Complete Works of Thomas Hardy (Illustrated)

by Thomas Hardy

  She was so absorbed during the remainder of the luncheon that she did not even observe the kindly light that her presence was shedding on the right reverend ecclesiastic by her side. He reflected it back in tones duly mellowed by his position; the minor clergy caught up the rays thereof, and so the gentle influence played down the table.

  The company soon departed when luncheon was over, and the remainder of the day passed in quietness, the Bishop being occupied in his room at the vicarage with writing letters or a sermon. Having a long journey before him the next day he had expressed a wish to be housed for the night without ceremony, and would have dined alone with Mr. Torkingham but that, by a happy thought, Lady Constantine and her brother were asked to join them.

  However, when Louis crossed the churchyard and entered the vicarage drawing-room at seven o’clock, his sister was not in his company. She was, he said, suffering from a slight headache, and much regretted that she was on that account unable to come. At this intelligence the social sparkle disappeared from the Bishop’s eye, and he sat down to table, endeavouring to mould into the form of episcopal serenity an expression which was really one of common human disappointment.

  In his simple statement Louis Glanville had by no means expressed all the circumstances which accompanied his sister’s refusal, at the last moment, to dine at her neighbour’s house. Louis had strongly urged her to bear up against her slight indisposition — if it were that, and not disinclination — and come along with him on just this one occasion, perhaps a more important episode in her life than she was aware of. Viviette thereupon knew quite well that he alluded to the favourable impression she was producing on the Bishop, notwithstanding that neither of them mentioned the Bishop’s name. But she did not give way, though the argument waxed strong between them; and Louis left her in no very amiable mood, saying, ‘I don’t believe you have any more headache than I have, Viviette. It is some provoking whim of yours — nothing more.’

  In this there was a substratum of truth. When her brother had left her, and she had seen him from the window entering the vicarage gate, Viviette seemed to be much relieved, and sat down in her bedroom till the evening grew dark, and only the lights shining through the trees from the parsonage dining-room revealed to the eye where that dwelling stood. Then she arose, and putting on the cloak she had used so many times before for the same purpose, she locked her bedroom door (to be supposed within, in case of the accidental approach of a servant), and let herself privately out of the house.

  Lady Constantine paused for a moment under the vicarage windows, till she could sufficiently well hear the voices of the diners to be sure that they were actually within, and then went on her way, which was towards the Rings-Hill column. She appeared a mere spot, hardly distinguishable from the grass, as she crossed the open ground, and soon became absorbed in the black mass of the fir plantation.

  Meanwhile the conversation at Mr. Torkingham’s dinner-table was not of a highly exhilarating quality. The parson, in long self-communing during the afternoon, had decided that the Diocesan Synod, whose annual session at Melchester had occurred in the month previous, would afford a solid and unimpeachable subject to launch during the meal, whenever conversation flagged; and that it would be one likely to win the respect of his spiritual chieftain for himself as the introducer. Accordingly, in the further belief that you could not have too much of a good thing, Mr. Torkingham not only acted upon his idea, but at every pause rallied to the synod point with unbroken firmness. Everything which had been discussed at that last session — such as the introduction of the lay element into the councils of the church, the reconstitution of the ecclesiastical courts, church patronage, the tithe question — was revived by Mr. Torkingham, and the excellent remarks which the Bishop had made in his addresses on those subjects were quoted back to him.

  As for Bishop Helmsdale himself, his instincts seemed to be to allude in a debonair spirit to the incidents of the past day — to the flowers in Lady Constantine’s beds, the date of her house — perhaps with a view of hearing a little more about their owner from Louis, who would very readily have followed the Bishop’s lead had the parson allowed him room. But this Mr. Torkingham seldom did, and about half-past nine they prepared to separate.

  Louis Glanville had risen from the table, and was standing by the window, looking out upon the sky, and privately yawning, the topics discussed having been hardly in his line.

  ‘A fine night,’ he said at last.

