Complete Works of Thomas Hardy (Illustrated) (837 page)

‘You do?’ he said surprised.

‘I see that in a worldly sense my conduct with Mr. Long may be considered a mistake.’

‘H’m — I am glad to hear that — after my death you may see it more clearly still; and you won’t have long to wait, to my reckoning.’

She fell into bitter repentance, and kissed him in her anguish.  ‘Don’t say that!’ she cried.  ‘Tell me what to do?’

‘If you’ll leave me for an hour or two I’ll think.  Drive to the market and back — the carriage is at the door — and I’ll try to collect my senses.  Dinner can be put back till you return.’

In a few minutes she was dressed, and the carriage bore her up the hill which divided the village and manor from the market-town.

V

A quarter of an hour brought her into the High Street, and for want of a more important errand she called at the harness-maker’s for a dog-collar that she required.

It happened to be market-day, and Nicholas, having postponed the engagements which called him thither to keep the appointment with her in the Sallows, rushed off at the end of the afternoon to attend to them as well as he could.  Arriving thus in a great hurry on account of the lateness of the hour, he still retained the wild, amphibious appearance which had marked him when he came up from the meadows to her side — an exceptional condition of things which had scarcely ever before occurred.  When she crossed the pavement from the shop door, the shopman bowing and escorting her to the carriage, Nicholas chanced to be standing at the road-waggon office, talking to the master of the waggons.  There were a good many people about, and those near paused and looked at her transit, in the full stroke of the level October sun, which went under the brims of their hats, and pierced through their button-holes.  From the group she heard murmured the words: ‘Mrs. Nicholas Long.’

The unexpected remark, not without distinct satire in its tone, took her so greatly by surprise that she was confounded.  Nicholas was by this time nearer, though coming against the sun he had not yet perceived her.  Influenced by her father’s lecture, she felt angry with him for being there and causing this awkwardness.  Her notice of him was therefore slight, supercilious perhaps, slurred over; and her vexation at his presence showed distinctly in her face as she sat down in her seat.  Instead of catching his waiting eye, she positively turned her head away.

A moment after she was sorry she had treated him so; but he was gone.

Reaching home she found on her dressing-table a note from her father.  The statement was brief:

“I have considered and am of the same opinion.  You must marry him.  He can leave home at once and travel as proposed.  I have written to him to this effect.  I don’t want any victuals, so don’t wait dinner for me.”

Nicholas was the wrong kind of man to be blind to his Christine’s mortification, though he did not know its entire cause.  He had lately foreseen something of this sort as possible.

‘It serves me right,’ he thought, as he trotted homeward.  ‘It was absurd — wicked of me to lead her on so. The sacrifice would have been too great — too cruel!’ And yet, though he thus took her part, he flushed with indignation every time he said to himself, ‘She is ashamed of me!’

On the ridge which overlooked Froom-Everard he met a neighbour of his — a stock-dealer — in his gig, and they drew rein and exchanged a few words.  A part of the dealer’s conversation had much meaning for Nicholas.

‘I’ve had occasion to call on Squire Everard,’ the former said; ‘but he couldn’t see me on account of being quite knocked up at some bad news he has heard.’

Nicholas rode on past Froom-Everard to Elsenford Farm, pondering.  He had new and startling, matter for thought as soon as he got there.  The Squire’s note had arrived. At first he could not credit its import; then he saw further, took in the tone of the letter, saw the writer’s contempt behind the words, and understood that the letter was written as by a man hemmed into a corner Christine was defiantly — insultingly — hurled at his head.  He was accepted because he was so despised.

And yet with what respect he had treated her and hers!  Now he was reminded of what an agricultural friend had said years ago, seeing the eyes of Nicholas fixed on Christine as on an angel when she passed: ‘Better a little fire to warm ‘ee than a great one to burn ‘ee.  No good can come of throwing your heart there.’ He went into the mead, sat down, and asked himself four questions:

1.  How could she live near her acquaintance as his wife, even in his absence, without suffering martyrdom from the stings of their contempt?

