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TORONTO-CANADA

THOMAS HARDY'S WORKS

THE WESSEX NOVELS
VOLUME XIII.

WESSEX TALES

MACMILLAN AND CO., LIMITKD

LONDON • BOMBAY • CALCUTTA • MADRAS
MELBOURNE

THE MACMILLAN COMPANY

NEW YORK • BOSTON • CHICAGO
DALLAS • SAN FRANCISCO

THE MACMILLAN CO. OF CANADA, LTD.

TORONTO

Wessex Tales

THAT IS TO SAY

AN IMAGINATIVE WOMAN
THE THREE STRANGERS
THE WITHERED ARM
FELLOW-TOWNSMEN
INTERLOPERS AT THE KNAP; ANT
THE DISTRACTED PREACHER

THOMAS HARDY

WITH A MAP OF PTESSEX

MACMILLAN AND CO., LIMITED

ST. MARTIN'S STREET, LONDON

1917

first Collected Edition (2 vols.) 1888. New Edition (i vol.) and reprints, 1889-1893

New Edition {augmented) and reprints 1896-1900

First published by Mactnillan & Co., Crown Bvo, 1903. Reprinted 1911, 1917

Pocket Edition 1907. Reprinted 1910, 1913

Wessex Edition 1912

PREFACE

AN apology is perhaps needed for the neglect of contrast
which is shown by presenting two consecutive stories of
hangmen in such a small collection as the following. But
in the neighbourhood of county-towns tales of executions
used to form a large proportion of the local traditions ; and
though never personally acquainted with any chief operator
at such scenes, the writer of these pages had as ~a boy
the privilege of being on speaking terms with a man who
applied for the office, and who sank into an incurable
melancholy because he failed to get it, some slight mitiga-
tion of his grief being to dwell upon striking episodes in
the lives of those happier ones who had held it with suc-
cess and renown. His tale of disappointment used to
cause some wonder why his ambition should have taken
such an unfortunate form, but its nobleness was never
questioned. In those days, too, there was still living an
old woman who, for the cure of some eating disease, had
been taken in her youth to have her 'blood turned' by a
convict's corpse, in the manner described in ' The Withered
Arm.'

Since writing this story some years ago I have been re-
minded by an aged friend who knew 'Rhoda Brook' that,
in relating her dream, my forgetfulness has weakened the
facts out of which the tale grew. In reality it was while
lying down on a hot afternoon that the incubus oppressed
her and she flung it off, with the results upon the body of
the original as described. To my mind the occurrence of

PREFACE

such a vision in the daytime is more impressive than if it
had happened in a midnight dream. Readers are therefore
asked to correct the misrelation, which affords an instance
of how our imperfect memories insensibly formalize the
fresh originality of living fact — from whose shape they
slowly depart, as machine-made castings depart by degrees
from the sharp hand-work of the mould.

Among the many devices for concealing smuggled goods
in caves and pits of the earth, that of planting an apple-
tree in a tray or box which was placed over the mouth
of the pit is, I believe, unique, and it is detailed in one
of the tales precisely as described by an old carrier of
* tubs ' — a man who was afterwards in my father's employ
for over thirty years. I never gathered from his reminis-
cences what means were adopted for lifting the tree, which,
with its roots, earth, and receptacle, must have been of
considerable weight. There is no doubt, however, that the
thing was done through many years. My informant often
spoke, too, of the horribly suffocating sensation produced
by the pair of spirit-tubs slung upon the chest and back,
after stumbling with the burden of them for several miles
inland over a rough country and in darkness. He said
that though years of his youth and young manhood were
spent in this irregular business, his profits from the same,
taken all together, did not average the wages he might
have earned in a steady employment, whilst the fatigues
and risks were excessive.

I may add that the first story in the series turns upon
a physical possibility that may attach to women of
imaginative temperament, and that is well supported by
the experiences of medical men and other observers of such

manifestations.

T. H.

April 1896.

CONTENTS

PAGE

AN IMAGINATIVE WOMAN ..... i

THE THREE STRANGERS ..... 33

THE WITHERED ARM ..... 63

A LORN MILKMAID ..... 65

THE YOUNG WIFE ..... 68

A VISION ...... 73

A SUGGESTION ...... 78

CONJUROR TRENDLE ..... 83

A SECOND ATTEMPT ..... 87

A RIDE ....... 91

A WATER-SIDE HERMIT . . . -97

A RENCOUNTER . . . . 101

CONTENTS

PAGE

FELLOW-TOWNSMEN .' . 105

INTERLOPERS AT THE KNAP . 173

THE DISTRACTED PREACHER . 217

How HIS COLD WAS CURED . . . .219

HOW HE SAW TWO OTHER MEN . . 234

THE MYSTERIOUS GREATCOAT . 238

AT THE TIME OF THE NEW MOON . . . 247

HOW THEY WENT TO LULSTEAD COVE . . 256

THE GREAT SEARCH AT NETHER-MOYNTON . 267

THE WALK TO WARM'ELL CROSS, AND AFTERWARDS 277

AN IMAGINATIVE WOMAN

WlIEN William Marchmill had finished his inquiries
for lodgings at a well-known watering-place in Upper
Wessex, he returned to the hotel to find his wife. She,
with the children, had rambled along the shore, and
Marchmill followed in the direction indicated by the
military-looking hall-porter

' By Jove, how far you've gone ! I am quite out of
breath,' Marchmill said, rather impatiently, when he
came up with his wife, who was reading as she walked,
the three children being considerably further ahead with
the nurse.

Mrs. Marchmill started out of the reverie into which
the book had thrown her. 'Yes/ she said, 'you've
been such a long time. I was tired of staying in that
dreary hotel. But I am sorry if you have wanted me,
Will?'

'Well, I have had trouble to suit myself. When
you see the airy and comfortable rooms heard of, you
find they are stuffy and uncomfortable. Will you come
and see if what I've fixed on will do ? There is not
much room, I am afraid; but I can light on nothing
better. The town is rather full.'

The pair left the children and nurse to continue their
ramble, and went back together.

In age well-balanced, in personal appearance fairly
3

WESSEX TALES

matched, and in domestic requirements conformable, in
temper this couple differed, though even here they did
not often clash, he being equable, if not lymphatic, and
she decidedly nervous and sanguine. It was to their
tastes and fancies, those smallest, greatest particulars,
that no common denominator could be applied. March-
mill considered his wife's likes and inclinations somewhat
silly; she considered his sordid and material. The
husband's business was that of a gunmaker in a thriving
city northwards, and his soul was in that business
always ; the lady was best characterized by that super-
annuated phrase of elegance ' a votary of the muse.' An
impressionable, palpitating creature was Ella, shrinking
humanely from detailed knowledge of her husband's
trade whenever she reflected that everything he manu-
factured had for its purpose the destruction of life. She
could only recover her equanimity by assuring herself
that some, at least, of his weapons were sooner or later
used for the extermination of horrid vermin and animals
almost as cruel to their inferiors in species as human
beings were to theirs.

She had never antecedently regarded this occupation
of his as any objection to having him for a husband.
Indeed, the necessity of getting life-leased at all cost,
a cardinal virtue which all good mothers teach, kept
her from thinking of it at all till she had closed with
William, had passed the honeymoon, and reached the
reflecting stage. Then, like a person who has stumbled
upon some object in the dark, she wondered what she
had got ; mentally walked round it, estimated it ; whether
it were rare or common; contained gold, silver, or
lead; were a clog or a pedestal, everything to her or
nothing.

She came to some vague conclusions, and since then
had kept her heart alive by pitying her proprietor's
obtuseness and want of refinement, pitying herself, and
letting off her delicate and ethereal emotions in imagi-

AN IMAGINATIVE WOMAN

native occupations, day-dreams, and night-sighs, which
perhaps would not much have disturbed William if he
had known of them.

Her figure was small, elegant, and slight in build,
tripping, or rather bounding, in movement. She was
dark-eyed, and had that marvellously bright and liquid
sparkle in each pupil which characterizes persons of
Ella's cast of soul, and is too often a cause of heart-
ache to the possessor's male friends, ultimately some-
times to herself. Her husband was a tall, long-featured
man, with a brown beard ; he had a pondering regard ;
and was, it must be added, usually kind and tolerant
to her. He spoke in squarely shaped sentences, and
was supremely satisfied with a condition of sublunary
things which made weapons a necessity.

Husband and wife walked till they had reached the
house they were in search of, which stood in a terrace
facing the sea, and was fronted by a small garden of
wind-proof and salt-proof evergreens, stone steps leading
up to the porch. It had its number in the row, but, being
rather larger than the rest, was in addition sedulously
distinguished as Coburg House by its landlady, though
everybody else called it 'Thirteen, New Parade.' The
spot was bright and lively now ; but in winter it became
necessary to place sandbags against the door, and to
stuff up the keyhole against the wind and rain, which
had worn the paint so thin that the priming and knotting
showed through.

The householder, who had been watching for the
gentleman's return, met them in the passage, and
showed the rooms. She informed them that she was
a professional man's widow, left in needy circumstances
by the rather sudden death of her husband, and she
spoke anxiously of the conveniences of the establish-
ment.

