Complete Works of Thomas Hardy (Illustrated) (701 page)

‘It is a very long time since we met.’

‘Yes; what you must have seen, Mr. Barnet, in all these roving years, in comparison with what I have seen in this quiet place!’  Her face grew more serious.  ‘You know my husband has been dead a long time?  I am a lonely old woman now, considering what I have been; though Mr. Downe’s daughters — all married — manage to keep me pretty cheerful.’

‘And I am a lonely old man, and have been any time these twenty years.’

‘But where have you kept yourself?  And why did you go off so mysteriously?’

‘Well, Lucy, I have kept myself a little in America, and a little in Australia, a little in India, a little at the Cape, and so on; I have not stayed in any place for a long time, as it seems to me, and yet more than twenty years have flown.  But when people get to my age two years go like one! — Your second question, why did I go away so mysteriously, is surely not necessary.  You guessed why, didn’t you?’

‘No, I never once guessed,’ she said simply; ‘nor did Charles, nor did anybody as far as I know.’

‘Well, indeed!  Now think it over again, and then look at me, and say if you can’t guess?’

She looked him in the face with an inquiring smile.  ‘Surely not because 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 ask you to marry me.  My wife died four-and-twenty hours before you went to church with Downe.  The fixing of my journey at that particular moment was because of her funeral; but once away I knew I should have no inducement to come back, and took my steps accordingly.’

Her face assumed an aspect of gentle reflection, and she looked up and down his form with great interest in her eyes.  ‘I never thought of it!’ she said.  ‘I knew, of course, that you had once implied some warmth of feeling towards me, but I concluded that it passed off.  And I have always been under the impression that your wife was alive at the time of my marriage.  Was it not stupid of me! — But you will 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 a regular 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 he leisurely surveyed the room; ‘how like it all is, and yet how different!  Just where your piano stands was a board on a couple of trestles, bearing the patterns of wall-papers, when I was last here.  I was choosing them — standing in this way, as it might be.  Then my servant came in at the door, and handed me a note, so.  It was from Downe, 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, and left 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 came almost 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 her wrought even greater surprise in him that it should be so.  It was difficult to believe that she had been quite blind to the situation, and yet all reason and common sense went to prove that she was not acting.

‘You take me quite unawares by such a question!’ she said, with a forced laugh of uneasiness.  It was the first time she had shown any embarrassment at all.  ‘Why,’ she added, ‘I couldn’t marry you for the world.’

‘Not after all this!  Why not?’

‘It is — I would — I really think I may say it — I would upon the whole rather marry you, Mr. Barnet, than any other man I have ever met, if I ever dreamed of marriage again.  But I don’t dream of it — it is quite out of my thoughts; I have not the least intention of marrying again.’

‘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 your account if on anybody’s in existence.  But you don’t know in the least what it is you are asking — such an impracticable thing — I won’t say ridiculous, of course, because I see that you are really in earnest, and earnestness is never ridiculous to my mind.’

‘Well, yes,’ said Barnet more slowly, dropping her hand, which he had 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 in earnest in asking.’

‘And I in declining.  With all good feeling and all kindness, let me say that I am quite opposed to the idea of marrying a second time.’

‘Well, no harm has been done,’ he answered, with the same subdued and tender humorousness that he had shown on such occasions in early life.  ‘If you really won’t accept me, I must put up with it, I suppose.’  His eye fell on the clock as he spoke.  ‘Had you any notion 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 his face.  ‘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 had died away upon the road, closed the door softly and returned to the room.  Here the modest widow long pondered his speeches, with eyes dropped to an unusually low level.  Barnet’s urbanity under the blow of her refusal greatly impressed her.  After having his long period of probation rendered useless by her decision, he had shown no anger, and had philosophically taken her words as if he deserved no better ones.  It was very gentlemanly of him, certainly; it was more than gentlemanly; it was heroic and grand.  The more she meditated, the more she questioned the virtue of her conduct in checking him so peremptorily; and went to her bedroom in a mood of dissatisfaction.  On looking in the glass she was reminded that there was not so much remaining of her former beauty as to make his frank declaration an impulsive natural homage to her cheeks and eyes; it must undoubtedly have arisen from an old staunch feeling of his, deserving tenderest consideration.  She recalled to her mind with much pleasure that he had 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, call again, she might then send him a nice little note.  To alter her views for the present was far from her intention; but she would allow herself to be induced to reconsider the case, as any generous woman ought to do.

The morrow came and passed, and Mr. Barnet did not drop in.  At every knock, light youthful hues flew across her cheek; and she was abstracted in the presence of her other visitors.  In the evening she walked about the house, not knowing what to do with herself; the conditions of existence seemed totally different from those which ruled only four-and-twenty short hours ago.  What had been at first a tantalising elusive sentiment was getting acclimatized within her as a definite hope, and her person was so informed by that emotion that she might almost have stood as its emblematical representative by the time the clock struck ten.  In short, an interest in Barnet precisely resembling that of her early youth led her present heart to belie her yesterday’s words to him, and she longed to see him again.

