Complete Works of Thomas Hardy (Illustrated) (899 page)

To my surprise, Steve shook hands with me solemnly, and wringing from me a promise not to follow, disappeared into the blackness of the cave.

For some moments I stood motionless where Steve had left me, not quite knowing what to do. Hearing footsteps behind my back, I looked round. To my great pleasure I saw Job approaching, dressed up in his best clothes, and with him the Man who had Failed.

Job was glad to see me. He had come to West Poley for a holiday, from the situation with the farmer which, as I now learned for the first time, the Man who had Failed had been the means of his obtaining.  Observing, I suppose, the perplexity upon my face, they asked me what was the matter, and I, after some hesitation, told them of Steve.  The Man who had Failed looked grave.

“Is it serious?” I asked him.

“It may be,” said he, in that poetico-philosophic strain which, under more favouring circumstances, might have led him on to the intellectual eminence of a Coleridge or an Emerson. “Your cousin, like all such natures, is rushing into another extreme, that may be worse than the first. The opposite of error is error still; from careless adventuring at other people’s expense he may have flown to rash self-sacrifice. He contemplates some violent remedy, I make no doubt. How long has he been in the cave? We had better follow him.”

Before I could reply, we were startled by a jet of smoke, like that from the muzzle of a gun, bursting from the mouth of Nick’s Pocket; and this was immediately followed by a deadened rumble like thunder underground.  In another moment a duplicate of the noise reached our ears from over the hill, in the precise direction of Grim Billy.

“Oh — what can it be?” said I.

“Gunpowder,” said the Man who had Failed, slowly.

“Ah — yes — I know what he’s done — he has blasted the rocks inside!” cried Job.  “Depend upon it, that’s his plan for closing up the way to the riverhead.”

“And for losing his life into the bargain,” said our companion.  “But no — he may be alive.  We must go in at once — or as soon as we can breathe there.”

Job ran for lights, and before he had returned we heard a familiar sound from the direction of the village.  It was the patter of the mill-wheel.  Job came up almost at the moment, and with him a crowd of the village people.

“The river is right again,” they shouted.  “Water runs better than ever — a full, steady stream, all on a sudden — just when we heard the rumble underground.”

“Steve has done it!” I said.

“A brave fellow,” said the Man who had Failed.  “Pray that he is not hurt.”

Job had lighted the candles, and, when we were entering, some more villagers, who at the noise of the explosion had run to Grim Billy, joined us. “Grim Billy is partly closed up inside!” they told us.  “Where you used to climb up the slope to look over into Nick’s Pocket, ‘tis all altered.  There’s no longer any opening there; the whole rock has crumbled down as if the mountain had sunk bodily.

“Without waiting to answer, we, who were about to enter Nick’s Pocket, proceeded on our way.  We soon had penetrated to the outer approaches, though nearly suffocated by the sulphurous atmosphere; but we could get no further than the first cavern.  At a point somewhat in advance of the little gallery to the inner cave, Nick’s Pocket ceased to exist.  Its roof had sunk. The whole superimposed mountain, as it seemed, had quietly settled down upon the hollow places beneath it closing like a pair of bellows, and barring all human entrance.

But alas, where was Steve?  “I would liever have had no water in West Poley forevermore than have lost Steve!” said Job.

“And so would I!” said many of us.

To add to our terror, news was brought into the cave at that moment that Steve’s mother was approaching; and how to meet my poor aunt was more than we could think.

But suddenly a shout was heard. A few of the party, who had not penetrated so far into the cave as we had done, were exclaiming, “Here he is!” We hastened back, and found they were in a small side hollow, close to the entrance, which we had passed by unheeded. The Man who had Failed was there, and he and the baker were carrying something into the light. It was Steve — apparently dead, or unconscious.

“Don’t be frightened,” said the baker to me. “He’s not dead; perhaps not much hurt.”

As he had declared, so it turned out. No sooner was Steve in the open air, than he unclosed his eyes, looked round with a stupefied expression, and sat up.

“Steve — Steve!” said Job and I, simultaneously.

“All right,” said Steve, recovering his senses by degrees. “I’ll tell — how it happened — in a minute or two.”

