas otherwise. 'Begad,' he said, 'I'll try her again.'
　　The fact was he had so set his heart upon Sally, and Sally alone,that nothing was to be allowed to baulk him; and his reasoning waspurely formal.
　　Anniversaries having been unpropitious, he waited on till a brightday late in May--a day when all animate nature was fancying, in itstrusting, foolish way, that it was going to bask out of doors forevermore. As he rode through Long-Ash Lane it was scarcerecognizable as the track of his two winter journeys. No mistakecould be made now, even with his eyes shut. The cuckoo's note wasat its best, between April tentativeness and midsummer decrepitude,and the reptiles in the sun behaved as winningly as kittens on ahearth. Though afternoon, and about the same time as on the lastoccasion, it was broad day and sunshine when he entered Hintock, andthe details of the Knap dairy-house were visible far up the road.
　　He saw Sally in the garden, and was set vibrating. He had firstintended to go on to the inn; but 'No,' he said; 'I'll tie my horseto the garden-gate. If all goes well it can soon be taken round:
　　if not, I mount and ride away'
　　The tall shade of the horseman darkened the room in which Mrs. Hallsat, and made her start, for he had ridden by a side path to the topof the slope, where riders seldom came. In a few seconds he was inthe garden with Sally.
　　Five--ay, three minutes--did the business at the back of that row ofbees. Though spring had come, and heavenly blue consecrated thescene, Darton succeeded not. 'NO,' said Sally firmly. 'I willnever, never marry you, Mr. Darton. I would have done it once; butnow I never can.'
　　'But!'--implored Mr. Darton. And with a burst of real eloquence hewent on to declare all sorts of things that he would do for her. Hewould drive her to see her mother every week--take her to London--settle so much money upon her--Heaven knows what he did not promise,suggest, and tempt her with. But it availed nothing. Sheinterposed with a stout negative, which closed the course of hisargument like an iron gate across a highway. Darton paused.
　　'Then,' said he simply, 'you hadn't heard of my supposed failurewhen you declined last time?'
　　'I had not,' she said. 'But if I had 'twould have been all thesame.'
　　'And 'tis not because of any soreness from my slighting you yearsago?'
　　'No. That soreness is long past.'
　　'Ah--then you despise me, Sally?'
　　'No,' she slowly answered. 'I don't altogether despise you. Idon't think you quite such a hero as I once did--that's all. Thetruth is, I am happy enough as I am; and I don't mean to marry atall. Now, may _I_ ask a favour, sir?' She spoke with an ineffablecharm, which, whenever he thought of it, made him curse his loss ofher as long as he lived.
　　'To any extent.'
　　'Please do not put this question to me any more. Friends as long asyou like, but lovers and married never.'
　　'I never will,' said Darton. 'Not if I live a hundred years.'
　　And he never did. That he had worn out his welcome in her heart wasonly too plain.
　　When his step-children had grown up, and were placed out in life,all communication between Darton and the Hall family ceased. It wasonly by chance that, years after, he learnt that Sally,notwithstanding the solicitations her attractions drew down uponher, had refused several offers of marriage, and steadily adhered toher purpose of leading a single lifeMay 1884.
Fellow-Townsmen Chapter 6
One September evening, four months later, when Mrs. Barnet was inperfect health, and Mrs. Downe but a weakening memory, an errand-boypaused to rest himself in front of Mr. Barnet's old house,depositing his basket on one of the window-sills. The street wasnot yet lighted, but there were lights in the house, and atintervals a flitting shadow fell upon the blind at his elbow. Wordsalso were audible from the same apartment, and they seemed to bethose of persons in violent altercation. But the boy could notgather their purport, and he went on his way.
　　Ten minutes afterwards the door of Barnet's house opened, and a tallclosely-veiled lady in a travelling-dress came out and descended thefreestone steps. The servant stood in the doorway watching her asshe went with a measured tread down the street. When she had beenout of sight for some minutes Barnet appeared at the door fromwithin.
　　'Did your mistress leave word where she was going?' he asked.
　　'No, sir.'
　　'Is the carriage ordered to meet her anywhere?'
　　'No, sir.'
　　'Did she take a latch-key?'
　　'No, sir.'
　　Barnet went in again, sat down in his chair, and leaned back. Thenin solitude and silence he brooded over the bitter emotions thatfilled his heart. It was for this that he had gratuitously restoredher to life, and made his union with another impossible! Theevening drew on, and nobody came to disturb him. At bedtime he toldthe servants to retire, that he would sit up for Mrs. Barnethimself; and when they were gone he leaned his head upon his handand mused for hours.
　　The clock struck one, two; still his wife came not, and, withimpatience added to depression, he went from room to room tillanother weary hour had passed. This was not altogether a newexperience for Barnet; but she had never before so prolonged herabsence. At last he sat down again and fell asleep.
　　He awoke at six o'clock to find that she had not returned. Insearching about the rooms he discovered that she had taken a case ofjewels which had been hers before her marriage. At eight a note wasbrought him; it was from his wife, in which she stated that she hadgone by the coach to the house of a distant relative near London,and expressed a wish that certain boxes, articles of clothing, andso on, might be sent to her forthwith. The note was brought to himby a waiter at the Black-Bull Hotel, and had been written by Mrs.
　　Barnet immediately before she took her place in the stage.
　　By the evening this order was carried out, and Barnet, with a senseof relief, walked out into the town. A fair had been held duringthe day, and the large clear moon which rose over the most prominenthill flung its light upon the booths and standings that stillremained in the street, mixing its rays curiously with those fromthe flaring naphtha lamps. The town was full of country-people whohad come in to enjoy themselves, and on this account Barnet strolledthrough the streets unobserved. With a certain recklessness he madefor the harbour-road, and presently found himself by the shore,where he walked on till he came to the spot near which his friendthe kindly Mrs. Downe had lost her life, and his own wife's life hadbeen preserved. A tremulous pathway of bright moonshine nowstretched over the water which had engulfed them, and not a livingsoul was near.
　　Here he ruminated on their characters, and next on the young girl inwhom he now took a more sensitive interest than at the time when hehad been free to marry her. Nothing, so far as he was aware, hadever appeared in his own conduct to show that such an interestexisted. He had made it a point of the utmost strictness to hinderthat feeling from influencing in the faintest degree his attitudetowards his wife; and this was made all the more easy for him by thesmall demand Mrs. Barnet made upon his attentions, for which sheever evinced the greatest contempt; thus unwittingly giving him thesatisfaction of knowing that their severance owed nothing tojealousy, or, indeed, to any personal behaviour of his at all. Herconcern was not with him or his feelings, as she frequently toldhim; but that she had, in a moment of weakness, thrown herself awayupon a common burgher when she might have aimed at, and possiblybrought down, a peer of the realm. Her frequent depreciation ofBarnet in these terms had at times been so intense that he wassorely tempted to retaliate on her egotism by owning that he lovedat the same low level on which he lived; but prudence had prevailed,for which he was now thankful.
　　Something seemed to sound upon the shingle behind him over and abovethe raking of the wave. He looked round, and a slight girlish shapeappeared quite close to him, He could not see her face because itwas in the direction of the moon.
　　'Mr. Barnet?' the rambler said, in timid surprise. The voice wasthe voice of Lucy Savile.
　　'Yes,' said Barnet. 'How can I repay you for this pleasure?'
　　'I only came because the night was so clear. I am now on my wayhome.'
　　'I am glad we have met. I want to know if you will let me dosomething for you, to give me an occupation, as an idle man? I amsure I ought to help you, for I know you are almost withoutfriends.'
　　She hesitated. 'Why should you tell me that?' she said.
　　'In the hope that you will be frank with me.'
　　'I am not altogether without friends here. But I am going to make alittle change in my life--to go out as a teacher of freehand drawingand practical perspective, of course I mean on a comparativelyhumble scale, because I have not been specially educated for thatprofession. But I am sure I shall like it much.'
　　'You have an opening?'
　　'I have not exactly got it, but I have advertised for one.'
　　'Lucy, you must let me help you!'
　　'Not at all.'
　　'You need not think it would compromise you, or that I amindifferent to delicacy. I bear in mind how we stand. It is veryunlikely that you will succeed as teacher of the class you mention,so let me do something of a different kind for you. Say what youwould like, and it shall be done.'
　　'No; if I can't be a drawing-mistress or governess, or something ofthat sort, I shall go to India and join my brother.'
　　'I wish I could go abroad, anywhere, everywhere with you, Lucy, andleave this place and its associations for ever!'
　　She played with the end of her bonnet-string, and hastily turnedaside. 'Don't ever touch upon that kind of topic again,' she said,with a quick severity not free from anger. 'It simply makes itimpossible for me to see you, much less receive any guidance fromyou. No, thank you, Mr. Barnet; you can do nothing for me atpresent; and as I suppose my uncertainty will end in my leaving forIndia, I fear you never will. If ever I think you CAN do anything,I will take the trouble to ask you. Till then, good-bye.'
　　The tone of her latter words was equivocal, and while he remained indoubt whether a gentle irony was or was not inwrought with theirsound, she swept lightly round and left him alone. He saw her formget smaller and smaller along the damp belt of sea-sand between ebband flood; and when she had vanished round the cliff into theharbour-road, he himself followed in the same direction.
　　That her hopes from an advertisement should be the single threadwhich held Lucy Savile in England was too much for Barnet. Onreaching the town he went straight to the residence of Downe, now awidower with four children. The young motherless brood had beensent to bed about a quarter of an hour earlier, and when Barnetentered he found Downe sitting alone. It was the same room as thatfrom which the family had been looking out for Downe at thebeginning of the year, when Downe had slipped into the gutter andhis wife had been so enviably tender towards him. The old neatnesshad gone from the house; articles lay in places which could show noreason for their presence, as if momentarily deposited there somemonths ago, and forgotten ever since; there were no flowers; thingswere jumbled together on the furniture which should have been incupboards; and the place in general had that stagnant, unrenovatedair which usually pervades the maimed home of the widower.
　　Downe soon renewed his customary full-worded lament over his wife,and even when he had worked himself up to tears, went on volubly, asif a listener were a luxury to be enjoyed whenever he could becaught.
　　'She was a treasure beyond compare, Mr. Barnet! I shall never seesuch another. Nobody now to nurse me--nobody to console me in thosedaily troubles, you know, Barnet, which make consolation sonecessary to a nature like mine. It would be unbecoming to repine,for her spirit's home was elsewhere--the tender light in her eyesalways showed it; but it is a long dreary time that I have beforeme, and nobody else can ever fill the void left in my heart by herloss--nobody--nobody!' And Downe wiped his eyes again.
　　'She was a good woman in the highest sense,' gravely answeredBarnet, who, though Downe's words drew genuine compassion from hisheart, could not help feeling that a tender reticence would havebeen a finer tribute to Mrs. Downe's really sterling virtues thansuch a second-class lament as this.
　　'I have something to show you,' Downe resumed, producing from adrawer a sheet of paper on which was an elaborate design for acanopied tomb. 'This has been sent me by the architect, but it isnot exactly what I want.'
　　'You have got Jones to do it, I see, the man who is carrying out myhouse,' said Barnet, as he glanced at the signature to the drawing.
　　'Yes, but it is not quite what I want. I want something morestriking--more like a tomb I have seen in St. Paul's Cathedral.
　　Nothing less will do justice to my feelings, and how far short ofthem that will fall!'
　　Barnet privately thought the design a sufficiently imposing one asit stood, even extravagantly ornate; but, feeling that he had noright to criticize, he said gently, 'Downe, should you not live morein your children's lives at the present time, and soften thesharpness of regret for your own past by thinking of their future?'
　　'Yes, yes; but what can I do more?' asked Downe, wrinkling hisforehead hopelessly.
　　It was with anxious slowness that Barnet produced his reply--thesecret object of his visit to-night. 'Did you not say one day thatyou ought by rights to get a governess for the children?'
　　Downe admitted that he had said so, but that he could not see hisway to it. 'The kind of woman I should like to have,' he said,'would be rather beyond my means. No; I think I shall send them toschool in the town when they are old enough to go out alone.'
　　'Now, I know of something better than that. The late LieutenantSavile's daughter, Lucy, wants to do something for herself in theway of teaching. She would be inexpensive, and would answer yourpurpose as well as anybody for six or twelve months. She wouldprobably come daily if you were to ask her, and so your housekeepingarrangements would not be much affected.'
　　'I thought she had gone away,' said the solicitor, musing. 'Wheredoes she live?'
　　Barnet told him, and added that, if Downe should think of her assuitable, he would do well to call as soon as possible, or she mightbe on the wing. 'If you do see her,' he said, 'it would beadvisable not to mention my name. She is rather stiff in her ideasof me, and it might prejudice her against a course if she knew thatI recommended it.'
　　Downe promised to give the subject his consideration, and nothingmore was said about it just then. But when Barnet rose to go, whichwas not till nearly bedtime, he reminded Downe of the suggestion andwent up the street to his own solitary home with a sense ofsatisfaction at his promising diplomacy in a charitable cause.
Fellow-Townsmen Chapter 7
The walls of his new house were carried up nearly to their fullheight. By a curious though not infrequent reaction, Barnet'sfeelings about that unnecessary structure had undergone a change; hetook considerable interest in its progress as a long-neglectedthing, his wife before her departure having grown quite weary of itas a hobby. Moreover, it was an excellent distraction for a man inthe unhappy position of having to live in a provincial town withnothing to do. He was probably the first of his line who had everpassed a day without toil, and perhaps something like an inheritedinstinct disqualifies such men for a life of pleasant inaction, suchas lies in the power of those whose leisure is not a personalaccident, but a vast historical accretion which has become part oftheir natures.
　　Thus Barnet got into a way of spending many of his leisure hours onthe site of the new building, and he might have been seen on mostdays at this time trying the temper of the mortar by punching thejoints with his stick, looking at the grain of a floor-board, andmeditating where it grew, or picturing under what circumstances thelast fire would be kindled in the at present sootless chimneys. Oneday when thus occupied he saw three children pass by in the companyof a fair young woman, whose sudden appearance caused him to flushperceptibly.
　　'Ah, she is there,' he thought. 'That's a blessed thing.'
　　Casting an interested glance over the rising building and the busyworkmen, Lucy Savile and the little Downes passed by; and after thattime it became a regular though almost unconscious custom of Barnetto stand in the half-completed house and look from the ungarnishedwindows at the governess as she tripped towards the sea-shore withher young charges, which she was in the habit of doing on most fineafternoons. It was on one of these occasions, when he had beenloitering on the first-floor landing, near the hole left for thestaircase, not yet erected, that there appeared above the edge ofthe floor a little hat, followed by a little head.
　　Barnet withdrew through a doorway, and the child came to the top ofthe ladder, stepping on to the floor and crying to her sisters andMiss Savile to follow. Another head rose above the floor, andanother, and then Lucy herself came into view. The troop ran hitherand thither through the empty, shaving-strewn rooms, and Barnet cameforward.
　　Lucy uttered a small exclamation: she was very sorry that she hadintruded; she had not the least idea that Mr. Barnet was there: thechildren had come up, and she had followed.
　　Barnet replied that he was only too glad to see them there. 'Andnow, let me show you the rooms,' he said.
　　She passively assented, and he took her round. There was not muchto show in such a bare skeleton of a house, but he made the most ofit, and explained the different ornamental fittings that were soonto be fixed here and there. Lucy made but few remarks in reply,though she seemed pleased with her visit, and stole away down theladder, followed by her companions.
　　After this the new residence became yet more of a hobby for Barnet.
　　Downe's children did not forget their first visit, and when thewindows were glazed, and the handsome staircase spread its broad lowsteps into the hall, they came again, prancing in unweariedsuccession through every room from ground-floor to attics, whileLucy stood waiting for them at the door. Barnet, who rarely misseda day in coming to inspect progress, stepped out from the drawing-room.
　　'I could not keep them out,' she said, with an apologetic blush. 'Itried to do so very much: but they are rather wilful, and we aredirected to walk this way for the sea air.'
　　'Do let them make the house their regular playground, and youyours,' said Barnet. 'There is no better place for children to rompand take their exercise in than an empty house, particularly inmuddy or damp weather such as we shall get a good deal of now; andthis place will not be furnished for a long long time--perhapsnever. I am not at all decided about it.'
　　'O, but it must!' replied Lucy, looking round at the hall. 'Therooms are excellent, twice as high as ours; and the views from thewindows are so lovely.'
　　'I daresay, I daresay,' he said absently.
　　'Will all the furniture be new?' she asked.
　　'All the furniture be new--that's a thing I have not thought of. Infact I only come here and look on. My father's house would havebeen large enough for me, but another person had a voice in thematter, and it was settled that we should build. However, the placegrows upon me; its recent associations are cheerful, and I amgetting to like it fast.'
　　A certain uneasiness in Lucy's manner showed that the conversationwas taking too personal a turn for her. 'Still, as modern tastesdevelop, people require more room to gratify them in,' she said,withdrawing to call the children; and serenely bidding him goodafternoon she went on her way.
　　Barnet's life at this period was singularly lonely, and yet he washappier than he could have expected. His wife's estrangement andabsence, which promised to be permanent, left him free as a boy inhis movements, and the solitary walks that he took gave him ampleopportunity for chastened reflection on what might have been his lotif he had only shown wisdom enough to claim Lucy Savile when therewas no bar between their lives, and she was to be had for theasking. He would occasionally call at the house of his friendDowne; but there was scarcely enough in common between their twonatures to make them more than friends of that excellent sort whosepersonal knowledge of each other's history and character is alwaysin excess of intimacy, whereby they are not so likely to be severedby a clash of sentiment as in cases where intimacy springs up inexcess of knowledge. Lucy was never visible at these times, beingeither engaged in the school-room, or in taking an airing out ofdoors; but, knowing that she was now comfortable, and had given upthe, to him, depressing idea of going off to the other side of theglobe, he was quite content.
　　The new house had so far progressed that the gardeners werebeginning to grass down the front. During an afternoon which he waspassing in marking the curve for the carriage-drive, he beheld hercoming in boldly towards him from the road. Hitherto Barnet hadonly caught her on the premises by stealth; and this advance seemedto show that at last her reserve had broken down.
　　A smile gained strength upon her face as she approached, and it wasquite radiant when she came up, and said, without a trace ofembarrassment, 'I find I owe you a hundred thanks--and it comes tome quite as a surprise! It was through your kindness that I wasengaged by Mr. Downe. Believe me, Mr. Barnet, I did not know ituntil yesterday, or I should have thanked you long and long ago!'
　　'I had offended you--just a trifle--at the time, I think?' saidBarnet, smiling, 'and it was best that you should not know.'
　　'Yes, yes,' she returned hastily. 'Don't allude to that; it is pastand over, and we will let it be. The house is finished almost, isit not? How beautiful it will look when the evergreens are grown!
　　Do you call the style Palladian, Mr. Barnet?'
　　'I--really don't quite know what it is. Yes, it must be Palladian,certainly. But I'll ask Jones, the architect; for, to tell thetruth, I had not thought much about the style: I had nothing to dowith choosing it, I am sorry to say.'
　　She would not let him harp on this gloomy refrain, and talked onbright matters till she said, producing a small roll of paper whichhe had noticed in her hand all the while, 'Mr. Downe wished me tobring you this revised drawing of the late Mrs. Downe's tomb, whichthe architect has just sent him. He would like you to look itover.'
　　The children came up with their hoops, and she went off with themdown the harbour-road as usual. Barnet had been glad to get thosewords of thanks; he had been thinking for many months that he wouldlike her to know of his share in finding her a home such as it was;and what he could not do for himself, Downe had now kindly done forhim. He returned to his desolate house with a lighter tread; thoughin reason he hardly knew why his tread should be light.
　　On examining the drawing, Barnet found that, instead of the vastaltar-tomb and canopy Downe had determined on at their last meeting,it was to be a more modest memorial even than had been suggested bythe architect; a coped tomb of good solid construction, with nouseless elaboration at all. Barnet was truly glad to see that Downehad come to reason of his own accord; and he returned the drawingwith a note of approval.
　　He followed up the house-work as before, and as he walked up anddown the rooms, occasionally gazing from the windows over thebulging green hills and the quiet harbour that lay between them, hemurmured words and fragments of words, which, if listened to, wouldhave revealed all the secrets of his existence. Whatever his reasonin going there, Lucy did not call again: the walk to the shoreseemed to be abandoned: he must have thought it as well for boththat it should be so, for he did not go anywhere out of hisaccustomed ways to endeavour to discover her.
Fellow-Townsmen Chapter 8
The winter and the spring had passed, and the house was complete.
　　It was a fine morning in the early part of June, and Barnet, thoughnot in the habit of rising early, had taken a long walk beforebreakfast; returning by way of the new building. A sufficientlyexciting cause of his restlessness to-day might have been theintelligence which had reached him the night before, that LucySavile was going to India after all, and notwithstanding therepresentations of her friends that such a journey was unadvisablein many ways for an unpractised girl, unless some more definiteadvantage lay at the end of it than she could show to be the case.
　　Barnet's walk up the slope to the building betrayed that he was in adissatisfied mood. He hardly saw that the dewy time of day lent anunusual freshness to the bushes and trees which had so recently puton their summer habit of heavy leafage, and made his newly-laid lawnlook as well established as an old manorial meadow. The house hadbeen so adroitly placed between six tall elms which were growing onthe site beforehand, that they seemed like real ancestral trees; andthe rooks, young and old, cawed melodiously to their visitor.
　　The door was not locked, and he entered. No workmen appeared to bepresent, and he walked from sunny window to sunny window of theempty rooms, with a sense of seclusion which might have been verypleasant but for the antecedent knowledge that his almost paternalcare of Lucy Savile was to be thrown away by her wilfulness.
　　Footsteps echoed through an adjoining room; and bending his eyes inthat direction, he perceived Mr. Jones, the architect. He had cometo look over the building before giving the contractor his finalcertificate. They walked over the house together. Everything wasfinished except the papering: there were the latest improvements ofthe period in bell-hanging, ventilating, smoke-jacks, fire-grates,and French windows. The business was soon ended, and Jones, havingdirected Barnet's attention to a roll of wall-paper patterns whichlay on a bench for his choice, was leaving to keep anotherengagement, when Barnet said, 'Is the tomb finished yet for Mrs.
　　Downe?'
　　'Well--yes: it is at last,' said the architect, coming back andspeaking as if he were in a mood to make a confidence. 'I have hadno end of trouble in the matter, and, to tell the truth, I amheartily glad it is over.'
　　Barnet expressed his surprise. 'I thought poor Downe had given upthose extravagant notions of his? then he has gone back to the altarand canopy after all? Well, he is to be excused, poor fellow!'
　　'O no--he has not at all gone back to them--quite the reverse,'
　　Jones hastened to say. 'He has so reduced design after design, thatthe whole thing has been nothing but waste labour for me; till inthe end it has become a common headstone, which a mason put up inhalf a day.'
　　'A common headstone?' said Barnet.
　　'Yes. I held out for some time for the addition of a footstone atleast. But he said, "O no--he couldn't afford it."'
　　'Ah, well--his family is growing up, poor fellow, and his expensesare getting serious.'
　　'Yes, exactly,' said Jones, as if the subject were none of his. Andagain directing Barnet's attention to the wall-papers, the bustlingarchitect left him to keep some other engagement.
