Complete Works of Thomas Hardy (Illustrated) (906 page)

“Ell, where are you?”

What possessed her she could not have described, but, with an instinctive objection to let her husband know what she had been doing, she slipped the photograph under the pillow just as he flung open the door with the air of a man who had dined not badly.

“O, I beg pardon,” said William Marchmill.  “Have you a headache?  I am afraid I have disturbed you.”

“No, I’ve not got a headache,” said she.  “How is it you’ve come?”

“Well, we found we could get back in very good time after all, and I didn’t want to make another day of it, because of going somewhere else tomorrow.”

“Shall I come down again?”

“O, no.  I’m as tired as a dog.  I’ve had a good feed, and I shall turn in straight off. I want to get out at six o’clock tomorrow if I can. . . . I shan’t disturb you by my getting up; it will be long before you are awake.” And he came forward into the room.

While her eyes followed his movements, Ella softly pushed the photograph further out of sight.

“Sure you’re not ill?” he asked, bending over her.

“No, only wicked!”

“Never mind that.” And he stooped and kissed her.  “I wanted to be with you tonight.”

Next morning Marchmill was called at six o’clock; and in waking and yawning he heard him muttering to himself.  “What the deuce is this that’s been crackling under me so?” Imagining her asleep he searched round him and withdrew something.  Through her half-opened eyes she perceived it to be Mr. Trewe.

“Well, I’m damned!” her husband exclaimed.

“What, dear?” said she.

“O, you are awake?  Ha! ha!”

“What do you mean?”

“Some bloke’s photograph — a friend of our landlady’s, I suppose.  I wonder how it came here; whisked off the mantelpiece by accident perhaps when they were making the bed.”

“I was looking at it yesterday, and it must have dropped in then.”

“O, he’s a friend of yours?  Bless his picturesque heart!”

Ella’s loyalty to the object of her admiration could not endure to hear him ridiculed.  “He’s a clever man!” she said, with a tremor in her gentle voice which she herself felt to be absurdly uncalled for.  “He is a rising poet — the gentleman who occupied two of these rooms before we came, though I’ve never seen him.”

“How do you know, if you’ve never seen him?”

“Mrs. Hooper told me when she showed me the photograph.”

“O, well, I must up and be off.  I shall be home rather early.  Sorry I can’t take you today dear.  Mind the children don’t go getting drowned.”

That day Mrs. Marchmill inquired if Mr. Trewe were likely to call at any other time.

“Yes,” said Mrs. Hooper.  “He’s coming this day week to stay with a friend near here till you leave.  He’ll be sure to call.”

Marchmill did return quite early in the afternoon; and, opening some letters which had arrived in his absence, declared suddenly that he and his family would have to leave a week earlier than they had expected to do — in short, in three days.

“Surely we can stay a week longer?” she pleaded.  “I like it here.”

“I don’t.  It is getting rather slow.”

“Then you might leave me and the children!”

“How perverse you are, Ell!  What’s the use?  And have to come to fetch you! No: we’ll all return together; and we’ll make out our time in North Wales or Brighton a little later on.  Besides, you’ve three days longer yet.”

It seemed to be her doom not to meet the man for whose rival talent she had a despairing admiration, and to whose person she was now absolutely attached.  Yet she determined to make a last effort; and having gathered from her landlady that Trewe was living in a lonely spot not far from the fashionable town on the Island opposite, she crossed over in the packet from the neighbouring pier the following afternoon.

What a useless journey it was! Ella knew but vaguely where the house stood, and when she fancied she had found it, and ventured to inquire of a pedestrian if he lived there, the answer returned by the man was that he did not know.  And if he did live there, how could she call upon him?  Some women might have the assurance to do it, but she had not.  How crazy he would think her.  She might have asked him to call upon her, perhaps; but she had not the courage for that, either.  She lingered mournfully about the picturesque seaside eminence till it was time to return to the town and enter the steamer for recrossing, reaching home for dinner without having been greatly missed.

At the last moment, unexpectedly enough, her husband said that he should have no objection to letting her and the children stay on till the end of the week, since she wished to do so, if she felt herself able to get home without him.  She concealed the pleasure this extension of time gave her; and Marchmill went off the next morning alone.

But the week passed, and Trewe did not call.