Mrs. Marchmill said that she liked the situation and
the house; but, it being small, there would not be

WESSEX TALES

accommodation enough, unless she could have all the
rooms.

The landlady mused with an air of disappointment.
She wanted the visitors to be her tenants very badly,
she said, with obvious honesty. But unfortunately two
of the rooms were occupied permanently by a bachelor
gentleman. He did not pay season prices, it was true ;
but as he kept on his apartments all the year round,
and was an extremely nice and interesting young man,
who gave no trouble, she did not like to turn him out
for a month's ' let,' even at a high figure. ' Perhaps,
however/ she added, * he might offer to go for a
time/

They would not hear of this, and went back to the
hotel, intending to proceed to the agent's to inquire
further. Hardly had they sat down to tea when the
landlady called. Her gentleman, she said, had been
so 'obliging as to offer to give up his rooms for three
or four weeks rather than drive the new-comers away.

' It is very kind, but we won't inconvenience him in
that way/ said the Marchmills.

' O, it won't inconvenience him, I assure you ! ' said
the landlady eloquently. ' You see, he's a different sort
of young man from most — dreamy, solitary, rather
melancholy — and he cares more to be here when the
south-westerly gales are beating against the door, and
the sea washes over the Parade, and there's not a soul
in the place, than he does now in the season. He'd
just as soon be where, in fact, he's going temporarily,
to a little cottage on the Island opposite, for a change.'
She hoped therefore that they would come.

The Marchmill family accordingly took possession
of the house next day, and it seemed to suit them very
well. After luncheon Mr. Marchmill strolled out to-
wards the pier, and Mrs. Marchmill, having despatched
the children to their outdoor amusements on the sands,
settled herself in more completely, examining this and

AN IMAGINATIVE WOMAN

that article, and testing the reflecting powers of the
mirror in the wardrobe door.

In the small back sitting-room, which had been the
young bachelor's, she found furniture of a more personal
nature than in the rest. Shabby books, of correct
rather than rare editions, were piled up in a queerly
reserved manner in corners, as if the previous occupant
had not conceived the possibility that any incoming
person of the season's bringing could care to look
inside them. The landlady hovered on the threshold
to rectify anything that Mrs. Marchmill might not find
to her satisfaction.

* I'll make this my own little room,' said the latter,
' because the books are here. By the way, the person
who has left seems to have a good many. He won't
mind my reading some of them, Mrs. Hooper, I hope ? '

' O dear no, ma'am. Yes, he has a good many.
You see, he is in the literary line himself somewhat.
He is a poet — yes, really a poet — and he has a little
income of his own, which is enough to write verses
on, but not enough for cutting a figure, even if he
cared to.'

' A poet ! O, I did not know that.'

Mrs. Marchmill opened one of the books, and saw
the owner's name written on the title-page. ' Dear
me ! ' she continued ; ' I know his name very well —
Robert Trewe — of course I do ; and his writings !
And it is his rooms we have taken, and him we have
turned out of his home ? '

Ella Marchmill, sitting down alone a few minutes
later, thought with interested surprise of Robert Trewe.
Her own latter history will best explain that interest.
Herself the only daughter of a struggling man of letters,
she had during the last year or two taken to writing
poems, in an endeavour to find a congenial channel
in which to let flow her painfully embayed emotions,
whose former limpidity and sparkle seemed departing

WESSEX TALES

in the stagnation caused by the routine of a practical
household and the gloom of bearing children to a
commonplace father. These poems, subscribed with a
masculine pseudonym, had appeared in various obscure
magazines, and in two cases in rather prominent ones.
In the second of the latter the page which bore her
effusion at the bottom, in smallish print, bore at the
top, in large print, a few verses on the same subject by
this very man, Robert Trewe. Both of them had, in
fact, been struck by a tragic incident reported in the
daily papers, and had used it simultaneously as an
inspiration, the editor remarking in a note upon the
coincidence, and that the excellence of both poems
prompted him to give them together.

After that event Ella, otherwise 'John Ivy,' had
watched with much attention the appearance anywhere
in print of verse bearing the signature of Robert Trewe,
whoj with a man's unsusceptibility on the question of
sex, had never once thought of passing himself off as
a woman. To be sure, Mrs. Marchmill had satisfied
herself with a sort of reason for doing the contrary in
her case ; that nobody might believe in her inspiration
if they found that the sentiments came from a pushing
tradesman's wife, from the mother of three children by
a matter-of-fact small-arms manufacturer.

Trewe's verse contrasted with that of the rank and
file of recent minor poets in being impassioned rather
than ingenious, luxuriant rather than finished. Neither
symboliste nor decadent^ he was a pessimist in so far as
that character applies to a man who looks at the worst
contingencies as well as the best in the human condition.
Being little attracted by excellences of form and rhythm
apart from content, he sometimes, when feeling outran
his artistic speed, perpetrated sonnets in the loosely
rhymed Elizabethan fashion, which every right-minded
reviewer said he ought not to have done.

With sad and hopeless envy, Ella Marchmill had
8

AN IMAGINATIVE WOMAN

often and often scanned the rival poet's work, so much
stronger as it always was than her own feeble lines. She
had imitated him, and her inability to touch his level
would send her into fits of despondency. Months
passed away thus, till she observed from the publishers'
list that Trewe had collected his fugitive pieces into a
volume, which was duly issued, and was much or little
praised according to chance, and had a sale quite suffi-
cient to pay for the printing.

This step onward had suggested to John Ivy the
idea of collecting her pieces also, or at any rate of
making up a book of her rhymes by adding many in
manuscript to the few that had seen the light, for she
had been able to get no great number into print. A
ruinous charge was made for costs of publication; a
few reviews noticed her poor little volume ; but nobody
talked of it, nobody bought it, and it fell dead in a
fortnight — if it had ever been alive.

The author's thoughts were diverted to another
groove just then by the discovery that she was going
to have a third child, and the collapse of her poetical
venture had perhaps less effect upon her mind than it
might have done if she had been domestically unoccu-
pied. Her husband had paid the publisher's bill with
the doctor's, and there it all had ended for the time.
But, though less than a poet of her century, Ella was
more than a mere multiplier of her kind, and latterly
she had begun to feel the old afflatus once more. And
now by an odd conjunction she found herself in the
rooms of Robert Trewe.

She thoughtfully rose from her chair and searched
the apartment with the interest of a fellow- tradesman.
Yes, the volume of his own verse was among the rest.
Though quite familiar with its contents, she read it here
as if it spoke aloud to her, then called up Mrs. Hooper,
the landlady, for some trivial service, and inquired again
about the young man.

WESSEX TALES

"Well, I'm sure you'd be interested in him, ma'am,
if you could see him, only he's so shy that I don't
suppose you will.' Mrs. Hooper seemed nothing loth
to minister to her tenant's curiosity about her prede-
cessor. 'Lived here long? Yes, nearly two years.
He keeps on his rooms even when he's not here : the
soft air of this place suits his chest, and he likes to be
able to come back at any time. He is mostly writing
or reading, and doesn't see many people, though, for
the matter of that, he is such a good, kind young fellow
that folks would only be too glad to be friendly with
him if they knew him. You don't meet kind-hearted
people every day.'

' Ah, he's kind-hearted . . . and good.'

1 Yes ; he'll oblige me in anything if I ask him.
" Mr. Trewe," I say to him sometimes, " you are rather
out of spirits." " Well, I am, Mrs. Hooper," he'll say,
" though I don't know how you should find it out."
"Why not take a little change?" I ask. Then in a
day or two he'll say that he will take a trip to Paris,
or Norway, or somewhere ; and I assure you he comes
back all the better for it.'

' Ah, indeed ! His is a sensitive nature, no doubt.'

'Yes. Still he's odd in some things. Once when
he had finished a poem of his composition late at night
he walked up and down the room rehearsing it; and
the floors being so thin — jerry-built houses, you know,
though I say it myself — he kept me awake up above
him till I wished him further. ... But we get on
very well.'

This was but the beginning of a series of conver-
sations about the rising poet as the days went on.
On one of these occasions Mrs. Hooper drew Ella's
attention to what she had not noticed before : minute
scribblings in pencil on the wall-paper behind the
curtains at the head of the bed.

' O ! let me look,' said Mrs. Marchmill, unable to
10

AN IMAGINATIVE WOMAN

conceal a rush of tender curiosity as she bent her pretty
face close to the wall.

1 These,' said Mrs. Hooper, with the manner of a
woman who knew things, ' are the very beginnings and
first thoughts of his verses. He has tried to rub most
of them out, but you can read them still. My belief
is that he wakes up in the night, you know, with some
rhyme in his head, and jots it down there on the wall
lest he should forget it by the morning. Some of these
very lines you see here I have seen afterwards in print
in the magazines. Some are newer; indeed, I have
not seen that one before. It must have been done
only a few days ago.'

' O yes ! . . .'