  ‘I suppose our young astronomer is hard at work now,’ said the Bishop, following the direction of Louis’s glance towards the clear sky.

  ‘Yes,’ said the parson; ‘he is very assiduous whenever the nights are good for observation. I have occasionally joined him in his tower, and looked through his telescope with great benefit to my ideas of celestial phenomena. I have not seen what he has been doing lately.’

  ‘Suppose we stroll that way?’ said Louis. ‘Would you be interested in seeing the observatory, Bishop?’

  ‘I am quite willing to go,’ said the Bishop, ‘if the distance is not too great. I should not be at all averse to making the acquaintance of so exceptional a young man as this Mr. St. Cleeve seems to be; and I have never seen the inside of an observatory in my life.’

  The intention was no sooner formed than it was carried out, Mr. Torkingham leading the way.

  CHAPTER XXVI

  Half an hour before this time Swithin St. Cleeve had been sitting in his cabin at the base of the column, working out some figures from observations taken on preceding nights, with a view to a theory that he had in his head on the motions of certain so-called fixed stars.

  The evening being a little chilly a small fire was burning in the stove, and this and the shaded lamp before him lent a remarkably cosy air to the chamber. He was awakened from his reveries by a scratching at the window-pane like that of the point of an ivy leaf, which he knew to be really caused by the tip of his sweetheart-wife’s forefinger. He rose and opened the door to admit her, not without astonishment as to how she had been able to get away from her friends.

  ‘Dearest Viv, why, what’s the matter?’ he said, perceiving that her face, as the lamplight fell on it, was sad, and even stormy.

  ‘I thought I would run across to see you. I have heard something so — so — to your discredit, and I know it can’t be true! I know you are constancy itself; but your constancy produces strange effects in people’s eyes!’

  ‘Good heavens! Nobody has found us out — ’

  ‘No, no — it is not that. You know, Swithin, that I am always sincere, and willing to own if I am to blame in anything. Now will you prove to me that you are the same by owning some fault to me?’

  ‘Yes, dear, indeed; directly I can think of one worth owning.’

  ‘I wonder one does not rush upon your tongue in a moment!’

  ‘I confess that I am sufficiently a Pharisee not to experience that spontaneity.’

  ‘Swithin, don’t speak so affectedly, when you know so well what I mean! Is it nothing to you that, after all our vows for life, you have thought it right to — flirt with a village girl?’

  ‘O Viviette!’ interrupted Swithin, taking her hand, which was hot and trembling. ‘You who are full of noble and generous feelings, and regard me with devoted tenderness that has never been surpassed by woman, — how can you be so greatly at fault? I flirt, Viviette? By thinking that you injure yourself in my eyes. Why, I am so far from doing so that I continually pull myself up for watching you too jealously, as to-day, when I have been dreading the effect upon you of other company in my absence, and thinking that you rather shut the gates against me when you have big-wigs to entertain.’

  ‘Do you, Swithin?’ she cried. It was evident that the honest tone of his words was having a great effect in clearing away the clouds. She added with an uncertain smile, ‘But how can I believe that, after what was seen to-day? My brother, not knowing in the least that I had an iota of interest in you, told me that he witnessed the sig
ns of an attachment between you and Tabitha Lark in church, this morning.’

  ‘Ah!’ cried Swithin, with a burst of laughter. ‘Now I know what you mean, and what has caused this misunderstanding! How good of you, Viviette, to come at once and have it out with me, instead of brooding over it with dark imaginings, and thinking bitter things of me, as many women would have done!’ He succinctly told the whole story of his little adventure with Tabitha that morning; and the sky was clear on both sides. ‘When shall I be able to claim you,’ he added, ‘and put an end to all such painful accidents as these?’

  She partially sighed. Her perception of what the outside world was made of, latterly somewhat obscured by solitude and her lover’s company, had been revived to-day by her entertainment of the Bishop, clergymen, and, more particularly, clergymen’s wives; and it did not diminish her sense of the difficulties in Swithin’s path to see anew how little was thought of the greatest gifts, mental and spiritual, if they were not backed up by substantial temporalities. However, the pair made the best of their future that circumstances permitted, and the interview was at length drawing to a close when there came, without the slightest forewarning, a smart rat-tat-tat upon the little door.

