by Thomas Hardy
“Then,” said he simply, “you hadn’t heard of my supposed failure when you declined last time?”
“I had not,” she said. “That you believed me capable of refusing you for such a reason does not help your cause.”
And ‘tis not because of any soreness from my slighting you years ago?”
“No. That soreness is long past.”
“Ah — then you despise me, Sally!”
“No,” she slowly answered. “I don’t altogether despise you. I don’t think you quite such a hero as I once did — that’s all. The truth is, I am happy enough as I am; and I don’t mean to marry at all. Now may I ask a favour, sir?” She spoke with an ineffable charm, which, whenever he thought of it, made him curse his loss of her as long as he lived.
“To any extent.”
Please do not put this question to me any more. Friends as long as you 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 was only 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 was only by chance that, years after, he learnt that Sally, notwithstanding the solicitations her attractions drew down upon her, had refused several offers of marriage, and steadily adhered to her purpose of leading a single life.
*It is now pulled down, and its site occupied by a modern one in red brick (1912). — T.H.
A Mere Interlude
I
The traveler in schoolbooks, who vouched in dryest tones for the fidelity to fact of the following narrative, used to add a ring of truth to it by opening with a nicety of criticism on the heroine’s personality. People were wrong, he declared, when they surmised that Baptista Trewthen was a young woman with scarcely emotions or character. There was nothing in her to love, and nothing to hate — so ran the general opinion. That she showed few positive qualities was true. The colours and tones which changing events paint on the faces of active womankind were looked for in vain upon hers. But still waters run deep; and no crisis had come in the years of her early maidenhood to demonstrate what lay hidden within her, like metal in a mine.
She was the daughter of a small farmer in St. Maria’s, one of the Isles of Lyonesse beyond Off-Wessex, who had spent a large sum, as there understood, on her education, by sending her to the mainland for two years. At nineteen she was entered at the Training College for Teachers, and at twenty-one nominated to a school in the country, near Tor-upon-Sea, whither she proceeded after the Christmas examination and holidays.
The months passed by from winter to spring and summer, and Baptista applied herself to her new duties as best she could, till an uneventful year had elapsed. Then an air of abstraction pervaded her bearing as she walked to and fro, twice a day, and she showed the traits of a person who had something on her mind. A widow, by name Mrs. Wace, in whose house Baptista Trewthen had been provided with a sitting room and bedroom till the schoolhouse should be built, noticed this change in her youthful tenant’s manner, and at last ventured to press her with a few questions.
“It has nothing to do with the place, nor with you,” said Miss Trewthen.
“Then it is the salary?”
“No, nor the salary.”
“Then it is something you have heard from home, my dear.”
Baptista was silent for a few moments. “It is Mr. Heddegan,” she murmured. “Him they used to call David Heddegan before he got his money.”
“And who is the Mr. Heddegan they used to call David?”
“An old bachelor at Giant’s Town, St. Maria’s, with no relations whatever, who lives about a stone’s throw from father’s. When I was a child he used to take me on his knee and say he’d marry me someday. Now I am a woman the jest has turned earnest, and he is anxious to do it. And father and mother say I can’t do better than have him.”
“He’s well off?”
“Yes — he’s the richest man we know — as a friend and neighbour.”
“How much older did you say he was than yourself’?”
“I didn’t say. Twenty years at least.”
“And an unpleasant man in the bargain perhaps?”
“No — he’s not unpleasant.”
“Well, child, all I can say is that I’d resist any such engagement if it’s not palatable to ‘ee. You are comfortable here, in my little house, I hope. All the parish like ‘ee: and I’ve never been so cheerful, since my poor husband left me to wear his wings, as I’ve been with ‘ee as my lodger.”
The schoolmistress assured her landlady that she could return the sentiment. “But here comes my perplexity,” she said. “I don’t like keeping school. Ah, you are surprised — you didn’t suspect it. That’s because I’ve concealed my feeling. Well, I simply hate school. I don’t care for children — they are unpleasant, troublesome little things, whom nothing would delight so much as to hear that you had fallen down dead. Yet I would even put up with them if it was not for the inspector. For three months before his visit I didn’t sleep soundly. And the Committee of Council are always changing the Code, so that you don’t know what to teach, and what to leave untaught. I think father and mother are right. They say I shall never excel as a schoolmistress if I dislike the work so, and that therefore I ought to get settled by marrying Mr. Heddegan. Between us two, I like him better than school; but I don’t like him quite so much as to wish to marry him.”
These conversations, once begun, were continued from day to day; till at length the young girl’s elderly friend and landlady threw in her opinion on the side of Miss Trewthen’s parents. All things considered, she declared, the uncertainty of the school, the labour, Baptista’s natural dislike for teaching, it would be as well to take what fate offered, and make the best of matters by wedding her father’s old neighbour and prosperous friend.
The Easter holidays came round, and Baptista went to spend them as usual in her native isle, going by train into Off-Wessex and crossing by packet from Pen-zephyr. When she returned in the middle of April her face wore a more settled aspect.
“Well?” said the expectant Mrs. Wace.
