Complete Works of Thomas Hardy (Illustrated)

by Thomas Hardy

“He has drifted into the culvert,” he said.

  Below the footbridge of the weir the stream suddenly narrowed to half its width, to pass under a barrel arch or culvert constructed for wagons to cross into the middle of the mead in haymaking time. It being at present the season of high water the arch was full to the crown, against which the ripples clucked every now and then. At this point he had just caught sight of a pale object slipping under. In a moment it was gone.

  They went to the lower end, but nothing emerged. For a long time they tried at the ends to effect some communication with the interior, but to no purpose.

  “We ought to have come sooner!” said the conscience-stricken Cornelius, when they were quite exhausted, and dripping wet.

  “I suppose we ought,” replied Joshua heavily. He perceived his father’s walking-stick on the bank; hastily picking it up he stuck it into the mud among the sedge. Then they went on.

  “Shall we – say anything about this accident?” whispered Cornelius as they approached the door of Joshua’s house.

  “What’s the use? It can do no good. We must wait until he is found.”

  They went indoors and changed their clothes; after which they started for the manor house, reaching it about ten o’clock. Besides their sister there were only three guests; an adjoining landowner and his wife, and the infirm old rector.

  Rosa, although she had parted from them so recently, grasped their hands in an ecstatic, brimming, joyful manner, as if she had not seen them for years. “You look pale,” she said.

  The brothers answered that they had had a long walk, and were somewhat tired. Everybody in the room seemed charged full with some sort of interesting knowledge: the squire’s neighbour and neighbour’s wife looked wisely around; and Fellmer himself played the part of host with a preoccupied bearing which approached fervor. They left at eleven, not accepting the carriage offered, the distance being so short and the roads dry. The squire came rather further into the dark with them than he need have done, and wished Rosa good-night in a mysterious manner, slightly apart from the rest.

  When they were walking along Joshua said, with a desperate attempt at joviality, “Rosa, what’s going on?”

  “Oh, I – “ she began between a gasp and a bound. “He – “

  “Never mind – if it disturbs you.”

  She was so excited that she could not speak connectedly at first, the practiced air which she had brought home with her having disappeared. Calming herself she added, “I am not disturbed, and nothing has happened. Only he said he wanted to ask me something, someday; and I said nevermind that now. He hasn’t asked yet, and is coming to speak to you about it. He would have done so tonight, only I asked him not to be in a hurry. But he will come tomorrow, I am sure!”

  V

  It was summertime, six months later, and mowers and haymakers were at work in the meads. The manor house, being opposite them, frequently formed a peg for conversation during these operations; and the doings of the squire, and the squire’s young wife, the curate’s sister – who was at present the admired of most of them, and the interest of all – met with their due amount of criticism.

  Rosa was happy, if ever woman could be said to be so. She had not learnt the fate of her father, and sometimes wondered – perhaps with a sense, of relief – why he did not write to her from his supposed home in Canada. Her brother Joshua had been presented to a living in a small town, shortly after her marriage, and Cornelius had thereupon succeeded to the vacant curacy of Narrobourne.

  These two had awaited in deep suspense the discovery of their father’s body; and yet the discovery had not been made. Every day they expected a man or a boy to run up from the meads with the intelligence; but he had never come. Days had accumulated to weeks and months; the wedding had come and gone: Joshua had tolled and read himself in at his new parish; and never a shout of amazement over the millwright’s remains.

  But now, in June, when they were mowing the meads, the hatches had to be drawn and the water let out of its channels for the convenience of the mowers. It was thus that the discovery was made. A man, stooping low with his scythe, caught a view of the culvert lengthwise, and saw something entangled in the recently bared weeds of its bed. A day or two after there was an inquest; but the body was unrecognizable. Fish and flood had been busy with the millwright; he had no watch or marked article which could be identified; and a verdict of the accidental drowning of a person unknown settled the matter.