  ‘O I am lost!’ said Viviette, seizing his arm. ‘Why was I so incautious?’

  ‘It is nobody of consequence,’ whispered Swithin assuringly. ‘Somebody from my grandmother, probably, to know when I am coming home.’

  They were unperceived so far, for the only window which gave light to the hut was screened by a curtain. At that moment they heard the sound of their visitors’ voices, and, with a consternation as great as her own, Swithin discerned the tones of Mr. Torkingham and the Bishop of Melchester.

  ‘Where shall I get? What shall I do?’ said the poor lady, clasping her hands.

  Swithin looked around the cabin, and a very little look was required to take in all its resources. At one end, as previously explained, were a table, stove, chair, cupboard, and so on; while the other was completely occupied by a diminutive Arabian bedstead, hung with curtains of pink-and-white chintz. On the inside of the bed there was a narrow channel, about a foot wide, between it and the wall of the hut. Into this cramped retreat Viviette slid herself, and stood trembling behind the curtains.

  By this time the knock had been repeated more loudly, the light through the window-blind unhappily revealing the presence of some inmate. Swithin threw open the door, and Mr. Torkingham introduced his visitors.

  The Bishop shook hands with the young man, told him he had known his father, and at Swithin’s invitation, weak as it was, entered the cabin, the vicar and Louis Glanville remaining on the threshold, not to inconveniently crowd the limited space within.

  Bishop Helmsdale looked benignantly around the apartment, and said, ‘Quite a settlement in the backwoods — quite: far enough from the world to afford the votary of science the seclusion he needs, and not so far as to limit his resources. A hermit might apparently live here in as much solitude as in a primeval forest.’

  ‘His lordship has been good enough to express an interest in your studies,’ said Mr. Torkingham to St. Cleeve. ‘And we have come to ask you to let us see the observatory.’

  ‘With great pleasure,’ stammered Swithin.

  ‘Where is the observatory?’ inquired the Bishop, peering round again.

  ‘The staircase is just outside this door,’ Swithin answered. ‘I am at your lordship’s service, and will show you up at once.’

  ‘And this is your little bed, for use when you work late,’ said the Bishop.

  ‘Yes; I am afraid it is rather untidy,’ Swithin apologized.

  ‘And here are your books,’ the Bishop continued, turning to the table and the shaded lamp. ‘You take an observation at the top, I presume, and come down here to record your observations.’

  The young man explained his precise processes as well as his state of mind would let him, and while he was doing so Mr. Torkingham and Louis waited patiently without, looking sometimes into the night, and sometimes through the door at the interlocutors, and listening to their scientific converse. When all had been exhibited here below, Swithin lit his lantern, and, inviting his visitors to follow, led the way up the column, experiencing no small sense of relief as soon as he heard the footsteps of all three tramping on the stairs behind him. He knew very well that, once they were inside the spiral, Viviette was out of danger, her knowledge of the locality enabling her to find her way with perfect safety through the plantation, and into the park home.

  At the top he uncovered his equatorial, and, for the first time at ease, explained to them its beauties, and revealed by its help the glories of those stars that were eligible for inspection. The Bishop spoke as intelligently as could be expected on a topic not peculiarly his own; but, somehow, he seemed rather more abstracted in manner now than when he had arrived. Swithin thought that perhaps the long clamber up the stairs, coming after a hard day’s work, had taken his spontaneity out of him, and Mr. Torkingham was afraid that his lordship was getting bored. But this did not appear to be the case; for though he said little he stayed on some time longer, examining the construction of the dome after relinquishing the telescope; while occasionally Swithin caught the eyes of the Bishop fixed hard on him.