　　'A common headstone,' murmured Barnet, left again to himself. Hemused a minute or two, and next began looking over and selectingfrom the patterns; but had not long been engaged in the work when heheard another footstep on the gravel without, and somebody enter theopen porch.
　　Barnet went to the door--it was his manservant in search of him.
　　'I have been trying for some time to find you, sir,' he said. 'Thisletter has come by the post, and it is marked immediate. Andthere's this one from Mr. Downe, who called just now wanting to seeyou.' He searched his pocket for the second.
　　Barnet took the first letter--it had a black border, and bore theLondon postmark. It was not in his wife's handwriting, or in thatof any person he knew; but conjecture soon ceased as he read thepage, wherein he was briefly informed that Mrs. Barnet had diedsuddenly on the previous day, at the furnished villa she hadoccupied near London.
　　Barnet looked vaguely round the empty hall, at the blank walls, outof the doorway. Drawing a long palpitating breath, and with eyesdowncast, he turned and climbed the stairs slowly, like a man whodoubted their stability. The fact of his wife having, as it were,died once already, and lived on again, had entirely dislodged thepossibility of her actual death from his conjecture. He went to thelanding, leant over the balusters, and after a reverie, of whoseduration he had but the faintest notion, turned to the window andstretched his gaze to the cottage further down the road, which wasvisible from his landing, and from which Lucy still walked to thesolicitor's house by a cross path. The faint words that came fromhis moving lips were simply, 'At last!'
　　Then, almost involuntarily, Barnet fell down on his knees andmurmured some incoherent words of thanksgiving. Surely his virtuein restoring his wife to life had been rewarded! But, as if theimpulse struck uneasily on his conscience, he quickly rose, brushedthe dust from his trousers and set himself to think of his nextmovements. He could not start for London for some hours; and as hehad no preparations to make that could not be made in half-an-hour,he mechanically descended and resumed his occupation of turning overthe wall-papers. They had all got brighter for him, those papers.
　　It was all changed--who would sit in the rooms that they were toline? He went on to muse upon Lucy's conduct in so frequentlycoming to the house with the children; her occasional blush inspeaking to him; her evident interest in him. What woman can in thelong run avoid being interested in a man whom she knows to bedevoted to her? If human solicitation could ever effect anything,there should be no going to India for Lucy now. All the paperspreviously chosen seemed wrong in their shades, and he began fromthe beginning to choose again.
　　While entering on the task he heard a forced 'Ahem!' from withoutthe porch, evidently uttered to attract his attention, and footstepsagain advancing to the door. His man, whom he had quite forgottenin his mental turmoil, was still waiting there.
　　'I beg your pardon, sir,' the man said from round the doorway; 'buthere's the note from Mr. Downe that you didn't take. He called justafter you went out, and as he couldn't wait, he wrote this on yourstudy-table.'
　　He handed in the letter--no black-bordered one now, but a practical-looking note in the well-known writing of the solicitor.
　　'DEAR BARNET'--it ran--'Perhaps you will be prepared for theinformation I am about to give--that Lucy Savile and myself aregoing to be married this morning. I have hitherto said nothing asto my intention to any of my friends, for reasons which I am sureyou will fully appreciate. The crisis has been brought about by herexpressing her intention to join her brother in India. I thendiscovered that I could not do without her.
　　'It is to be quite a private wedding; but it is my particular wishthat you come down here quietly at ten, and go to church with us; itwill add greatly to the pleasure I shall experience in the ceremony,and, I believe, to Lucy's also. I have called on you very early tomake the request, in the belief that I should find you at home; butyou are beforehand with me in your early rising.--Yours sincerely,C. Downe.'
　　'Need I wait, sir?' said the servant after a dead silence.
　　'That will do, William. No answer,' said Barnet calmly.
　　When the man had gone Barnet re-read the letter. Turning eventuallyto the wall-papers, which he had been at such pains to select, hedeliberately tore them into halves and quarters, and threw them intothe empty fireplace. Then he went out of the house; locked thedoor, and stood in the front awhile. Instead of returning into thetown, he went down the harbour-road and thoughtfully lingered aboutby the sea, near the spot where the body of Downe's late wife hadbeen found and brought ashore.
　　Barnet was a man with a rich capacity for misery, and there is nodoubt that he exercised it to its fullest extent now. The eventsthat had, as it were, dashed themselves together into one half-hourof this day showed that curious refinement of cruelty in theirarrangement which often proceeds from the bosom of the whimsical godat other times known as blind Circumstance. That his few minutes ofhope, between the reading of the first and second letters, hadcarried him to extraordinary heights of rapture was proved by theimmensity of his suffering now. The sun blazing into his face wouldhave shown a close watcher that a horizontal line, which he hadnever noticed before, but which was never to be gone thereafter, wassomehow gradually forming itself in the smooth of his forehead. Hiseyes, of a light hazel, had a curious look which can only bedescribed by the word bruised; the sorrow that looked from thembeing largely mixed with the surprise of a man taken unawares.
　　The secondary particulars of his present position, too, were oddenough, though for some time they appeared to engage little of hisattention. Not a soul in the town knew, as yet, of his wife'sdeath; and he almost owed Downe the kindness of not publishing ittill the day was over: the conjuncture, taken with that which hadaccompanied the death of Mrs. Downe, being so singular as to bequite sufficient to darken the pleasure of the impressionablesolicitor to a cruel extent, if made known to him. But as Barnetcould not set out on his journey to London, where his wife lay, forsome hours (there being at this date no railway within a distance ofmany miles), no great reason existed why he should leave the town.
　　Impulse in all its forms characterized Barnet, and when he heard thedistant clock strike the hour of ten his feet began to carry him upthe harbour-road with the manner of a man who must do something tobring himself to life. He passed Lucy Savile's old house, his ownnew one, and came in view of the church. Now he gave a perceptiblestart, and his mechanical condition went away. Before the church-gate were a couple of carriages, and Barnet then could perceive thatthe marriage between Downe and Lucy was at that moment beingsolemnized within. A feeling of sudden, proud self-confidence, anindocile wish to walk unmoved in spite of grim environments, plainlypossessed him, and when he reached the wicket-gate he turned inwithout apparent effort. Pacing up the paved footway he entered thechurch and stood for a while in the nave passage. A group of peoplewas standing round the vestry door; Barnet advanced through theseand stepped into the vestry.
　　There they were, busily signing their names. Seeing Downe about tolook round, Barnet averted his somewhat disturbed face for a secondor two; when he turned again front to front he was calm and quitesmiling; it was a creditable triumph over himself, and deserved tobe remembered in his native town. He greeted Downe heartily,offering his congratulations.
　　It seemed as if Barnet expected a half-guilty look upon Lucy's face;but no, save the natural flush and flurry engendered by the servicejust performed, there was nothing whatever in her bearing whichshowed a disturbed mind: her gray-brown eyes carried in them now asat other times the well-known expression of common-sensed rectitudewhich never went so far as to touch on hardness. She shook handswith him, and Downe said warmly, 'I wish you could have come sooner:
　　I called on purpose to ask you. You'll drive back with us now?'
　　'No, no,' said Barnet; 'I am not at all prepared; but I thought Iwould look in upon you for a moment, even though I had not time togo home and dress. I'll stand back and see you pass out, andobserve the effect of the spectacle upon myself as one of thepublic.'
　　Then Lucy and her husband laughed, and Barnet laughed and retired;and the quiet little party went gliding down the nave and towardsthe porch, Lucy's new silk dress sweeping with a smart rustle roundthe base-mouldings of the ancient font, and Downe's little daughtersfollowing in a state of round-eyed interest in their position, andthat of Lucy, their teacher and friend.
　　So Downe was comforted after his Emily's death, which had takenplace twelve months, two weeks, and three days before that time.
　　When the two flys had driven off and the spectators had vanished,Barnet followed to the door, and went out into the sun. He took nomore trouble to preserve a spruce exterior; his step was unequal,hesitating, almost convulsive; and the slight changes of colourwhich went on in his face seemed refracted from some inward flame.
　　In the churchyard he became pale as a summer cloud, and finding itnot easy to proceed he sat down on one of the tombstones andsupported his head with his hand.
　　Hard by was a sexton filling up a grave which he had not found timeto finish on the previous evening. Observing Barnet, he went up tohim, and recognizing him, said, 'Shall I help you home, sir?'
　　'O no, thank you,' said Barnet, rousing himself and standing up.
　　The sexton returned to his grave, followed by Barnet, who, afterwatching him awhile, stepped into the grave, now nearly filled, andhelped to tread in the earth.
　　The sexton apparently thought his conduct a little singular, but hemade no observation, and when the grave was full, Barnet suddenlystopped, looked far away, and with a decided step proceeded to thegate and vanished. The sexton rested on his shovel and looked afterhim for a few moments, and then began banking up the mound.
　　In those short minutes of treading in the dead man Barnet had formeda design, but what it was the inhabitants of that town did not forsome long time imagine. He went home, wrote several letters ofbusiness, called on his lawyer, an old man of the same place who hadbeen the legal adviser of Barnet's father before him, and during theevening overhauled a large quantity of letters and other documentsin his possession. By eleven o'clock the heap of papers in andbefore Barnet's grate had reached formidable dimensions, and hebegan to burn them. This, owing to their quantity, it was not soeasy to do as he had expected, and he sat long into the night tocomplete the task.
　　The next morning Barnet departed for London, leaving a note forDowne to inform him of Mrs. Barnet's sudden death, and that he wasgone to bury her; but when a thrice-sufficient time for that purposehad elapsed, he was not seen again in his accustomed walks, or inhis new house, or in his old one. He was gone for good, nobody knewwhither. It was soon discovered that he had empowered his lawyer todispose of all his property, real and personal, in the borough, andpay in the proceeds to the account of an unknown person at one ofthe large London banks. The person was by some supposed to behimself under an assumed name; but few, if any, had certainknowledge of that fact.
　　The elegant new residence was sold with the rest of his possessions;and its purchaser was no other than Downe, now a thriving man in theborough, and one whose growing family and new wife required moreroomy accommodation than was afforded by the little house up thenarrow side street. Barnet's old habitation was bought by thetrustees of the Congregational Baptist body in that town, who pulleddown the time-honoured dwelling and built a new chapel on its site.
　　By the time the last hour of that, to Barnet, eventful year hadchimed, every vestige of him had disappeared from the precincts ofhis native place, and the name became extinct in the borough ofPort-Bredy, after having been a living force therein for more thantwo hundred years.
Fellow-Townsmen Chapter 9
Twenty-one years and six months do not pass without setting a markeven upon durable stone and triple brass; upon humanity such aperiod works nothing less than transformation. In Barnet's oldbirthplace vivacious young children with bones like india-rubber hadgrown up to be stable men and women, men and women had dried in theskin, stiffened, withered, and sunk into decrepitude; whileselections from every class had been consigned to the outlyingcemetery. Of inorganic differences the greatest was that a railwayhad invaded the town, tying it on to a main line at a junction adozen miles off. Barnet's house on the harbour-road, once soinsistently new, had acquired a respectable mellowness, with ivy,Virginia creepers, lichens, damp patches, and even constitutionalinfirmities of its own like its elder fellows. Its architecture,once so very improved and modern, had already become stale in style,without having reached the dignity of being old-fashioned. Treesabout the harbour-road had increased in circumference or disappearedunder the saw; while the church had had such a tremendous practicaljoke played upon it by some facetious restorer or other as to bescarce recognizable by its dearest old friends.
　　During this long interval George Barnet had never once been seen orheard of in the town of his fathers.
　　It was the evening of a market-day, and some half-dozen middle-agedfarmers and dairymen were lounging round the bar of the Black-BullHotel, occasionally dropping a remark to each other, and lessfrequently to the two barmaids who stood within the pewter-toppedcounter in a perfunctory attitude of attention, these latter sighingand making a private observation to one another at odd intervals, onmore interesting experiences than the present.
　　'Days get shorter,' said one of the dairymen, as he looked towardsthe street, and noticed that the lamp-lighter was passing by.
　　The farmers merely acknowledged by their countenances the proprietyof this remark, and finding that nobody else spoke, one of thebarmaids said 'yes,' in a tone of painful duty.
　　'Come fair-day we shall have to light up before we start for home-along.'
　　'That's true,' his neighbour conceded, with a gaze of blankness.
　　'And after that we shan't see much further difference all's winter.'
　　The rest were not unwilling to go even so far as this.
　　The barmaid sighed again, and raised one of her hands from thecounter on which they rested to scratch the smallest surface of herface with the smallest of her fingers. She looked towards the door,and presently remarked, 'I think I hear the 'bus coming in fromstation.'
　　The eyes of the dairymen and farmers turned to the glass doordividing the hall from the porch, and in a minute or two the omnibusdrew up outside. Then there was a lumbering down of luggage, andthen a man came into the hall, followed by a porter with aportmanteau on his poll, which he deposited on a bench.
　　The stranger was an elderly person, with curly ashen white hair, adeeply-creviced outer corner to each eyelid, and a countenance bakedby innumerable suns to the colour of terra-cotta, its hue and thatof his hair contrasting like heat and cold respectively. He walkedmeditatively and gently, like one who was fearful of disturbing hisown mental equilibrium. But whatever lay at the bottom of hisbreast had evidently made him so accustomed to its situation therethat it caused him little practical inconvenience.
　　He paused in silence while, with his dubious eyes fixed on thebarmaids, he seemed to consider himself. In a moment or two headdressed them, and asked to be accommodated for the night. As hewaited he looked curiously round the hall, but said nothing. Assoon as invited he disappeared up the staircase, preceded by achambermaid and candle, and followed by a lad with his trunk. Not asoul had recognized him.
　　A quarter of an hour later, when the farmers and dairymen had drivenoff to their homesteads in the country, he came downstairs, took abiscuit and one glass of wine, and walked out into the town, wherethe radiance from the shop-windows had grown so in volume of lateyears as to flood with cheerfulness every standing cart, barrow,stall, and idler that occupied the wayside, whether shabby orgenteel. His chief interest at present seemed to lie in the namespainted over the shop-fronts and on door-ways, as far as they werevisible; these now differed to an ominous extent from what they hadbeen one-and-twenty years before.
　　The traveller passed on till he came to the bookseller's, where helooked in through the glass door. A fresh-faced young man wasstanding behind the counter, otherwise the shop was empty. Thegray-haired observer entered, asked for some periodical by way ofpaying for admission, and with his elbow on the counter began toturn over the pages he had bought, though that he read nothing wasobvious.
　　At length he said, 'Is old Mr. Watkins still alive?' in a voicewhich had a curious youthful cadence in it even now.
　　'My father is dead, sir,' said the young man.
　　'Ah, I am sorry to hear it,' said the stranger. 'But it is so manyyears since I last visited this town that I could hardly expect itshould be otherwise.' After a short silence he continued--'And isthe firm of Barnet, Browse, and Company still in existence?--theyused to be large flax-merchants and twine-spinners here?'
　　'The firm is still going on, sir, but they have dropped the name ofBarnet. I believe that was a sort of fancy name--at least, I neverknew of any living Barnet. 'Tis now Browse and Co.'
　　'And does Andrew Jones still keep on as architect?'
　　'He's dead, sir.'
　　'And the Vicar of St. Mary's--Mr. Melrose?'
　　'He's been dead a great many years.'
　　'Dear me!' He paused yet longer, and cleared his voice. 'Is Mr.
　　Downe, the solicitor, still in practice?'
　　'No, sir, he's dead. He died about seven years ago.'
　　Here it was a longer silence still; and an attentive observer wouldhave noticed that the paper in the stranger's hand increased itsimperceptible tremor to a visible shake. That gray-haired gentlemannoticed it himself, and rested the paper on the counter. 'Is MRS.
　　Downe still alive?' he asked, closing his lips firmly as soon as thewords were out of his mouth, and dropping his eyes.
　　'Yes, sir, she's alive and well. She's living at the old place.'
　　'In East Street?'
　　'O no; at Chateau Ringdale. I believe it has been in the family forsome generations.'
　　'She lives with her children, perhaps?'
　　'No; she has no children of her own. There were some Miss Downes; Ithink they were Mr. Downe's daughters by a former wife; but they aremarried and living in other parts of the town. Mrs. Downe livesalone.'
　　'Quite alone?'
　　'Yes, sir; quite alone.'
　　The newly-arrived gentleman went back to the hotel and dined; afterwhich he made some change in his dress, shaved back his beard to thefashion that had prevailed twenty years earlier, when he was youngand interesting, and once more emerging, bent his steps in thedirection of the harbour-road. Just before getting to the pointwhere the pavement ceased and the houses isolated themselves, heovertook a shambling, stooping, unshaven man, who at first sightappeared like a professional tramp, his shoulders having aperceptible greasiness as they passed under the gaslight. Eachpedestrian momentarily turned and regarded the other, and the tramp-like gentleman started back.
　　'Good--why--is that Mr. Barnet? 'Tis Mr. Barnet, surely!'
　　'Yes; and you are Charlson?'
　　'Yes--ah--you notice my appearance. The Fates have rather ill-usedme. By-the-bye, that fifty pounds. I never paid it, did I? . . .
　　But I was not ungrateful!' Here the stooping man laid one handemphatically on the palm of the other. 'I gave you a chance, Mr.
　　George Barnet, which many men would have thought full valuereceived--the chance to marry your Lucy. As far as the world wasconcerned, your wife was a DROWNED WOMAN, hey?'
　　'Heaven forbid all that, Charlson!'
　　'Well, well, 'twas a wrong way of showing gratitude, I suppose. Andnow a drop of something to drink for old acquaintance' sake! AndMr. Barnet, she's again free--there's a chance now if you care forit--ha, ha!' And the speaker pushed his tongue into his hollowcheek and slanted his eye in the old fashion.
　　'I know all,' said Barnet quickly; and slipping a small present intothe hands of the needy, saddening man, he stepped ahead and was soonin the outskirts of the town.
　　He reached the harbour-road, and paused before the entrance to awell-known house. It was so highly bosomed in trees and shrubsplanted since the erection of the building that one would scarcelyhave recognized the spot as that which had been a mere neglectedslope till chosen as a site for a dwelling. He opened the swing-gate, closed it noiselessly, and gently moved into the semicirculardrive, which remained exactly as it had been marked out by Barnet onthe morning when Lucy Savile ran in to thank him for procuring herthe post of governess to Downe's children. But the growth of treesand bushes which revealed itself at every step was beyond allexpectation; sun-proof and moon-proof bowers vaulted the walks, andthe walls of the house were uniformly bearded with creeping plantsas high as the first-floor windows.
　　After lingering for a few minutes in the dusk of the bending boughs,the visitor rang the door-bell, and on the servant appearing, heannounced himself as 'an old friend of Mrs. Downe's.'
　　The hall was lighted, but not brightly, the gas being turned low, asif visitors were rare. There was a stagnation in the dwelling; itseemed to be waiting. Could it really be waiting for him? Thepartitions which had been probed by Barnet's walking-stick when themortar was green, were now quite brown with the antiquity of theirvarnish, and the ornamental woodwork of the staircase, which hadglistened with a pale yellow newness when first erected, was now ofa rich wine-colour. During the servant's absence the followingcolloquy could be dimly heard through the nearly closed door of thedrawing-room.
　　'He didn't give his name?'
　　'He only said "an old friend," ma'am.'
　　'What kind of gentleman is he?'
　　'A staidish gentleman, with gray hair.'
　　The voice of the second speaker seemed to affect the listenergreatly. After a pause, the lady said, 'Very well, I will see him.'
　　And the stranger was shown in face to face with the Lucy who hadonce been Lucy Savile. The round cheek of that formerly young ladyhad, of course, alarmingly flattened its curve in her modernrepresentative; a pervasive grayness overspread her once dark brownhair, like morning rime on heather. The parting down the middle waswide and jagged; once it had been a thin white line, a narrowcrevice between two high banks of shade. But there was still enoughleft to form a handsome knob behind, and some curls beneathinwrought with a few hairs like silver wires were very becoming. Inher eyes the only modification was that their originally mildrectitude of expression had become a little more stringent thanheretofore. Yet she was still girlish--a girl who had beengratuitously weighted by destiny with a burden of five-and-fortyyears instead of her proper twenty.
　　'Lucy, don't you know me?' he said, when the servant had closed thedoor.
　　'I knew you the instant I saw you!' she returned cheerfully. 'Idon't know why, but I always thought you would come back to your oldtown again.'
　　She gave him her hand, and then they sat down. 'They said you weredead,' continued Lucy, 'but I never thought so. We should haveheard of it for certain if you had been.'
　　'It is a very long time since we met.'
　　'Yes; what you must have seen, Mr. Barnet, in all these rovingyears, in comparison with what I have seen in this quiet place!'
　　Her face grew more serious. 'You know my husband has been dead along time? I am a lonely old woman now, considering what I havebeen; though Mr. Downe's daughters--all married--manage to keep mepretty cheerful.'
　　'And I am a lonely old man, and have been any time these twentyyears.'
　　'But where have you kept yourself? And why did you go off somysteriously?'
　　'Well, Lucy, I have kept myself a little in America, and a little inAustralia, a little in India, a little at the Cape, and so on; Ihave not stayed in any place for a long time, as it seems to me, andyet more than twenty years have flown. But when people get to myage two years go like one!--Your second question, why did I go awayso mysteriously, is surely not necessary. You guessed why, didn'tyou?'
　　'No, I never once guessed,' she said simply; 'nor did Charles, nordid anybody as far as I know.'
　　'Well, indeed! Now think it over again, and then look at me, andsay if you can't guess?'
　　She looked him in the face with an inquiring smile. 'Surely notbecause of me?' she said, pausing at the commencement of surprise.
　　Barnet nodded, and smiled again; but his smile was sadder than hers.
　　'Because I married Charles?' she asked.
　　'Yes; solely because you married him on the day I was free to askyou to marry me. My wife died four-and-twenty hours before you wentto church with Downe. The fixing of my journey at that particularmoment was because of her funeral; but once away I knew I shouldhave no inducement to come back, and took my steps accordingly.'
　　Her face assumed an aspect of gentle reflection, and she looked upand down his form with great interest in her eyes. 'I never thoughtof it!' she said. 'I knew, of course, that you had once impliedsome warmth of feeling towards me, but I concluded that it passedoff. And I have always been under the impression that your wife wasalive at the time of my marriage. Was it not stupid of me!--But youwill have some tea or something? I have never dined late, you know,since my husband's death. I have got into the way of making aregular meal of tea. You will have some tea with me, will you not?'
　　The travelled man assented quite readily, and tea was brought in.
　　They sat and chatted over the meal, regardless of the flying hour.
　　'Well, well!' said Barnet presently, as for the first time heleisurely surveyed the room; 'how like it all is, and yet howdifferent! Just where your piano stands was a board on a couple oftrestles, bearing the patterns of wall-papers, when I was last here.
　　I was choosing them--standing in this way, as it might be. Then myservant came in at the door, and handed me a note, so. It was fromDowne, and announced that you were just going to be married to him.
　　I chose no more wall-papers--tore up all those I had selected, andleft the house. I never entered it again till now.'
　　'Ah, at last I understand it all,' she murmured.
　　They had both risen and gone to the fireplace. The mantel camealmost on a level with her shoulder, which gently rested against it,and Barnet laid his hand upon the shelf close beside her shoulder.
　　'Lucy,' he said, 'better late than never. Will you marry me now?'