Then his mother came up, and was at first terrified enough, but on seeing Steve gradually get upon his legs, she recovered her equanimity. He soon was able to explain all. He said that the damage to the village by his tampering with the stream had weighed upon his mind, and led him to revolve many schemes for its cure. With this in view he had privately made examination of the cave; when he discovered that the whole superincumbent mass, forming the roof of the inner cave, was divided from the walls of the same by a vein of sand, and, that it was only kept in its place by a slim support at one corner. It seemed to him if this support could be removed, the upper mass would descend by its own weight, like the brick of a brick-trap when the peg is withdrawn.

He laid his plans accordingly; procuring gunpowder, and scooping out holes for the same, at central points in the rock. When all this was done, he waited a while, in doubt as to the effect; and might possibly never have completed his labours, but for the renewed attempt upon the river. He then made up his mind, and attached the fuse. After lighting it, he would have reached the outside safely enough but for the accident of stumbling as he ran, which threw him so heavily on the ground, that, before he could recover himself and go forward, the explosion had occurred.

All of us congratulated him, and the whole village was joyful, for no less than three thousand, four hundred and fifty tons of rock and, earth — according to calculations made by an experienced engineer a short time afterwards — had descended between the river’s head and all human interference, so that there was not much fear of any more East Poley manoeuvres for turning the stream into their valley.

The inhabitants of the parish, gentle and simple, said that Steve, had made ample amends for the harm he had done; and their goodwill was further evidenced by his being invited to no less than nineteen Christmas and New Year’s parties during the following holidays.

As we left the cave, Steve, Job, Mrs Draycot and I walked behind the Man who had Failed.

“Though this has worked well,” he said to Steve, “it is by the merest chance in the world.  Your courage is praiseworthy, but you see the risks that are incurred when people go out of their way to meddle with what they don’t understand.  Exceptionally smart actions, such as you delight in, should be carefully weighed with a view to their utility before they are begun.  Quiet perseverance in clearly defined courses is, as a rule, better than the erratic exploits that may do much harm.

“Steve listened respectfully enough to this, but he said to his mother afterwards: “He has failed in life, and how can his opinions be worth anything?”

“For this reason,” said she.  “He is one who has failed, not from want of sense, but from want of energy, and people of that sort, when kindly, are better worth attending to than those successful ones, who have never seen the seamy side of things.  I would advise you to listen to him.”

Steve probably did; for he is now the largest gentleman-farmer of those parts, remarkable for his avoidance of anything like speculative exploits.

THE END.

Master John Horseleigh, Knight

In the earliest and mustiest volume of the Havenpool marriage registers (said the thin-faced gentleman) this entry may still be read by any one curious enough to decipher the crabbed handwriting of the date. I took a copy of it when I was last there; and it runs thus (he had opened his pocket-book, and now read aloud the extract; afterwards handing round the book to us, wherein we saw transcribed the following) —

Mastr John Horseleigh, Knyght, of p’ysshe of Clyffton was maryd to Edith the wyffe late off John Stocker, m’chawnte of Havenpool the xiiij daie of December be p’vylegge gevyn by our sup’me hedd of the chyrche of Ingelonde Kynge Henry the viiith 1539.

Now, if you turn to the long and elabourate pedigree of the ancient family of the Horseleighs of Clyfton Horseleigh, you will find no mention whatever of this alliance, notwithstanding the privilege given by the Sovereign and head of the Church; the said Sir John being therein chronicled as marrying, at a date apparently earlier than the above, the daughter and heiress of Richard Phelipson, of Montislope, in Nether Wessex, a lady who outlived him, of which marriage there were issue two daughters and a son, who succeeded him in his estates. How are we to account for these, as it would seem, contemporaneous wives? A strange local tradition only can help us, and this can be briefly told.