The next day she walked out early, thinking she might meet him in the street.  The growing beauty of her romance absorbed her, and she went from the street to the fields, and from the fields to the shore, without any consciousness of distance, till reminded by her weariness that she could go no further.  He had nowhere appeared.  In the evening she took a step which under the circumstances seemed justifiable; she wrote a note to him at the hotel, inviting him to tea with her at six precisely, and signing her note ‘Lucy.’

In a quarter of an hour the messenger came back.  Mr. Barnet had left the hotel early in the morning of the day before, but he had stated that he would probably return in the course of the week.

The note was sent back, to be given to him immediately on his arrival.

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 had been restless, and had scarcely slept half-an-hour.

On the Saturday, putting off all diffidence, Lucy went herself to the Black-Bull, and questioned the staff closely.

Mr. Barnet had cursorily remarked when leaving that he might return on the Thursday or Friday, but they were directed not to reserve a room 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 I

The north road from Casterbridge is tedious and lonely, especially in winter-time.  Along a part of its course it connects with Long-Ash Lane, a monotonous track without a village or hamlet for many miles, and with very seldom a turning.  Unapprized wayfarers who are too old, or too young, or in other respects too weak for the distance 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 the hilltop, and Long-Ash Lane stretches in front as mercilessly as before.

Some few years ago a certain farmer was riding through this lane in the gloom of a winter evening.  The farmer’s friend, a dairyman, was riding beside him.  A few paces in the rear rode the farmer’s man.  All three were well horsed on strong, round-barrelled cobs; and to be well horsed was to be in better spirits about Long-Ash Lane than poor 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 in truth it was important.  Not altogether so important was it, perhaps, when estimated by its value to society at large; but if the true measure of a deed be proportionate to the space it occupies in the heart of him who undertakes it, Farmer Charles Darton’s business to-night could hold its own with the business of kings.

He was a large farmer.  His turnover, as it is called, was probably thirty thousand pounds a year.  He had a great many draught horses, a great many milch cows, and of sheep a multitude.  This comfortable position was, however, none of his own making.  It had been created by his father, a man of a very different stamp from the present representative of the line.

Darton, the father, had been a one-idea’d character, with a buttoned-up pocket and a chink-like eye brimming with commercial subtlety.  In Darton the son, this trade subtlety had become transmuted into emotional, and the harshness had disappeared; he would have been called a sad man but for his constant care not to divide himself from lively friends by piping notes out of harmony with theirs.  Contemplative, he allowed his mind to be a quiet meeting-place for memories and hopes.  So that, naturally enough, since succeeding to the agricultural calling, and up to his present age of thirty-two, he had neither advanced nor receded as a capitalist — a stationary result which did not agitate one of his unambitious, unstrategic nature, since he had all that he desired.  The motive of his expedition to-night showed the same absence of anxious regard for Number One.

The party rode on in the slow, safe trot proper to night-time and bad roads, Farmer Darton’s head jigging rather unromantically up and down against the sky, and his motions being repeated with bolder emphasis by his friend Japheth Johns; while those of the latter were travestied in jerks still less softened by art in the person of the lad who attended them.  A pair of whitish objects hung one on each side of the latter, bumping against him at each step, and still further spoiling the grace of his seat.  On close inspection they might have been perceived to be open rush baskets — one containing a turkey, 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 the land in a perceptible flap, like the wave of a wing.  The customary close of day was accelerated by a simultaneous blurring of the air.  With the fall of night had come a mist just damp enough to incommode, but not sufficient to saturate them.  Countrymen as they were — born, as may be said, with only an open door between them and the four seasons — they regarded the mist but as an added obscuration, and ignored its humid quality.

They were travelling in a direction that was enlivened by no modern current of traffic, the place of Darton’s pilgrimage being an old-fashioned village — one of the Hintocks (several villages of that name, with a distinctive prefix or affix, lying thereabout) — where the people make the best cider and cider-wine in all Wessex, and where the dunghills smell of pomace instead of stable refuse as elsewhere.  The lane was sometimes so narrow that the brambles of the 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’s subjects and the cavalcades of the past.  Its day was over now, and its history as a national artery done for ever.

‘Why I have decided to marry her,’ resumed Darton (in a measured musical voice of confidence which revealed a good deal of his composition), as he glanced round to see that the lad was not too near, ‘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’ looked higher is possibly true, though it is really all nonsense.  I have had experience enough in looking above me.  “No more superior women for me,” said I — you know when.  Sally is a comely, independent, simple character, with no make-up about her, who’ll think me as much a superior to her as I used to think — you know who I mean — was to me.’