Ella Marchmill flushed without knowing why, and
suddenly wished her companion would go away, now
that the information was imparted. An indescribable
consciousness of personal interest rather than literary
made her anxious to read the inscription alone ; and
she accordingly waited till she could do so, with a sense
that a great store of emotion would be enjoyed in the act

Perhaps because the sea was choppy outside the
Island, Ella's husband found it much pleasanter to go
sailing and steaming about without his wife, who was
a bad sailor, than with her. He did not disdain to
go thus alone on board the steamboats of the cheap-
trippers, where there was dancing by moonlight, and
where the couples would come suddenly down with a
lurch into each other's arms ; for, as he blandly told her,
the company was too mixed for him to take her amid
such scenes. Thus, while this thriving manufacturer got
a great deal of change and sea-air out of his sojourn
here, the life, external at least, of Ella was monotonous
enough, and mainly consisted in passing a certain
number of hours each day in bathing and walking
up and down a stretch of shore. But the poetic
impulse having again waxed strong, she was possessed

WESSEX TALES

by an inner flame which left her hardly conscious of
what was proceeding around her.

She had read till she knew by heart Trewe's last
little volume of verses, and spent a great deal of time
in vainly attempting to rival some of them, till, in her
failure, she burst into tears. The personal element in
the magnetic attraction exercised by this circumambient,
unapproachable master of hers was so much stronger
than the intellectual and abstract that she could not
understand it. To be sure, she was surrounded noon
and night by his customary environment, which literally
whispered of him to her at every moment; but he was
a man she had never seen, and that all that moved
her was the instinct to specialize a waiting emotion on
the first fit thing that came to hand did not, of course,
suggest itself to Ella,

In the natural way of passion under the too practi-
cal conditions which civilization has devised for its
fruition, her husband's love for her had not survived,
except in the form of fitful friendship, any more than,
or even so much as, her own for him; and, being
a woman of very living ardours, that required suste-
nance of some sort, they were beginning to feed on this
chancing material, which was, indeed, of a quality far
better than chance usually offers.

One day the children had been playing hide-and-
seek in a closet, whence, in their excitement, they pulled
out some clothing. Mrs. Hooper explained that it
belonged to Mr. Trewe, and hung it up in the closet
again. Possessed of her fantasy, Ella went later in
the afternoon, when nobody was in that part of the
house, opened the closet, unhitched one of the articles,
a mackintosh, and put it on, with the waterproof cap
belonging to it.

'The mantle of Elijah!' she said. 'Would it
might inspire me to rival him, glorious genius that
he is ! '

AN IMAGINATIVE WOMAN

Her eyes always grew wet when she thought like
that, and she turned to look at herself in the glass.
His heart had beat inside that coat, and his brain had
worked under that hat at levels of thought she would
never reach. The consciousness of her weakness beside
him made her feel quite sick. Before she had got the
things off her the door opened, and her husband entered
the room.

' What the devil '

She blushed, and removed them.

* I found them in the closet here/ she said, ' and put
them on in a freak. What have I else to do ? You are
always away ! '

' Always away ? Well . . .'

That evening she had a further talk with the land-
lady, who might herself have nourished a half-tender
regard for the poet, so ready was she to discourse ardently
about him.

' You are interested in Mr. Trewe, I know, ma'am,'
she said ; ' and he has just sent to say that he is going
to call to-morrow afternoon to look up some books of
his that he wants, if I'll be in, and he may select them
from your room ? '

1 0 yes ! '

1 You could very well meet Mr, Trewe then, if you'd
like to be in the way ! '

She promised with secret delight, and went to bed
musing of him.

Next morning her husband observed : * I've been
thinking of what you said, Ell : that I have gone about
a jgood deal and left you without much to amuse you.
Perhaps it's true. To-day, as there's not much sea, I'll
take you with me on board the yacht.'

For the first time in her experience of such an offer
Ella was not glad. But she accepted it for the moment.
The time for setting out drew near, and she went to get
ready. She stood reflecting. The longing to see the

WESSEX TALES

poet she was now distinctly in love with overpowered
all other considerations.

* I don't want to go,' she said to herself. « I can't
bear to be away ! And I won't go.'

She told her husband that she had changed her
mind about wishing to sail. He was indifferent, and
went his way.

For the rest of the day the house was quiet, the
children having gone out upon the sands. The blinds
waved in the sunshine to the soft, steady stroke of the
sea beyond the wall; and the notes of the Green
Silesian band, a troop of foreign gentlemen hired for
the season, had drawn almost all the residents and pro-
menaders away from the vicinity of Coburg House. A
knock was audible at the door.

Mrs. Marchmill did not hear any servant go to
answer it, and she became impatient. The books were
in the room where she sat ; but nobody came up. She
rang the bell.

* There is some person waiting at the door,' she
said.

' O no, ma'am ! He's gone long ago. I answered
it.'

Mrs. Hooper came in herself.

1 So disappointing ! ' she said. * Mr. Trewe not
coming after all ! '

* But I heard him knock, I fancy ! '

* No ; that was somebody inquiring for lodgings who
came to the wrong house. I forgot to tell you that Mr.
Trewe sent a note just before lunch to say I needn't
get any tea for him, as he should not require the books,
and wouldn't come to select them.'

Ella was miserable, and for a long time could not
even re-read his mournful ballad on * Severed Lives,'
so aching was her erratic little heart, and so tearful her
eyes. When the children came in with wet stockings,
and ran up to her to tell her of their adventures, she

AN IMAGINATIVE WOMAN

could not feel that she cared about them half as much
as usual.

* Mrs. Hooper, have you a photograph of — the gentle-
man who lived here ? ' She was getting to be curiously
shy in mentioning his name.

' Why, yes. It's in the ornamental frame on the
mantelpiece in your own bedroom, ma'am.'

* No ; the Royal Duke and Duchess are in that.'

' Yes, so they are ; but he's behind them. He
belongs rightly to that frame, which I bought on pur-
pose ; but as he went away he said : " Cover me up
from those strangers that are coming, for God's sake.
I don't want them staring at me, and I am sure they
won't want me staring at them." So I slipped in the
Duke and Duchess temporarily in front of him, as they
had no frame, and Royalties are more suitable for letting
furnished than a private young man. If you take 'em
out you'll see him under. Lord, ma'am, he wouldn't
mind if he knew it ! He didn't think the next tenant
would be such an attractive lady as you, or he wouldn't
have thought of hiding himself, perhaps/

' Is he handsome ? ' she asked timidly.

' I call him so. Some, perhaps, wouldn't.'

' Should I ? ' she asked, with eagerness.

'I think you would, though some would say he's
more striking than handsome; a large-eyed thoughtful
fellow, you know, with a very electric flash in his eye
when he looks round quickly, such as you'd expect a
poet to be who doesn't get his living by it.'

' How old is he ? '

' Several years older than yourself, ma'am j about
thirty-one or two, I think.'

Ella was, as a matter of fact, a few months over thirty
herself; but she did not look nearly so much. Though
so immature in nature, she was entering on that tract

:SSEX TALES

of life in which emotional women begin to suspect that
last love may be stronger than first love ; and she would
soon, alas, enter on the still more melancholy tract when
at least the vainer ones of her sex shrink from receiving
a male visitor otherwise than with their backs to the
window or the blinds half down. She reflected on Mrs.
Hooper's remark, and said no more about age.

Just then a telegram was brought up. It came from
her husband, who had gone down the Channel as far as
Budmouth with his friends in the yacht, and would not
be able to get back till next day.

After her light dinner Ella idled about the shore
with the children till dusk, thinking of the yet uncovered
photograph in her room, with a serene sense of some-
thing ecstatic to come. For, with the subtle luxurious-
ness of fancy in which this young woman was an adept,
on learning that her husband was to be absent that
night she had refrained from incontinently rushing up-
stairs and opening the picture-frame, preferring to reserve
the inspection till she could be alone, and a more
romantic tinge be imparted to the occasion by silence,
candles, solemn sea and stars outside, than was afforded
by the garish afternoon sunlight.

The children had been sent to bed, and Ella soon
followed, though it was not yet ten o'clock. To gratify
her passionate curiosity she now made her preparations,
first getting rid of superfluous garments and putting on
her dressing-gown, then arranging a chair in front of
the table and reading several pages of Trewe's tenderest
utterances. Then she fetched the portrait-frame to the
light, opened the back, took out the likeness, and set it
up before her,

It was a striking countenance to look upon. The
poet wore a luxuriant black moustache and imperial,
and a slouched hat which shaded the forehead. The
large dark eyes, described by the landlady, showed an
unlimited capacity for misery j they looked out from

16,

AN IMAGINATIVE WOMAN

beneath well- shaped brows as if they were reading the
universe in the microcosm of the confronter's face, and
were not altogether overjoyed at what the spectacle
portended.

Ella murmured in her lowest, richest, tenderest tone :
1 And it's you who've so cruelly eclipsed me these many
times ! '

As she gazed long at the portrait she fell into thought,
till her eyes filled with tears, and she touched the card-
board with her lips. Then she laughed with a nervous
lightness, and wiped her eyes.

She thought how wicked she was, a woman having
a husband and three children, to let her mind stray to a
stranger in this unconscionable manner. No, he was
not a stranger ! She knew his thoughts and feelings as
well as she knew her own ; they were, in fact, the self-
same thoughts and feelings as hers, which her husband
distinctly lacked ; perhaps luckily for himself, considering
that he had to provide for family expenses.