“I have agreed to have him as my husband,” said Baptista, in an off-hand way. “Heaven knows if it will be for the best or not. But I have agreed to do it, and so the matter is settled.”
Mrs. Wace commended her; but Baptista did not care to dwell on the subject; so that allusion to it was very infrequent between them. Nevertheless among other things, she repeated to the widow from time to time in monosyllabic remarks that the wedding was really impending; that it was arranged for the summer, and that she had given notice of leaving the school at the August holidays. Later on she announced more specifically that her marriage was to take place immediately after her return home at the beginning of the month aforesaid.
She now corresponded regularly with Mr. Heddegan. Her letters from him were seen, at least on the outside, and in part within, by Mrs. Wace. Had she read more of their interiors than the occasional sentences shown her by Baptista she would have perceived that the scratchy, rusty handwriting of Miss Trewthen’s betrothed conveyed little more matter than details of their future housekeeping, and his preparations for the same, with innumerable ‘my dears’ sprinkled in disconnectedly, to show the depth of his affection without the inconveniences of syntax.
II
It was the end of July — dry, too dry, even for the season, the delicate green herbs and vegetables that grew in this favored end of the kingdom tasting rather of the watering-pot than of the pure fresh moisture from the skies. Baptista’s boxes were packed, and one Saturday morning she departed by a wagonette to the station, and thence by train to Pen-zephyr, from which port she was, as usual, to cross the water immediately to her home, and become Mr. Heddegan’s wife on the Wednesday of the week following.
She might have returned a week sooner. But though the wedding day had loom
ed so near, and the banns were out, she delayed her departure till this last moment, saying it was not necessary for her to be at home long beforehand. As Mr. Heddegan was older than herself, she said, she was to be married in her ordinary summer bonnet and gray silk frock, and there were no preparations to make that had not amply made by her parents and intended husband.
In due time, after a hot and tedious journey, she reached Pen-zephyr. She here obtained some refreshment, and then went toward the pier, where she learnt to her surprise that the little steamboat plying between the town and the islands had left at eleven o’clock; the usual hour of departure in the afternoon having been forestalled in consequence of the fogs which had for a few days prevailed toward evening, making twilight navigation dangerous.
This being Saturday, there was now no other boat till Tuesday, and it became obvious that here she would have to remain for the three days, unless her friends should think fit to rig out one of the island sailing-boats and come to fetch her — a not very likely contingency, the sea distance being nearly forty miles.
Baptista, however, had been detained in Pen-zephyr on more than one occasion before, either on account of bad weather or some such reason as the present, and she was therefore not in any personal alarm. But, as she was to be married on the following Wednesday, the delay was certainly inconvenient to a more than ordinary degree, since it would leave less than a day’s interval between her arrival and the wedding ceremony.
Apart from this awkwardness she did not much mind the accident. It was indeed curious to see how little she minded. Perhaps it would not be too much to say that, although she was going to do the critical deed of her life quite willingly, she experienced an indefinable relief at the postponement of her meeting with Heddegan. But her manner after making discovery of the hindrance was quiet and subdued, even to passivity itself; as was instanced by her having, at the moment of receiving information that the steamer had sailed, replied ‘Oh,’ so coolly to the porter with her luggage, that he was almost disappointed at her lack of disappointment.
The question now was, should she return again to Mrs. Wace, in the village of Lower Wessex, or wait in the town at which she had arrived. She would have preferred to go back, but the distance was too great; moreover, having left the place for good, and somewhat dramatically, to become a bride, a return, even for so short a space, would have been a trifle humiliating.
Leaving, then, her boxes at the station, her next anxiety was to secure a respectable, or rather genteel, lodging in the popular seaside resort confronting her. To this end she looked about the town, in which, though she had passed through it half-a-dozen times, she was practically a stranger.
Baptista found a room to suit her over a fruiterer’s shop; where she made herself at home, and set herself in order after her journey. An early cup of tea having revived her spirits she walked out to reconnoiter.
Being a schoolmistress she avoided looking at the schools, and having a sort of trade connection with books, she avoided looking at the booksellers; but wearying of the other shops she inspected the churches; not that for her own part she cared much about ecclesiastical edifices; but tourists looked at them, and so would she — a proceeding for which no one would have credited her with any great originality, such, for instance, as that she subsequently showed herself to possess. The churches soon oppressed her. She tried the Museum, but came out because it seemed lonely and tedious.
Yet the town and the walks in this land of strawberries, these headquarters of early English flowers and fruit, were then, as always, attractive. From the more picturesque streets she went to the town gardens, and the Pier, and the Harbour, and looked at the men at work there, loading and unloading as in the time of the Phoenicians.
“Not Baptista? Yes, Baptista it is!”
The words were uttered behind her. Turning round she gave a start and became confused, even agitated, for a moment. Then she said in her usual undemonstrative manner, “O — is it really you, Charles?”
Without speaking again at once, and with a half-smile, the new-comer glanced her over. There was much criticism, and some resentment — even temper — in his eye.