On Saturday morning the remaining members of the Marchmill family departed from the place which had been productive of so much fervor in her.  The dreary, dreary train; the sun shining in moted beams upon the hot cushions; the dusty permanent way; the mean rows of wire — these things were her accompaniment: while out of the window the deep blue sea-levels disappeared from her gaze, and with them her poet’s home. Heavy-hearted, she tried to read, and wept instead.

Mr. Marchmill was in a thriving way of business, and he and his family lived in a large new house, which stood in rather extensive grounds a few miles outside the midland city wherein he carried on his trade.  Ella’s life was lonely here, as the suburban life is apt to be, particularly at certain seasons; and she had ample time to indulge her taste for lyric and elegiac composition.  She had hardly got back when she encountered a piece by Robert Trewe in the new number of her favorite magazine, which must have been written almost immediately before her visit to Solentsea, for it contained the very couplet she had seen penciled on the wallpaper by the bed, and Mrs. Hooper had declared to be recent.  Ella could resist no longer, but seizing a pen impulsively, wrote to him as a brother-poet, using the name of John Ivy, congratulating him in her letter on his triumphant executions in meter and rhythm of thoughts that moved his soul, as compared with her own brow-beaten efforts in the same pathetic trade.

To this address there came a response in a few days, little as she had dared to hope for it — a civil and brief note, in which the young poet stated that, though he was not well acquainted with Mr. Ivy’s verse, he recalled the name as being one he had seen attached to some very promising pieces; that he was glad to gain Mr. Ivy’s acquaintance by letter, and should certainly look with much interest for his productions in the future.

There must have been something juvenile or timid in her own epistle, as one ostensibly coming from a man, she declared to herself; for Trewe quite adopted the tone of an elder and superior in this reply.  But what did it matter?  He had replied; he had written to her with his own hand from that very room she knew so well, for he was now back again in his quarters.

The correspondence thus begun was continued for two months or more, Ella Marchmill sending him from time to time some that she considered to be the best her pieces, which he very kindly accepted, though he did not say he sedulously read them, nor did he send her any of his own in return.  Ella would have been more hurt at this than she was if she had not known that Trewe laboured under the impression that she was one of his own sex.

Yet the situation was unsatisfactory.  A flattering little voice told her that, were he only to see her, matters would be otherwise.  No doubt she would have helped on this by making a frank confession of womanhood, to begin with, if something had not appeared, to her delight, to render it unnecessary.  A friend of her husband’s, the editor of the most important newspaper in their city and county, who was dining with them one day, observed during their conversation about the poet that his (the editor’s) brother the landscape-painter was a friend of Mr. Trewe’s, and that the two men were at that very moment in Wales together.

Ella was slightly acquainted with the editor’s brother.  The next morning down she sat and wrote, inviting him to stay at her house for a short time on his way back, and to bring with him, if practicable, his companion Mr. Trewe, whose acquaintance she was anxious to make.  The answer arrived after some few days.  Her correspondent and his friend Trewe would have much satisfaction in accepting her invitation on their way southward, which would be on such and such a day in the following week.

Ella was blithe and buoyant.  Her scheme had succeeded; her beloved though as yet unseen was coming.  “Behold, he standeth behind our wall; he looked forth at the windows, showing himself through the lattice,” she thought ecstatically.  “And, lo, the winter is past, the rain is over and gone, the flowers appear on the earth, the time of the singing of birds is come, and the voice of the turtle is heard in our land.”

But it was necessary to consider the details of lodging and feeding him.  This she did most solicitously, and awaited the pregnant day and hour.

It was about five in the afternoon when she heard a ring at the door and the editor’s brother’s voice in the hall.  Poetess as she was, or as she thought herself, she had not been too sublime that day to dress with infinite trouble in a fashionable robe of rich material, having a faint resemblance to the chiton of the Greeks, a style just then in vogue among ladies of an artistic and romantic turn, which had been obtained by Ella of her Bond Street dressmaker when she was last in London.  Her visitor entered the drawing room.  She looked toward his rear; nobody else came through the door.  Where, in the name of the God of Love, was Robert Trewe?

“O, I’m sorry,” said the painter, after their introductory words had been spoken. “Trewe is a curious fellow, you know, Mrs. Marchmill.  He said he’d come; then he said he couldn’t.  He’s rather dusty.  We’ve been doing a few miles with knapsacks, you know; and he wanted to get on home.”

“He — he’s not coming?”

“He’s not; and he asked me to make his apologies.”