  As the body was found in Narrobourne parish, there it had to be buried. Cornelius wrote to Joshua, begging him to come and read the service, or to send someone; he himself could not do it. Rather than let in a stranger Joshua came, and silently scanned the coroner’s order handed him by the undertaker: –

  “I Henry Giles, Coroner for the Mid-Division of Outer Wessex, do hereby order the Burial of the Body now shown to the Inquest Jury as the Body of an Adult Male Person Unknown . . . “, etc.

  Joshua Halborough got through the service in some way, and rejoined his brother Cornelius at his house. Neither accepted an invitation to lunch at their sister’s; they wished to discuss parish matters together. In the afternoon she came down, though they had already called on her, and had not expected to see her again. Her bright eyes, brown hair, flowery bonnet, lemon-coloured gloves, and flush beauty, were like an irradiation into the apartment, which they in their gloom could hardly bear.

  “I forgot to tell you,” she said, “of a curious thing which happened to me a month or two before my marriage – something which I have thought may have had a connection with the accident to the poor man you have buried today. It was on that evening I was at the manor house waiting for you to fetch me; I was in the winter garden with Albert, and we were sitting silent together, when we fancied we heard a cry in the distant meadow. We opened the door, and while Albert ran to fetch hat, leaving me standing there, the cry was repeated, and my excited senses made me think I heard my own name. When Albert came back all was silent, and we decided that it was only a drunken shout, and not a cry for help. We both forgot the incident, and it never has occurred to me till since the funeral today that it might have been this stranger’s cry. The name of course was only fancy, or he might have had a wife or child with a name something like mine, poor man!”

  When she was gone the brothers were silent till Cornelius said, “Now mark this, Joshua. Sooner or later she’ll know.”

  “How?”

  “From one of us. Do you think human hearts are iron-cased safes, that you suppose we can keep this secret forever?”

  “Yes, I think they are, sometimes,” said Joshua.

  “No. It will out. We shall tell.”

  “What, and ruin her – kill her? Disgrace her children, and pull down the whole auspicious house of Fellmer about our ears? No! May I – drown where he was drowned before I do it! Never, never. Surely you can say the same, Cornelius!”

  Cornelius seemed fortified, and no more was said. For a long time after that day he did not see Joshua, and before the next year was out a son and heir was born to the Fellmers. The villagers rang the three bells every evening for a week and more, and were made merry by Mr. Fellmer’s ale; and when the christening came on Joshua paid Narrobourne another visit.

  Among all the people who assembled on that day the brother clergymen were the least interested. Their minds were haunted by a spirit in kerseymere. In the evening they walked together in the fields.

  “She’s all right,” said Joshua. “But here are you doing journey-work, Cornelius, and likely to continue at it till the end of the day, as far as I can see. I, too, with my petty living – what am I after all? . . . To tell the truth, the Church is a poor forlorn hope for people without influence, particularly when their enthusiasm begins to flag. A social regenerator has a better chance outside, where he is unhampered by dogma and tradition. As for me, I would rather have gone on mending mills, with my crust of bread and liberty.”

  Almost automatically they had bent their steps along th
e margin of the river; they now paused. They were standing on the brink of the well-known weir. There were the hatches, there was the culvert; they could see the pebbly bed of the stream through the pellucid water. The notes of the church-bells were audible, still jangled by the enthusiastic villagers.

  “It was there I hid his walking-stick!” said Joshua, looking toward the sedge. The next moment, during a passing breeze, something flashed white on the spot to which the attention of Cornelius was drawn

  From the sedge rose a straight little silver-poplar, and it was the leaves of this sapling which caused the flicker of whiteness.

  “His walking-stick has grown!” Joshua added. “It was a rough one – cut from the hedge, I remember.”

  At every puff of wind the tree turned white, till they could not bear to look at it, and they walked away.

  “I see him every night,” Cornelius murmured. “Ah, we read our Hebrews to little account, Jos!