' He's nearer my real self, he's more intimate with the
real me than Will is, after all, even though I've never
seen him,' she said.

She laid his book and picture on the table at the
bedside, and when she was reclining on the pillow she
re-read those of Robert Trewe's verses which she had
marked from time to time as most touching and true.
Putting these aside, she set up the photograph on its
edge upon the coverlet, and contemplated it as she lay.
Then she scanned again by the light of the candle the
half-obliterated pencillings on the wall-paper beside her
head. There they were — phrases, couplets, bouts-rimes,
beginnings and middles of lines, ideas in the rough, like
Shelley's scraps, and the least of them so intense, so
sweet, so palpitating, that it seemed as if his very breath,
warm and loving, fanned her cheeks from those walls,
walls that had surrounded his head times and times as
they surrounded her own now. He must often have

i B

WESSEX TALES

put up his hand so — with the pencil in it. Yes, the
writing was sideways, as it would be if executed by one
who extended his arm thus.

These inscribed shapes of the poet's world,

* Forms more real than living man,
Nurslings of immortality,'

were, no doubt, the thoughts and spirit-strivings which
had come to him in the dead of night, when he could
let himself go and have no fear of the frost of criticism.
No doubt they had often been written up hastily by the
light of the moon, the rays of the lamp, in the blue-grey
dawn, in full daylight perhaps never. And now her hair
was dragging where his arm had lain when he secured
the fugitive fancies ; she was* sleeping on a poet's lips,
immersed in the very essence of him, permeated by his
spirit as by an ether.

While she was dreaming the minutes away thus, a
footstep came upon the stairs, and in a moment she
heard her husband's heavy step on the landing im-
mediately without.

* 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 photo-
graph under the pillow just as he flung open the door,
with the air of a man who had dined not badly.

c 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 to-morrow.'

' 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

AN IMAGINATIVE WOMAN

out at six o'clock to-morrow 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.

1 No, only wicked ! '

'Never mind that.' And he stooped and kissed
her.

Next morning Marchmill was called at six o'clock;
and in waking and yawning she 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 table 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.'

WESSEX TALES

' O j well, I must up and be off. I shall be home
rather early. Sorry I can't take you to-day, 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 admira-
tion, 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 fashion-
able 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

AN IMAGINATIVE WOMAN

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 fervour 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 dis-
appeared 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 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 favourite
magazine, which must have been written almost im-
mediately before her visit to Solentsea, for it contained
21

WESSEX TALES

the very couplet she had seen pencilled on the wall-
paper 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 metre 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 re-
called 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 cer-
tainly 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 of
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,

AN IMAGINATIVE WOMAtf

matters would be otherwise. No doubt she would have
helped on this by making a frank confession of woman-
hood, to begin with, if something had not happened, to
her delight, to render it unnecessary. A friend of her
husband's, the editor of the most important newspaper
in the 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 requesting him 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 one 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

WESSEX TALES

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
towards 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 intro-
ductory 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 /ri/ai&-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 good-bye 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 yester-
day; he saw a copy of it at the station by accident.
Perhaps you've read it ? '
'No.'

AN IMAGINATIVE WOMAN

' 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.

4 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
25

WESSEX TALES

the London paper just arrived, and read the following
paragraph : —

« SUICIDE OF A POET

' Mr. Robert Trewe, who has been favourably 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 has 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 favourably 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 fol-
lowing letter was read, it having been addressed to a
friend at a distance : —

4 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 exist-
ence. 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.'

AN IMAGINATIVE WOMAN

Ella sat for a while as if stunned, then rushed into
the adjoining chamber and flung herself upon her face
on the bed.

Her grief and distraction shook her to pieces ; and
she lay in this frenzy of sorrow for more than an hour.
Broken words came every now and then from her quiver-
ing lips : ' O, if he had only known of me — known of
me — me ! ... O, if I had only once met him — only
once; and put my hand upon his hot forehead — kissed
him — let him know how I loved him — that I would
have suffered shame and scorn, would have lived and
died, for him ! Perhaps it would have saved his dear
life ! . . . But no — it was not allowed ! God is a
jealous God; and that happiness was not for him
and me ! '

All possibilities were over ; the meeting was stultified.
Yet it was almost visible to her in her fantasy even now,
though it could never be substantiated —

4 The hour which might have been, yet might not be,
Which man's and woman's heart conceived and bore,
Yet whereof life was barren.'

She wrote to the landlady at Solentsea in the third
person, in as subdued a style as she could command,
enclosing a postal order for a sovereign, and informing
Mrs. Hooper that Mrs. Marchmill had seen in the
papers the sad account of the poet's death, and having
been, as Mrs. Hooper was aware, much interested in
Mr. Trewe during her stay at Coburg House, she would
be obliged if Mrs. Hooper could obtain a small portion
of his hair before his coffin was closed down, and send
it her as a memorial of him, as also the photograph that
was in the frame.

By the return-post a letter arrived containing what
had been requested. Ella wept over the portrait and

WESSEX TALES

secured it in her private drawer ; the lock of hair she
tied with white ribbon and put in her bosom, whence
she drew it and kissed it every now and then in some
unobserved nook.

* What's the matter ? ' said her husband, looking up
from his newspaper on one of these occasions. ' Crying
over something ? A lock of hair ? Whose is it ? '

* He's dead ! ' she murmured.
'Who?'

1 1 don't want to tell you, Will, just now, unless you
insist ! ' she said, a sob hanging heavy in her voice.

' O, all right.'

' Do you mind my refusing ? I will tell you some
day.'

* It doesn't matter in the least, of course.'

He walked away whistling a few bars of no tune in
particular; and when he had got down to his factory
in the city the subject came into MarchmilPs head
again.

He, too, was aware that a suicide had taken place
recently at the house they had occupied at Solentsea.
Having seen the volume of poems in his wife's hand
of late, and heard fragments of the landlady's conver-
sation about Trewe when they were her tenants, he all
at once said to himself, * Why of course it's he ! ...
How the devil did she get to know him? What sly
animals women are ! '

Then he placidly dismissed the matter, and went on
with his daily affairs. By this time Ella at home had
come to a determination. Mrs Hooper, in sending the
hair and photograph, had informed her of the day of
the funeral ; and as the morning and noon wore on an
overpowering wish to know where they were laying him
took possession of the sympathetic woman. Caring very
little now what her husband or any one else might think
of her eccentricities, she wrote Marchmill a brief note,
stating that she was called away for the afternoon and

AN IMAGINATIVE WOMAN

evening, but would return on the following morning.
This she left on his desk, and having given the same
information to the servants, went out of the house on
foot.

When Mr. Marchmill reached home early in the
afternoon the servants looked anxious. The nurse
took him privately aside, and hinted that her mistress's
sadness during the past few days had been such that
she feared she had gone out to drown herself. March-
mill reflected. Upon the whole he thought that she
had not done that. Without saying whither he was
bound he also started off, telling them not to sit up
for him. He drove to the railway-station, and took a
ticket for Solentsea.

It was dark when he reached the place, though he
had come by a fast train, and he knew that if his wife
had preceded him thither it could only have been by a
slower train, arriving not a great while before his own.
The season at Solentsea was now past : the parade was
gloomy, and the flys were few and cheap. He asked
the way to the Cemetery, and soon reached it. The
gate was locked, but the keeper let him in, declaring,
however, that there was nobody within the precincts.
Although it was not late, the autumnal darkness had
now become intense; and he found some difficulty in
keeping to the serpentine path which led to the quarter
where, as the man had told him, the one or two inter-
ments for the day had taken place. He stepped upon
the grass, and, stumbling over some pegs, stooped now
and then to discern if possible a figure against the sky.
He could see none; but lighting on a spot where the
soil was trodden, beheld a crouching object beside a
newly made grave. She heard him, and sprang up.

* Ell, how silly this is ! ' he said indignantly, ' Run-
ning away from home — I never heard such a thing !
Of course I am not jealous of this unfortunate man;
but it is too ridiculous that you, a married woman with
29

WESSEX TALES

three children and a fourth coming, should go losing
your head like this over a dead lover ! . . . Do you
know you were locked in ? You might not have been
able to get out all night.'

She did not answer.

1 1 hope it didn't go far between you and him, for
your own sake.'

' Don't insult me, Will.'

' Mind, I won't have any more of this sort of thing ;
do you hear ? '

' Very well,' she said.

He drew her arm within his own, and conducted her
out of the Cemetery. It was impossible to get back
that night ; and not wishing to be recognized in their
present sorry condition, he took her to a miserable little
coffee-house close to the station, whence they departed
early in the morning, travelling almost without speaking,
under the sense that it was one of those dreary situations
occurring in married life which words could not mend,
and reaching their own door at noon.

The months passed, and neither of the twain ever
ventured to start a conversation upon this episode.
Ella seemed to be only too frequently in a sad and
listless mood, which might almost have been called
pining. The time was approaching when she would
have to undergo the stress of childbirth for a fourth
time, and that apparently did not tend to raise her
spirits.

' I don't think I shall get over it this time ! ' she said
one day.