  ‘Perhaps he sees some likeness of my father in me,’ the young man thought; and the party making ready to leave at this time he conducted them to the bottom of the tower.

  Swithin was not prepared for what followed their descent. All were standing at the foot of the staircase. The astronomer, lantern in hand, offered to show them the way out of the plantation, to which Mr. Torkingham replied that he knew the way very well, and would not trouble his young friend. He strode forward with the words, and Louis followed him, after waiting a moment and finding that the Bishop would not take the precedence. The latter and Swithin were thus left together for one moment, whereupon the Bishop turned.

  ‘Mr. St. Cleeve,’ he said in a strange voice, ‘I should like to speak to you privately, before I leave, to-morrow morning. Can you meet me — let me see — in the churchyard, at half-past ten o’clock?’

  ‘O yes, my lord, certainly,’ said Swithin. And before he had recovered from his surprise the Bishop had joined the others in the shades of the plantation.

  Swithin immediately opened the door of the hut, and scanned the nook behind the bed. As he had expected his bird had flown.

  CHAPTER XXVII

  All night the astronomer’s mind was on the stretch with curiosity as to what the Bishop could wish to say to him. A dozen conjectures entered his brain, to be abandoned in turn as unlikely. That which finally seemed the most plausible was that the Bishop, having become interested in his pursuits, and entertaining friendly recollections of his father, was going to ask if he could do anything to help him on in the profession he had chosen. Should this be the case, thought the suddenly sanguine youth, it would seem like an encouragement to that spirit of firmness which had led him to reject his late uncle’s offer because it involved the renunciation of Lady Constantine.

  At last he fell asleep; and when he awoke it was so late that the hour was ready to solve what conjecture could not. After a hurried breakfast he paced across the fields, entering the churchyard by the south gate precisely at the appointed minute.

  The inclosure was well adapted for a private interview, being bounded by bushes of laurel and alder nearly on all sides. He looked round; the Bishop was not there, nor any living creature save himself. Swithin sat down upon a tombstone to await Bishop Helmsdale’s arrival.

  While he sat he fancied he could hear voices in conversation not far off, and further attention convinced him that they came from Lady Constantine’s lawn, which was divided from the churchyard by a high wall and shrubbery only. As the Bishop still delayed his coming, though the time was nearly eleven, and as the lady whose sweet voice mingled with those heard from the lawn was his personal property, Swithin became exceedingly curious to learn what was going on within t
hat screened promenade. A way of doing so occurred to him. The key was in the church door; he opened it, entered, and ascended to the ringers’ loft in the west tower. At the back of this was a window commanding a full view of Viviette’s garden front.

  The flowers were all in gayest bloom, and the creepers on the walls of the house were bursting into tufts of young green. A broad gravel-walk ran from end to end of the facade, terminating in a large conservatory. In the walk were three people pacing up and down. Lady Constantine’s was the central figure, her brother being on one side of her, and on the other a stately form in a corded shovel-hat of glossy beaver and black breeches. This was the Bishop. Viviette carried over her shoulder a sunshade lined with red, which she twirled idly. They were laughing and chatting gaily, and when the group approached the churchyard many of their remarks entered the silence of the church tower through the ventilator of the window.

  The conversation was general, yet interesting enough to Swithin. At length Louis stepped upon the grass and picked up something that had lain there, which turned out to be a bowl: throwing it forward he took a second, and bowled it towards the first, or jack. The Bishop, who seemed to be in a sprightly mood, followed suit, and bowled one in a curve towards the jack, turning and speaking to Lady Constantine as he concluded the feat. As she had not left the gravelled terrace he raised his voice, so that the words reached Swithin distinctly.

  ‘Do you follow us?’ he asked gaily.

  ‘I am not skilful,’ she said. ‘I always bowl narrow.’

  The Bishop meditatively paused.

  ‘This moment reminds one of the scene in Richard the Second,’ he said. ‘I mean the Duke of York’s garden, where the queen and her two ladies play, and the queen says —

  “What sport shall we devise here in this garden,