  ¡pmeine stauñòn aÉscÍnhz Ðatafñon saz

  To have endured the cross, despising the shame – there lay greatness! But now I often feel that I should like to put an end to trouble here in this self-same spot.”

  “I have thought of it myself,” said Joshua.

  “Perhaps we shall, someday,” murmured his brother.

  “Perhaps,” said Joshua moodily.

  With that contingency to consider in the silence of their nights and days they bent their steps homewards.

  December 1888.

  The First Countess of Wessex

  Dame the First

  By the Local Historian.

  King’s-Hintock court (said the narrator, turning over his memoranda for reference) — King’s-Hintock Court is, as we know, one of the most imposing of the mansions that overlook our beautiful Blackmoor, or Blakemore, Vale. On the particular occasion of which I have to speak this building stood, as it had often stood before, in the perfect silence of a calm clear night, lighted only by the cold shine of the stars. The season was winter, in days long ago, the last century having run but little more than a third of its length. North, south, and west not a casement was unfastened, not a curtain undrawn; eastward, one window on the upper floor was open, and a girl of twelve or thirteen was leaning over the sill. That she had not taken up the position for purposes of observation was apparent at a glance, for she kept her eyes covered with her hands.

  The room occupied by the girl was an inner one of a suite, to be reached only by passing through a large bedchamber adjoining. From this apartment voices in altercation were audible, everything else in the building being so still. It was to avoid listening to these voices that the girl had left her little cot, thrown a cloak round her head and shoulders, and stretched into the night air.

  But she could not escape the conversation, try as she would. The words reached her in all their painfulness, one sentence in masculine tones, those of her father, being repeated many times.

  “I tell ‘ee there shall be no such betrothal! I tell ‘ee there sha’n’t. A child like her!”

  She knew the subject of dispute to be herself. A cool feminine voice, her mother’s, replied:

  “Have done with you, and be wise. He is willing to wait a good five or six years before the marriage takes place, and there’s not a man in the county to compare with him.”

  “It shall not be. He is over thirty. It is wickedness.”

  “He is just thirty, and the best and finest man alive — a perfect match for her.”

  “He is poor!”

  “But his father and elder brothers are made much of at Court — none so constantly at the palace as they; and with her fortune, who knows? He may be able to get a barony.”

  “I believe you are in love with en yourself!”

  “How can you insult me so, Thomas! And is it not monstrous for you to talk of my wickedness when you have a like scheme in your own head? You know you have. Some bumpkin of your own choosing — some petty gentleman who lives down at that outlandish place of yours, Falls-Park — one of your pot-companions’ sons — .”

  There was an outburst of imprecation on the part of her husband in lieu of further argument. As soon as he could utter a connected sentence he said: “You crow and you domineer, mistress, because you are heiress-general here. You are in your own house; you are on your own land. But let me tell ‘ee that if I did come here to you instead of taking you to me, it was done at the dictates of convenience merely. H — , I’m no beggar! Ha’n’t I a place of my own? Ha’n’t I an avenue as long as thine? Ha’n’t I beeches that will more than match thy oaks? I should have lived in my own quiet house and land, contented, if you had not called me off with your airs and graces. Faith, I’ll go back there; I’ll not stay with thee longer! If it had not been for our Betty I should have gone long ago!”

  After this there were no more words; but presently, hearing the sound of a door opening and shutting below, the girl again looked from the window. Footsteps crunched on the gravel-walk, and a shape in a drab great-coat, easily distinguishable as her father, withdrew from the house. He moved to the left, and she watched him diminish down the long east front till he had turned the corner and vanished. He must have gone round to the stables.

  She closed the window and shrank into bed, where she cried herself to sleep. This child, their only one, Betty, beloved ambitiously by her mother, and with uncalculating passionateness by her father, was frequently made wretched by such episodes as this; though she was too young to care very deeply, for her own sake, whether her mother betrothed her to the gentleman discussed or not.

