Complete Works of Thomas Hardy (Illustrated) (844 page)

Having changed her dress, and before she had eaten or drunk — for she could not take her ease till she had ascertained some particulars — Gertrude pursued her way by a path along the waterside to the cottage indicated. Passing thus the outskirts of the jail, she discerned on the level roof over the gateway three rectangular lines against the sky, where the specks had been moving in her distant view; she recognized what the erection was, and passed quickly on. Another hundred yards brought her to the executioner’s house, which a boy pointed out. It stood close to the same stream, and was hard by a weir, the waters of which emitted a steady roar.

While she stood hesitating the door opened and an old man came forth, shading a candle with one hand. Locking the door on the outside, he turned to a flight of wooden steps fixed against the end of the cottage, and began to ascend them, this being evidently the staircase to his bedroom. Gertrude hastened forward, but by the time she reached the foot of the ladder he was at the top. She called to him loudly enough to be heard above the roar of the weir; he looked down and said: “What d’ye want here?”

“To speak to you a minute.”

The candlelight, such as it was, fell upon her imploring, pale, upturned face, and Davies (as the hangman was called) backed down the ladder. “I was just going to bed,” he said; “ ‘Early to bed and early to rise,’ but I don’t mind stopping a minute for such a one as you. Come into the house.” He reopened the door, and preceded her to the room within.

The implements of his daily work, which was that of a jobbing gardener, stood in a corner, and seeing probably that she looked rural, he said: “If you want me to undertake country work I can’t come, for I never leave Casterbridge for gentle nor simple — not I. Though sometimes I make others leave,” he added, formally.

“Yes, yes! That’s it! To-morrow!”

“Ah! I thought so. Well, what’s the matter about that? ‘Tis no use to come here about the knot — folks do come continually, but I tell ‘em one knot is as merciful as another if ye keep it under the ear. Is the unfortunate man a relation; or, I should say, perhaps” (looking at her dress), “a person who’s been in your employ?”

“No. What time is the execution?”

“The same as usual — twelve o’clock, or as soon after as the London mail-coach gets in. We always wait for that, in case of a reprieve.”

“Oh — a reprieve — I hope not!” she said, involuntarily.

“Well — he, he! — as a matter of business, so do I! But still, if ever a young fellow deserved to be let off, this one does; only just turned eighteen, and only present by chance when the rick was fired. Howsoever, there’s not much risk of it, as they are obliged to make an example of him, there having been so much destruction of property that way lately.”

“I mean,” she explained, “that I want to touch him for a charm, a cure of an affliction, by the advice of a man who has proved the virtue of the remedy.”

“Oh yes, miss! Now I understand. I’ve had such people come in past years. But it didn’t strike me that you looked of a sort to require blood-turning. What’s the complaint? The wrong kind for this, I’ll be bound.”

“My arm.” She reluctantly showed the withered skin.

“Ah! ‘tis all a-scram!” said the hangman, examining it.

“Yes,” said she.

“Well,” he continued, with interest, “that is the class o’ subject, I’m bound to admit! I like the look of the place; it is truly as suitable for the cure as any I ever saw.

‘Twas a knowing man that sent ‘ee, whoever he was.”

“You can contrive for me all that’s necessary?” she said, breathlessly.

“You should really have gone to the governor of the jail, and your doctor with ‘ee, and given your name and address — that’s how it used to be done, if I recollect. Still, perhaps I can manage it for a trifling fee.”

“Oh, thank you! I would rather do it this way, as I should like it kept private.”

“Lover not to know, eh?”

“No — husband.”

“Aha! Very well. I’ll get ‘ee a touch of the corpse.”

“Where is it now?” she said, shuddering.

“It — he, you mean; he’s living yet. Just inside that little small winder up there in the glum.” He signified the jail on the cliff above.

She thought of her husband and her friends. “Yes, of course,” she said; “and how am I to proceed?”

He took her to the door. “Now, do you be waiting at the little wicket in the wall, that you’ll find up there in the lane, not later than one o’clock. I will open it from the inside, as I shan’t come home for dinner till he’s cut down. Good-night. Be punctual; and if you don’t want anybody to know ‘ee, wear a veil. Ah, once I had such a daughter as you!”

She went away, and climbed the path above, to assure herself that she would be able to find the wicket next day. Its outline was soon visible to her — a narrow opening in the outer wall of the prison precincts. The steep was so great that, having reached the wicket, she stopped a moment to breathe; and looking back upon the waterside cot, saw the hangman again ascending his outdoor staircase. He entered the loft, or chamber, to which it led and in a few minutes extinguished his light.

The town clock struck ten, and she returned to the White Hart as she had come.

IX

A RENCONTRE

It was one o’clock on Saturday. Gertrude Lodge, having been admitted to the jail as above described, was sitting in a waiting-room within the second gate, which stood under a classic archway of ashler, then comparatively modern and bearing the inscription, “COVNTY JAIL: 1793.” This had been the facade she saw from the heath the day before. Near at hand was a passage to the roof on which the gallows stood.

The town was thronged and the market suspended; but Gertrude had seen scarcely a soul. Having kept her room till the hour of the appointment, she had proceeded to the spot by a way which avoided the open space below the cliff where the spectators had gathered; but she could, even now, hear the multitudinous babble of their voices, out of which rose at intervals, the hoarse croak of a single voice, uttering the words: “Last dying speech and confession!” There had been no reprieve, and the execution was over; but the crowd still waited to see the body taken down.

Soon the persistent girl heard a trampling overhead, then a hand beckoned to her, and, following directions, she went out and crossed the inner paved court beyond the gate-house, her knees trembling so that she could scarcely walk. One of her arms was out of its sleeve, and only covered by her shawl.