2.  Would not this entail total estrangement between Christine and her family also, and her own consequent misery?

3.  Must not such isolation extinguish her affection for him?

4.  Supposing that her father rigged them out as colonists and sent them off to America, was not the effect of such exile upon one of her gentle nurture likely to be as the last?

In short, whatever they should embark in together would be cruelty to her, and his death would be a relief.  It would, indeed, in one aspect be a relief to her now, if she were so ashamed of him as she had appeared to be that day.  Were he dead, this little episode with him would fade away like a dream.

Mr. Everard was a good-hearted man at bottom, but to take his enraged offer seriously was impossible.  Obviously it was hotly made in his first bitterness at what he had heard.  The least thing that he could do would be to go away and never trouble her more.  To travel and learn and come back in two years, as mapped out in their first sanguine scheme, required a staunch heart on her side, if the necessary expenditure of time and money were to be afterwards justified; and it were folly to calculate on that when he had seen today that her heart was failing her already.  To travel and disappear and not be heard of for many years would be a far more independent stroke, and it would leave her entirely unfettered.  Perhaps he might rival in this kind the accomplished Mr. Bellston, of whose journeyings he had heard so much.

He sat and sat, and the fog rose out of the river, enveloping him like a fleece; firs this feet and knees, then his arms and body, and finally submerging his head.  When he had come to a decision he went up again into the homestead.  He would be independent, if he died for it, and he would free Christine.  Exile was the only course. The first step was to inform his uncle of his determination.

Two days later Nicholas was on the same spot in the mead, at almost the same hour of eve.  But there was no fog now; a blusterous autumn wind had ousted the still, golden days and misty nights; and he was going, full of purpose, in the opposite direction.  When he had last entered the mead he was an inhabitant of the Froom valley; in forty-eight hours he had severed himself from that spot as completely as if he had never belonged to it.  All that appertained to him in the Froom valley now was circumscribed by the portmanteau in his hand.

In making his preparations for departure he had unconsciously held a faint, foolish hope that she would communicate with him and make up their estrangement in some soft womanly way.  But she had given no signal, and it was too evident to him that her latest mood had grown to be her fixed one, proving how well-founded had been his impulse to set her free.

He entered the Sallows, found his way in the dark to the garden-door of the house, slipped under it a note to tell her of his departure, and explaining its true reason to be a consciousness of her growing feeling that he was an encumbrance and a humiliation.  Of the direction of his journey and of the date of his return he said nothing.

His course now took him into the high road, which he pursued for some miles in a north-easterly direction, still spinning the thread of sad inferences, and asking himself why he should ever return.  At daybreak he stood on the hill above Shottsford-Forum, and awaited a coach which passed about this time along that highway towards Melchester and London.

VI

Some fifteen years after the date of the foregoing incidents, a man who had dwelt in far countries, and viewed many cities, arrived at Roy-Town, a roadside hamlet on the old western turnpike road, not five miles from Froom-Everard, and put up at the Buck’s Head, an isolated inn at that spot.  He was still barely of middle age, but it could be seen that a haze of grey was settling upon the locks of his hair, and that his face had lost colour and curve, as if by exposure to bleaching climates and strange atmospheres, or from ailments incidental thereto.  He seemed to observe little around him, by reason of the intrusion of his musings upon the scene.  In truth Nicholas Long was just now the creature of old hopes and fears consequent upon his arrival — this man who once had not cared if his name were blotted out from that district.  The evening light showed wistful lines which he could not smooth away by the worldling’s gloss of nonchalance that he had learnt to fling over his face.

The Buck’s Head was a somewhat unusual place for a man of this sort to choose as a house of sojourn in preference to some Casterbridge inn four miles further on. Before he left home it had been a lively old tavern at which High-flyers, and Heralds, and Tally-hoes had changed horses on their stages up and down the country; but now the house was rather cavernous and chilly, the stable-roofs were hollow-backed, the landlord was asthmatic, and the traffic gone.