One evening in the autumn of the year 1540 or 1541, a young sailor, whose Christian name was Roger, but whose surname is not known, landed at his native place of Havenpool, on the South Wessex coast, after a voyage in the Newfoundland trade, then newly sprung into existence. He returned in the ship Primrose with a cargo of ‘trayne oyle brought home from the New Founde Lande,’ to quote from the town records of the date. During his absence of two summers and a winter, which made up the term of a Newfoundland ‘spell’, many unlooked-for changes had occurred within the quiet little seaport, some of which closely affected Roger the sailor. At the time of his departure his only sister Edith had become the bride of one Stocker, a respectable townsman, and part owner of the brig in which Roger had sailed; and it was to the house of this couple, his only relatives, that the young man directed his steps. On trying the door in Quay Street he found it locked, and then observed that the windows were boarded up. Inquiring of a bystander, he learnt for the first time of the death of his brother-in-law, though that event had taken place nearly eighteen months before.

‘And my sister Edith?’ asked Roger.

‘She’s married again — as they do say, and hath been so these twelve months. I don’t vouch for the truth o’t, though if she isn’t she ought to be.’

Roger’s face grew dark. He was a man with a considerable reserve of strong passion, and he asked his informant what he meant by speaking thus.

The man explained that shortly after the young woman’s bereavement a stranger had come to the port. He had seen her moping on the quay, had been attracted by her youth and loneliness, and in an extraordinarily brief wooing had completely fascinated her — had carried her off, and, as was reported, had married her. Though he had come by water, he was supposed to live no very great distance off by land. They were last heard of at Oozewood, in Upper Wessex, at the house of one Wall, a timber-merchant, where, he believed, she still had a lodging, though her husband, if he were lawfully that much, was but an occasional visitor to the place.

‘The stranger?’ asked Roger. ‘Did you see him? What manner of man was he?’

‘I liked him not,’ said the other. ‘He seemed of that kind that hath something to conceal, and as he walked with her he ever and anon turned his head and gazed behind him, as if he much feared an unwelcome pursuer. But, faith,’ continued he, ‘it may have been the man’s anxiety only. Yet did I not like him.’

‘Was he older than my sister?’ Roger asked.

‘Ay — much older; from a dozen to a score of years older. A man of some position, maybe, playing an amorous game for the pleasure of the hour. Who knoweth but that he have a wife already? Many have done the thing hereabouts of late.’

Having paid a visit to the graves of his relatives, the sailor next day went along the straight road which, then a lane, now a highway, conducted to the curious little inland town named by the Havenpool man. It is unnecessary to describe Oozewood on the South-Avon. It has a railway at the present day; but thirty years of steam traffic past its precincts have hardly modified its original features. Surrounded by a sort of fresh-water lagoon, dividing it from meadows and coppice, its ancient thatch and timber houses have barely made way even in the front street for the ubiquitous modern brick and slate. It neither increases nor diminishes in size; it is difficult to say what the inhabitants find to do, for, though trades in woodware are still carried on, there cannot be enough of this class of work nowadays to maintain all the householders, the forests around having been so greatly thinned and curtailed. At the time of this tradition the forests were dense, artificers in wood abounded, and the timber trade was brisk. Every house in the town, without exception, was of oak framework, filled in with plaster, and covered with thatch, the chimney being the only brick portion of the structure. Inquiry soon brought Roger the sailor to the door of Wall, the timber-dealer referred to, but it was some time before he was able to gain admission to the lodging of his sister, the people having plainly received directions not to welcome strangers.

She was sitting in an upper room on one of the lathbacked, willow-bottomed ‘shepherd’s’ chairs, made on the spot then as to this day, and as they were probably made there in the days of the Heptarchy. In her lap was an infant, which she had been suckling, though now it had fallen asleep; so had the young mother herself for a few minutes, under the drowsing effects of solitude. Hearing footsteps on the stairs, she awoke, started up with a glad cry, and ran to the door, opening which she met her brother on the threshold.

‘O, this is merry; I didn’t expect ‘ee!’ she said. ‘Ah, Roger — I thought it was John. ‘Her tones fell to disappointment.

The sailor kissed her, looked at her sternly for a few moments, and pointing to the infant, said, ‘You mean the father of this?’

‘Yes, my husband,’ said Edith.

‘I hope so,’ he answered.

‘Why, Roger, I’m married — of a truth am I!’ she cried.