　　She started back, and the surprise which was so obvious in herwrought even greater surprise in him that it should be so. It wasdifficult to believe that she had been quite blind to the situation,and yet all reason and common sense went to prove that she was notacting.
　　'You take me quite unawares by such a question!' she said, with aforced laugh of uneasiness. It was the first time she had shown anyembarrassment at all. 'Why,' she added, 'I couldn't marry you forthe world.'
　　'Not after all this! Why not?'
　　'It is--I would--I really think I may say it--I would upon the wholerather marry you, Mr. Barnet, than any other man I have ever met, ifI ever dreamed of marriage again. But I don't dream of it--it isquite out of my thoughts; I have not the least intention of marryingagain.'
　　'But--on my account--couldn't you alter your plans a little? Come!'
　　'Dear Mr. Barnet,' she said with a little flutter, 'I would on youraccount if on anybody's in existence. But you don't know in theleast what it is you are asking--such an impracticable thing--Iwon't say ridiculous, of course, because I see that you are reallyin earnest, and earnestness is never ridiculous to my mind.'
　　'Well, yes,' said Barnet more slowly, dropping her hand, which hehad taken at the moment of pleading, 'I am in earnest. The resolve,two months ago, at the Cape, to come back once more was, it is true,rather sudden, and as I see now, not well considered. But I am inearnest in asking.'
　　'And I in declining. With all good feeling and all kindness, let mesay that I am quite opposed to the idea of marrying a second time.'
　　'Well, no harm has been done,' he answered, with the same subduedand tender humorousness that he had shown on such occasions in earlylife. 'If you really won't accept me, I must put up with it, Isuppose.' His eye fell on the clock as he spoke. 'Had you anynotion that it was so late?' he asked. 'How absorbed I have been!'
　　She accompanied him to the hall, helped him to put on his overcoat,and let him out of the house herself.
　　'Good-night,' said Barnet, on the doorstep, as the lamp shone in hisface. 'You are not offended with me?'
　　'Certainly not. Nor you with me?'
　　'I'll consider whether I am or not,' he pleasantly replied. 'Good-night.'
　　She watched him safely through the gate; and when his footsteps haddied away upon the road, closed the door softly and returned to theroom. Here the modest widow long pondered his speeches, with eyesdropped to an unusually low level. Barnet's urbanity under the blowof her refusal greatly impressed her. After having his long periodof probation rendered useless by her decision, he had shown noanger, and had philosophically taken her words as if he deserved nobetter ones. It was very gentlemanly of him, certainly; it was morethan gentlemanly; it was heroic and grand. The more she meditated,the more she questioned the virtue of her conduct in checking him soperemptorily; and went to her bedroom in a mood of dissatisfaction.
　　On looking in the glass she was reminded that there was not so muchremaining of her former beauty as to make his frank declaration animpulsive natural homage to her cheeks and eyes; it must undoubtedlyhave arisen from an old staunch feeling of his, deserving tenderestconsideration. She recalled to her mind with much pleasure that hehad told her he was staying at the Black-Bull Hotel; so that if,after waiting a day or two, he should not, in his modesty, callagain, she might then send him a nice little note. To alter herviews for the present was far from her intention; but she wouldallow herself to be induced to reconsider the case, as any generouswoman ought to do.
　　The morrow came and passed, and Mr. Barnet did not drop in. Atevery knock, light youthful hues flew across her cheek; and she wasabstracted in the presence of her other visitors. In the eveningshe walked about the house, not knowing what to do with herself; theconditions of existence seemed totally different from those whichruled only four-and-twenty short hours ago. What had been at firsta tantalizing elusive sentiment was getting acclimatized within heras a definite hope, and her person was so informed by that emotionthat she might almost have stood as its emblematical representativeby the time the clock struck ten. In short, an interest in Barnetprecisely resembling that of her early youth led her present heartto belie her yesterday's words to him, and she longed to see himagain.
　　The next day she walked out early, thinking she might meet him inthe street. The growing beauty of her romance absorbed her, and shewent from the street to the fields, and from the fields to theshore, without any consciousness of distance, till reminded by herweariness that she could go no further. He had nowhere appeared.
　　In the evening she took a step which under the circumstances seemedjustifiable; she wrote a note to him at the hotel, inviting him totea with her at six precisely, and signing her note 'Lucy.'
　　In a quarter of an hour the messenger came back. Mr. Barnet hadleft the hotel early in the morning of the day before, but he hadstated that he would probably return in the course of the week.
　　The note was sent back, to be given to him immediately on hisarrival.
　　There was no sign from the inn that this desired event had occurred,either on the next day or the day following. On both nights she hadbeen restless, and had scarcely slept half-an-hour.
　　On the Saturday, putting off all diffidence, Lucy went herself tothe Black-Bull, and questioned the staff closely.
　　Mr. Barnet had cursorily remarked when leaving that he might returnon the Thursday or Friday, but they were directed not to reserve aroom for him unless he should write.
　　He had left no address.
　　Lucy sorrowfully took back her note went home, and resolved to wait.
　　She did wait--years and years--but Barnet never reappeared.
　　April 1880.
Interlopers At The Knap Chapter 1
The north road from Casterbridge is tedious and lonely, especiallyin winter-time. Along a part of its course it connects with Long-Ash Lane, a monotonous track without a village or hamlet for manymiles, and with very seldom a turning. Unapprized wayfarers who aretoo old, or too young, or in other respects too weak for thedistance to be traversed, but who, nevertheless, have to walk it,say, as they look wistfully ahead, 'Once at the top of that hill,and I must surely see the end of Long-Ash Lane!' But they reach thehilltop, and Long-Ash Lane stretches in front as mercilessly asbefore.
　　Some few years ago a certain farmer was riding through this lane inthe gloom of a winter evening. The farmer's friend, a dairyman, wasriding beside him. A few paces in the rear rode the farmer's man.
　　All three were well horsed on strong, round-barrelled cobs; and tobe well horsed was to be in better spirits about Long-Ash Lane thanpoor pedestrians could attain to during its passage.
　　But the farmer did not talk much to his friend as he rode along.
　　The enterprise which had brought him there filled his mind; for intruth it was important. Not altogether so important was it,perhaps, when estimated by its value to society at large; but if thetrue measure of a deed be proportionate to the space it occupies inthe heart of him who undertakes it, Farmer Charles Darton's businessto-night could hold its own with the business of kings.
　　He was a large farmer. His turnover, as it is called, was probablythirty thousand pounds a year. He had a great many draught horses,a great many milch cows, and of sheep a multitude. This comfortableposition was, however, none of his own making. It had been createdby his father, a man of a very different stamp from the presentrepresentative of the line.
　　Darton, the father, had been a one-idea'd character, with abuttoned-up pocket and a chink-like eye brimming with commercialsubtlety. In Darton the son, this trade subtlety had becometransmuted into emotional, and the harshness had disappeared; hewould have been called a sad man but for his constant care not todivide himself from lively friends by piping notes out of harmonywith theirs. Contemplative, he allowed his mind to be a quietmeeting-place for memories and hopes. So that, naturally enough,since succeeding to the agricultural calling, and up to his presentage of thirty-two, he had neither advanced nor receded as acapitalist--a stationary result which did not agitate one of hisunambitious, unstrategic nature, since he had all that he desired.
　　The motive of his expedition tonight showed the same absence ofanxious regard for Number One.
　　The party rode on in the slow, safe trot proper to night-time andbad roads, Farmer Darton's head jigging rather unromantically up anddown against the sky, and his motions being repeated with bolderemphasis by his friend Japheth Johns; while those of the latter weretravestied in jerks still less softened by art in the person of thelad who attended them. A pair of whitish objects hung one on eachside of the latter, bumping against him at each step, and stillfurther spoiling the grace of his seat. On close inspection theymight have been perceived to be open rush baskets--one containing aturkey, and the other some bottles of wine.
　　'D'ye feel ye can meet your fate like a man, neighbour Darton?'
　　asked Johns, breaking a silence which had lasted while five-and-twenty hedgerow trees had glided by.
　　Mr. Darton with a half-laugh murmured, 'Ay--call it my fate!
　　Hanging and wiving go by destiny.' And then they were silent again.
　　The darkness thickened rapidly, at intervals shutting down on theland in a perceptible flap, like the wave of a wing. The customaryclose of day was accelerated by a simultaneous blurring of the air.
　　With the fall of night had come a mist just damp enough toincommode, but not sufficient to saturate them. Countrymen as theywere--born, as may be said, with only an open door between them andthe four seasons--they regarded the mist but as an addedobscuration, and ignored its humid quality.
　　They were travelling in a direction that was enlivened by no moderncurrent of traffic, the place of Darton's pilgrimage being an old-fashioned village--one of the Hintocks (several villages of thatname, with a distinctive prefix or affix, lying thereabout)--wherethe people make the best cider and cider-wine in all Wessex, andwhere the dunghills smell of pomace instead of stable refuse aselsewhere. The lane was sometimes so narrow that the brambles ofthe hedge, which hung forward like anglers' rods over a stream,scratched their hats and curry-combed their whiskers as they passed.
　　Yet this neglected lane had been a highway to Queen Elizabeth'ssubjects and the cavalcades of the past. Its day was over now, andits history as a national artery done for ever.
　　'Why I have decided to marry her,' resumed Darton (in a measuredmusical voice of confidence which revealed a good deal of hiscomposition), as he glanced round to see that the lad was not toonear, 'is not only that I like her, but that I can do no better,even from a fairly practical point of view. That I might ha' lookedhigher is possibly true, though it is really all nonsense. I havehad experience enough in looking above me. "No more superior womenfor me," said I--you know when. Sally is a comely, independent,simple character, with no make-up about her, who'll think me as mucha superior to her as I used to think--you know who I mean--was tome.'
　　'Ay,' said Johns. 'However, I shouldn't call Sally Hall simple.
　　Primary, because no Sally is; secondary, because if some could be,this one wouldn't. 'Tis a wrong denomination to apply to a woman,Charles, and affects me, as your best man, like cold water. 'Tislike recommending a stage play by saying there's neither murder,villainy, nor harm of any sort in it, when that's what you've paidyour half-crown to see.'
　　'Well; may your opinion do you good. Mine's a different one.' Andturning the conversation from the philosophical to the practical,Darton expressed a hope that the said Sally had received what he'dsent on by the carrier that day.
　　Johns wanted to know what that was.
　　'It is a dress,' said Darton. 'Not exactly a wedding-dress; thoughshe may use it as one if she likes. It is rather serviceable thanshowy--suitable for the winter weather.'
　　'Good,' said Johns. 'Serviceable is a wise word in a bridegroom. Icommend ye, Charles.'
　　'For,' said Darton, 'why should a woman dress up like a rope-dancerbecause she's going to do the most solemn deed of her life exceptdying?'
　　'Faith, why? But she will, because she will, I suppose,' saidDairyman Johns.
　　'H'm,' said Darton.
　　The lane they followed had been nearly straight for several miles,but it now took a turn, and winding uncertainly for some distanceforked into two. By night country roads are apt to reveal ungainlyqualities which pass without observation during day; and thoughDarton had travelled this way before, he had not done so frequently,Sally having been wooed at the house of a relative near his own. Henever remembered seeing at this spot a pair of alternative wayslooking so equally probable as these two did now. Johns rode on afew steps.
　　'Don't be out of heart, sonny,' he cried. 'Here's a handpost.
　　Enoch--come and climm this post, and tell us the way.'
　　The lad dismounted, and jumped into the hedge where the post stoodunder a tree.
　　'Unstrap the baskets, or you'll smash up that wine!' cried Darton,as the young man began spasmodically to climb the post, baskets andall.
　　'Was there ever less head in a brainless world?' said Johns. 'Here,simple Nocky, I'll do it.' He leapt off, and with much puffingclimbed the post, striking a match when he reached the top, andmoving the light along the arm, the lad standing and gazing at thespectacle.
　　'I have faced tantalization these twenty years with a temper as mildas milk!' said Japheth; 'but such things as this don't come short ofdevilry!' And flinging the match away, he slipped down to theground.
　　'What's the matter?' asked Darton.
　　'Not a letter, sacred or heathen--not so much as would tell us theway to the great fireplace--ever I should sin to say it! Either themoss and mildew have eat away the words, or we have arrived in aland where the natyves have lost the art o' writing, and should ha'
　　brought our compass like Christopher Columbus.'
　　'Let us take the straightest road,' said Darton placidly; 'I shan'tbe sorry to get there--'tis a tiresome ride. I would have driven ifI had known.'
　　'Nor I neither, sir,' said Enoch. 'These straps plough my shoulderlike a zull. If 'tis much further to your lady's home, MaisterDarton, I shall ask to be let carry half of these good things in myinnerds--hee, hee!'
　　'Don't you be such a reforming radical, Enoch,' said Johns sternly.
　　'Here, I'll take the turkey.'
　　This being done, they went forward by the right-hand lane, whichascended a hill, the left winding away under a plantation. The pit-a-pat of their horses' hoofs lessened up the slope; and the ironicaldirecting-post stood in solitude as before, holding out its blankarms to the raw breeze, which brought a snore from the wood as ifSkrymir the Giant were sleeping there.
Interlopers At The Knap Chapter 2
Three miles to the left of the travellers, along the road they hadnot followed, rose an old house with mullioned windows of Ham-hillstone, and chimneys of lavish solidity. It stood at the top of aslope beside King's-Hintock village-street; and immediately in frontof it grew a large sycamore-tree, whose bared roots formed aconvenient staircase from the road below to the front door of thedwelling. Its situation gave the house what little distinctive nameit possessed, namely, 'The Knap.' Some forty yards off a brookdribbled past, which, for its size, made a great deal of noise. Atthe back was a dairy barton, accessible for vehicles and live-stockby a side 'drong.' Thus much only of the character of the homesteadcould be divined out of doors at this shady evening-time.
　　But within there was plenty of light to see by, as plenty wasconstrued at Hintock. Beside a Tudor fireplace, whose moulded four-centred arch was nearly hidden by a figured blue-cloth blower, wereseated two women--mother and daughter--Mrs. Hall, and Sarah, orSally; for this was a part of the world where the lattermodification had not as yet been effaced as a vulgarity by the marchof intellect. The owner of the name was the young woman by whosemeans Mr. Darton proposed to put an end to his bachelor condition onthe approaching day.
　　The mother's bereavement had been so long ago as not to leave muchmark of its occurrence upon her now, either in face or clothes. Shehad resumed the mob-cap of her early married life, enlivening itswhiteness by a few rose-du-Barry ribbons. Sally required no suchaids to pinkness. Roseate good-nature lit up her gaze; her featuresshowed curves of decision and judgment; and she might have beenregarded without much mistake as a warm-hearted, quick-spirited,handsome girl.
　　She did most of the talking, her mother listening with a half-absentair, as she picked up fragments of red-hot wood ember with thetongs, and piled them upon the brands. But the number of speechesthat passed was very small in proportion to the meanings exchanged.
　　Long experience together often enabled them to see the course ofthought in each other's minds without a word being spoken. Behindthem, in the centre of the room, the table was spread for supper,certain whiffs of air laden with fat vapours, which ever and anonentered from the kitchen, denoting its preparation there.
　　'The new gown he was going to send you stays about on the way likehimself,' Sally's mother was saying.
　　'Yes, not finished, I daresay,' cried Sally independently. 'Lord, Ishouldn't be amazed if it didn't come at all! Young men make suchkind promises when they are near you, and forget 'em when they goaway. But he doesn't intend it as a wedding-gown--he gives it to memerely as a gown to wear when I like--a travelling-dress is what itwould be called by some. Come rathe or come late it don't muchmatter, as I have a dress of my own to fall back upon. But whattime is it?'
　　She went to the family clock and opened the glass, for the hour wasnot otherwise discernible by night, and indeed at all times wasrather a thing to be investigated than beheld, so much more wallthan window was there in the apartment. 'It is nearly eight,' saidshe.
　　'Eight o'clock, and neither dress nor man,' said Mrs. Hall.
　　'Mother, if you think to tantalize me by talking like that, you aremuch mistaken! Let him be as late as he will--or stay awayaltogether--I don't care,' said Sally. But a tender, minute quaverin the negation showed that there was something forced in thatstatement.
　　Mrs. Hall perceived it, and drily observed that she was not so sureabout Sally not caring. 'But perhaps you don't care so much as Ido, after all,' she said. 'For I see what you don't, that it is agood and flourishing match for you; a very honourable offer in Mr.
　　Darton. And I think I see a kind husband in him. So pray God'twill go smooth, and wind up well.'
　　Sally would not listen to misgivings. Of course it would gosmoothly, she asserted. 'How you are up and down, mother!' she wenton. 'At this moment, whatever hinders him, we are not so anxious tosee him as he is to be here, and his thought runs on before him, andsettles down upon us like the star in the east. Hark!' sheexclaimed, with a breath of relief, her eyes sparkling. 'I heardsomething. Yes--here they are!'
　　The next moment her mother's slower ear also distinguished thefamiliar reverberation occasioned by footsteps clambering up theroots of the sycamore.
　　'Yes it sounds like them at last,' she said. 'Well, it is not sovery late after all, considering the distance.'
　　The footfall ceased, and they arose, expecting a knock. They beganto think it might have been, after all, some neighbouring villagerunder Bacchic influence, giving the centre of the road a wide berth,when their doubts were dispelled by the new-comer's entry into thepassage. The door of the room was gently opened, and thereappeared, not the pair of travellers with whom we have already madeacquaintance, but a pale-faced man in the garb of extreme poverty--almost in rags.
　　'O, it's a tramp--gracious me!' said Sally, starting back.
　　His cheeks and eye-orbits were deep concaves--rather, it might be,from natural weakness of constitution than irregular living, thoughthere were indications that he had led no careful life. He gazed atthe two women fixedly for a moment: then with an abashed,humiliated demeanour, dropped his glance to the floor, and sank intoa chair without uttering a word.
　　Sally was in advance of her mother, who had remained standing by thefire. She now tried to discern the visitor across the candles.
　　'Why--mother,' said Sally faintly, turning back to Mrs. Hall. 'Itis Phil, from Australia!'
　　Mrs. Hall started, and grew pale, and a fit of coughing seized theman with the ragged clothes. 'To come home like this!' she said.
　　'O, Philip--are you ill?'
　　'No, no, mother,' replied he impatiently, as soon as he could speak.
　　'But for God's sake how do you come here--and just now too?'
　　'Well, I am here,' said the man. 'How it is I hardly know. I'vecome home, mother, because I was driven to it. Things were againstme out there, and went from bad to worse.'
　　'Then why didn't you let us know?--you've not writ a line for thelast two or three years.'
　　The son admitted sadly that he had not. He said that he had hopedand thought he might fetch up again, and be able to send good news.
　　Then he had been obliged to abandon that hope, and had finally comehome from sheer necessity--previously to making a new start. 'Yes,things are very bad with me,' he repeated, perceiving theircommiserating glances at his clothes.
　　They brought him nearer the fire, took his hat from his thin hand,which was so small and smooth as to show that his attempts to fetchup again had not been in a manual direction. His mother resumed herinquiries, and dubiously asked if he had chosen to come thatparticular night for any special reason.
　　For no reason, he told her. His arrival had been quite at random.
　　Then Philip Hall looked round the room, and saw for the first timethat the table was laid somewhat luxuriously, and for a largernumber than themselves; and that an air of festivity pervaded theirdress. He asked quickly what was going on.
　　'Sally is going to be married in a day or two,' replied the mother;and she explained how Mr. Darton, Sally's intended husband, wascoming there that night with the groomsman, Mr. Johns, and otherdetails. 'We thought it must be their step when we heard you,' saidMrs. Hall.
　　The needy wanderer looked again on the floor. 'I see--I see,' hemurmured. 'Why, indeed, should I have come to-night? Such folk asI are not wanted here at these times, naturally. And I have nobusiness here--spoiling other people's happiness.'
　　'Phil,' said his mother, with a tear in her eye, but with a thinnessof lip and severity of manner which were presumably not more thanpast events justified; 'since you speak like that to me, I'll speakhonestly to you. For these three years you have taken no thoughtfor us. You left home with a good supply of money, and strength andeducation, and you ought to have made good use of it all. But youcome back like a beggar; and that you come in a very awkward timefor us cannot be denied. Your return to-night may do us much harm.
　　But mind--you are welcome to this home as long as it is mine. Idon't wish to turn you adrift. We will make the best of a bad job;and I hope you are not seriously ill?'
　　'O no. I have only this infernal cough.'
　　She looked at him anxiously. 'I think you had better go to bed atonce,' she said.
　　'Well--I shall be out of the way there,' said the son wearily.
　　'Having ruined myself, don't let me ruin you by being seen in thesetogs, for Heaven's sake. Who do you say Sally is going to bemarried to--a Farmer Darton?'
　　'Yes--a gentleman-farmer--quite a wealthy man. Far better instation than she could have expected. It is a good thing,altogether.'
　　'Well done, little Sal!' said her brother, brightening and lookingup at her with a smile. 'I ought to have written; but perhaps Ihave thought of you all the more. But let me get out of sight. Iwould rather go and jump into the river than be seen here. But haveyou anything I can drink? I am confoundedly thirsty with my longtramp.'
　　'Yes, yes, we will bring something upstairs to you,' said Sally,with grief in her face.
　　'Ay, that will do nicely. But, Sally and mother--' He stopped, andthey waited. 'Mother, I have not told you all,' he resumed slowly,still looking on the floor between his knees. 'Sad as what you seeof me is, there's worse behind.'
　　His mother gazed upon him in grieved suspense, and Sally went andleant upon the bureau, listening for every sound, and sighing.
　　Suddenly she turned round, saying, 'Let them come, I don't care!
　　Philip, tell the worst, and take your time.'
　　'Well, then,' said the unhappy Phil, 'I am not the only one in thismess. Would to Heaven I were! But--'
　　'O, Phil!'
　　'I have a wife as destitute as I.'
　　'A wife?' said his mother.
　　'Unhappily!'
　　'A wife! Yes, that is the way with sons!'
　　'And besides--' said he.
　　'Besides! O, Philip, surely--'
　　'I have two little children.'
　　'Wife and children!' whispered Mrs. Hall, sinking down confounded.
　　'Poor little things!' said Sally involuntarily.
　　His mother turned again to him. 'I suppose these helpless beingsare left in Australia?'
　　'No. They are in England.'
　　'Well, I can only hope you've left them in a respectable place.'
　　'I have not left them at all. They are here--within a few yards ofus. In short, they are in the stable.'
　　'Where?'
　　'In the stable. I did not like to bring them indoors till I hadseen you, mother, and broken the bad news a bit to you. They werevery tired, and are resting out there on some straw.'
　　Mrs. Hall's fortitude visibly broke down. She had been brought upnot without refinement, and was even more moved by such a collapseof genteel aims as this than a substantial dairyman's widow would inordinary have been moved. 'Well, it must be borne,' she said, in alow voice, with her hands tightly joined. 'A starving son, astarving wife, starving children! Let it be. But why is this cometo us now, to-day, to-night? Could no other misfortune happen tohelpless women than this, which will quite upset my poor girl'schance of a happy life? Why have you done us this wrong, Philip?
　　What respectable man will come here, and marry open-eyed into afamily of vagabonds?'
　　'Nonsense, mother!' said Sally vehemently, while her face flushed.