“When did you p-p-part from him?” she asked, her nether lip starting off quivering so much that it was like a tremolo-stop opened in her speech.  She longed to run away from this dreadful bore and cry her eyes out.

“Just now, in the turnpike road yonder there.”

“What! he has actually gone past my gates?”

“Yes.  When we got to them — handsome gates they are, too, the finest bit of modern wrought- iron work I have seen — when we came to them we stopped, talking there a little while, and then he wished me goodbye and went on.  The truth is, he’s a little bit depressed just now, and doesn’t want to see anybody.  He’s a very good fellow, and a warm friend, but a little uncertain and gloomy sometimes; he thinks too much of things.  His poetry is rather too erotic and passionate, you know, for some tastes; and he has just come in for a terrible slating from the — — —  — Review that was published yesterday; he saw a copy of it at the station by accident.  Perhaps you’ve read it?”

“No.”

“So much the better. O, it is not worth thinking of; just one of those articles written to order, to please the narrow-minded set of subscribers upon whom the circulation depends.  But he’s upset by it.  He says it is the misrepresentation that hurts him so; that, though he can stand a fair attack, he can’t stand lies that he’s powerless to refute and stop from spreading.  That’s just Trewe’s weak point.  He lives so much by himself that these things affect him much more than they would if he were in the bustle of fashionable or commercial life.  So he wouldn’t come here, making the excuse that it all looked so new and monied — if you’ll pardon —  — ”

“But — he must have known — there was sympathy here!  Has he never said anything about getting letters from this address?”

“Yes, yes, he has, from John Ivy — perhaps a relative of yours, he thought, visiting here at the time?”

“Did he — like Ivy, did he say?”

“Well, I don’t know that he took any great interest in Ivy.”

“Or in his poems?”

“Or in his poems — so far as I know, that is.”

Robert Trewe took no interest in her house, in her poems, or in their writer.  As soon as she could get away she went into the nursery and tried to let off her emotion by unnecessarily kissing the children, till she had a sudden sense of disgust at being reminded how plain-looking they were, like their father.

The obtuse and single-minded landscape-painter never once perceived from her conversation that it was only Trewe she wanted, and not himself.  He made the best of his visit, seeming to enjoy the society of Ella’s husband, who also took a great fancy to him, and showed him everywhere about the neighbourhood, neither of them noticing Ella’s mood.

The painter had been gone only a day or two when, while sitting upstairs alone one morning, she glanced over the London paper just arrived, and read the following paragraph: —

“SUICIDE OF A POET” Mr. Robert Trewe, who has been favorably known for some years as one of our rising lyrists, committed suicide at his lodgings at Solentsea on Saturday evening last by shooting himself in the right temple with a revolver.  Readers hardly need to be reminded that Mr. Trewe recently attracted the attention of a much wider public than had hitherto known him, by his new volume of verse, mostly of an impassioned kind, entitled ‘Lyrics to a Woman Unknown,’ which has been already favorably noticed in these pages for the extraordinary gamut of feeling it traverses, and which has been made the subject of a severe, if not ferocious, criticism in the — — —  — Review.  It is supposed, though not certainly known, that the article may have partially conduced to the sad act, as a copy of the review in question was found on his writing-table; and he has been observed to be in a somewhat depressed state of mind since the critique appeared.”

Then came the report of the inquest, at which the following letter was read, it having been addressed to a friend at a distance: —

“Dear — — — , Before these lines reach your hands I shall be delivered from the inconveniences of seeing, hearing, and knowing more of the things around me.  I will not trouble you by giving my reasons for the step I have taken, though I can assure you they were sound and logical.  Perhaps had I been blessed with a mother, or a sister, or a female friend of another sort tenderly devoted to me, I might have thought it worth while to continue my present existence.  I have long dreamt of such an unattainable creature, as you know; and she, this undiscoverable, elusive one, inspired my last volume; the imaginary woman alone, for, in spite of what has been said in some quarters, there is no real woman behind the title.  She has continued to the last unrevealed, unmet, unwon.  I think it desirable to mention this in order that no blame may attach to any real woman as having been the cause of my decease by cruel or cavalier treatment of me.  Tell my landlady that I am sorry to have caused her this unpleasantness; but my occupancy of the rooms will soon be forgotten.  There are ample funds in my name at the bank to pay all expenses. R. TREWE.”