'Pooh! what childish foreboding! Why shouldn't
it be as well now as ever ? '

She shook her head. ' I feel almost sure I am going
to die ; and I should be glad, if it were not for Nelly,
and Frank, and Tiny.'

< And me ! '

'You'll soon find somebody to fill my place,' she
30

AN IMAGINATIVE WOMAN

murmured, with a sad smile. ' And you'll have a perfect
right to ; I assure you of that.'

' Ell, you are not thinking still about that — poetical
friend of yours ? '

She neither admitted nor denied the charge, ' I am
not going to get over my illness this time,' she reiterated.
' Something tells me I shan't'

This view of things was rather a bad beginning, as
it usually is ; and, in fact, six weeks later, in the month
of May, she was lying in her room, pulseless and blood-
less, with hardly strength enough left to follow up one
feeble breath with another, the infant for whose un-
necessary life she was slowly parting with her own being
fat and well. Just before her death she spoke to
Marchmill softly : —

'Will, I want to confess to you the entire circum-
stances of that — about you know what — that time we
visited Solentsea. I can't tell what possessed me — how
I could forget you so, my husband ! But I had got
into a morbid state : I thought you had been unkind ;
that you had neglected me ; that you weren't up to my
intellectual level, while he was, and far above it. I
wanted a fuller appreciator, perhaps, rather than another
lover ;

She could get no further then for very exhaustion ;
and she went off in sudden collapse a few hours later,
without having said anything more to her husband on
the subject of her love for the poet. William Marchmill,
in truth, like most husbands of several years' standing,
was little disturbed by retrospective jealousies, and had
not shown the least anxiety to press her for confessions
concerning a man dead and gone beyond any power of
inconveniencing him more.

But when she had been buried a couple of years it
chanced one day that, in turning over some forgotten
papers that he wished to destroy before his second wife
entered the house, he lighted on a lock of hair in an

WESSEX TALES

envelope, with the photograph of the deceased poet, a
date being written on the back in his late wife's hand.
It was that of the time they spent at Solentsea.

Marchmill looked long and musingly at the hair and
portrait, for something struck him. Fetching the little
boy who had been the death of his mother, now a noisy
toddler, he took him on his knee, held the lock of hair
against the child's head, and set up the photograph on
the table behind, so that he could closely compare the
features each countenance presented. There were un-
doubtedly strong traces of resemblance ; the dreamy and
peculiar expression of the poet's face sat, as the trans-
mitted idea, upon the child's, and the hair was of the
same hue.

1 I'm damned if I didn't think so ! ' murmured March-
mill. 'Then she did play me false with that fellow
at the lodgings ! Let me see : the dates — the second
week in August. ... the third week in May. . . .
Yes . . . yes. . . . Get away, you poor little brat I
You are nothing to me ! '

1893.

THE THREE STRANGERS

AMONG the few features of agricultural England
which retain an appearance but little modified by the
lapse of centuries, may be reckoned the high, grassy
and furzy downs, coombs, or ewe-leases, as they are in-
differently called, that fill a large area of certain counties
in the south and south-west. If any mark of human
occupation is met with hereon, it usually takes the form
of the solitary cottage of some shepherd.

Fifty years ago such a lonely cottage stood on such
a down, and may possibly be standing there now. In
spite of its loneliness, however, the spot, by actual
measurement, was not more than five miles from a
county-town. Yet that affected it little Five miles of
irregular upland, during the long inimical seasons, with
their sleets, snows, rains, and mists, afford withdrawing
space enough to isolate a Timon or a Nebuchadnezzar ;
much less, in fair weather, to please that less repellent
tribe, the poets, philosophers, artists, and others who
'conceive and meditate of pleasant things.'

Some old earthen camp or barrow, some clump of
trees, at least some starved fragment of ancient hedge
is usually taken advantage of in the erection of these
forlorn dwellings. But, in the present case, such a
kind of shelter had been disregarded. Higher Crow-
stairs, as the house was called, stood quite detached and
35

WESSEX TALES

undefended. The only reason for its precise situation
seemed to be the crossing of two footpaths at right
angles hard by, which may have crossed there and thus
for a good five hundred years. Hence the house was
exposed to the elements on all sides. But, though the
wind up here blew unmistakably when it did blow,
and the rain hit hard whenever it fell, the various
weathers of the winter season were not quite so for-
midable on the coomb as they were imagined to be by
dwellers on low ground. The raw rimes were not so
pernicious as in the hollows, and the frosts were scarcely
so severe. When the shepherd and his family who
tenanted the house were pitied for their sufferings from
the exposure, they said that upon the whole they were
less inconvenienced by * wuzzes and flames ' (hoarses
and phlegms) than when they had lived by the stream
of a snug neighbouring valley.

The night of March 28, 182-, was precisely one of
the nights that were wont to call forth these expressions
of commiseration. The level rainstorm smote walls,
slopes, and hedges like the clothyard shafts of Senlac
and Crecy. Such sheep and outdoor animals as had
no shelter stood with their buttocks to the winds ; while
the tails of little birds trying to roost on some scraggy
thorn were blown inside-out like umbrellas. The
gable-end of the cottage was stained with wet, and
the eavesdroppings flapped against the wall. Yet
never was commiseration for the shepherd more mis-
placed. For that cheerful rustic was entertaining a
large party in glorification of the christening of his
second girl.

The guests had arrived before the rain began to fall,
and they were all now assembled in the chief or living
room of the dwelling. A glance into the apartment at
eight o'clock on this eventful evening would have re-
sulted in the opinion that it was as cosy and comfortable
a nook as could be wished for in boisterous weather.

THE THREE STRANGERS

The calling of its inhabitant was proclaimed by a
number of highly-polished sheep- crooks without stems
that were hung ornamentally over the fireplace, the curl
of each shining crook varying from the antiquated type
engraved in the patriarchal pictures of old family Bibles
to the most approved fashion of the last local sheep-fair.
The room was lighted by half-a-dozen candles, having
wicks only a trifle smaller than the grease which
enveloped them, in candlesticks that were never used
but at high-days, holy-days, and family feasts. The
lights were scattered about the room, two of them stand-
ing on the chimney-piece. This position of candles
was in itself significant. Candles on the chimney-piece
always meant a party.

On the hearth, in front of a back-brand to give
substance, blazed a fire of thorns, that crackled 'like
the laughter of the fool.'

Nineteen persons were gathered here. Of these,
five women, wearing gowns of various bright hues, sat
in chairs along the wall; girls shy and not shy filled
the window-bench; four men, including Charley Jake
the hedge-carpenter, Elijah New the parish-clerk, and
John Pitcher, a neighbouring dairyman, the shepherd's
father-in-law, lolled in the settle; a young man and
maid, who were blushing over tentative pourparlers on
a life-companionship, sat beneath the corner-cupboard ;
and an elderly engaged man of fifty or upward moved
restlessly about from spots where his betrothed was
not to the spot where she was. Enjoyment was pretty
general, and so much the more prevailed in being
unhampered by conventional restrictions. Absolute
confidence in each other's good opinion begat perfect
ease, while the finishing stroke of manner, amounting to
a truly princely serenity, was lent to the majority by the
absence of any expression or trait denoting that they
wished to get on in the world, enlarge their minds, or
do any eclipsing thing whatever — which nowadays so
37

WESSEX TALES

generally nips the bloom and bonhomie of all except the
two extremes of the social scale.

Shepherd Fennel had married wejl, his wife being
a dairyman's daughter from a vale at a distance, who
brought fifty guineas in her pocket — and kept them
there, till they should be required for ministering to
the needs of a coming family. This frugal woman
had been somewhat exercised as to the character that
should be given to the gathering. A sit-still party had
its advantages ; but an undisturbed position of ease in
chairs and settles was apt to lead on the men to such
an unconscionable deal of toping that they would
sometimes fairly drink the house dry. A dancing-
party was the alternative ; but this, while avoiding the
foregoing objection on the score of good drink, had a
counterbalancing disadvantage in the matter of good
victuals, the ravenous appetites engendered by the exer-
cise causing immense havoc in the buttery. Shepherdess
Fennel fell back upon the intermediate plan of mingling
short dances with short periods of talk and singing, so
as to hinder any ungovernable rage in either. But this
scheme was entirely confined to her own gentle mind :
the shepherd himself was in the mood to exhibit the
most reckless phases of hospitality.

The fiddler was a boy of those parts, about twelve
years of age, who had a wonderful dexterity in jigs and
reels, though his fingers were so small and short as to
necessitate a constant shifting for the high notes, from
which he scrambled back to the first position with
sounds not of unmixed purity of tone. At seven the
shrill tweedle-dee of this youngster had begun, accom-
panied by a booming ground-bass from Elijah New,
the parish-clerk, who had thoughtfully brought with him
his favourite musical instrument, the serpent. Dancing
was instantaneous, Mrs. Fennel privately enjoining the
players on no account to let the dance exceed the length
of a quarter of an hour.