  The Squire had often gone out of the house in this manner, declaring that he would never return, but he had always reappeared in the morning. The present occasion, however, was different in the issue; next day she was told that her father had ridden to his estate at Falls-Park early in the morning on business with his agent, and might not come back for some days.

  Falls-Park was over twenty miles from King’s-Hintock Court, and was altogether a more modest center-piece to a more modest possession than the latter. But as Squire Dornell came in view of it that February morning, he thought that he been a fool ever to leave it, though it was for the sake of greatest heiress in Wessex. Its classic front, of the period of the second Charles, derived from its regular features a dignity which the great, battlemented, heterogeneous mansion of his wife could not eclipse. Altogether he was sick at heart, and the gloom which the densely-timbered park threw over the scene did not tend to remove the depression of this rubicund man of eight-and-forty, who sat so heavily upon his gelding. The child, his darling Betty: there lay the root of his trouble. He was unhappy when near his wife, he was unhappy when away from his little girl, and from this dilemma there was no practicable escape. As a consequence, he indulged rather freely in the pleasures of the table, became what was called a three-bottle man, and, in his wife’s estimation, less and less presentable to her polite friends from town.

  He was received by the two or three old servants who were in charge of the lonely place, where a few rooms only were kept habitable for his use or that of his friends when hunting; and during the morning he was made more comfortable by the arrival of his faithful servant Tupcombe from Kings-Hintock. But after a day or two spent here in solitude he began to feel that he had made a mistake in coming. By leaving King’s-Hintock in his anger he had thrown away his best opportunity of counteracting his wife’s preposterous notion of promising his poor little Betty’s hand to a man she had hardly seen. To protect her from such a repugnant bargain he should have remained on the spot. He felt it almost as a misfortune that the child would inherit so much wealth. She would be a mark for all the adventurers in the kingdom. Had she been only the heiress to his own unassuming little place at Falls, how much better would have been her chances of happiness!

  His wife had divined truly when she insinuated that he himself had a lover in view for this pet child. The son of a dear deceased friend of his, who lived not two miles from where the Squire now was, a lad a
couple of years his daughter’s senior, seemed in her father’s opinion the one person in the world likely to make her happy. But as to breathing such a scheme to either of the young people with the indecent haste that his wife had shown, he would not dream of it; years hence would be soon enough for that. They had already seen each other, and the Squire fancied that he noticed a tenderness on the youth’s part which promised well. He was strongly tempted to profit by his wife’s example, and forestall her match-making by throwing the two young people together there at Falls. The girl, though marriageable in the views of those days, was too young to be in love, but the lad was fifteen, and already felt an interest in her.

  Still better than keeping watch over her at King’s-Hintock, where she was necessarily much under her mother’s influence, would it be to get the child to stay with him at Falls for a time, under his exclusive control. But how accomplish this without using main force? The only possible chance was that his wife might, for appearance’ sake, as she had done before, consent to Betty paying him a day’s visit, when he might find means of detaining her until Reynard, the suitor whom his wife favored, had gone abroad, which he was expected to do the following week. Squire Dornell determined to return to King’s-Hintock and attempt the enterprise. If he were refused, it was almost in him to pick up Betty bodily and carry her off.

  The journey back, vague and quixotic as were his intentions, was performed with a far lighter heart than his setting forth. He would see Betty and talk to her, come what might of his plan.

  So he rode along the dead level which stretches between the hills skirting Falls-Park and those bounding the town of Ivell, trotted through that borough, and out by the King’s-Hintock highway, till, passing the village, he entered the mile-long drive through the park to the Court. The drive being open, without an avenue, the Squire could discern the north front and door of the Court a long way off, and was himself visible from the windows on that side; for which reason he hoped that Betty might perceive him coming, as she sometimes did on his return from an outing, and run to the door or wave her handkerchief.