He arrived in the afternoon, and when he had sent back the fly and was having a nondescript meal, he put a question to the waiting-maid with a mien of indifference.

‘Squire Everard, of Froom-Everard Manor, has been dead some years, I believe?’

She replied in the affirmative.

‘And are any of the family left there still?’

‘O no, bless you, sir!  They sold the place years ago — Squire Everard’s son did — and went away.  I’ve never heard where they went to.  They came quite to nothing.’

‘Never heard anything of the young lady — the Squire’s daughter?’

‘No. You see ‘twas before I came to these parts.’

When the waitress left the room, Nicholas pushed aside his plate and gazed out of the window.  He was not going over into the Froom Valley altogether on Christine’s account, but she had greatly animated his motive in coming that way.  Anyhow he would push on there now that he was so near, and not ask questions here where he was liable to be wrongly informed.  The fundamental inquiry he had not ventured to make — whether Christine had married before the family went away.  He had abstained because of an absurd dread of extinguishing hopeful surmise.  That the Everards had left their old home was bad enough intelligence for one day.

Rising from the table he put on his hat and went out, ascending towards the upland which divided this district from his native vale.  The first familiar feature that me this eye was a little spot on the distant sky — a clump of trees standing on a barrow which surmounted a yet more remote upland — a point where, in his childhood, he had believed people could stand and see America.  He reached the further verge of the plateau on which he had entered.  Ah, there was the valley — a greenish-grey stretch of colour — still looking placid and serene, as though it had not much missed him.  If Christine was no longer there, why should he pause over it this evening? His uncle and aunt were dead, and tomorrow would be soon enough to inquire for remoter relatives.  Thus, disinclined to go further, he turned to retrace his way to the inn.

In the backward path he now perceived the figure of a woman, who had been walking at a distance behind him; and as she drew nearer he began to be startled. Surely, despite the variations introduced into that figure by changing years, its ground-lines were those of Christine?

Nicholas had been sentimental enough to write to Christine immediately on landing at Southampton a day or two before this, addressing his letter at a venture to the old house, and merely telling her that he planned to reach the Roy-Town inn on the present afternoon.  The news of the scattering of the Everards had dissipated his hope of hearing of her; but here she was.

So they met — there, alone, on the open down by a pond, just as if the meeting had been carefully arranged.

She threw up her veil.  She was still beautiful, though the years had touched her; a little more matronly — much more homely.  Or was it only that he was much less homely now — a man of the world — the sense of homeliness being relative? Her face had grown to be pre-eminently of the sort that would be called interesting.  Her habiliments were of a demure and sober cast, though she was one who had used to dress so airily and so gaily.  Years had laid on a few shadows too in this.

‘I received your letter,’ she said, when the momentary embarrassment of their first approach had passed.  ‘And I thought I would walk across the hills today, as it was fine. I have just called at the inn, and they told me you were out.  I was now on my way homeward.’

He hardly listened to this, though he intently gazed at her.  ‘Christine,’ he said, ‘one word.  Are you free?’

‘I — I am in a certain sense,’ she replied, colouring.The announcement had a magical effect.  The intervening time between past and present closed up for him, and moved by an impulse which he had combated for fifteen years, he seized her two hands and drew her towards him.

She started back, and became almost a mere acquaintance.  ‘I have to tell you,’ she gasped, that I have — been married.’

Nicholas’s rose-coloured dream was immediately toned down to a greyish tinge.

‘I did not marry till many years after you had left,’ she continued in the humble tones of one confessing to a crime.  ‘Oh Nic,’ she cried reproachfully, ‘how could you stay away so long?’

‘Whom did you marry?’

‘Mr.  Bellston.’

‘I — ought to have expected it.’ He was going to add, ‘And is he dead?’ but he checked himself.  Her dress unmistakably suggested widowhood; and she had said she was free.

‘I must now hasten home,’ said she.  ‘I felt that, considering my shortcomings a tour parting so many years ago, I owed you the initiative now.’

‘There is some of your old generosity in that.  I’ll walk with you, if I may.  Where are you living, Christine?’