　　'Charley isn't the man to desert me. But if he should be, and won'tmarry me because Phil's come, let him go and marry elsewhere. Iwon't be ashamed of my own flesh and blood for any man in England--not I!' And then Sally turned away and burst into tears.
　　'Wait till you are twenty years older and you will tell a differenttale,' replied her mother.
　　The son stood up. 'Mother,' he said bitterly, 'as I have come, so Iwill go. All I ask of you is that you will allow me and mine to liein your stable to-night. I give you my word that we'll be gone bybreak of day, and trouble you no further!'
　　Mrs. Hall, the mother, changed at that. 'O no,' she answeredhastily; 'never shall it be said that I sent any of my own familyfrom my door. Bring 'em in, Philip, or take me out to them.'
　　'We will put 'em all into the large bedroom,' said Sally,brightening, 'and make up a large fire. Let's go and help them in,and call Rebekah.' (Rebekah was the woman who assisted at the dairyand housework; she lived in a cottage hard by with her husband, whoattended to the cows.)Sally went to fetch a lantern from the back-kitchen, but her brothersaid, 'You won't want a light. I lit the lantern that was hangingthere.'
　　'What must we call your wife?' asked Mrs. Hall.
　　'Helena,' said Philip.
　　With shawls over their heads they proceeded towards the back door.
　　'One minute before you go,' interrupted Philip. 'I--I haven'tconfessed all.'
　　'Then Heaven help us!' said Mrs. Hall, pushing to the door andclasping her hands in calm despair.
　　'We passed through Evershead as we came,' he continued, 'and I justlooked in at the "Sow-and-Acorn" to see if old Mike still kept onthere as usual. The carrier had come in from Sherton Abbas at thatmoment, and guessing that I was bound for this place--for I think heknew me--he asked me to bring on a dressmaker's parcel for Sallythat was marked "immediate." My wife had walked on with thechildren. 'Twas a flimsy parcel, and the paper was torn, and Ifound on looking at it that it was a thick warm gown. I didn't wishyou to see poor Helena in a shabby state. I was ashamed that youshould--'twas not what she was born to. I untied the parcel in theroad, took it on to her where she was waiting in the Lower Barn, andtold her I had managed to get it for her, and that she was to ask noquestion. She, poor thing, must have supposed I obtained it ontrust, through having reached a place where I was known, for she putit on gladly enough. She has it on now. Sally has other gowns, Idaresay.'
　　Sally looked at her mother, speechless.
　　'You have others, I daresay!' repeated Phil, with a sick man'simpatience. 'I thought to myself, "Better Sally cry than Helenafreeze." Well, is the dress of great consequence? 'Twas nothingvery ornamental, as far as I could see.'
　　'No--no; not of consequence,' returned Sally sadly, adding in agentle voice, 'You will not mind if I lend her another instead ofthat one, will you?'
　　Philip's agitation at the confession had brought on another attackof the cough, which seemed to shake him to pieces. He was soobviously unfit to sit in a chair that they helped him upstairs atonce; and having hastily given him a cordial and kindled the bedroomfire, they descended to fetch their unhappy new relations.
Interlopers At The Knap Chapter 3
It was with strange feelings that the girl and her mother, lately socheerful, passed out of the back door into the open air of thebarton, laden with hay scents and the herby breath of cows. A finesleet had begun to fall, and they trotted across the yard quickly.
　　The stable-door was open; a light shone from it--from the lanternwhich always hung there, and which Philip had lighted, as he said.
　　Softly nearing the door, Mrs. Hall pronounced the name 'Helena!'
　　There was no answer for the moment. Looking in she was taken bysurprise. Two people appeared before her. For one, instead of thedrabbish woman she had expected, Mrs. Hall saw a pale, dark-eyed,ladylike creature, whose personality ruled her attire rather thanwas ruled by it. She was in a new and handsome gown, of course, andan old bonnet. She was standing up, agitated; her hand was held byher companion--none else than Sally's affianced, Farmer CharlesDarton, upon whose fine figure the pale stranger's eyes were fixed,as his were fixed upon her. His other hand held the rein of hishorse, which was standing saddled as if just led in.
　　At sight of Mrs. Hall they both turned, looking at her in a wayneither quite conscious nor unconscious, and without seeming torecollect that words were necessary as a solution to the scene. Inanother moment Sally entered also, when Mr. Darton dropped hiscompanion's hand, led the horse aside, and came to greet hisbetrothed and Mrs. Hall.
　　'Ah!' he said, smiling--with something like forced composure--'thisis a roundabout way of arriving, you will say, my dear Mrs. Hall.
　　But we lost our way, which made us late. I saw a light here, andled in my horse at once--my friend Johns and my man have gone backto the little inn with theirs, not to crowd you too much. No soonerhad I entered than I saw that this lady had taken temporary shelterhere--and found I was intruding.'
　　'She is my daughter-in-law,' said Mrs. Hall calmly. 'My son, too,is in the house, but he has gone to bed unwell.'
　　Sally had stood staring wonderingly at the scene until this moment,hardly recognizing Darton's shake of the hand. The spell that boundher was broken by her perceiving the two little children seated on aheap of hay. She suddenly went forward, spoke to them, and took oneon her arm and the other in her hand.
　　'And two children?' said Mr. Darton, showing thus that he had notbeen there long enough as yet to understand the situation.
　　'My grandchildren,' said Mrs. Hall, with as much affected ease asbefore.
　　Philip Hall's wife, in spite of this interruption to her firstrencounter, seemed scarcely so much affected by it as to feel anyone's presence in addition to Mr. Darton's. However, arousingherself by a quick reflection, she threw a sudden critical glance ofher sad eyes upon Mrs. Hall; and, apparently finding hersatisfactory, advanced to her in a meek initiative. Then Sally andthe stranger spoke some friendly words to each other, and Sally wenton with the children into the house. Mrs. Hall and Helena followed,and Mr. Darton followed these, looking at Helena's dress andoutline, and listening to her voice like a man in a dream.
　　By the time the others reached the house Sally had already goneupstairs with the tired children. She rapped against the wall forRebekah to come in and help to attend to them, Rebekah's house beinga little 'spit-and-dab' cabin leaning against the substantial stone-work of Mrs. Hall's taller erection. When she came a bed was madeup for the little ones, and some supper given to them. Ondescending the stairs after seeing this done Sally went to thesitting-room. Young Mrs. Hall entered it just in advance of her,having in the interim retired with her mother-in-law to take off herbonnet, and otherwise make herself presentable. Hence it wasevident that no further communication could have passed between herand Mr. Darton since their brief interview in the stable.
　　Mr. Japheth Johns now opportunely arrived, and broke up therestraint of the company, after a few orthodox meteorologicalcommentaries had passed between him and Mrs. Hall by way ofintroduction. They at once sat down to supper, the present of wineand turkey not being produced for consumption to-night, lest thepremature display of those gifts should seem to throw doubt on Mrs.
　　Hall's capacities as a provider.
　　'Drink hearty, Mr. Johns--drink hearty,' said that matronmagnanimously. 'Such as it is there's plenty of. But perhapscider-wine is not to your taste?--though there's body in it.'
　　'Quite the contrairy, ma'am--quite the contrairy,' said thedairyman. 'For though I inherit the malt-liquor principle from myfather, I am a cider-drinker on my mother's side. She came fromthese parts, you know. And there's this to be said for't--'tis amore peaceful liquor, and don't lie about a man like your hotterdrinks. With care, one may live on it a twelvemonth withoutknocking down a neighbour, or getting a black eye from an oldacquaintance.'
　　The general conversation thus begun was continued briskly, though itwas in the main restricted to Mrs. Hall and Japheth, who in truthrequired but little help from anybody. There being slight call uponSally's tongue, she had ample leisure to do what her heart mostdesired, namely, watch her intended husband and her sister-in-lawwith a view of elucidating the strange momentary scene in which hermother and herself had surprised them in the stable. If that scenemeant anything, it meant, at least, that they had met before. Thatthere had been no time for explanations Sally could see, for theirmanner was still one of suppressed amazement at each other'spresence there. Darton's eyes, too, fell continually on the gownworn by Helena as if this were an added riddle to his perplexity;though to Sally it was the one feature in the case which was nomystery. He seemed to feel that fate had impishly changed his vis-a-vis in the lover's jig he was about to foot; that while the gownhad been expected to enclose a Sally, a Helena's face looked outfrom the bodice; that some long-lost hand met his own from thesleeves.
　　Sally could see that whatever Helena might know of Darton, she knewnothing of how the dress entered into his embarrassment. And atmoments the young girl would have persuaded herself that Darton'slooks at her sister-in-law were entirely the fruit of the clothesquery. But surely at other times a more extensive range ofspeculation and sentiment was expressed by her lover's eye than thatwhich the changed dress would account for.
　　Sally's independence made her one of the least jealous of women.
　　But there was something in the relations of these two visitors whichought to be explained.
　　Japheth Johns continued to converse in his well-known style,interspersing his talk with some private reflections on the positionof Darton and Sally, which, though the sparkle in his eye showedthem to be highly entertaining to himself, were apparently not quitecommunicable to the company. At last he withdrew for the night,going off to the roadside inn half-a-mile back, whither Dartonpromised to follow him in a few minutes.
　　Half-an-hour passed, and then Mr. Darton also rose to leave, Sallyand her sister-in-law simultaneously wishing him good-night as theyretired upstairs to their rooms. But on his arriving at the frontdoor with Mrs. Hall a sharp shower of rain began to come down, whenthe widow suggested that he should return to the fire-side till thestorm ceased.
　　Darton accepted her proposal, but insisted that, as it was gettinglate, and she was obviously tired, she should not sit up on hisaccount, since he could let himself out of the house, and wouldquite enjoy smoking a pipe by the hearth alone. Mrs. Hall assented;and Darton was left by himself. He spread his knees to the brands,lit up his tobacco as he had said, and sat gazing into the fire, andat the notches of the chimney-crook which hung above.
　　An occasional drop of rain rolled down the chimney with a hiss, andstill he smoked on; but not like a man whose mind was at rest. Inthe long run, however, despite his meditations, early hours afieldand a long ride in the open air produced their natural result. Hebegan to doze.
　　How long he remained in this half-unconscious state he did not know.
　　He suddenly opened his eyes. The back-brand had burnt itself intwo, and ceased to flame; the light which he had placed on themantelpiece had nearly gone out. But in spite of these deficienciesthere was a light in the apartment, and it came from elsewhere.
　　Turning his head he saw Philip Hall's wife standing at the entranceof the room with a bed-candle in one hand, a small brass tea-kettlein the other, and HIS gown, as it certainly seemed, still upon her.
　　'Helena!' said Darton, starting up.
　　Her countenance expressed dismay, and her first words were anapology. 'I--did not know you were here, Mr. Darton,' she said,while a blush flashed to her cheek. 'I thought every one hadretired--I was coming to make a little water boil; my husband seemsto be worse. But perhaps the kitchen fire can be lighted up again.'
　　'Don't go on my account. By all means put it on here as youintended,' said Darton. 'Allow me to help you.' He went forward totake the kettle from her hand, but she did not allow him, and placedit on the fire herself.
　　They stood some way apart, one on each side of the fireplace,waiting till the water should boil, the candle on the mantel betweenthem, and Helena with her eyes on the kettle. Darton was the firstto break the silence. 'Shall I call Sally?' he said.
　　'O no,' she quickly returned. 'We have given trouble enoughalready. We have no right here. But we are the sport of fate, andwere obliged to come.'
　　'No right here!' said he in surprise.
　　'None. I can't explain it now,' answered Helena. 'This kettle isvery slow.'
　　There was another pause; the proverbial dilatoriness of watched potswas never more clearly exemplified.
　　Helena's face was of that sort which seems to ask for assistancewithout the owner's knowledge--the very antipodes of Sally's, whichwas self-reliance expressed. Darton's eyes travelled from thekettle to Helena's face, then back to the kettle, then to the facefor rather a longer time. 'So I am not to know anything of themystery that has distracted me all the evening?' he said. 'How isit that a woman, who refused me because (as I supposed) my positionwas not good enough for her taste, is found to be the wife of a manwho certainly seems to be worse off than I?'
　　'He had the prior claim,' said she.
　　'What! you knew him at that time?'
　　'Yes, yes! Please say no more,' she implored.
　　'Whatever my errors, I have paid for them during the last fiveyears!'
　　The heart of Darton was subject to sudden overflowings. He was kindto a fault. 'I am sorry from my soul,' he said, involuntarilyapproaching her. Helena withdrew a step or two, at which he becameconscious of his movement, and quickly took his former place. Herehe stood without speaking, and the little kettle began to sing.
　　'Well, you might have been my wife if you had chosen,' he said atlast. 'But that's all past and gone. However, if you are in anytrouble or poverty I shall be glad to be of service, and as yourrelation by marriage I shall have a right to be. Does your uncleknow of your distress?'
　　'My uncle is dead. He left me without a farthing. And now we havetwo children to maintain.'
　　'What, left you nothing? How could he be so cruel as that?'
　　'I disgraced myself in his eyes.'
　　'Now,' said Darton earnestly, 'let me take care of the children, atleast while you are so unsettled. YOU belong to another, so Icannot take care of you.'
　　'Yes you can,' said a voice; and suddenly a third figure stoodbeside them. It was Sally. 'You can, since you seem to wish to?'
　　she repeated. 'She no longer belongs to another . . . My poorbrother is dead!'
　　Her face was red, her eyes sparkled, and all the woman came to thefront. 'I have heard it!' she went on to him passionately. 'Youcan protect her now as well as the children!' She turned then toher agitated sister-in-law. 'I heard something,' said Sally (in agentle murmur, differing much from her previous passionate words),'and I went into his room. It must have been the moment you left.
　　He went off so quickly, and weakly, and it was so unexpected, that Icouldn't leave even to call you.'
　　Darton was just able to gather from the confused discourse whichfollowed that, during his sleep by the fire, this brother whom hehad never seen had become worse; and that during Helena's absencefor water the end had unexpectedly come. The two young womenhastened upstairs, and he was again left alone.
　　After standing there a short time he went to the front door andlooked out; till, softly closing it behind him, he advanced andstood under the large sycamore-tree. The stars were flickeringcoldly, and the dampness which had just descended upon the earth inrain now sent up a chill from it. Darton was in a strange position,and he felt it. The unexpected appearance, in deep poverty, ofHelena--a young lady, daughter of a deceased naval officer, who hadbeen brought up by her uncle, a solicitor, and had refused Darton inmarriage years ago--the passionate, almost angry demeanour of Sallyat discovering them, the abrupt announcement that Helena was awidow; all this coming together was a conjuncture difficult to copewith in a moment, and made him question whether he ought to leavethe house or offer assistance. But for Sally's manner he wouldunhesitatingly have done the latter.
　　He was still standing under the tree when the door in front of himopened, and Mrs. Hall came out. She went round to the garden-gateat the side without seeing him. Darton followed her, intending tospeak.
　　Pausing outside, as if in thought, she proceeded to a spot where thesun came earliest in spring-time, and where the north wind neverblew; it was where the row of beehives stood under the wall.
　　Discerning her object, he waited till she had accomplished it.
　　It was the universal custom thereabout to wake the bees by tappingat their hives whenever a death occurred in the household, under thebelief that if this were not done the bees themselves would pineaway and perish during the ensuing year. As soon as an interiorbuzzing responded to her tap at the first hive Mrs. Hall went on tothe second, and thus passed down the row. As soon as she came backhe met her.
　　'What can I do in this trouble, Mrs. Hall?' he said.
　　'O--nothing, thank you, nothing,' she said in a tearful voice, nowjust perceiving him. 'We have called Rebekah and her husband, andthey will do everything necessary.' She told him in a few words theparticulars of her son's arrival, broken in health--indeed, atdeath's very door, though they did not suspect it--and suggested, asthe result of a conversation between her and her daughter, that thewedding should be postponed.
　　'Yes, of course,' said Darton. 'I think now to go straight to theinn and tell Johns what has happened.' It was not till after he hadshaken hands with her that he turned hesitatingly and added, 'Willyou tell the mother of his children that, as they are now leftfatherless, I shall be glad to take the eldest of them, if it wouldbe any convenience to her and to you?'
　　Mrs. Hall promised that her son's widow should he told of the offer,and they parted. He retired down the rooty slope and disappeared inthe direction of the inn, where he informed Johns of thecircumstances. Meanwhile Mrs. Hall had entered the house, Sally wasdownstairs in the sitting-room alone, and her mother explained toher that Darton had readily assented to the postponement.
　　'No doubt he has,' said Sally, with sad emphasis. 'It is not putoff for a week, or a month, or a year. I shall never marry him, andshe will!'
Interlopers At The Knap Chapter 4
Time passed, and the household on the Knap became again serene underthe composing influences of daily routine. A desultory, verydesultory correspondence, dragged on between Sally Hall and Darton,who, not quite knowing how to take her petulant words on the nightof her brother's death, had continued passive thus long. Helena andher children remained at the dairy-house, almost of necessity, andDarton therefore deemed it advisable to stay away.
　　One day, seven months later on, when Mr. Darton was as usual at hisfarm, twenty miles from Hintock, a note reached him from Helena.
　　She thanked him for his kind offer about her children, which hermother-in-law had duly communicated, and stated that she would beglad to accept it as regarded the eldest, the boy. Helena had, intruth, good need to do so, for her uncle had left her penniless, andall application to some relatives in the north had failed. Therewas, besides, as she said, no good school near Hintock to which shecould send the child.
　　On a fine summer day the boy came. He was accompanied half-way bySally and his mother--to the 'White Horse,' at Chalk Newton--wherehe was handed over to Darton's bailiff in a shining spring-cart, whomet them there.
　　He was entered as a day-scholar at a popular school at Casterbridge,three or four miles from Darton's, having first been taught byDarton to ride a forest-pony, on which he cantered to and from theaforesaid fount of knowledge, and (as Darton hoped) brought away apromising headful of the same at each diurnal expedition. Thethoughtful taciturnity into which Darton had latterly fallen wasquite dissipated by the presence of this boy.
　　When the Christmas holidays came it was arranged that he shouldspend them with his mother. The journey was, for some reason orother, performed in two stages, as at his coming, except that Dartonin person took the place of the bailiff, and that the boy andhimself rode on horseback.
　　Reaching the renowned 'White Horse,' Darton inquired if Miss andyoung Mrs. Hall were there to meet little Philip (as they had agreedto be). He was answered by the appearance of Helena alone at thedoor.
　　'At the last moment Sally would not come,' she faltered.
　　That meeting practically settled the point towards which these long-severed persons were converging. But nothing was broached about itfor some time yet. Sally Hall had, in fact, imparted the firstdecisive motion to events by refusing to accompany Helena. She soongave them a second move by writing the following note'[Private.]
　　'DEAR CHARLES,--Living here so long and intimately with Helena, Ihave naturally learnt her history, especially that of it whichrefers to you. I am sure she would accept you as a husband at theproper time, and I think you ought to give her the opportunity. Youinquire in an old note if I am sorry that I showed temper (which itWASN'T) that night when I heard you talking to her. No, Charles, Iam not sorry at all for what I said then.--Yours sincerely, SALLYHALL.'
　　Thus set in train, the transfer of Darton's heart back to itsoriginal quarters proceeded by mere lapse of time. In the followingJuly, Darton went to his friend Japheth to ask him at last to fulfilthe bridal office which had been in abeyance since the previousJanuary twelvemonths.
　　'With all my heart, man o' constancy!' said Dairyman Johns warmly.
　　'I've lost most of my genteel fair complexion haymaking this hotweather, 'tis true, but I'll do your business as well as them thatlook better. There be scents and good hair-oil in the world yet,thank God, and they'll take off the roughest o' my edge. I'llcompliment her. "Better late than never, Sally Hall," I'll say.'
　　'It is not Sally,' said Darton hurriedly. 'It is young Mrs. Hall.'
　　Japheth's face, as soon as he really comprehended, became a pictureof reproachful dismay. 'Not Sally?' he said. 'Why not Sally? Ican't believe it! Young Mrs. Hall! Well, well--where's yourwisdom?'
　　Darton shortly explained particulars; but Johns would not bereconciled. 'She was a woman worth having if ever woman was,' hecried. 'And now to let her go!'
　　'But I suppose I can marry where I like,' said Darton.
　　'H'm,' replied the dairyman, lifting his eyebrows expressively.
　　'This don't become you, Charles--it really do not. If I had donesuch a thing you would have sworn I was a curst no'thern fool to bedrawn off the scent by such a red-herring doll-oll-oll.'
　　Farmer Darton responded in such sharp terms to this laconic opinionthat the two friends finally parted in a way they had never partedbefore. Johns was to be no groomsman to Darton after all. He hadflatly declined. Darton went off sorry, and even unhappy,particularly as Japheth was about to leave that side of the county,so that the words which had divided them were not likely to beexplained away or softened down.
　　A short time after the interview Darton was united to Helena at asimple matter-of fact wedding; and she and her little girl joinedthe boy who had already grown to look on Darton's house as home.
　　For some months the farmer experienced an unprecedented happinessand satisfaction. There had been a flaw in his life, and it was asneatly mended as was humanly possible. But after a season thestream of events followed less clearly, and there were shades in hisreveries. Helena was a fragile woman, of little staying power,physically or morally, and since the time that he had originallyknown her--eight or ten years before--she had been severely tried.
　　She had loved herself out, in short, and was now occasionally givento moping. Sometimes she spoke regretfully of the gentilities ofher early life, and instead of comparing her present state with hercondition as the wife of the unlucky Hall, she mused rather on whatit had been before she took the first fatal step of clandestinelymarrying him. She did not care to please such people as those withwhom she was thrown as a thriving farmer's wife. She allowed thepretty trifles of agricultural domesticity to glide by her as sorrydetails, and had it not been for the children Darton's house wouldhave seemed but little brighter than it had been before.
　　This led to occasional unpleasantness, until Darton sometimesdeclared to himself that such endeavours as his to rectify earlydeviations of the heart by harking back to the old point mostlyfailed of success. 'Perhaps Johns was right,' he would say. 'Ishould have gone on with Sally. Better go with the tide and makethe best of its course than stem it at the risk of a capsize.' Buthe kept these unmelodious thoughts to himself, and was outwardlyconsiderate and kind.
　　This somewhat barren tract of his life had extended to less than ayear and a half when his ponderings were cut short by the loss ofthe woman they concerned. When she was in her grave he thoughtbetter of her than when she had been alive; the farm was a worseplace without her than with her, after all. No woman short ofdivine could have gone through such an experience as hers with herfirst husband without becoming a little soured. Her stagnantsympathies, her sometimes unreasonable manner, had covered a heartfrank and well meaning, and originally hopeful and warm. She lefthim a tiny red infant in white wrappings. To make life as easy aspossible to this touching object became at once his care.
　　As this child learnt to walk and talk Darton learnt to seefeasibility in a scheme which pleased him. Revolving the experimentwhich he had hitherto made upon life, he fancied he had gainedwisdom from his mistakes and caution from his miscarriages.
　　What the scheme was needs no penetration to discover. Once more hehad opportunity to recast and rectify his ill-wrought situations byreturning to Sally Hall, who still lived quietly on under hermother's roof at Hintock. Helena had been a woman to lend pathosand refinement to a home; Sally was the woman to brighten it. Shewould not, as Helena did, despise the rural simplicities of afarmer's fireside. Moreover, she had a pre-eminent qualificationfor Darton's household; no other woman could make so desirable amother to her brother's two children and Darton's one as Sally--while Darton, now that Helena had gone, was a more promising husbandfor Sally than he had ever been when liable to reminders from anuncured sentimental wound.