THE THREE STRANGERS

But Elijah and the boy, in the excitement of their
position, quite forgot the injunction. Moreover, Oliver
Giles, a man of seventeen, one of the dancers, who was
enamoured of his partner, a fair girl of thirty-three rolling
years, had recklessly handed a new crown-piece to the
musicians, as a bribe to keep going as long as they had
muscle and wind. Mrs. Fennel, seeing the steam begin
to generate on the countenances of her guests, crossed
over and touched the fiddler's elbow and put her hand
on the serpent's mouth. But they took no notice, and
fearing she might lose her character of genial hostess if
she were to interfere too markedly, she retired and sat
down helpless. And so the dance whizzed on with
cumulative fury, the performers moving in their planet-
like courses, direct and retrograde, from apogee to peri-
gee, till the hand of the well-kicked clock at the bottom
of the room had travelled over the circumference of
an hour.

While these cheerful events were in course of enact-
ment within Fennel's pastoral dwelling, an incident
having considerable bearing on the party had occurred
in the gloomy night without. Mrs. Fennel's concern
about the growing fierceness of the dance corresponded
in point of time with the ascent of a human figure to
the solitary hill of Higher Crowstairs from the direction
of the distant town. This personage strode on through
the rain without a pause, following the little-worn path
which, further on in its course, skirted the shepherd's
cottage.

It was nearly the time of full moon, and on this
account, though the sky was lined with a uniform sheet
of dripping cloud, ordinary objects out of doors were
readily visible. The sad wan light revealed the lonely
pedestrian to be a man of supple frame; his gait sug-
gested that he had somewhat passed the period of
perfect and instinctive agility, though not so far as
to be otherwise than rapid of motion when occasion
39

WESSEX TALES

required. At a rough guess, he might have been about
forty years of age. He appeared tall, but a recruiting
sergeant, or other person accustomed to the judging of
men's heights by the eye, would have discerned that
this was chiefly owing to his gauntness, and that he was
not more than five-feet-eight or nine.

Notwithstanding the regularity of his tread, there was
caution in it, as in that of one who mentally feels his
way ; and despite the fact that it was not a black coat
nor a dark garment of any sort that he wore, there was
something about him which suggested that he naturally
belonged to the black-coated tribes of men. His clothes
were of fustian, and his boots hobnailed, yet in his pro-
gress he showed not the mud-accustomed bearing of
hobnailed and fustianed peasantry.

By the time that he had arrived abreast of the
shepherd's premises the rain came down, or rather
came along, with yet more determined violence. The
outskirts of the little settlement partially broke the force
of wind and rain, and this induced him to stand still.
The most salient of the shepherd's domestic erections
was an empty sty at the forward corner of his hedgeless
garden, for in these latitudes the principle of masking
the homelier features of your establishment by a con-
ventional frontage was unknown. The traveller's eye
was attracted to this small building by the pallid shine
of the wet slates that covered it. He turned aside,
and, finding it empty, stood under the pent-roof for
shelter.

While he stood, the boom of the serpent within the
adjacent house, and the lesser strains of the fiddler,
reached the spot as an accompaniment to the surging
hiss of the flying rain on the sod, its louder beating on
the cabbage-leaves of the garden, on the eight or ten
beehives just discernible by the path, and its dripping
from the eaves into a row of buckets and pans that
had been placed under the walls of the cottage For

THE THREE STRANGERS

at Higher Crowstairs, as at all such elevated domiciles,
the grand difficulty of housekeeping was an insuffi-
ciency of water ; and a casual rainfall was utilized by
turning out, as catchers, every utensil that the house
contained. Some queer stories might be told of the
contrivances for economy in suds and dish-waters that
are absolutely necessitated in upland habitations during
the droughts of summer. But at this season there were
no such exigencies ; a mere acceptance of what the skies
bestowed was sufficient for an abundant store.

At last the notes of the serpent ceased and the
house was silent. This cessation of activity aroused
the solitary pedestrian from the reverie into which he
had lapsed, arid, emerging from the shed, with an
apparently new intention, he walked up the path to
the house-door. Arrived here, his first act was to
kneel down on a large stone beside the row of vessels,
and to drink a copious draught from one of them.
Having quenched his thirst he rose and lifted his hand
to knock, but paused with his eye upon the panel.
Since the dark surface of the wood revealed absolutely
nothing, it was evident that he must be mentally look-
ing through the door, as if he wished to measure
thereby all the possibilities that a house of this sort
might include, and how they might bear upon the
question of his entry.

In his indecision he turned and surveyed the scene
around. Not a soul was anywhere visible. The
garden-path stretched downward from his feet, gleam-
ing like the track of a snail ; the roof of the little well
(mostly dry), the well-cover, the top rail of the garden-
gate, were varnished with the same dull liquid glaze;
while, far away in the vale, a faint whiteness of more
than usual extent showed that the rivers were high in
the meads. Beyond all this winked a few bleared
lamplights through the beating drops — lights that de-
noted the situation of the county-town from which he

WESSEX TALES

had appeared to come. The absence of all notes of
life in that direction seemed to clinch his intentions,
and he knocked at the door.

Within, a desultory chat had taken the place of
movement and musical sound. The hedge-carpenter
was suggesting a song to the company, which nobody
just then was inclined to undertake, so that the knock
afforded a not unwelcome diversion.

' Walk in ! ' said the shepherd promptly.

The latch clicked upward, and out of the night our
pedestrian appeared upon the door-mat. The shepherd
arose, snuffed two of the nearest candles, and turned to
look at him.

Their light disclosed that the stranger was dark in
complexion and not unprepossessing as to feature. His
hat, which for a moment he did not remove, hung
low over his eyes, without concealing that they were
large, open, and determined, moving with a flash rather
than a glance round the room. He seemed pleased
with his survey, and, baring his shaggy head, said, in
a rich deep voice, 'The rain is so heavy, friends, that
I ask leave to come in and rest awhile.'

'To be sure, stranger/ said the shepherd. 'And
faith, you've been lucky in choosing your time, for we
are having a bit of a fling for a glad cause — though, to
be sure, a man could hardly wish that glad cause to
happen more than once a year.'

' Nor less,' spoke up a woman. ' For 'tis best to
get your family over and done with, as soon as you
can, so as to be all the earlier out of the fag o't.'

' And what may be this glad cause ? ' asked the
stranger.

' A birth and christening,' said the shepherd.

The stranger hoped his host might not be made un-
happy either by too many or too few of such episodes,
and being invited by a gesture to a pull at the mug,
he readily acquiesced. His manner, which, before enter-

THE THREE STRANGERS -

ing, had been so dubious, was now altogether that of a
careless and candid man.

' Late to be traipsing athwart this coomb — hey ? ''
said the engaged man of fifty.

' Late it is, master, as you say. — I'll take a seat in
the chimney-corner, if you have nothing to urge against
it, ma'am ; for I am a little moist on the side that was
next the rain.'

Mrs. Shepherd Fennel assented, and made room
for the self-invited comer, who, having got completely
inside the chimney-corner, stretched out his legs and
his arms with the expansiveness of a person quite at
home.

' Yes, I am rather cracked in the vamp,' he said freely,
seeing that the eyes of the shepherd's wife fell upon his
boots, * and I am not well fitted either. I have had
some rough times lately, and have been forced to pick
up what I can get in the way of wearing, but I must
find a suit better fit for working-days when I reach
home.'

' One of hereabouts ? ' she inquired.

' Not quite that — further up the country.'

' I thought so. And so be I ; and by your tongue
you come from my neighbourhood.'

'But you would hardly have heard of me/ he said
quickly. ' My time would be long before yours, ma'am,
you see.'

This testimony to the youthfulness of his hostess
had the effect of stopping her cross-examination.

* There is only one thing more wanted to make me
happy,' continued the new-comer. ' And that is a little
baccy, which I am sorry to say I am out of.'

' I'll fill your pipe,' said the shepherd.

* I must ask you to lend me a pipe likewise.'
' A smoker, and no pipe about 'ee ? '

' I have dropped it somewhere on the road.'
The shepherd filled and handed him a new clay pipe,
43

WESSEX TALES

saying, as he did so, « Hand me your baccy -box — I'll
fill that too, now I am about it.'

The man went through the movement of searching
his pockets.

' Lost that too ? ' said his entertainer, with some
surprise.

* I am afraid so/ said the man with some confusion.
' Give it to me in a screw of paper.' Lighting his pipe
at the candle with a suction that drew the whole flame
into the bowl, he resettled himself in the corner and
bent his looks upon the faint steam from his damp legs,
as if he wished to say no more.

Meanwhile the general body of guests had been taking
little notice of this visitor by reason of an absorbing
discussion in which they were engaged with the band
about a tune for the next dance. The matter being
settled, they were about to stand up when an interruption
came in the shape of another knock at the door.

At sound of the same the man in the chimney-
corner took up the poker and began stirring the brands
as if doing it thoroughly were the one aim of his exist-
ence ; and a second time the shepherd said, « Walk in ! '
In a moment another man stood upon the straw- woven
door-mat. He too was a stranger.