On the spot to which she had now arrived were two trestles, and before she could think of their purpose she heard heavy feet descending stairs somewhere at her back. Turn her head she would not, or could not, and, rigid in this position, she was conscious of a rough coffin passing her shoulder, borne by four men. It was open, and in it lay the body of a young man, wearing the smock-frock of a rustic, and fustian breeches. It had been thrown into the coffin so hastily that the skirt of the smock-frock was hanging over.

The burden was temporarily deposited on the trestles.

By this time the young woman’s state was such that a gray mist seemed to float before her eyes, on account of which, and the veil she wore, she could scarcely discern anything; it was as though she had died but was held up by a sort of galvanism.

“Now,” said a voice close at hand, and she was just conscious that it had been addressed to her.

By a last strenuous effort she advanced, at the same time hearings persons approaching behind her. She bared her poor cursed arm; and Davies, uncovering the dead man’s face, took her hand and held it so that the arm lay across the neck of the corpse, upon a line the colour of an unripe blackberry which surrounded it.

Gertrude shrieked; ‘the turn o’ the blood,’ predicted by the conjurer, had taken place. But at that moment a second shriek rent the air of the inclosure: it was not Gertrude’s, and its effect upon her was to make her start round.

Immediately behind her stood Rhoda Brook, her face drawn and her eyes red with weeping. Behind Rhoda stood her own husband; his countenance lined, his eyes dim, but without a tear.

“D — n you! what are you doing here?” he said, hoarsely.

“Hussy — to come between us and our child now!” cried Rhoda. “This is the meaning of what Satan showed me in the vision! You are like her at last!” And clutching the bare arm of the younger woman, she pulled her unresistingly back against the wall.

Immediately Brook had loosened her hold the fragile young Gertrude slid down against the feet of her husband. When he lifted her up she was unconscious.

The mere sight of the twain had been enough to suggest to her that the dead young man was Rhoda’s son. At that time the relatives of an executed convict had the privilege of claiming the body for burial, if they chose to do so; and it was for this purpose that Lodge was awaiting the inquest with Rhoda. He had been summoned by her as soon as the young man was taken in the crime, and at different times since; and he had attended in court during the trial. This was the ‘holiday’ he had been indulging in of late. The two wretched parents had wished to avoid exposure; and hence had come themselves for the body, a wagon and a sheet for its conveyance and covering being in waiting outside.

Gertrude’s case was so serious that it was deemed advisable to call to her the surgeon who was at hand. She was taken out of the jail into the town; but she never reached home alive. Her delicate vitality, sapped perhaps by the paralyzed arm, collapsed under the double shock that followed the severe strain, physical and mental, to which she had subjected herself during the previous twenty-four hours. Her blood had been ‘turned’ indeed — too far. Her death took place in the town three days after.

Her husband was never seen in Casterbridge again; once only in the old market-place of Anglebury; which he had so much frequented, and very seldom in public anywhere. Burdened at first with moodiness and remorse, he eventually changed for the better, and appeared as a chastened and thoughtful man. Soon after attending the funeral of his poor young wife, he took steps toward giving up the farms in Holmstoke and the adjoining parish, and, having sold every head of his stock, he went away to Port-Bredy, at the other end of the county, living there in solitary lodgings till his death, two years later, of a painless decline. It was then found that he had bequeathed the whole of his not inconsiderable property to a reformatory for boys, subject to the payment of a small annuity to Rhoda Brook, if she could be found to claim it.

For some time she could not be found; but eventually she reappeared in her old parish — absolutely refusing, however, to have anything to do with the provision made for her. Her monotonous milking at the dairy was resumed, and followed for many long years, till her form became bent and her once abundant dark hair white and worn away at the forehead — perhaps by long pressure against the cows. Here, sometimes, those who knew her experiences would stand and observe her, and wonder what somber thoughts were beating inside that impassive, wrinkled brow, to the rhythm of the alternating milk-streams.

A Tragedy of Two Ambitions

I

The shouts of the village boys came in at the window, accompanied by broken laughter from loungers at the inn-door; but the brothers Halborough worked on.

They were sitting in a bedroom of the master millwright’s house, engaged in the untutored reading of Greek and Latin. It was no tale of Homeric blows and knocks, Argonautic voyaging, or Theban family woe that inflamed their imaginations and spurred them onward. They were plodding away at the Greek Testament, immersed in a chapter of the idiomatic and difficult Epistle to the Hebrews.

The Dog-day sun in its decline reached the low ceiling with slanting sides, and the shadows of the great goat’s-willow swayed and interchanged upon the walls like a spectral army maneuvering. The open casement which admitted the remoter sounds now brought the voice of some one close at hand. It was their sister, a pretty girl of fourteen, who stood in the court below.

“I can see the tops of your heads! What’s the use of staying up there? I like you not to go out with the street-boys; but do come and play with me!”

They treated her as an inadequate interlocutor, and put her off with some slight word. She went away disappointed. Presently there was a dull noise of heavy footstep sat the side of the house, and one of the brothers sat up. “I fancy I hear him coming,” he murmured, his eyes on the window.

A man in the light drab clothes of an old-fashioned country tradesman approached from round the corner, reeling as he came. The elder son flushed with anger, rose from his books, and descended the stairs. The younger sat on, till, after the lapse of a few minutes, his brother reentered the room.

“Did Rosa see him?”

“No.”

“Nor anybody?”

“No.”

“What have you done with him?”

“He’s in the straw-shed. I got him in with some trouble, and he has fallen asleep. I thought this would be the explanation of his absence! No stones dressed for Miller Kench, the great wheel of the saw-mills waiting for new float-boards, even the poor folk not able to get their wagons wheeled.”