“I am going home,” continued she. “But I have missed the boat.”
He scarcely seemed to take in the meaning of this explanation, in the intensity of his critical survey. “Teaching still? What a fine schoolmistress you make, Baptista, I warrant!” he said with a slight flavor of sarcasm, which was not lost upon her.
“I know I am nothing to brag of,” she replied. “That’s why I have given up.”
“O — given up? You astonish me.”
“I hate the profession.”
“Perhaps that’s because I am in it.”
“O, no, it isn’t. But I am going to enter on another life altogether. I am going to be married next week to Mr. David Heddegan.”
The young man — fortified as he was by a natural cynical pride and passionateness — winced at this unexpected reply, notwithstanding.
“Who is Mr. David Heddegan?” he asked, as indifferently as lay in his power.
She informed him the bearer of the name was a general merchant of Giant’s Town, St. Maria’s Island — her father’s nearest neighbour and oldest friend.
“Then we shan’t see anything more of you on the mainland?” inquired the schoolmaster.
“O, I don’t know about that,” said Miss Trewthen.
“Here endeth the career of the belle of the boarding school your father was foolish enough to send you to. A ‘general merchant’s’ wife in the Lyonesse Isles. Will you sell pounds of soap and pennyworths of tin tacks, or whole bars of saponaceous matter, and great tenpenny nails?”
“He’s not in such a small way as that!” she almost pleaded. “He owns ships, though they are rather little ones!”
“O well, it is much the same. Come, let us walk on; it is tedious to stand still. I thought you would be a failure in education,” he continued, when she obeyed him and strolled ahead. “You never showed power that way. You remind me much of some of those women who think they are sure to be great actresses if they go on the stage because they have a pretty face, and forget that what we require is acting. But found your mistake, didn’t you?”
“Don’t taunt me, Charles.” It was noticeable that the young schoolmaster’s tone led her no anger or retaliatory passion; far otherwise: there was a tear in her eye. “How is it you are at Pen-zephyr?” she inquired.
“I don’t taunt you. I speak the truth, purely in a friendly way, as I should to any I wished well. Though for that matter I might have some excuse even for taunting you. Such a terrible hurry as you’ve been in. I hate a woman who is in such a hurry.”
“How do you mean that?”
“Why — to be somebody’s wife or other — anything’s wife rather than nobody’s. You couldn’t wait for me, O, no. Well, thank God, I’m cured of all that!”
“How merciless you are!” she said bitterly. “Wait for you? What does that mean, Charley? You never showed — anything to wait for — anything special toward me.”
“O, come, Baptista dear; come!”
“What I mean is, nothing definite,” she expostulated. “I suppose you liked me a little; but it seemed to me to be only a pastime on your part, and that you never meant to make an honourable engagement of it.”
“There, that’s just it! You girls expect a man to mean business at the first look. No man when he first becomes interested in a woman has any definite scheme of engagement to marry her in his mind, unless he is meaning a vulgar mercenary marriage. However, I did at least mean an honourable engagement, as you call it, come to that.”
“But you never said so, and an indefinite courtship soon injures a woman’s position and credit, sooner than you think.”
“Baptista, I solemnly declare that in six months I should have asked you to marry me.”
She walked along in silence, looking on the ground, and appearing very uncomfortable. Presently he said, “Would you h
ave waited for me if you had known?” To this she whispered in a sorrowful whisper, “Yes!”
They went still farther in silence — passing along one of the beautiful walks on the outskirts of the town, yet not observant of scene or situation. Her shoulder and his were close together, and he clasped his fingers round the small of her arm — quite lightly, and without any attempt at impetus; yet the act seemed to say, “Now I hold you, and my will must be yours.”
Recurring to a previous question of hers he said, “I have merely run down here for a day or two from school near Trufal, before going off to the north for the rest of my holiday. I have seen my relations at Redrutin quite lately, so I am not going there this time. How little I thought of meeting you! How very different the circumstances would have been if, instead of parting again as we must in half-an-hour or so, possibly forever, you had been now just going off with me, as my wife, on our honeymoon trip. Ha — ha — well — so humorous is life!”
She stopped suddenly. “I must go back now — this is altogether too painful, Charley! It is not at all a kind mood you are in today.”
“I don’t want to pain you — you know I do not,” he said more gently. “Only it just exasperates me — this you are going to do. I wish you would not.”
“What?”
“Marry him. There, now I have showed you my true sentiments.”
“I must do it now,” said she.
“Why?” he asked, dropping the offhand masterful tone he had hitherto spoken, and becoming earnest; still holding her arm, however, as if she were his chattel to be taken up or put down at will. “It is never too late to break off a marriage that’s distasteful to you. Now I’ll say one thing; and it is truth: I wish you would marry me instead of him, even now, at the last moment, though you have served me so badly.”
“O, it is not possible to think of that!” she answered hastily, shaking her head. “When I get home all will be prepared — it is ready even now — the things for the party, the furniture, Mr. Heddegan’s new suit, and everything. I should require the courage of a tropical lion to go home there and say I wouldn’t carry out my promise!”