This individual was one of a type radically different
from the first. There was more of the commonplace
in his manner, and a certain jovial cosmopolitanism
sat upon his features. He was several years older
than the first arrival, his hair being slightly frosted,
his eyebrows bristly, and his whiskers cut back from
his cheeks. His face was rather full and flabby, and
yet it was not altogether a face without power. A few
grog-blossoms marked the neighbourhood of his nose.
He flung back his long drab greatcoat, revealing that
beneath it he wore a suit of cinder-gray shade through-
out, large heavy seals, of some metal or other that
would take a polish, dangling from his fob as his only
44

THE THREE STRANGERS

personal ornament. Shaking the water-drops from his
low-crowned glazed hat, he said, < I must ask for a few
minutes' shelter, comrades, or I shall be wetted to my
skin before I get to Casterbridge.'

' Make yourself at home, master,' said the shepherd,
perhaps a trifle less heartily than on the first occasion.
Not that Fennel had the least tinge of niggardliness
in his composition; but the room was far from large,
spare chairs were not numerous, and damp companions
were not altogether desirable at close quarters for the
women and girls in their bright-coloured gowns.

However, the second comer, after taking off his
greatcoat, and hanging his hat on a nail in one of the
ceiling-beams as if he had been specially invited to put
it there, advanced and sat down at the table. This had
been pushed so closely into the chimney-corner, to give
all available room to the dancers, that its inner edge
grazed the elbow of the man who had ensconced him-
self by the fire; and thus the two strangers were
brought into close companionship. They nodded to
each other by way of breaking the ice of unacquaintance,
and the first stranger handed his neighbour the family
mug — a huge vessel of brown ware, having its upper
edge worn away like a threshold by the rub of whole
generations of thirsty lips that had gone the way of all
flesh, and bearing the following inscription burnt upon
its rotund side in yellow letters : —

THERE IS NO FUN
UNliLL i CUM.

The other man, nothing loth, raised the mug to his
lips, and drank on, and on, and on — till a curious
blueness overspread the countenance of the shepherd's
wife, who had regarded with no little surprise the first
stranger's free offer to the second of what did not
belong to him to dispense.
45

WESSEX TALES

' I knew it ! ' said the toper to the shepherd with
much satisfaction. 'When J walked up your garden
before coming in, and saw the hives all of a row, I
said to myself, " Where there's bees there's honey, and
where there's honey there's mead." But mead of such
a truly comfortable sort as this I really didn't expect to
meet in my older days.' He took yet another pull at
the mug, till it assumed an ominous elevation.

( Glad you enjoy it ! ' said the shepherd warmly.

' It is goodish mead,' assented Mrs. Fennel, with an
absence of enthusiasm which seemed to say that it was
possible to buy praise for one's cellar at too heavy a
price. ' It is trouble enough to make — and really I
hardly think we shall make any more. For honey sells
well, and we ourselves can make shift with a drop o'
small mead and metheglin for common use from the
comb- washings."

' O, but you'll never have the heart ! ' reproachfully
cried the stranger in cinder-gray, after taking up the
mug a third time and setting it down empty. * I love
mead, when 'tis old like this, as I love to go to church
o' Sundays, or to relieve the needy any day of the week.'

' Ha, ha, ha ! ' said the man in the chimney-corner,
who, in spite of the taciturnity induced by the pipe of
tobacco, could not or would not refrain from this slight
testimony to his comrade's humour.

Now the old mead of those days, brewed of the
purest first-year or maiden honey, four pounds to the
gallon — with its due complement of white of eggs,
cinnamon, ginger, cloves, mace, rosemary, yeast, and
processes of working, bottling, and cellaring — tasted re-
markably strong ; but it did not taste so -strong as it
actually was. Hence, presently, the stranger in cinder-
gray at the table, moved by its creeping influence, un-
buttoned his waistcoat, threw himself back in his chair,
spread his legs, and made his presence felt in various
ways.

THE THREE STRANGERS

' Well, well, as I say,' he resumed, ' I am going to
Casterbridge, and to Casterbridge I must go. I should
have been almost there by this time ; but the rain drove
me into your dwelling, and I'm not sorry for it.'

' You don't live in Casterbridge ? ' said the shepherd.

1 Not as yet ; though I shortly mean to move there.*

f Going to set up in trade, perhaps ? '

' No, no,' said the shepherd's wife. ' It is easy to
see that the gentleman is rich, and don't want to work
at anything.'

The cinder-gray stranger paused, as if to consider
whether he would accept that definition of himself. He
presently rejected it by answering, * Rich is not quite
the word for me, dame. I do work, and I must work.
And even if I only get to Casterbridge by midnight I
must begin work there at eight to-morrow morning.
Yes, het or wet, blow or snow, famine or sword, my
day's work to-morrow must be done.'

* Poor man ! Then, in spite o' seeming, you be
worse off than we ? ' replied the shepherd's wife.

* Tis the nature of my trade, men and maidens.
'Tis the nature of my trade more than my poverty. . . .
But really and truly I must up and off, or I shan't get
a lodging in the town.' However, the speaker did not
move, and directly added, ' There's time for one more
draught of friendship before I go ; and I'd perform it
at once if the mug were not dry.'

1 Here's a mug o' small,' said Mrs. Fennel. ' Small,
we call it, though to be sure 'tis only the first wash o'
the combs.'

' No,' said the stranger disdainfully. c I won't spoil
your first kindness by partaking o' your second.'

1 Certainly not,' broke in Fennel. ' We don't in-
crease and multiply every day, and I'll fill the mug
again.' He went away to the dark place under the
stairs where the barrel stood. The shepherdess followed
him,

WESSEX TALES

1 Why should you do this ? ' she said reproachfully,
as soon as they were alone. ' He's emptied it once,
though it held enough for ten people; and now he's
not contented wi' the small, but must needs call for
more o' the strong ! And a stranger unbeknown to
any of us. For my part, I don't like the look o' the
man at all.'

* But he's in the house, my honey ; and 'tis a wet
night, and a christening. Daze it, what's a cup of
mead more or less ? There'll be plenty more next bee-
burning.'

* Very well — this time, then,' she answered, looking
wistfully at the barrel. ' But what is the man's calling,
and where is he one of, that he should come in and
join us like this ? '

' I don't know. I'll ask him again.'

The catastrophe of having the mug drained dry at
one pull by the stranger in cinder-gray was effectually
guarded against this time by Mrs. Fennel. She poured
out his allowance in a small cup, keeping the large one
at a discreet distance from him. When he had tossed
off his portion the shepherd renewed his inquiry about
the stranger's occupation.

The latter did not immediately reply, and the man
in the chimney-corner, with sudden demonstrativeness,
said, ' Anybody may know my trade — I'm a wheel-
wright.'

*A very good trade for these parts,' said the
shepherd.

1 And anybody may know mine — if they've the sense
to find it out,' said the stranger in cinder- gray.

' You may generally tell what a man is by his
claws,' observed the hedge-carpenter, looking at his
own hands. * My fingers be as full of thorns as an
old pin-cushion is of pins.'

The hands of the man in the chimney-corner in-
stinctively sought the shade, and he gazed into the fire

THE THREE STRANGERS

as he resumed his pipe. The man at the table took
up the hedge-carpenter's remark, and added smartly,
'True; but the oddity of my trade is that, instead of
setting a mark upon me, it sets a mark upon my
customers.'

No observation being offered by anybody in eluci-
dation of this enigma, the shepherd's wife once more
called for a song. The same obstacles present. I
themselves as at the former time — one had no voice,
another had forgotten the first verse. The stranger
at the table, whose soul had now risen to a good
working temperature, relieved the difficulty by exclaim-
ing that, to start the company, he would sing himself.
Thrusting one thumb into the arm-hole of his waistcoat,
he waved the other hand in the air, and, with an ex-
temporizing gaze at the shining sheep-crooks above the
mantelpiece, began : —

' O my trade it is the rarest one,

Simple shepherds all —
My trade is a sight to see ;

For my customers I tie, and take them up on high,
And waft 'em to a far countree ! '

The room was silent when he had finished the verse —
with one exception, that of the man in the chimney-
corner, who, at the singer's word, 'Chorus ! ' joined him
in a deep bass voice of musical relish —

' And waft 'em to a far countree ! '

Oliver Giles, John Pitcher the dairyman, the parish-
' 1< -rk, the engaged man of fifty, the row of young
women against the wall, seemed lost in thought not of
ill'- gayest kind. The shrphrnl looked meditatively on
tin- ground, the- shepherdess gazed keenly at the singer,
and with some suspicion ; she was doubting whether
this stranger were merely singing an old song from
recollection, or was composing one there and then for

4y D

WESSEX TALES

the occasion. All were as perplexed at the obscure
revelation as the guests at Belshazzar's Feast, except the
man in the chimney-corner, who quietly said, ' Second
verse, stranger,' and smoked on.