　　Darton was not a man to act rapidly, and the working out of hisreparative designs might have been delayed for some time. But therecame a winter evening precisely like the one which had darkened overthat former ride to Hintock, and he asked himself why he shouldpostpone longer, when the very landscape called for a repetition ofthat attempt.
　　He told his man to saddle the mare, booted and spurred himself witha younger horseman's nicety, kissed the two youngest children, androde off. To make the journey a complete parallel to the first, hewould fain have had his old acquaintance Japheth Johns with him.
　　But Johns, alas! was missing. His removal to the other side of thecounty had left unrepaired the breach which had arisen between himand Darton; and though Darton had forgiven him a hundred times, asJohns had probably forgiven Darton, the effort of reunion in presentcircumstances was one not likely to be made.
　　He screwed himself up to as cheerful a pitch as he could without hisformer crony, and became content with his own thoughts as he rode,instead of the words of a companion. The sun went down; the boughsappeared scratched in like an etching against the sky; old crookedmen with faggots at their backs said 'Good-night, sir,' and Dartonreplied 'Good-night' right heartily.
　　By the time he reached the forking roads it was getting as dark asit had been on the occasion when Johns climbed the directing-post.
　　Darton made no mistake this time. 'Nor shall I be able to mistake,thank Heaven, when I arrive,' he murmured. It gave him peculiarsatisfaction to think that the proposed marriage, like his first,was of the nature of setting in order things long awry, and not amomentary freak of fancy.
　　Nothing hindered the smoothness of his journey, which seemed nothalf its former length. Though dark, it was only between five andsix o'clock when the bulky chimneys of Mrs. Hall's residenceappeared in view behind the sycamore-tree. On second thoughts heretreated and put up at the ale-house as in former time; and when hehad plumed himself before the inn mirror, called for something todrink, and smoothed out the incipient wrinkles of care, he walked onto the Knap with a quick step.
Interlopers At The Knap Chapter 5
That evening Sally was making 'pinners' for the milkers, who werenow increased by two, for her mother and herself no longer joined inmilking the cows themselves. But upon the whole there was littlechange in the household economy, and not much in its appearance,beyond such minor particulars as that the crack over the window,which had been a hundred years coming, was a trifle wider; that thebeams were a shade blacker; that the influence of modernism hadsupplanted the open chimney corner by a grate; that Rebekah, who hadworn a cap when she had plenty of hair, had left it off now she hadscarce any, because it was reported that caps were not fashionable;and that Sally's face had naturally assumed a more womanly andexperienced cast.
　　Mrs. Hall was actually lifting coals with the tongs, as she had usedto do.
　　'Five years ago this very night, if I am not mistaken--' she said,laying on an ember.
　　'Not this very night--though 'twas one night this week,' said thecorrect Sally.
　　'Well, 'tis near enough. Five years ago Mr. Darton came to marryyou, and my poor boy Phil came home to die.' She sighed. 'Ah,Sally,' she presently said, 'if you had managed well Mr. Dartonwould have had you, Helena or none.'
　　'Don't be sentimental about that, mother,' begged Sally. 'I didn'tcare to manage well in such a case. Though I liked him, I wasn't soanxious. I would never have married the man in the midst of such ahitch as that was,' she added with decision; 'and I don't think Iwould if he were to ask me now.'
　　'I am not sure about that, unless you have another in your eye.'
　　'I wouldn't; and I'll tell you why. I could hardly marry him forlove at this time o' day. And as we've quite enough to live on ifwe give up the dairy to-morrow, I should have no need to marry forany meaner reason . . . I am quite happy enough as I am, and there'san end of it.'
　　Now it was not long after this dialogue that there came a mild rapat the door, and in a moment there entered Rebekah, looking asthough a ghost had arrived. The fact was that that accomplishedskimmer and churner (now a resident in the house) had overheard thedesultory observations between mother and daughter, and on openingthe door to Mr. Darton thought the coincidence must have a grislymeaning in it. Mrs. Hall welcomed the farmer with warm surprise, asdid Sally, and for a moment they rather wanted words.
　　'Can you push up the chimney-crook for me, Mr Darton? the notcheshitch,' said the matron. He did it, and the homely little actbridged over the awkward consciousness that he had been a strangerfor four years.
　　Mrs. Hall soon saw what he had come for, and left the principalstogether while she went to prepare him a late tea, smiling atSally's recent hasty assertions of indifference, when she saw howcivil Sally was. When tea was ready she joined them. She fanciedthat Darton did not look so confident as when he had arrived; butSally was quite light-hearted, and the meal passed pleasantly.
　　About seven he took his leave of them. Mrs. Hall went as far as thedoor to light him down the slope. On the doorstep he said frankly--'I came to ask your daughter to marry me; chose the night andeverything, with an eye to a favourable answer. But she won't.'
　　'Then she's a very ungrateful girl!' emphatically said Mrs. Hall.
　　Darton paused to shape his sentence, and asked, 'I--I supposethere's nobody else more favoured?'
　　'I can't say that there is, or that there isn't,' answered Mrs.
　　Hall. 'She's private in some things. I'm on your side, however,Mr. Darton, and I'll talk to her.'
　　'Thank 'ee, thank 'ee!' said the farmer in a gayer accent; and withthis assurance the not very satisfactory visit came to an end.
　　Darton descended the roots of the sycamore, the light was withdrawn,and the door closed. At the bottom of the slope he nearly ranagainst a man about to ascend.
　　'Can a jack-o'-lent believe his few senses on such a dark night, orcan't he?' exclaimed one whose utterance Darton recognized in amoment, despite its unexpectedness. 'I dare not swear he can,though I fain would!' The speaker was Johns.
　　Darton said he was glad of this opportunity, bad as it was, ofputting an end to the silence of years, and asked the dairyman whathe was travelling that way for.
　　Japheth showed the old jovial confidence in a moment. 'I'm going tosee your--relations--as they always seem to me,' he said--'Mrs. Halland Sally. Well, Charles, the fact is I find the naturalbarbarousness of man is much increased by a bachelor life, and, asyour leavings were always good enough for me, I'm tryingcivilization here.' He nodded towards the house.
　　'Not with Sally--to marry her?' said Darton, feeling something likea rill of ice water between his shoulders.
　　'Yes, by the help of Providence and my personal charms. And I thinkI shall get her. I am this road every week--my present dairy isonly four miles off, you know, and I see her through the window.
　　'Tis rather odd that I was going to speak practical to-night to herfor the first time. You've just called?'
　　'Yes, for a short while. But she didn't say a word about you.'
　　'A good sign, a good sign. Now that decides me. I'll swing themallet and get her answer this very night as I planned.'
　　A few more remarks, and Darton, wishing his friend joy of Sally in aslightly hollow tone of jocularity, bade him good-bye. Johnspromised to write particulars, and ascended, and was lost in theshade of the house and tree. A rectangle of light appeared whenJohns was admitted, and all was dark again.
　　'Happy Japheth!' said Darton. 'This then is the explanation!'
　　He determined to return home that night. In a quarter of an hour hepassed out of the village, and the next day went about his swede-lifting and storing as if nothing had occurred.
　　He waited and waited to hear from Johns whether the wedding-day wasfixed: but no letter came. He learnt not a single particular till,meeting Johns one day at a horse-auction, Darton exclaimed genially--rather more genially than he felt--'When is the joyful day to be?'
　　To his great surprise a reciprocity of gladness was not conspicuousin Johns. 'Not at all,' he said, in a very subdued tone. ''Tis abad job; she won't have me.'
　　Darton held his breath till he said with treacherous solicitude,'Try again--'tis coyness.'
　　'O no,' said Johns decisively. 'There's been none of that. Wetalked it over dozens of times in the most fair and square way. Shetells me plainly, I don't suit her. 'Twould be simply annoying herto ask her again. Ah, Charles, you threw a prize away when you lether slip five years ago.'
　　'I did--I did,' said Darton.
　　He returned from that auction with a new set of feelings in play.
　　He had certainly made a surprising mistake in thinking Johns hissuccessful rival. It really seemed as if he might hope for Sallyafter all.
　　This time, being rather pressed by business, Darton had recourse topen-and-ink, and wrote her as manly and straightforward a proposalas any woman could wish to receive. The reply came promptly:-'DEAR MR. DARTON,--I am as sensible as any woman can be of thegoodness that leads you to make me this offer a second time. Betterwomen than I would be proud of the honour, for when I read your nicelong speeches on mangold-wurzel, and such like topics, at theCasterbridge Farmers' Club, I do feel it an honour, I assure you.
　　But my answer is just the same as before. I will not try to explainwhat, in truth, I cannot explain--my reasons; I will simply say thatI must decline to be married to you. With good wishes as in formertimes, I am, your faithful friend,'SALLY HALL.'
　　Darton dropped the letter hopelessly. Beyond the negative, therewas just a possibility of sarcasm in it--'nice long speeches onmangold-wurzel' had a suspicious sound. However, sarcasm or none,there was the answer, and he had to be content.
　　He proceeded to seek relief in a business which at this timeengrossed much of his attention--that of clearing up a curiousmistake just current in the county, that he had been nearly ruinedby the recent failure of a local bank. A farmer named Darton hadlost heavily, and the similarity of name had probably led to theerror. Belief in it was so persistent that it demanded several daysof letter-writing to set matters straight, and persuade the worldthat he was as solvent as ever he had been in his life. He hadhardly concluded this worrying task when, to his delight, anotherletter arrived in the handwriting of Sally.
　　Darton tore it open; it was very short.
　　'DEAR MR. DARTON,--We have been so alarmed these last few days bythe report that you were ruined by the stoppage of --'s Bank, that,now it is contradicted I hasten, by my mother's wish, to say howtruly glad we are to find there is no foundation for the report.
　　After your kindness to my poor brother's children, I can do no lessthan write at such a moment. We had a letter from each of them afew days ago.--Your faithful friend,'SALLY HALL.'
　　'Mercenary little woman!' said Darton to himself with a smile.
　　'Then that was the secret of her refusal this time--she thought Iwas ruined.'
　　Now, such was Darton, that as hours went on he could not helpfeeling too generously towards Sally to condemn her in this. Whatdid he want in a wife? he asked himself. Love and integrity. Whatnext? Worldly wisdom. And was there really more than worldlywisdom in her refusal to go aboard a sinking ship? She now knew itwas otherwise. 'Begad,' he said, 'I'll try her again.'
　　The fact was he had so set his heart upon Sally, and Sally alone,that nothing was to be allowed to baulk him; and his reasoning waspurely formal.
　　Anniversaries having been unpropitious, he waited on till a brightday late in May--a day when all animate nature was fancying, in itstrusting, foolish way, that it was going to bask out of doors forevermore. As he rode through Long-Ash Lane it was scarcerecognizable as the track of his two winter journeys. No mistakecould be made now, even with his eyes shut. The cuckoo's note wasat its best, between April tentativeness and midsummer decrepitude,and the reptiles in the sun behaved as winningly as kittens on ahearth. Though afternoon, and about the same time as on the lastoccasion, it was broad day and sunshine when he entered Hintock, andthe details of the Knap dairy-house were visible far up the road.
　　He saw Sally in the garden, and was set vibrating. He had firstintended to go on to the inn; but 'No,' he said; 'I'll tie my horseto the garden-gate. If all goes well it can soon be taken round:
　　if not, I mount and ride away'
　　The tall shade of the horseman darkened the room in which Mrs. Hallsat, and made her start, for he had ridden by a side path to the topof the slope, where riders seldom came. In a few seconds he was inthe garden with Sally.
　　Five--ay, three minutes--did the business at the back of that row ofbees. Though spring had come, and heavenly blue consecrated thescene, Darton succeeded not. 'NO,' said Sally firmly. 'I willnever, never marry you, Mr. Darton. I would have done it once; butnow I never can.'
　　'But!'--implored Mr. Darton. And with a burst of real eloquence hewent on to declare all sorts of things that he would do for her. Hewould drive her to see her mother every week--take her to London--settle so much money upon her--Heaven knows what he did not promise,suggest, and tempt her with. But it availed nothing. Sheinterposed with a stout negative, which closed the course of hisargument like an iron gate across a highway. Darton paused.
　　'Then,' said he simply, 'you hadn't heard of my supposed failurewhen you declined last time?'
　　'I had not,' she said. 'But if I had 'twould have been all thesame.'
　　'And 'tis not because of any soreness from my slighting you yearsago?'
　　'No. That soreness is long past.'
　　'Ah--then you despise me, Sally?'
　　'No,' she slowly answered. 'I don't altogether despise you. Idon't think you quite such a hero as I once did--that's all. Thetruth is, I am happy enough as I am; and I don't mean to marry atall. Now, may _I_ ask a favour, sir?' She spoke with an ineffablecharm, which, whenever he thought of it, made him curse his loss ofher as long as he lived.
　　'To any extent.'
　　'Please do not put this question to me any more. Friends as long asyou like, but lovers and married never.'
　　'I never will,' said Darton. 'Not if I live a hundred years.'
　　And he never did. That he had worn out his welcome in her heart wasonly too plain.
　　When his step-children had grown up, and were placed out in life,all communication between Darton and the Hall family ceased. It wasonly by chance that, years after, he learnt that Sally,notwithstanding the solicitations her attractions drew down uponher, had refused several offers of marriage, and steadily adhered toher purpose of leading a single lifeMay 1884.
The Distracted Preacher Chapter 1
Something delayed the arrival of the Wesleyan minister, and a youngman came temporarily in his stead. It was on the thirteenth ofJanuary 183- that Mr. Stockdale, the young man in question, made hishumble entry into the village, unknown, and almost unseen. But whenthose of the inhabitants who styled themselves of his connectionbecame acquainted with him, they were rather pleased with thesubstitute than otherwise, though he had scarcely as yet acquiredballast of character sufficient to steady the consciences of thehundred-and-forty Methodists of pure blood who, at this time, livedin Nether-Moynton, and to give in addition supplementary support tothe mixed race which went to church in the morning and chapel in theevening, or when there was a tea--as many as a hundred-and-tenpeople more, all told, and including the parish-clerk in the winter-time, when it was too dark for the vicar to observe who passed upthe street at seven o'clock--which, to be just to him, he was neveranxious to do.
　　It was owing to this overlapping of creeds that the celebratedpopulation-puzzle arose among the denser gentry of the districtaround Nether-Moynton: how could it be that a parish containingfifteen score of strong full-grown Episcopalians, and nearlythirteen score of well-matured Dissenters, numbered barely two-and-twenty score adults in all?
　　The young man being personally interesting, those with whom he camein contact were content to waive for a while the graver question ofhis sufficiency. It is said that at this time of his life his eyeswere affectionate, though without a ray of levity; that his hair wascurly, and his figure tall; that he was, in short, a very lovableyouth, who won upon his female hearers as soon as they saw and heardhim, and caused them to say, 'Why didn't we know of this before hecame, that we might have gied him a warmer welcome!'
　　The fact was that, knowing him to be only provisionally selected,and expecting nothing remarkable in his person or doctrine, they andthe rest of his flock in Nether-Moynton had felt almost asindifferent about his advent as if they had been the soundestchurch-going parishioners in the country, and he their true andappointed parson. Thus when Stockdale set foot in the place nobodyhad secured a lodging for him, and though his journey had given hima bad cold in the head, he was forced to attend to that businesshimself. On inquiry he learnt that the only possible accommodationin the village would be found at the house of one Mrs. LizzyNewberry, at the upper end of the street.
　　It was a youth who gave this information, and Stockdale asked himwho Mrs. Newberry might be.
　　The boy said that she was a widow-woman, who had got no husband,because he was dead. Mr. Newberry, he added, had been a well-to-doman enough, as the saying was, and a farmer; but he had gone off ina decline. As regarded Mrs. Newberry's serious side, Stockdalegathered that she was one of the trimmers who went to church andchapel both.
　　'I'll go there,' said Stockdale, feeling that, in the absence ofpurely sectarian lodgings, he could do no better.
　　'She's a little particular, and won't hae gover'ment folks, orcurates, or the pa'son's friends, or such like,' said the laddubiously.
　　'Ah, that may be a promising sign: I'll call. Or no; just you goup and ask first if she can find room for me. I have to see one ortwo persons on another matter. You will find me down at thecarrier's.'
　　In a quarter of an hour the lad came back, and said that Mrs.
　　Newberry would have no objection to accommodate him, whereuponStockdale called at the house.
　　It stood within a garden-hedge, and seemed to be roomy andcomfortable. He saw an elderly woman, with whom he madearrangements to come the same night, since there was no inn in theplace, and he wished to house himself as soon as possible; thevillage being a local centre from which he was to radiate at once tothe different small chapels in the neighbourhood. He forthwith senthis luggage to Mrs. Newberry's from the carrier's, where he hadtaken shelter, and in the evening walked up to his temporary home.
　　As he now lived there, Stockdale felt it unnecessary to knock at thedoor; and entering quietly he had the pleasure of hearing footstepsscudding away like mice into the back quarters. He advanced to theparlour, as the front room was called, though its stone floor wasscarcely disguised by the carpet, which only over-laid the troddenareas, leaving sandy deserts under the bulging mouldings of thetable-legs, playing with brass furniture. But the room looked snugand cheerful. The firelight shone out brightly, trembling on theknobs and handles, and lurking in great strength on the undersurface of the chimney-piece. A deep arm-chair, covered withhorsehair, and studded with a countless throng of brass nails, waspulled up on one side of the fireplace. The tea-things were on thetable, the teapot cover was open, and a little hand-bell had beenlaid at that precise point towards which a person seated in thegreat chair might be expected instinctively to stretch his hand.
　　Stockdale sat down, not objecting to his experience of the room thusfar, and began his residence by tinkling the bell. A little girlcrept in at the summons, and made tea for him. Her name, she said,was Marther Sarer, and she lived out there, nodding towards the roadand village generally. Before Stockdale had got far with his meal,a tap sounded on the door behind him, and on his telling theinquirer to come in, a rustle of garments caused him to turn hishead. He saw before him a fine and extremely well-made young woman,with dark hair, a wide, sensible, beautiful forehead, eyes thatwarmed him before he knew it, and a mouth that was in itself apicture to all appreciative souls.
　　'Can I get you anything else for tea?' she said, coming forward astep or two, an expression of liveliness on her features, and herhand waving the door by its edge.
　　'Nothing, thank you,' said Stockdale, thinking less of what hereplied than of what might be her relation to the household.
　　'You are quite sure?' said the young woman, apparently aware that hehad not considered his answer.
　　He conscientiously examined the tea-things, and found them allthere. 'Quite sure, Miss Newberry,' he said.
　　'It is Mrs. Newberry,' she said. 'Lizzy Newberry, I used to beLizzy Simpkins.'
　　'O, I beg your pardon, Mrs. Newberry.' And before he had occasionto say more she left the room.
　　Stockdale remained in some doubt till Martha Sarah came to clear thetable. 'Whose house is this, my little woman,' said he.
　　'Mrs. Lizzy Newberry's, sir.'
　　'Then Mrs. Newberry is not the old lady I saw this afternoon?'
　　'No. That's Mrs. Newberry's mother. It was Mrs. Newberry who comedin to you just by now, because she wanted to see if you was good-looking.'
　　Later in the evening, when Stockdale was about to begin supper, shecame again. 'I have come myself, Mr. Stockdale,' she said. Theminister stood up in acknowledgment of the honour. 'I am afraidlittle Marther might not make you understand. What will you havefor supper?--there's cold rabbit, and there's a ham uncut.'
　　Stockdale said he could get on nicely with those viands, and supperwas laid. He had no more than cut a slice when tap-tap came to thedoor again. The minister had already learnt that this particularrhythm in taps denoted the fingers of his enkindling landlady, andthe doomed young fellow buried his first mouthful under a look ofreceptive blandness.
　　'We have a chicken in the house, Mr. Stockdale--I quite forgot tomention it just now. Perhaps you would like Marther Sarer to bringit up?'
　　Stockdale had advanced far enough in the art of being a young man tosay that he did not want the chicken, unless she brought it upherself; but when it was uttered he blushed at the daring gallantryof the speech, perhaps a shade too strong for a serious man and aminister. In three minutes the chicken appeared, but, to his greatsurprise, only in the hands of Martha Sarah. Stockdale wasdisappointed, which perhaps it was intended that he should be.
　　He had finished supper, and was not in the least anticipating Mrs.
　　Newberry again that night, when she tapped and entered as before.
　　Stockdale's gratified look told that she had lost nothing by notappearing when expected. It happened that the cold in the head fromwhich the young man suffered had increased with the approach ofnight, and before she had spoken he was seized with a violent fit ofsneezing which he could not anyhow repress.
　　Mrs. Newberry looked full of pity. 'Your cold is very bad to-night,Mr. Stockdale.'
　　Stockdale replied that it was rather troublesome.
　　'And I've a good mind'--she added archly, looking at the cheerlessglass of water on the table, which the abstemious minister was goingto drink.
　　'Yes, Mrs. Newberry?'
　　'I've a good mind that you should have something more likely to cureit than that cold stuff.'
　　'Well,' said Stockdale, looking down at the glass, 'as there is noinn here, and nothing better to be got in the village, of course itwill do.'
　　To this she replied, 'There is something better, not far off, thoughnot in the house. I really think you must try it, or you may beill. Yes, Mr. Stockdale, you shall.' She held up her finger,seeing that he was about to speak. 'Don't ask what it is; wait, andyou shall see.'
　　Lizzy went away, and Stockdale waited in a pleasant mood. Presentlyshe returned with her bonnet and cloak on, saying, 'I am so sorry,but you must help me to get it. Mother has gone to bed. Will youwrap yourself up, and come this way, and please bring that cup withyou?'
　　Stockdale, a lonely young fellow, who had for weeks felt a greatcraving for somebody on whom to throw away superfluous interest, andeven tenderness, was not sorry to join her; and followed his guidethrough the back door, across the garden, to the bottom, where theboundary was a wall. This wall was low, and beyond it Stockdalediscerned in the night shades several grey headstones, and theoutlines of the church roof and tower.
　　'It is easy to get up this way,' she said, stepping upon a bankwhich abutted on the wall; then putting her foot on the top of thestonework, and descending a spring inside, where the ground was muchhigher, as is the manner of graveyards to be. Stockdale did thesame, and followed her in the dusk across the irregular ground tillthey came to the tower door, which, when they had entered, shesoftly closed behind them.
　　'You can keep a secret?' she said, in a musical voice.
　　'Like an iron chest!' said he fervently.
　　Then from under her cloak she produced a small lighted lantern,which the minister had not noticed that she carried at all. Thelight showed them to be close to the singing-gallery stairs, underwhich lay a heap of lumber of all sorts, but consisting mostly ofdecayed framework, pews, panels, and pieces of flooring, that fromtime to time had been removed from their original fixings in thebody of the edifice and replaced by new.
　　'Perhaps you will drag some of those boards aside?' she said,holding the lantern over her head to light him better. 'Or will youtake the lantern while I move them?'
　　'I can manage it,' said the young man, and acting as she ordered, heuncovered, to his surprise, a row of little barrels bound with woodhoops, each barrel being about as large as the nave of a heavywaggon-wheel.
　　When they were laid open Lizzy fixed her eyes on him, as if shewondered what he would say.
　　'You know what they are?' she asked, finding that he did not speak.
　　'Yes, barrels,' said Stockdale simply. He was an inland man, theson of highly respectable parents, and brought up with a single eyeto the ministry; and the sight suggested nothing beyond the factthat such articles were there.
　　'You are quite right, they are barrels,' she said, in an emphatictone of candour that was not without a touch of irony.
　　Stockdale looked at her with an eye of sudden misgiving. 'Notsmugglers' liquor?' he said.
　　'Yes,' said she. 'They are tubs of spirit that have accidentallycome over in the dark from France.'
　　In Nether-Moynton and its vicinity at this date people always smiledat the sort of sin called in the outside world illicit trading; andthese little kegs of gin and brandy were as well known to theinhabitants as turnips. So that Stockdale's innocent ignorance, andhis look of alarm when he guessed the sinister mystery, seemed tostrike Lizzy first as ludicrous, and then as very awkward for thegood impression that she wished to produce upon him.
　　'Smuggling is carried on here by some of the people,' she said in agentle, apologetic voice. 'It has been their practice forgenerations, and they think it no harm. Now, will you roll out oneof the tubs?'
　　'What to do with it?' said the minister.
　　'To draw a little from it to cure your cold,' she answered. 'It isso 'nation strong that it drives away that sort of thing in a jiffy.
　　O, it is all right about our taking it. I may have what I like; theowner of the tubs says so. I ought to have had some in the house,and then I shouldn't ha' been put to this trouble; but I drink nonemyself, and so I often forget to keep it indoors.'
　　'You are allowed to help yourself, I suppose, that you may notinform where their hiding-place is?'
　　'Well, no; not that particularly; but I may take any if I want it.
　　So help yourself.'
　　'I will, to oblige you, since you have a right to it,' murmured theminister; and though he was not quite satisfied with his part in theperformance, he rolled one of the 'tubs' out from the corner intothe middle of the tower floor. 'How do you wish me to get it out--with a gimlet, I suppose?'
　　'No, I'll show you,' said his interesting companion; and she held upwith her other hand a shoemaker's awl and a hammer. 'You must neverdo these things with a gimlet, because the wood-dust gets in; andwhen the buyers pour out the brandy that would tell them that thetub had been broached. An awl makes no dust, and the hole nearlycloses up again. Now tap one of the hoops forward.'
　　Stockdale took the hammer and did so.
　　'Now make the hole in the part that was covered by the hoop.'
　　He made the hole as directed. 'It won't run out,' he said.
　　'O yes it will,' said she. 'Take the tub between your knees, andsqueeze the heads; and I'll hold the cup.'
　　Stockdale obeyed; and the pressure taking effect upon the tub, whichseemed, to be thin, the spirit spirted out in a stream. When thecup was full he ceased pressing, and the flow immediately stopped.
　　'Now we must fill up the keg with water,' said Lizzy, 'or it willcluck like forty hens when it is handled, and show that 'tis notfull.'
　　'But they tell you you may take it?'
　　'Yes, the SMUGGLERS: but the BUYERS must not know that thesmugglers have been kind to me at their expense.'
　　'I see,' said Stockdale doubtfully. 'I much question the honesty ofthis proceeding.'
　　By her direction he held the tub with the hole upwards, and while hewent through the process of alternately pressing and ceasing topress, she produced a bottle of water, from which she tookmouthfuls, conveying each to the keg by putting her pretty lips tothe hole, where it was sucked in at each recovery of the cask frompressure. When it was again full he plugged the hole, knocked thehoop down to its place, and buried the tub in the lumber as before.
　　'Aren't the smugglers afraid that you will tell?' he asked, as theyrecrossed the churchyard.
　　'O no; they are not afraid of that. I couldn't do such a thing.'
　　'They have put you into a very awkward corner,' said Stockdaleemphatically. 'You must, of course, as an honest person, sometimesfeel that it is your duty to inform--really you must.'
　　'Well, I have never particularly felt it as a duty; and, besides, myfirst husband--' She stopped, and there was some confusion in hervoice. Stockdale was so honest and unsophisticated that he did notat once discern why she paused: but at last he did perceive thatthe words were a slip, and that no woman would have uttered 'firsthusband' by accident unless she had thought pretty frequently of asecond. He felt for her confusion, and allowed her time to recoverand proceed. 'My husband,' she said, in a self-corrected tone,'used to know of their doings, and so did my father, and kept thesecret. I cannot inform, in fact, against anybody.'
　　'I see the hardness of it,' he continued, like a man who looked farinto the moral of things. 'And it is very cruel that you should betossed and tantalized between your memories and your conscience. Ido hope, Mrs. Newberry, that you will soon see your way out of thisunpleasant position.'
　　'Well, I don't just now,' she murmured.
　　By this time they had passed over the wall and entered the house,where she brought him a glass and hot water, and left him to his ownreflections. He looked after her vanishing form, asking himselfwhether he, as a respectable man, and a minister, and a shininglight, even though as yet only of the halfpenny-candle sort, werequite justified in doing this thing. A sneeze settled the question;and he found that when the fiery liquor was lowered by the additionof twice or thrice the quantity of water, it was one of theprettiest cures for a cold in the head that he had ever known,particularly at this chilly time of the year.
　　Stockdale sat in the deep chair about twenty minutes sipping andmeditating, till he at length took warmer views of things, andlonged for the morrow, when he would see Mrs. Newberry again. Hethen felt that, though chronologically at a short distance, it wouldin an emotional sense be very long before to-morrow came, and walkedrestlessly round the room. His eye was attracted by a framed andglazed sampler in which a running ornament of fir-trees and peacockssurrounded the following pretty bit of sentiment:-'Rose-leaves smell when roses thrive,Here's my work while I'm alive;Rose-leaves smell when shrunk and shed,Here's my work when I am dead.
　　'Lizzy Simpkins. Fear God. Honour the King.
　　'Aged 11 years.
　　''Tis hers,' he said to himself. 'Heavens, how I like that name!'
　　Before he had done thinking that no other name from Abigail toZenobia would have suited his young landlady so well, tap-tap cameagain upon the door; and the minister started as her face appearedyet another time, looking so disinterested that the most ingeniouswould have refrained from asserting that she had come to affect hisfeelings by her seductive eyes.
　　'Would you like a fire in your room, Mr. Stockdale, on account ofyour cold?'
　　The minister, being still a little pricked in the conscience forcountenancing her in watering the spirits, saw here a way to self-chastisement. 'No, I thank you,' he said firmly; 'it is notnecessary. I have never been used to one in my life, and it wouldbe giving way to luxury too far.'
　　'Then I won't insist,' she said, and disconcerted him by vanishinginstantly.
　　Wondering if she was vexed by his refusal, he wished that he hadchosen to have a fire, even though it should have scorched him outof bed and endangered his self-discipline for a dozen days.
　　However, he consoled himself with what was in truth a rareconsolation for a budding lover, that he was under the same roofwith Lizzy; her guest, in fact, to take a poetical view of the termlodger; and that he would certainly see her on the morrow.
　　The morrow came, and Stockdale rose early, his cold quite gone. Hehad never in his life so longed for the breakfast hour as he didthat day, and punctually at eight o'clock, after a short walk, toreconnoitre the premises, he re-entered the door of his dwelling.
　　Breakfast passed, and Martha Sarah attended, but nobody camevoluntarily as on the night before to inquire if there were otherwants which he had not mentioned, and which she would attempt togratify. He was disappointed, and went out, hoping to see her atdinner. Dinner time came; he sat down to the meal, finished it,lingered on for a whole hour, although two new teachers were at thatmoment waiting at the chapel-door to speak to him by appointment.
　　It was useless to wait longer, and he slowly went his way down thelane, cheered by the thought that, after all, he would see her inthe evening, and perhaps engage again in the delightful tub-broaching in the neighbouring church tower, which proceeding heresolved to render more moral by steadfastly insisting that no watershould be introduced to fill up, though the tub should cluck likeall the hens in Christendom. But nothing could disguise the factthat it was a queer business; and his countenance fell when hethought how much more his mind was interested in that matter than inhis serious duties.
　　However, compunction vanished with the decline of day. Night came,and his tea and supper; but no Lizzy Newberry, and no sweettemptations. At last the minister could bear it no longer, and saidto his quaint little attendant, 'Where is Mrs. Newberry to-day?'
　　judiciously handing a penny as he spoke.
　　'She's busy,' said Martha.
　　'Anything serious happened?' he asked, handing another penny, andrevealing yet additional pennies in the background.
　　'O no--nothing at all!' said she, with breathless confidence.
　　'Nothing ever happens to her. She's only biding upstairs in bedbecause 'tis her way sometimes.'
　　Being a young man of some honour, he would not question further, andassuming that Lizzy must have a bad headache, or other slightailment, in spite of what the girl had said, he went to beddissatisfied, not even setting eyes on old Mrs. Simpkins. 'I saidlast night that I should see her to-morrow,' he reflected; 'but thatwas not to be!'
　　Next day he had better fortune, or worse, meeting her at the foot ofthe stairs in the morning, and being favoured by a visit or two fromher during the day--once for the purpose of making kindly inquiriesabout his comfort, as on the first evening, and at another time toplace a bunch of winter-violets on his table, with a promise torenew them when they drooped. On these occasions there wassomething in her smile which showed how conscious she was of theeffect she produced, though it must be said that it was rather ahumorous than a designing consciousness, and savoured more of pridethan of vanity.
　　As for Stockdale, he clearly perceived that he possessed unlimitedcapacity for backsliding, and wished that tutelary saints were notdenied to Dissenters. He set a watch upon his tongue and eyes forthe space of one hour and a half, after which he found it wasuseless to struggle further, and gave himself up to the situation.
　　'The other minister will be here in a month,' he said to himselfwhen sitting over the fire. 'Then I shall be off, and she willdistract my mind no more! . . . And then, shall I go on living bymyself for ever? No; when my two years of probation are finished, Ishall have a furnished house to live in, with a varnished door and abrass knocker; and I'll march straight back to her, and ask herflat, as soon as the last plate is on the dresser!
　　Thus a titillating fortnight was passed by young Stockdale, duringwhich time things proceeded much as such matters have done eversince the beginning of history. He saw the object of attachmentseveral times one day, did not see her at all the next, met her whenhe least expected to do so, missed her when hints and signs as towhere she should be at a given hour almost amounted to anappointment. This mild coquetry was perhaps fair enough under thecircumstances of their being so closely lodged, and Stockdale put upwith it as philosophically as he was able. Being in her own house,she could, after vexing him or disappointing him of her presence,easily win him back by suddenly surrounding him with those littleattentions which her position as his landlady put it in her power tobestow. When he had waited indoors half the day to see her, and onfinding that she would not be seen, had gone off in a huff to thedreariest and dampest walk he could discover, she would restoreequilibrium in the evening with 'Mr. Stockdale, I have fancied youmust feel draught o' nights from your bedroom window, and so I havebeen putting up thicker curtains this afternoon while you were out;'
　　or, 'I noticed that you sneezed twice again this morning, Mr.
　　Stockdale. Depend upon it that cold is hanging about you yet; I amsure it is--I have thought of it continually; and you must let memake a posset for you.'
　　Sometimes in coming home he found his sitting-room rearranged,chairs placed where the table had stood, and the table ornamentedwith the few fresh flowers and leaves that could be obtained at thisseason, so as to add a novelty to the room. At times she would bestanding on a chair outside the house, trying to nail up a branch ofthe monthly rose which the winter wind had blown down; and of coursehe stepped forward to assist her, when their hands got mixed inpassing the shreds and nails. Thus they became friends again aftera disagreement. She would utter on these occasions some pretty anddeprecatory remark on the necessity of her troubling him anew; andhe would straightway say that he would do a hundred times as muchfor her if she should so require.
The Distracted Preacher Chapter 2
Matters being in this advancing state, Stockdale was rathersurprised one cloudy evening, while sitting in his room, at hearingher speak in low tones of expostulation to some one at the door. Itwas nearly dark, but the shutters were not yet closed, nor thecandles lighted; and Stockdale was tempted to stretch his headtowards the window. He saw outside the door a young man in clothesof a whitish colour, and upon reflection judged their wearer to bethe well-built and rather handsome miller who lived below. Themiller's voice was alternately low and firm, and sometimes itreached the level of positive entreaty; but what the words wereStockdale could in no way hear.
　　Before the colloquy had ended, the minister's attention wasattracted by a second incident. Opposite Lizzy's home grew a clumpof laurels, forming a thick and permanent shade. One of the laurelboughs now quivered against the light background of sky, and in amoment the head of a man peered out, and remained still. He seemedto be also much interested in the conversation at the door, and wasplainly lingering there to watch and listen. Had Stockdale stood inany other relation to Lizzy than that of a lover, he might have goneout and investigated the meaning of this: but being as yet but anunprivileged ally, he did nothing more than stand up and showhimself against the firelight, whereupon the listener disappeared,and Lizzy and the miller spoke in lower tones.
　　Stockdale was made so uneasy by the circumstance, that as soon asthe miller was gone, he said, 'Mrs. Newberry, are you aware that youwere watched just now, and your conversation heard?'
　　'When?' she said.
　　'When you were talking to that miller. A man was looking from thelaurel-tree as jealously as if he could have eaten you.'
　　She showed more concern than the trifling event seemed to demand,and he added, 'Perhaps you were talking of things you did not wishto be overheard?'
　　'I was talking only on business,' she said.
　　'Lizzy, be frank!' said the young man. 'If it was only on business,why should anybody wish to listen to you?'
　　She looked curiously at him. 'What else do you think it could be,then?'
　　'Well--the only talk between a young woman and man that is likely toamuse an eavesdropper.'
　　'Ah yes,' she said, smiling in spite of her preoccupation. 'Well,my cousin Owlett has spoken to me about matrimony, every now andthen, that's true; but he was not speaking of it then. I wish hehad been speaking of it, with all my heart. It would have been muchless serious for me.'
　　'O Mrs. Newberry!'
　　'It would. Not that I should ha' chimed in with him, of course. Iwish it for other reasons. I am glad, Mr. Stockdale, that you havetold me of that listener. It is a timely warning, and I must see mycousin again.'
　　'But don't go away till I have spoken,' said the minister. 'I'llout with it at once, and make no more ado. Let it be Yes or Nobetween us, Lizzy; please do!' And he held out his hand, in whichshe freely allowed her own to rest, but without speaking.
　　'You mean Yes by that?' he asked, after waiting a while.
　　'You may be my sweetheart, if you will.'
　　'Why not say at once you will wait for me until I have a house andcan come back to marry you.'
　　'Because I am thinking--thinking of something else,' she said withembarrassment. 'It all comes upon me at once, and I must settle onething at a time.'
　　'At any rate, dear Lizzy, you can assure me that the miller shallnot be allowed to speak to you except on business? You have neverdirectly encouraged him?'
　　She parried the question by saying, 'You see, he and his party havebeen in the habit of leaving things on my premises sometimes, and asI have not denied him, it makes him rather forward.'
　　'Things--what things?'
　　'Tubs--they are called Things here.'
　　'But why don't you deny him, my dear Lizzy?'
　　'I cannot well.'
　　'You are too timid. It is unfair of him to impose so upon you, andget your good name into danger by his smuggling tricks. Promise methat the next time he wants to leave his tubs here you will let meroll them into the street?'
　　She shook her head. 'I would not venture to offend the neighboursso much as that,' said she, 'or do anything that would be so likelyto put poor Owlett into the hands of the excisemen.'
　　Stockdale sighed, and said that he thought hers a mistakengenerosity when it extended to assisting those who cheated the kingof his dues. 'At any rate, you will let me make him keep hisdistance as your lover, and tell him flatly that you are not forhim?'
　　'Please not, at present,' she said. 'I don't wish to offend my oldneighbours. It is not only Owlett who is concerned.'
　　'This is too bad,' said Stockdale impatiently.
　　'On my honour, I won't encourage him as my lover,' Lizzy answeredearnestly. 'A reasonable man will be satisfied with that.'
　　'Well, so I am,' said Stockdale, his countenance clearing.
The Distracted Preacher Chapter 3
Stockdale now began to notice more particularly a feature in thelife of his fair landlady, which he had casually observed butscarcely ever thought of before. It was that she was markedlyirregular in her hours of rising. For a week or two she would betolerably punctual, reaching the ground-floor within a few minutesof half-past seven. Then suddenly she would not be visible tilltwelve at noon, perhaps for three or four days in succession; andtwice he had certain proof that she did not leave her room tillhalf-past three in the afternoon. The second time that this extremelateness came under his notice was on a day when he had particularlywished to consult with her about his future movements; and heconcluded, as he always had done, that she had a cold, headache, orother ailment, unless she had kept herself invisible to avoidmeeting and talking to him, which he could hardly believe. Theformer supposition was disproved, however, by her innocently saying,some days later, when they were speaking on a question of health,that she had never had a moment's heaviness, headache, or illness ofany kind since the previous January twelvemonth.
　　'I am glad to hear it,' said he. 'I thought quite otherwise.'
　　'What, do I look sickly?' she asked, turning up her face to show theimpossibility of his gazing on it and holding such a belief for amoment.
　　'Not at all; I merely thought so from your being sometimes obligedto keep your room through the best part of the day.'
　　'O, as for that--it means nothing,' she murmured, with a look whichsome might have called cold, and which was the worst look that heliked to see upon her. 'It is pure sleepiness, Mr. Stockdale.'
　　'Never!'
　　'It is, I tell you. When I stay in my room till half-past three inthe afternoon, you may always be sure that I slept soundly tillthree, or I shouldn't have stayed there.'
　　'It is dreadful,' said Stockdale, thinking of the disastrous effectsof such indulgence upon the household of a minister, should itbecome a habit of everyday occurrence.
　　'But then,' she said, divining his good and prescient thoughts, 'itonly happens when I stay awake all night. I don't go to sleep tillfive or six in the morning sometimes.'
　　'Ah, that's another matter,' said Stockdale. 'Sleeplessness to suchan alarming extent is real illness. Have you spoken to a doctor?'
　　'O no--there is no need for doing that--it is all natural to me.'
　　And she went away without further remark.
　　Stockdale might have waited a long time to know the real cause ofher sleeplessness, had it not happened that one dark night he wassitting in his bedroom jotting down notes for a sermon, whichoccupied him perfunctorily for a considerable time after the othermembers of the household had retired. He did not get to bed tillone o'clock. Before he had fallen asleep he heard a knocking at thefront door, first rather timidly performed, and then louder. Nobodyanswered it, and the person knocked again. As the house stillremained undisturbed, Stockdale got out of bed, went to his window,which overlooked the door, and opening it, asked who was there.
　　A young woman's voice replied that Susan Wallis was there, and thatshe had come to ask if Mrs. Newberry could give her some mustard tomake a plaster with, as her father was taken very ill on the chest.
　　The minister, having neither bell nor servant, was compelled to actin person. 'I will call Mrs. Newberry,' he said. Partly dressinghimself; he went along the passage and tapped at Lizzy's door. Shedid not answer, and, thinking of her erratic habits in the matter ofsleep, he thumped the door persistently, when he discovered, by itsmoving ajar under his knocking, that it had only been gently pushedto. As there was now a sufficient entry for the voice, he knockedno longer, but said in firm tones, 'Mrs. Newberry, you are wanted.'
　　The room was quite silent; not a breathing, not a rustle, came fromany part of it. Stockdale now sent a positive shout through theopen space of the door: 'Mrs. Newberry!'--still no answer, ormovement of any kind within. Then he heard sounds from the oppositeroom, that of Lizzy's mother, as if she had been aroused by hisuproar though Lizzy had not, and was dressing herself hastily.
　　Stockdale softly closed the younger woman's door and went on to theother, which was opened by Mrs. Simpkins before he could reach it.
　　She was in her ordinary clothes, and had a light in her hand.
　　'What's the person calling about?' she said in alarm.
　　Stockdale told the girl's errand, adding seriously, 'I cannot wakeMrs. Newberry.'
　　'It is no matter,' said her mother. 'I can let the girl have whatshe wants as well as my daughter.' And she came out of the room andwent downstairs.
　　Stockdale retired towards his own apartment, saying, however, toMrs. Simpkins from the landing, as if on second thoughts, 'I supposethere is nothing the matter with Mrs. Newberry, that I could notwake her?'
　　'O no,' said the old lady hastily. 'Nothing at all.'
　　Still the minister was not satisfied. 'Will you go in and see?' hesaid. 'I should be much more at ease.'
　　Mrs. Simpkins returned up the staircase, went to her daughter'sroom, and came out again almost instantly. 'There is nothing at allthe matter with Lizzy,' she said; and descended again to attend tothe applicant, who, having seen the light, had remained quiet duringthis interval.
　　Stockdale went into his room and lay down as before. He heardLizzy's mother open the front door, admit the girl, and then themurmured discourse of both as they went to the store-cupboard forthe medicament required. The girl departed, the door was fastened,Mrs. Simpkins came upstairs, and the house was again in silence.
　　Still the minister did not fall asleep. He could not get rid of asingular suspicion, which was all the more harassing in being, iftrue, the most unaccountable thing within his experience. ThatLizzy Newberry was in her bedroom when he made such a clamour at thedoor he could not possibly convince himself; notwithstanding that hehad heard her come upstairs at the usual time, go into her chamber,and shut herself up in the usual way. Yet all reason was so muchagainst her being elsewhere, that he was constrained to go backagain to the unlikely theory of a heavy sleep, though he had heardneither breath nor movement during a shouting and knocking loudenough to rouse the Seven Sleepers.
　　Before coming to any positive conclusion he fell asleep himself, anddid not awake till day. He saw nothing of Mrs. Newberry in themorning, before he went out to meet the rising sun, as he liked todo when the weather was fine; but as this was by no means unusual,he took no notice of it. At breakfast-time he knew that she was notfar off by hearing her in the kitchen, and though he saw nothing ofher person, that back apartment being rigorously closed against hiseyes, she seemed to be talking, ordering, and bustling about amongthe pots and skimmers in so ordinary a manner, that there was noreason for his wasting more time in fruitless surmise.
　　The minister suffered from these distractions, and his extemporizedsermons were not improved thereby. Already he often said Romans forCorinthians in the pulpit, and gave out hymns in strange crampedmetres, that hitherto had always been skipped, because thecongregation could not raise a tune to fit them. He fully resolvedthat as soon as his few weeks of stay approached their end he wouldcut the matter short, and commit himself by proposing a definiteengagement, repenting at leisure if necessary.
　　With this end in view, he suggested to her on the evening after hermysterious sleep that they should take a walk together just beforedark, the latter part of the proposition being introduced that theymight return home unseen. She consented to go; and away they wentover a stile, to a shrouded footpath suited for the occasion. But,in spite of attempts on both sides, they were unable to infuse muchspirit into the ramble. She looked rather paler than usual, andsometimes turned her head away.
　　'Lizzy,' said Stockdale reproachfully, when they had walked insilence a long distance.
　　'Yes,' said she.
　　'You yawned--much my company is to you!' He put it in that way, buthe was really wondering whether her yawn could possibly have more todo with physical weariness from the night before than mentalweariness of that present moment. Lizzy apologized, and owned thatshe was rather tired, which gave him an opening for a directquestion on the point; but his modesty would not allow him to put itto her; and he uncomfortably resolved to wait.
　　The month of February passed with alternations of mud and frost,rain and sleet, east winds and north-westerly gales. The hollowplaces in the ploughed fields showed themselves as pools of water,which had settled there from the higher levels, and had not yetfound time to soak away. The birds began to get lively, and asingle thrush came just before sunset each evening, and sanghopefully on the large elm-tree which stood nearest to Mrs.
　　Newberry's house. Cold blasts and brittle earth had given place toan oozing dampness more unpleasant in itself than frost; but itsuggested coming spring, and its unpleasantness was of a bearablekind.
　　Stockdale had been going to bring about a practical understandingwith Lizzy at least half-a-dozen times; but, what with the mysteryof her apparent absence on the night of the neighbour's call, andher curious way of lying in bed at unaccountable times, he felt acheck within him whenever he wanted to speak out. Thus they stilllived on as indefinitely affianced lovers, each of whom hardlyacknowledged the other's claim to the name of chosen one. Stockdalepersuaded himself that his hesitation was owing to the postponementof the ordained minister's arrival, and the consequent delay in hisown departure, which did away with all necessity for haste in hiscourtship; but perhaps it was only that his discretion wasreasserting itself, and telling him that he had better get clearerideas of Lizzy before arranging for the grand contract of his lifewith her. She, on her part, always seemed ready to be urged furtheron that question than he had hitherto attempted to go; but she wasnone the less independent, and to a degree which would have keptfrom flagging the passion of a far more mutable man.
　　On the evening of the first of March he went casually into hisbedroom about dusk, and noticed lying on a chair a greatcoat, hat,and breeches. Having no recollection of leaving any clothes of hisown in that spot, he went and examined them as well as he could inthe twilight, and found that they did not belong to him. He pausedfor a moment to consider how they might have got there. He was theonly man living in the house; and yet these were not his garments,unless he had made a mistake. No, they were not his. He called upMartha Sarah.
　　'How did these things come in my room?' he said, flinging theobjectionable articles to the floor.
　　Martha said that Mrs. Newberry had given them to her to brush, andthat she had brought them up there thinking they must be Mr.
　　Stockdale's, as there was no other gentleman a-lodging there.
　　'Of course you did,' said Stockdale. 'Now take them down to yourmis'ess, and say they are some clothes I have found here and knownothing about.'
　　As the door was left open he heard the conversation downstairs.
　　'How stupid!' said Mrs. Newberry, in a tone of confusion. 'Why,Marther Sarer, I did not tell you to take 'em to Mr. Stockdale'sroom?'
　　'I thought they must be his as they was so muddy,' said Marthahumbly.
　　'You should have left 'em on the clothes-horse,' said the youngmistress severely; and she came upstairs with the garments on herarm, quickly passed Stockdale's room, and threw them forcibly into acloset at the end of a passage. With this the incident ended, andthe house was silent again.
　　There would have been nothing remarkable in finding such clothes ina widow's house had they been clean; or moth-eaten, or creased, ormouldy from long lying by; but that they should be splashed withrecent mud bothered Stockdale a good deal. When a young pastor isin the aspen stage of attachment, and open to agitation at themerest trifles, a really substantial incongruity of this complexionis a disturbing thing. However, nothing further occurred at thattime; but he became watchful, and given to conjecture, and wasunable to forget the circumstance.
　　One morning, on looking from his window, he saw Mrs. Newberryherself brushing the tails of a long drab greatcoat, which, if hemistook not, was the very same garment as the one that had adornedthe chair of his room. It was densely splashed up to the hollow ofthe back with neighbouring Nether-Moynton mud, to judge by itscolour, the spots being distinctly visible to him in the sunlight.
　　The previous day or two having been wet, the inference wasirresistible that the wearer had quite recently been walking someconsiderable distance about the lanes and fields. Stockdale openedthe window and looked out, and Mrs. Newberry turned her head. Herface became slowly red; she never had looked prettier, or moreincomprehensible, he waved his hand affectionately, and said good-morning; she answered with embarrassment, having ceased heroccupation on the instant that she saw him, and rolled up the coathalf-cleaned.
　　Stockdale shut the window. Some simple explanation of herproceeding was doubtless within the bounds of possibility; but hehimself could not think of one; and he wished that she had placedthe matter beyond conjecture by voluntarily saying something aboutit there and then.
　　But, though Lizzy had not offered an explanation at the moment, thesubject was brought forward by her at the next time of theirmeeting. She was chatting to him concerning some other event, andremarked that it happened about the time when she was dusting someold clothes that had belonged to her poor husband.
　　'You keep them clean out of respect to his memory?' said Stockdaletentatively.
　　'I air and dust them sometimes,' she said, with the most charminginnocence in the world.
　　'Do dead men come out of their graves and walk in mud?' murmured theminister, in a cold sweat at the deception that she was practising.
　　'What did you say?' asked Lizzy.
　　'Nothing, nothing,' said he mournfully. 'Mere words--a phrase thatwill do for my sermon next Sunday.' It was too plain that Lizzy wasunaware that he had seen actual pedestrian splashes upon the skirtsof the tell-tale overcoat, and that she imagined him to believe ithad come direct from some chest or drawer.
　　The aspect of the case was now considerably darker. Stockdale wasso much depressed by it that he did not challenge her explanation,or threaten to go off as a missionary to benighted islanders, orreproach her in any way whatever. He simply parted from her whenshe had done talking, and lived on in perplexity, till by degreeshis natural manner became sad and constrained.
The Distracted Preacher Chapter 4
The following Thursday was changeable, damp, and gloomy; and thenight threatened to be windy and unpleasant. Stockdale had goneaway to Knollsea in the morning, to be present at some commemorationservice there, and on his return he was met by the attractive Lizzyin the passage. Whether influenced by the tide of cheerfulnesswhich had attended him that day, or by the drive through the openair, or whether from a natural disposition to let bygones alone, heallowed himself to be fascinated into forgetfulness of the greatcoatincident, and upon the whole passed a pleasant evening; not so muchin her society as within sound of her voice, as she sat talking inthe back parlour to her mother, till the latter went to bed.
　　Shortly after this Mrs. Newberry retired, and then Stockdaleprepared to go upstairs himself. But before he left the room heremained standing by the dying embers awhile, thinking long of onething and another; and was only aroused by the flickering of hiscandle in the socket as it suddenly declined and went out. Knowingthat there were a tinder-box, matches, and another candle in hisbedroom, he felt his way upstairs without a light. On reaching hischamber he laid his hand on every possible ledge and corner for thetinderbox, but for a long time in vain. Discovering it at length,Stockdale produced a spark, and was kindling the brimstone, when hefancied that he heard a movement in the passage. He blew harder atthe lint, the match flared up, and looking by aid of the blue lightthrough the door, which had been standing open all this time, he wassurprised to see a male figure vanishing round the top of thestaircase with the evident intention of escaping unobserved. Thepersonage wore the clothes which Lizzy had been brushing, andsomething in the outline and gait suggested to the minister that thewearer was Lizzy herself.
　　But he was not sure of this; and, greatly excited, Stockdaledetermined to investigate the mystery, and to adopt his own way fordoing it. He blew out the match without lighting the candle, wentinto the passage, and proceeded on tiptoe towards Lizzy's room. Afaint grey square of light in the direction of the chamber-window ashe approached told him that the door was open, and at once suggestedthat the occupant was gone. He turned and brought down his fistupon the handrail of the staircase: 'It was she; in her latehusband's coat and hat!'
　　Somewhat relieved to find that there was no intruder in the case,yet none the less surprised, the minister crept down the stairs,softly put on his boots, overcoat, and hat, and tried the frontdoor. It was fastened as usual: he went to the back door, foundthis unlocked, and emerged into the garden. The night was mild andmoonless, and rain had lately been falling, though for the presentit had ceased. There was a sudden dropping from the trees andbushes every now and then, as each passing wind shook their boughs.
　　Among these sounds Stockdale heard the faint fall of feet upon theroad outside, and he guessed from the step that it was Lizzy's. Hefollowed the sound, and, helped by the circumstance of the windblowing from the direction in which the pedestrian moved, he gotnearly close to her, and kept there, without risk of beingoverheard. While he thus followed her up the street or lane, as itmight indifferently be called, there being more hedge than houses oneither side, a figure came forward to her from one of the cottagedoors. Lizzy stopped; the minister stepped upon the grass andstopped also.
　　'Is that Mrs. Newberry?' said the man who had come out, whose voiceStockdale recognized as that of one of the most devout members ofhis congregation.
　　'It is,' said Lizzy.
　　'I be quite ready--I've been here this quarter-hour.'
　　'Ah, John,' said she, 'I have bad news; there is danger to-night forour venture.'
　　'And d'ye tell o't! I dreamed there might be.'
　　'Yes,' she said hurriedly; 'and you must go at once round to wherethe chaps are waiting, and tell them they will not be wanted tillto-morrow night at the same time. I go to burn the lugger off.'
　　'I will,' he said; and instantly went off through a gate, Lizzycontinuing her way.
　　On she tripped at a quickening pace till the lane turned into theturnpike-road, which she crossed, and got into the track forRingsworth. Here she ascended the hill without the leasthesitation, passed the lonely hamlet of Holworth, and went down thevale on the other side. Stockdale had never taken any extensivewalks in this direction, but he was aware that if she persisted inher course much longer she would draw near to the coast, which washere between two and three miles distant from Nether-Moynton; and asit had been about a quarter-past eleven o'clock when they set out,her intention seemed to be to reach the shore about midnight.
　　Lizzy soon ascended a small mound, which Stockdale at the same timeadroitly skirted on the left; and a dull monotonous roar burst uponhis ear. The hillock was about fifty yards from the top of thecliffs, and by day it apparently commanded a full view of the bay.
　　There was light enough in the sky to show her disguised figureagainst it when she reached the top, where she paused, andafterwards sat down. Stockdale, not wishing on any account to alarmher at this moment, yet desirous of being near her, sank upon hishands and knees, crept a little higher up, and there stayed still.
　　The wind was chilly, the ground damp, and his position one in whichhe did not care to remain long. However, before he had decided toleave it, the young man heard voices behind him. What theysignified he did not know; but, fearing that Lizzy was in danger, hewas about to run forward and warn her that she might be seen, whenshe crept to the shelter of a little bush which maintained aprecarious existence in that exposed spot; and her form was absorbedin its dark and stunted outline as if she had become part of it.
　　She had evidently heard the men as well as he. They passed nearhim, talking in loud and careless tones, which could be heard abovethe uninterrupted washings of the sea, and which suggested that theywere not engaged in any business at their own risk. This proved tobe the fact: some of their words floated across to him, and causedhim to forget at once the coldness of his situation.
　　'What's the vessel?'
　　'A lugger, about fifty tons.'
　　'From Cherbourg, I suppose?'
　　'Yes, 'a b'lieve.'
　　'But it don't all belong to Owlett?'
　　'O no. He's only got a share. There's another or two in it--afarmer and such like, but the names I don't know.'
　　The voices died away, and the heads and shoulders of the mendiminished towards the cliff, and dropped out of sight.
　　'My darling has been tempted to buy a share by that unbelieverOwlett,' groaned the minister, his honest affection for Lizzy havingquickened to its intensest point during these moments of risk to herperson and name. 'That's why she's here,' he said to himself. 'O,it will be the ruin of her!'
　　His perturbation was interrupted by the sudden bursting out of abright and increasing light from the spot where Lizzy was in hiding.
　　A few seconds later, and before it had reached the height of ablaze, he heard her rush past him down the hollow like a stone froma sling, in the direction of home. The light now flared high andwide, and showed its position clearly. She had kindled a bough offurze and stuck it into the bush under which she had been crouching;the wind fanned the flame, which crackled fiercely, and threatenedto consume the bush as well as the bough. Stockdale paused justlong enough to notice thus much, and then followed rapidly the routetaken by the young woman. His intention was to overtake her, andreveal himself as a friend; but run as he would he could see nothingof her. Thus he flew across the open country about Holworth,twisting his legs and ankles in unexpected fissures and descents,till, on coming to the gate between the downs and the road, he wasforced to pause to get breath. There was no audible movement eitherin front or behind him, and he now concluded that she had not outrunhim, but that, hearing him at her heels, and believing him one ofthe excise party, she had hidden herself somewhere on the way, andlet him pass by.
　　He went on at a more leisurely pace towards the village. Onreaching the house he found his surmise to be correct, for the gatewas on the latch, and the door unfastened, just as he had left them.
　　Stockdale closed the door behind him, and waited silently in thepassage. In about ten minutes he heard the same light footstep thathe had heard in going out; it paused at the gate, which opened andshut softly, and then the door-latch was lifted, and Lizzy came in.
　　Stockdale went forward and said at once, 'Lizzy, don't befrightened. I have been waiting up for you.'
　　She started, though she had recognized the voice. 'It is Mr.
　　Stockdale, isn't it?' she said.
　　'Yes,' he answered, becoming angry now that she was safe indoors,and not alarmed. 'And a nice game I've found you out in to-night.
　　You are in man's clothes, and I am ashamed of you!'
　　Lizzy could hardly find a voice to answer this unexpected reproach.
　　'I am only partly in man's clothes,' she faltered, shrinking back tothe wall. 'It is only his greatcoat and hat and breeches that I'vegot on, which is no harm, as he was my own husband; and I do it onlybecause a cloak blows about so, and you can't use your arms. I havegot my own dress under just the same--it is only tucked in! Willyou go away upstairs and let me pass? I didn't want you to see meat such a time as this!'
　　'But I have a right to see you! How do you think there can beanything between us now?' Lizzy was silent. 'You are a smuggler,'
　　he continued sadly.
　　'I have only a share in the run,' she said.
　　'That makes no difference. Whatever did you engage in such a tradeas that for, and keep it such a secret from me all this time?'
　　'I don't do it always. I only do it in winter-time when 'tis newmoon.'
　　'Well, I suppose that's because it can't be done anywhen else . . .
　　You have regularly upset me, Lizzy.'
　　'I am sorry for that,' Lizzy meekly replied.
　　'Well now,' said he more tenderly, 'no harm is done as yet. Won'tyou for the sake of me give up this blamable and dangerous practicealtogether?'
　　'I must do my best to save this run,' said she, getting rather huskyin the throat. 'I don't want to give you up--you know that; but Idon't want to lose my venture. I don't know what to do now! Why Ihave kept it so secret from you is that I was afraid you would beangry if you knew.'
　　'I should think so! I suppose if I had married you without findingthis out you'd have gone on with it just the same?'
　　'I don't know. I did not think so far ahead. I only went to-nightto burn the folks off, because we found that the excisemen knewwhere the tubs were to be landed.'
　　'It is a pretty mess to be in altogether, is this,' said thedistracted young minister. 'Well, what will you do now?'
　　Lizzy slowly murmured the particulars of their plan, the chief ofwhich were that they meant to try their luck at some other point ofthe shore the next night; that three landing-places were alwaysagreed upon before the run was attempted, with the understandingthat, if the vessel was 'burnt off' from the first point, which wasRingsworth, as it had been by her to-night, the crew should attemptto make the second, which was Lulstead Cove, on the second night;and if there, too, danger threatened, they should on the third nighttry the third place, which was behind a headland further west.
　　'Suppose the officers hinder them landing there too?' he said, hisattention to this interesting programme displacing for a moment hisconcern at her share in it.
　　'Then we shan't try anywhere else all this dark--that's what we callthe time between moon and moon--and perhaps they'll string the tubsto a stray-line, and sink 'em a little-ways from shore, and take thebearings; and then when they have a chance they'll go to creep for'em.'
　　'What's that?'
　　'O, they'll go out in a boat and drag a creeper--that's a grapnel--along the bottom till it catch hold of the stray-line.'
　　The minister stood thinking; and there was no sound within doors butthe tick of the clock on the stairs, and the quick breathing ofLizzy, partly from her walk and partly from agitation, as she stoodclose to the wall, not in such complete darkness but that he coulddiscern against its whitewashed surface the greatcoat and broad hatwhich covered her.
　　'Lizzy, all this is very wrong,' he said. 'Don't you remember thelesson of the tribute-money? "Render unto Caesar the things thatare Caesar's." Surely you have heard that read times enough in yourgrowing up?'
　　'He's dead,' she pouted.
　　'But the spirit of the text is in force just the same.'
　　'My father did it, and so did my grandfather, and almost everybodyin Nether-Moynton lives by it, and life would be so dull if itwasn't for that, that I should not care to live at all.'
　　'I am nothing to live for, of course,' he replied bitterly. 'Youwould not think it worth while to give up this wild business andlive for me alone?'
　　'I have never looked at it like that.'
　　'And you won't promise and wait till I am ready?'
　　'I cannot give you my word to-night.' And, looking thoughtfullydown, she gradually moved and moved away, going into the adjoiningroom, and closing the door between them. She remained there in thedark till he was tired of waiting, and had gone up to his ownchamber.
　　Poor Stockdale was dreadfully depressed all the next day by thediscoveries of the night before. Lizzy was unmistakably afascinating young woman, but as a minister's wife she was hardly tobe contemplated. 'If I had only stuck to father's little grocerybusiness, instead of going in for the ministry, she would havesuited me beautifully!' he said sadly, until he remembered that inthat case he would never have come from his distant home to Nether-Moynton, and never have known her.
　　The estrangement between them was not complete, but it wassufficient to keep them out of each other's company. Once duringthe day he met her in the garden-path, and said, turning areproachful eye upon her, 'Do you promise, Lizzy?' But she did notreply. The evening drew on, and he knew well enough that Lizzywould repeat her excursion at night--her half-offended manner hadshown that she had not the slightest intention of altering her plansat present. He did not wish to repeat his own share of theadventure; but, act as he would, his uneasiness on her accountincreased with the decline of day. Supposing that an accidentshould befall her, he would never forgive himself for not beingthere to help, much as he disliked the idea of seeming tocountenance such unlawful escapades.
The Distracted Preacher Chapter 5
As he had expected, she left the house at the same hour at night,this time passing his door without stealth, as if she knew very wellthat he would be watching, and were resolved to brave hisdispleasure. He was quite ready, opened the door quickly, andreached the back door almost as soon as she.
　　'Then you will go, Lizzy?' he said as he stood on the step besideher, who now again appeared as a little man with a face altogetherunsuited to his clothes.
　　'I must,' she said, repressed by his stern manner.
　　'Then I shall go too,' said he.
　　'And I am sure you will enjoy it!' she exclaimed in more buoyanttones. 'Everybody does who tries it.'
　　'God forbid that I should!' he said. 'But I must look after you.'
　　They opened the wicket and went up the road abreast of each other,but at some distance apart, scarcely a word passing between them.
　　The evening was rather less favourable to smuggling enterprise thanthe last had been, the wind being lower, and the sky somewhat cleartowards the north.
　　'It is rather lighter,' said Stockdale.
　　''Tis, unfortunately,' said she. 'But it is only from those fewstars over there. The moon was new to-day at four o'clock, and Iexpected clouds. I hope we shall be able to do it this dark, forwhen we have to sink 'em for long it makes the stuff taste bleachy,and folks don't like it so well.'
　　Her course was different from that of the preceding night, branchingoff to the left over Lord's Barrow as soon as they had got out ofthe lane and crossed the highway. By the time they reached ChaldonDown, Stockdale, who had been in perplexed thought as to what heshould say to her, decided that he would not attempt expostulationnow, while she was excited by the adventure, but wait till it wasover, and endeavour to keep her from such practices in future. Itoccurred to him once or twice, as they rambled on, that should theybe surprised by the excisemen, his situation would be more awkwardthan hers, for it would be difficult to prove his true motive incoming to the spot; but the risk was a slight consideration besidehis wish to be with her.
　　They now arrived at a ravine which lay on the outskirts of Chaldon,a village two miles on their way towards the point of the shore theysought. Lizzy broke the silence this time: 'I have to wait here tomeet the carriers. I don't know if they have come yet. As I toldyou, we go to Lulstead Cove to-night, and it is two miles furtherthan Ringsworth.'
　　It turned out that the men had already come; for while she spoke twoor three dozen heads broke the line of the slope, and a company ofthem at once descended from the bushes where they had been lying inwait. These carriers were men whom Lizzy and other proprietorsregularly employed to bring the tubs from the boat to a hiding-placeinland. They were all young fellows of Nether-Moynton, Chaldon, andthe neighbourhood, quiet and inoffensive persons, who simply engagedto carry the cargo for Lizzy and her cousin Owlett, as they wouldhave engaged in any other labour for which they were fairly wellpaid.
　　At a word from her they closed in together. 'You had better take itnow,' she said to them; and handed to each a packet. It containedsix shillings, their remuneration for the night's undertaking, whichwas paid beforehand without reference to success or failure; but,besides this, they had the privilege of selling as agents when therun was successfully made. As soon as it was done, she said tothem, 'The place is the old one near Lulstead Cove;' the men tillthat moment not having been told whither they were bound, forobvious reasons. 'Owlett will meet you there,' added Lizzy. 'Ishall follow behind, to see that we are not watched.'
　　The carriers went on, and Stockdale and Mrs. Newberry followed at adistance of a stone's throw. 'What do these men do by day?' hesaid.
　　'Twelve or fourteen of them are labouring men. Some arebrickmakers, some carpenters, some shoe-makers, some thatchers.
　　They are all known to me very well. Nine of 'em are of your owncongregation.'
　　'I can't help that,' said Stockdale.
　　'O, I know you can't. I only told you. The others are more church-inclined, because they supply the pa'son with all the spirits herequires, and they don't wish to show unfriendliness to a customer.'
　　'How do you choose 'em?' said Stockdale.
　　'We choose 'em for their closeness, and because they are strong andsurefooted, and able to carry a heavy load a long way without beingtired.'
　　Stockdale sighed as she enumerated each particular, for it provedhow far involved in the business a woman must be who was so wellacquainted with its conditions and needs. And yet he felt moretenderly towards her at this moment than he had felt all theforegoing day. Perhaps it was that her experienced manner and holdindifference stirred his admiration in spite of himself.
　　'Take my arm, Lizzy,' he murmured.
　　'I don't want it,' she said. 'Besides, we may never be to eachother again what we once have been.'
　　'That depends upon you,' said he, and they went on again as before.
　　The hired carriers paced along over Chaldon Down with as littlehesitation as if it had been day, avoiding the cart-way, and leavingthe village of East Chaldon on the left, so as to reach the crest ofthe hill at a lonely trackless place not far from the ancientearthwork called Round Pound. An hour's brisk walking brought themwithin sound of the sea, not many hundred yards from Lulstead Cove.
　　Here they paused, and Lizzy and Stockdale came up with them, whenthey went on together to the verge of the cliff. One of the men nowproduced an iron bar, which he drove firmly into the soil a yardfrom the edge, and attached to it a rope that he had uncoiled fromhis body. They all began to descend, partly stepping, partlysliding down the incline, as the rope slipped through their hands.
　　'You will not go to the bottom, Lizzy?' said Stockdale anxiously.
　　'No. I stay here to watch,' she said. 'Owlett is down there.'
　　The men remained quite silent when they reached the shore; and thenext thing audible to the two at the top was the dip of heavy oars,and the dashing of waves against a boat's bow. In a moment the keelgently touched the shingle, and Stockdale heard the footsteps of thethirty-six carriers running forwards over the pebbles towards thepoint of landing.
　　There was a sousing in the water as of a brood of ducks plunging in,showing that the men had not been particular about keeping theirlegs, or even their waists, dry from the brine: but it wasimpossible to see what they were doing, and in a few minutes theshingle was trampled again. The iron bar sustaining the rope, onwhich Stockdale's hand rested, began to swerve a little, and thecarriers one by one appeared climbing up the sloping cliff; drippingaudibly as they came, and sustaining themselves by the guide-rope.
　　Each man on reaching the top was seen to be carrying a pair of tubs,one on his back and one on his chest, the two being slung togetherby cords passing round the chine hoops, and resting on the carrier'sshoulders. Some of the stronger men carried three by putting anextra one on the top behind, but the customary load was a pair,these being quite weighty enough to give their bearer the sensationof having chest and backbone in contact after a walk of four or fivemiles.
　　'Where is Owlett?' said Lizzy to one of them.
　　'He will not come up this way,' said the carrier. 'He's to bide onshore till we be safe off.' Then, without waiting for the rest, theforemost men plunged across the down; and, when the last hadascended, Lizzy pulled up the rope, wound it round her arm, wriggledthe bar from the sod, and turned to follow the carriers.
　　'You are very anxious about Owlett's safety,' said the minister.
　　'Was there ever such a man!' said Lizzy. 'Why, isn't he my cousin?'
　　'Yes. Well, it is a bad night's work,' said Stockdale heavily.
　　'But I'll carry the bar and rope for you.'
　　'Thank God, the tubs have got so far all right,' said she.
　　Stockdale shook his head, and, taking the bar, walked by her sidetowards the downs; and the moan of the sea was heard no more.
　　'Is this what you meant the other day when you spoke of havingbusiness with Owlett?' the young man asked.
　　'This is it,' she replied. 'I never see him on any other matter.'
　　'A partnership of that kind with a young man is very odd.'
　　'It was begun by my father and his, who were brother-laws.'
　　Her companion could not blind himself to the fact that where tastesand pursuits were so akin as Lizzy's and Owlett's, and where riskswere shared, as with them, in every undertaking, there would be apeculiar appropriateness in her answering Owlett's standing questionon matrimony in the affirmative. This did not soothe Stockdale, itstendency being rather to stimulate in him an effort to make the pairas inappropriate as possible, and win her away from this nocturnalcrew to correctness of conduct and a minister's parlour in some far-removed inland county.
　　They had been walking near enough to the file of carriers forStockdale to perceive that, when they got into the road to thevillage, they split up into two companies of unequal size, each ofwhich made off in a direction of its own. One company, the smallerof the two, went towards the church, and by the time that Lizzy andStockdale reached their own house these men had scaled thechurchyard wall, and were proceeding noiselessly over the grasswithin.
　　'I see that Owlett has arranged for one batch to be put in thechurch again,' observed Lizzy. 'Do you remember my taking you therethe first night you came?'
　　'Yes, of course,' said Stockdale. 'No wonder you had permission tobroach the tubs--they were his, I suppose?'
　　'No, they were not--they were mine; I had permission from myself.
　　The day after that they went several miles inland in a waggon-loadof manure, and sold very well.'
　　At this moment the group of men who had made off to the left sometime before began leaping one by one from the hedge opposite Lizzy'shouse, and the first man, who had no tubs upon his shoulders, cameforward.
　　'Mrs. Newberry, isn't it?' he said hastily.
　　'Yes, Jim,' said she. 'What's the matter?'
　　'I find that we can't put any in Badger's Clump to-night, Lizzy,'
　　said Owlett. 'The place is watched. We must sling the apple-treein the orchet if there's time. We can't put any more under thechurch lumber than I have sent on there, and my mixen hev alreadymore in en than is safe.'
　　'Very well,' she said. 'Be quick about it--that's all. What can Ido?'
　　'Nothing at all, please. Ah, it is the minister!--you two thatcan't do anything had better get indoors and not be zeed.'
　　While Owlett thus conversed, in a tone so full of contraband anxietyand so free from lover's jealousy, the men who followed him had beendescending one by one from the hedge; and it unfortunately happenedthat when the hindmost took his leap, the cord slipped whichsustained his tubs: the result was that both the kegs fell into theroad, one of them being stove in by the blow.
　　''Od drown it all!' said Owlett, rushing back.
　　'It is worth a good deal, I suppose?' said Stockdale.
　　'O no--about two guineas and half to us now,' said Lizzy excitedly.
　　'It isn't that--it is the smell! It is so blazing strong before ithas been lowered by water, that it smells dreadfully when spilt inthe road like that! I do hope Latimer won't pass by till it is goneoff.'
　　Owlett and one or two others picked up the burst tub and began toscrape and trample over the spot, to disperse the liquor as much aspossible; and then they all entered the gate of Owlett's orchard,which adjoined Lizzy's garden on the right. Stockdale did not careto follow them, for several on recognizing him had lookedwonderingly at his presence, though they said nothing. Lizzy lefthis side and went to the bottom of the garden, looking over thehedge into the orchard, where the men could be dimly seen bustlingabout, and apparently hiding the tubs. All was done noiselessly,and without a light; and when it was over they dispersed indifferent directions, those who had taken their cargoes to thechurch having already gone off to their homes.
　　Lizzy returned to the garden-gate, over which Stockdale was stillabstractedly leaning. 'It is all finished: I am going indoorsnow,' she said gently. 'I will leave the door ajar for you.'
　　'O no--you needn't,' said Stockdale; 'I am coming too.'
　　But before either of them had moved, the faint clatter of horses'
　　hoofs broke upon the ear, and it seemed to come from the point wherethe track across the down joined the hard road.
　　'They are just too late!' cried Lizzy exultingly.
　　'Who?' said Stockdale.
　　'Latimer, the riding-officer, and some assistant of his. We hadbetter go indoors.'
　　They entered the house, and Lizzy bolted the door. 'Please don'tget a light, Mr. Stockdale,' she said.
　　'Of course I will not,' said he.
　　'I thought you might be on the side of the king,' said Lizzy, withfaintest sarcasm.
　　'I am,' said Stockdale. 'But, Lizzy Newberry, I love you, and youknow it perfectly well; and you ought to know, if you do not, what Ihave suffered in my conscience on your account these last few days!'
　　'I guess very well,' she said hurriedly. 'Yet I don't see why. Ah,you are better than I!'
　　The trotting of the horses seemed to have again died away, and thepair of listeners touched each other's fingers in the cold 'Good-night' of those whom something seriously divided. They were on thelanding, but before they had taken three steps apart, the tramp ofthe horsemen suddenly revived, almost close to the house. Lizzyturned to the staircase window, opened the casement about an inch,and put her face close to the aperture. 'Yes, one of 'em isLatimer,' she whispered. 'He always rides a white horse. One wouldthink it was the last colour for a man in that line.'
　　Stockdale looked, and saw the white shape of the animal as it passedby; but before the riders had gone another ten yards, Latimer reinedin his horse, and said something to his companion which neitherStockdale nor Lizzy could hear. Its drift was, however, soon madeevident, for the other man stopped also; and sharply turning thehorses' heads they cautiously retraced their steps. When they wereagain opposite Mrs. Newberry's garden, Latimer dismounted, and theman on the dark horse did the same.
　　Lizzy and Stockdale, intently listening and observing theproceedings, naturally put their heads as close as possible to theslit formed by the slightly opened casement; and thus it occurredthat at last their cheeks came positively into contact. They wenton listening, as if they did not know of the singular incident whichhad happened to their faces, and the pressure of each to each ratherincreased than lessened with the lapse of time.
　　They could hear the excisemen sniffing the air like hounds as theypaced slowly along. When they reached the spot where the tub hadburst, both stopped on the instant.
　　'Ay, ay, 'tis quite strong here,' said the second officer. 'Shallwe knock at the door?'
　　'Well, no,' said Latimer. 'Maybe this is only a trick to put us offthe scent. They wouldn't kick up this stink anywhere near theirhiding-place. I have known such things before.'
　　'Anyhow, the things, or some of 'em, must have been brought thisway,' said the other.
　　'Yes,' said Latimer musingly. 'Unless 'tis all done to tole us thewrong way. I have a mind that we go home for to-night withoutsaying a word, and come the first thing in the morning with morehands. I know they have storages about here, but we can do nothingby this owl's light. We will look round the parish and see ifeverybody is in bed, John; and if all is quiet, we will do as Isay.'
　　They went on, and the two inside the window could hear them passingleisurely through the whole village, the street of which curvedround at the bottom and entered the turnpike road at anotherjunction. This way the excisemen followed, and the amble of theirhorses died quite away.
　　'What will you do?' said Stockdale, withdrawing from his position.
　　She knew that he alluded to the coming search by the officers, todivert her attention from their own tender incident by the casement,which he wished to be passed over as a thing rather dreamt of thandone. 'O, nothing,' she replied, with as much coolness as she couldcommand under her disappointment at his manner. 'We often have suchstorms as this. You would not be frightened if you knew what foolsthey are. Fancy riding o' horseback through the place: of coursethey will hear and see nobody while they make that noise; but theyare always afraid to get off, in case some of our fellows shouldburst out upon 'em, and tie them up to the gate-post, as they havedone before now. Good-night, Mr. Stockdale.'
　　She closed the window and went to her room, where a tear fell fromher eyes; and that not because of the alertness of the riding-officers.
The Distracted Preacher Chapter 6
Stockdale was so excited by the events of the evening, and thedilemma that he was placed in between conscience and love, that hedid not sleep, or even doze, but remained as broadly awake as atnoonday. As soon as the grey light began to touch ever so faintlythe whiter objects in his bedroom he arose, dressed himself, andwent downstairs into the road.
　　The village was already astir. Several of the carriers had heardthe well-known tramp of Latimer's horse while they were undressingin the dark that night, and had already communicated with each otherand Owlett on the subject. The only doubt seemed to be about thesafety of those tubs which had been left under the church gallery-stairs, and after a short discussion at the corner of the mill, itwas agreed that these should be removed before it got lighter, andhidden in the middle of a double hedge bordering the adjoiningfield. However, before anything could be carried into effect, thefootsteps of many men were heard coming down the lane from thehighway.
　　'Damn it, here they be,' said Owlett, who, having already drawn thehatch and started his mill for the day, stood stolidly at the mill-door covered with flour, as if the interest of his whole soul wasbound up in the shaking walls around him.
　　The two or three with whom he had been talking dispersed to theirusual work, and when the excise officers, and the formidable body ofmen they had hired, reached the village cross, between the mill andMrs. Newberry's house, the village wore the natural aspect of aplace beginning its morning labours.
　　'Now,' said Latimer to his associates, who numbered thirteen men inall, 'what I know is that the things are somewhere in this hereplace. We have got the day before us, and 'tis hard if we can'tlight upon 'em and get 'em to Budmouth Custom-house before night.
　　First we will try the fuel-houses, and then we'll work our way intothe chimmers, and then to the ricks and stables, and so creep round.
　　You have nothing but your noses to guide ye, mind, so use 'em to-dayif you never did in your lives before.'
　　Then the search began. Owlett, during the early part, watched fromhis mill-window, Lizzy from the door of her house, with the greatestself-possession. A farmer down below, who also had a share in therun, rode about with one eye on his fields and the other on Latimerand his myrmidons, prepared to put them off the scent if he shouldbe asked a question. Stockdale, who was no smuggler at all, feltmore anxiety than the worst of them, and went about his studies witha heavy heart, coming frequently to the door to ask Lizzy somequestion or other on the consequences to her of the tubs beingfound.
　　'The consequences,' she said quietly, 'are simply that I shall lose'em. As I have none in the house or garden, they can't touch mepersonally.'
　　'But you have some in the orchard?'
　　'Owlett rents that of me, and he lends it to others. So it will behard to say who put any tubs there if they should be found.'
　　There was never such a tremendous sniffing known as that which tookplace in Nether-Moynton parish and its vicinity this day. All wasdone methodically, and mostly on hands and knees. At differenthours of the day they had different plans. From daybreak tobreakfast-time the officers used their sense of smell in a directand straightforward manner only, pausing nowhere but at such placesas the tubs might be supposed to be secreted in at that very moment,pending their removal on the following night. Among the placestested and examined wereHollow trees Cupboards CulvertsPotato-graves Clock-cases HedgerowsFuel-houses Chimney-flues Faggot-ricksBedrooms Rainwater-butts HaystacksApple-lofts Pigsties Coppers and ovens.
　　After breakfast they recommenced with renewed vigour, taking a newline; that is to say, directing their attention to clothes thatmight be supposed to have come in contact with the tubs in theirremoval from the shore, such garments being usually tainted with thespirit, owing to its oozing between the staves. They now sniffed at-Smock-frocks Smiths' and shoemakers' apronsOld shirts and waistcoats Knee-naps and hedging-glovesCoats and hats TarpaulinsBreeches and leggings Market-cloaksWomen's shawls and gowns ScarecrowsAnd as soon as the mid-day meal was over, they pushed their searchinto places where the spirits might have been thrown away in alarm:-Horse-ponds Mixens Sinks in yardsStable-drains Wet ditches Road-scrapings, andCinder-heaps Cesspools Back-door gutters.
　　But still these indefatigable excisemen discovered nothing more thanthe original tell-tale smell in the road opposite Lizzy's house,which even yet had not passed off.
　　'I'll tell ye what it is, men,' said Latimer, about three o'clock inthe afternoon, 'we must begin over again. Find them tubs I will.'
　　The men, who had been hired for the day, looked at their hands andknees, muddy with creeping on all fours so frequently, and rubbedtheir noses, as if they had almost had enough of it; for thequantity of bad air which had passed into each one's nostril hadrendered it nearly as insensible as a flue. However, after amoment's hesitation, they prepared to start anew, except three,whose power of smell had quite succumbed under the excessive wearand tear of the day.
　　By this time not a male villager was to be seen in the parish.
　　Owlett was not at his mill, the farmers were not in their fields,the parson was not in his garden, the smith had left his forge, andthe wheelwright's shop was silent.
　　'Where the divil are the folk gone?' said Latimer, waking up to thefact of their absence, and looking round. 'I'll have 'em up forthis! Why don't they come and help us? There's not a man about theplace but the Methodist parson, and he's an old woman. I demandassistance in the king's name!'
　　'We must find the jineral public afore we can demand that,' said hislieutenant.
　　'Well, well, we shall do better without 'em,' said Latimer, whochanged his moods at a moment's notice. 'But there's great cause ofsuspicion in this silence and this keeping out of sight, and I'llbear it in mind. Now we will go across to Owlett's orchard, and seewhat we can find there.'
　　Stockdale, who heard this discussion from the garden-gate, overwhich he had been leaning, was rather alarmed, and thought it amistake of the villagers to keep so completely out of the way. Hehimself, like the excisemen, had been wondering for the last half-hour what could have become of them. Some labourers were ofnecessity engaged in distant fields, but the master-workmen shouldhave been at home; though one and all, after just showing themselvesat their shops, had apparently gone off for the day. He went in toLizzy, who sat at a back window sewing, and said, 'Lizzy, where arethe men?'
　　Lizzy laughed. 'Where they mostly are when they're run so hard asthis.' She cast her eyes to heaven. 'Up there,' she said.
　　Stockdale looked up. 'What--on the top of the church tower?' heasked, seeing the direction of her glance.
　　'Yes.'
　　'Well, I expect they will soon have to come down,' said he gravely.
　　'I have been listening to the officers, and they are going to searchthe orchard over again, and then every nook in the church.'
　　Lizzy looked alarmed for the first time. 'Will you go and tell ourfolk?' she said. 'They ought to be let know.' Seeing hisconscience struggling within him like a boiling pot, she added, 'No,never mind, I'll go myself.'
　　She went out, descended the garden, and climbed over the churchyardwall at the same time that the preventive-men were ascending theroad to the orchard. Stockdale could do no less than follow her.
　　By the time that she reached the tower entrance he was at her side,and they entered together.
　　Nether-Moynton church-tower was, as in many villages, without aturret, and the only way to the top was by going up to the singers'
　　gallery, and thence ascending by a ladder to a square trap-door inthe floor of the bell-loft, above which a permanent ladder wasfixed, passing through the bells to a hole in the roof. When Lizzyand Stockdale reached the gallery and looked up, nothing but thetrap-door and the five holes for the bell-ropes appeared. Theladder was gone.
　　'There's no getting up,' said Stockdale.
　　'O yes, there is,' said she. 'There's an eye looking at us at thismoment through a knot-hole in that trap-door.'
　　And as she spoke the trap opened, and the dark line of the ladderwas seen descending against the white-washed wall. When it touchedthe bottom Lizzy dragged it to its place, and said, 'If you'll goup, I'll follow.'
　　The young man ascended, and presently found himself amongconsecrated bells for the first time in his life, nonconformityhaving been in the Stockdale blood for some generations. He eyedthem uneasily, and looked round for Lizzy. Owlett stood here,holding the top of the ladder.
　　'What, be you really one of us?' said the miller.
　　'It seems so,' said Stockdale sadly.
　　'He's not,' said Lizzy, who overheard. 'He's neither for noragainst us. He'll do us no harm.'
　　She stepped up beside them, and then they went on to the next stage,which, when they had clambered over the dusty bell-carriages, was ofeasy ascent, leading towards the hole through which the pale skyappeared, and into the open air. Owlett remained behind for amoment, to pull up the lower ladder.
　　'Keep down your heads,' said a voice, as soon as they set foot onthe flat.
　　Stockdale here beheld all the missing parishioners, lying on theirstomachs on the tower roof, except a few who, elevated on theirhands and knees, were peeping through the embrasures of the parapet.
　　Stockdale did the same, and saw the village lying like a map belowhim, over which moved the figures of the excisemen, eachforeshortened to a crablike object, the crown of his hat forming acircular disc in the centre of him. Some of the men had turnedtheir heads when the young preacher's figure arose among them.
　　'What, Mr. Stockdale?' said Matt Grey, in a tone of surprise.
　　'I'd as lief that it hadn't been,' said Jim Clarke. 'If the pa'sonshould see him a trespassing here in his tower, 'twould be none thebetter for we, seeing how 'a do hate chapel-members. He'd never buya tub of us again, and he's as good a customer as we have got thisside o' Warm'll.'
　　'Where is the pa'son?' said Lizzy.
　　'In his house, to be sure, that he mid see nothing of what's goingon--where all good folks ought to be, and this young man likewise.'
　　'Well, he has brought some news,' said Lizzy. 'They are going tosearch the orchet and church; can we do anything if they shouldfind?'
　　'Yes,' said her cousin Owlett. 'That's what we've been talking o',and we have settled our line. Well, be dazed!'
　　The exclamation was caused by his perceiving that some of thesearchers, having got into the orchard, and begun stooping andcreeping hither and thither, were pausing in the middle, where atree smaller than the rest was growing. They drew closer, and bentlower than ever upon the ground.
　　'O, my tubs!' said Lizzy faintly, as she peered through the parapetat them.
　　'They have got 'em, 'a b'lieve,' said Owlett.
　　The interest in the movements of the officers was so keen that not asingle eye was looking in any other direction; but at that moment ashout from the church beneath them attracted the attention of thesmugglers, as it did also of the party in the orchard, who sprang totheir feet and went towards the churchyard wall. At the same timethose of the Government men who had entered the church unperceivedby the smugglers cried aloud, 'Here be some of 'em at last.'
　　The smugglers remained in a blank silence, uncertain whether 'someof 'em' meant tubs or men; but again peeping cautiously over theedge of the tower they learnt that tubs were the things descried;and soon these fated articles were brought one by one into themiddle of the churchyard from their hiding-place under the gallery-stairs.
　　'They are going to put 'em on Hinton's vault till they find therest!' said Lizzy hopelessly. The excisemen had, in fact, begun topile up the tubs on a large stone slab which was fixed there; andwhen all were brought out from the tower, two or three of the menwere left standing by them, the rest of the party again proceedingto the orchard.
　　The interest of the smugglers in the next manoeuvres of theirenemies became painfully intense. Only about thirty tubs had beensecreted in the lumber of the tower, but seventy were hidden in theorchard, making up all that they had brought ashore as yet, theremainder of the cargo having been tied to a sinker and droppedoverboard for another night's operations. The excisemen, having re-entered the orchard, acted as if they were positive that here layhidden the rest of the tubs, which they were determined to findbefore nightfall. They spread themselves out round the field, andadvancing on all fours as before, went anew round every apple-treein the enclosure. The young tree in the middle again led them topause, and at length the whole company gathered there in a way whichsignified that a second chain of reasoning had led to the sameresults as the first.
　　When they had examined the sod hereabouts for some minutes, one ofthe men rose, ran to a disused porch of the church where tools werekept, and returned with the sexton's pickaxe and shovel, with whichthey set to work.
　　'Are they really buried there?' said the minister, for the grass wasso green and uninjured that it was difficult to believe it had beendisturbed. The smugglers were too interested to reply, andpresently they saw, to their chagrin, the officers stand several oneach side of the tree; and, stooping and applying their hands to thesoil, they bodily lifted the tree and the turf around it. Theapple-tree now showed itself to be growing in a shallow box, withhandles for lifting at each of the four sides. Under the site ofthe tree a square hole was revealed, and an exciseman went andlooked down.
　　'It is all up now,' said Owlett quietly. 'And now all of ye getdown before they notice we are here; and be ready for our next move.
　　I had better bide here till dark, or they may take me on suspicion,as 'tis on my ground. I'll be with ye as soon as daylight begins topink in.'
　　'And I?' said Lizzy.
　　'You please look to the linch-pins and screws; then go indoors andknow nothing at all. The chaps will do the rest.'
　　The ladder was replaced, and all but Owlett descended, the menpassing off one by one at the back of the church, and vanishing ontheir respective errands.
　　Lizzy walked boldly along the street, followed closely by theminister.
　　'You are going indoors, Mrs. Newberry?' he said.
　　She knew from the words 'Mrs. Newberry' that the division betweenthem had widened yet another degree.
　　'I am not going home,' she said. 'I have a little thing to dobefore I go in. Martha Sarah will get your tea.'
　　'O, I don't mean on that account,' said Stockdale. 'What CAN youhave to do further in this unhallowed affair?'
　　'Only a little,' she said.
　　'What is that? I'll go with you.'
　　'No, I shall go by myself. Will you please go indoors? I shall bethere in less than an hour.'
　　'You are not going to run any danger, Lizzy?' said the young man,his tenderness reasserting itself.
　　'None whatever--worth mentioning,' answered she, and went downtowards the Cross.
　　Stockdale entered the garden gate, and stood behind it looking on.
　　The excisemen were still busy in the orchard, and at last he wastempted to enter, and watch their proceedings. When he came closerhe found that the secret cellar, of whose existence he had beentotally unaware, was formed by timbers placed across from side toside about a foot under the ground, and grassed over.
　　The excisemen looked up at Stockdale's fair and downy countenance,and evidently thinking him above suspicion, went on with their workagain. As soon as all the tubs were taken out, they began tearingup the turf; pulling out the timbers, and breaking in the sides,till the cellar was wholly dismantled and shapeless, the apple-treelying with its roots high to the air. But the hole which had in itstime held so much contraband merchandize was never completely filledup, either then or afterwards, a depression in the greenswardmarking the spot to this day.