The singer thoroughly moistened himself from his
lips inwards, and went on with the next stanza as re-
quested : —

* My tools are but common ones,

Simple shepherds all —
My tools are no sight to see :

A little hempen string, and a post whereon to swing,
Are implements enough for me ! '

Shepherd Fennel glanced round. There was no longer
any doubt that the stranger was answering his question
rhythmically. The guests one and all started back with
suppressed exclamations. The young woman engaged
to the man of fifty fainted half-way, and would have pro-
ceeded, but finding him wanting in alacrity for catching
her she sat down trembling.

f O, he's the ! ' whispered the people in the

background, mentioning the name of an ominous public
officer. ' He's come to do it ! 'Tis to be at Caster-
bridge jail to-morrow — the man for sheep-stealing —
the poor clock-maker we heard of, who used to live
away at Shottsford and had no work to do — Timothy
Summers, whose family were a-starving, and so he went
out of Shottsford by the high-road, and took a sheep
in open daylight, defying the farmer and the farmer's
wife and the farmer's lad, and every man jack among
'em. He ' (and they nodded towards the stranger of
the deadly trade) ' is come from up the country to do
it because there's not enough to do in his own county-
town, and he's got the place here now our own county
man's dead; he's going to live in the same cottage
under the prison wall.'

The stranger in cinder-gray took no notice of this
5°

THE THREE STRANGERS

whispered string of observations, but again wetted his
lips. Seeing that his friend in the chimney-corner was
the only one who reciprocated his joviality in any way,
he held out his cup towards that appreciative comrade,
who also held out his own. They clinked together, the
eyes of the rest of the room hanging upon the singer's
actions. He parted his lips for the third verse ; but at
that moment another knock was audible upon the door.
This time the knock was faint and hesitating.

The company seemed scared; the shepherd looked
with consternation towards the entrance, and it was
with some effort that he resisted his alarmed wife's
deprecatory glance, and uttered for the third time the
welcoming words, ' Walk in ! '

The door was gently opened, and another man stood
upon the mat. He, like those who had preceded him,
was a stranger. This time it was a short, small per-
sonage, of fair complexion, and dressed in a decent suit
of dark clothes.

' Can you tell me the way to ? ' he began : when,

gazing round the room to observe the nature of the
company amongst whom he had fallen, his eyes
lighted on the stranger in cinder-gray. It was just at
the instant when the latter, who had thrown his mind
into his song with such a will that he scarcely heeded
the interruption, silenced all whispers and inquiries by
bursting into his third verse : —

1 To-morrow is my working day,

Simple shepherds all —
To-morrow is a working day for me :

For the farmer's sheep is slain, and the lad who did it ta'en,
And on his soul may God ha' merc-y ! '

The stranger in the chimney-corner, waving cups with
the singer so heartily that his mead splashed over on the
hearth, repeated in his bass voice as before : —

' And on his soul may God ha' merc-y ! '

WESSEX TALES

All this time the third stranger had been standing
in the doorway. Finding now that he did not come
forward or go on speaking, the guests particularly re-
garded him. They noticed to their surprise that he
stood before them the picture of abject terror — his knees
trembling, his hand shaking so violently that the door-
latch by which he supported himself rattled audibly : his
white lips were parted, and his eyes fixed on the merry
officer of justice in the middle of the room. A moment
more and he had turned, closed the door, and fled.

* What a man can it be ? ' said the shepherd.

The rest, between the awfulness of their late dis-
covery and the odd conduct of this third visitor, looked
as if they knew not what to think, and said nothing.
Instinctively they withdrew further and further from the
grim gentleman in their midst, whom some of them
seemed to take for the Prince of Darkness himself, till
they formed a remote circle, an empty space of floor
being left between them and him —

' . . . circulus, cujus centrum diabolus.'

The room was so silent — though there were more
than twenty people in it — that nothing could be heard
but the patter of the rain against the window-shutters,
accompanied by the occasional hiss of a stray drop that
fell down the chimney into the fire, and the steady
puffing of the man in the corner, who had now resumed
his pipe of long clay.

The stillness was unexpectedly broken. The distant
sound of a gun reverberated through the air — apparently
from the direction of the county-town.

' Be jiggered ! ' cried the stranger who had sung the
song, jumping up.

' What does that mean ? ' asked several.

' A prisoner escaped from the jail— that's what it
means.'

THE THREE STRANGERS

All listened. The sound was repeated, and none
of them spoke but the man in the chimney-corner, who
said quietly, ' I've often been told that in this county
they fire a gun at such times ; but I never heard it
till now.'

' I wonder if it is my man ? ' murmured the personage
in cinder-gray.

' Surely it is ! ' said the shepherd involuntarily. ' And
surely we've zeed him ! That little man who looked
in at the door by now, and quivered like a leaf when he
zeed ye and heard your song ! '

* His teeth chattered, and the breath went out of
his body,' said the dairyman.

' And his heart seemed to sink within him like a
stone,' said Oliver Giles.

'And he bolted as if he'd been shot at,' said the
hedge-carpenter.

* True — his teeth chattered, and his heart seemed to
sink ; and he bolted as if he'd been shot at,' slowly
summed up the man in the chimney-corner.

* I didn't notice it,' remarked the hangman.

' We were all a-wondering what made him run off in
such a fright,' faltered one of the women against the
wall, ' and now 'tis explained ! '

The firing of the alarm-gun went on at intervals, low
and sullenly, and their suspicions became a certainty.
The sinister gentleman in cinder-gray roused himself.
' Is there a constable here ? ' he asked, in thick tones.
* If so, let him step forward.'

The engaged man of fifty stepped quavering out from
the wall, his betrothed beginning to sob on the back of
the chair.

1 You are a sworn constable ? '

' I be, sir.'

'Then pursue the criminal at once, with assistance,
and bring him back here. He can't have gone far.'

'I will, sir, I will — when I've got my staff. I'll
53

WESSEX TALES

go home and get it, and come sharp here, and start in
a body.'

'Staff! — never mind your staff; the man'll be
gone ! '

' But I can't do nothing without my staff — can I,
William, and John, and Charles Jake ? No ; for there's
the king's royal crown a painted on en in yaller and
gold, and the lion and the unicorn, so as when I raise
en up and hit my prisoner, 'tis made a lawful blow
thereby. I wouldn't 'tempt to take up a man without
my staff — no, not I. If I hadn't the law to gie me
courage, why, instead o' my taking up him he might
take up me ! '

'Now, I'm a king's man myself, and can give you
authority enough for this,' said the formidable officer
in gray. 'Now then, all of ye, be ready. Have ye
any lanterns ? '

< Yes — have ye any lanterns ? — I demand it ! ' said
the constable.

' And the rest of you able-bodied '

' Able-bodied men — yes — the rest of ye ! ' said the
constable.

' Have you some good stout staves and pitch-
forks '

' Staves and pitchforks — in the name o' the law !
And take 'em in yer hands and go in quest, and do as
we in authority tell ye ! '

Thus aroused, the men prepared to give chase. The
evidence was, indeed, though circumstantial, so con-
vincing, that but little argument was needed to show
the shepherd's guests that after what they had seen it
would look very much like connivance if they did not
instantly pursue the unhappy third stranger, who could
not as yet have gone more than a few hundred yards
over such uneven country.

A shepherd is always well provided with lanterns;
and, lighting these hastily, and with hurdle-staves in

THE THREE STRANGERS

their hands, they poured out of the door, taking a
direction along the crest of the hill, away from the
town, the rain having fortunately a little abated.

Disturbed by the noise, or possibly by unpleasant
dreams of her baptism, the child who had been
christened began to cry heart-brokenly in the room
overhead. These notes of grief came down through
the chinks of the floor to the ears of the women below,
who jumped up one by one, and seemed glad of the
excuse to ascend and comfort the baby, for the incidents
of the last half-hour greatly oppressed them. Thus in
the space of two or three minutes the room on the
ground-floor was deserted quite.

But it was not for long. Hardly had the sound of
footsteps died away when a man returned round the
corner of tjie house from the direction the pursuers
had taken. Peeping in at the door, and seeing nobody
there, he entered leisurely. It was the stranger of the
chimney-corner, who had gone out with the rest. The
motive of his return was shown by his helping himself
to a cut piece of skimmer-cake that lay on a ledge
beside where he had sat, and which he had apparently
forgotten to take with him. He also poured out half
a cup more mead from the quantity that remained,
ravenously eating and drinking these as he stood. He
had not "finished when another figure came in just as
quietly — his friend in cinder-gray.

' O — you here ? ' said the latter, smiling. « I
thought you had gone to help in the capture.' And
this speaker also revealed the object of his return by
looking solicitously round for the fascinating mug of
old mead.

' And I thought you had gone/ said the other, con-
tinuing his skimmer-cake with some effort.

' Well, on second thoughts, I felt there were
enough without me,' said the first confidentially, ' and
such a night as it is, too. Besides, 'tis the business
55

WESSEX TALES

o' the Government to take care of its criminals — not
mine.'

' True ; so it is. And I felt as you did, that there
were enough without me.'

' I don't want to break my limbs running over the
humps and hollows of this wild country/

* Nor I neither, between you and me.'

'These shepherd-people are used to it — simple-
minded souls, you know, stirred up to anything in a
moment. They'll have him ready for me before the
morning, and no trouble to me at all.'

' They'll have him, and we shall have saved ourselves
all labour in the matter.'

< True, true. Well, my way is to Caster bridge ; and
'tis as much as my legs will do to take me that far.
Going the same way ? '

' No, I am sorry to say ! I have to get home over
there ' (he nodded indefinitely to the. right), ' and I feel
as you do, that it is quite enough for my legs to do
before bedtime.'

The other had by this time finished the mead in
the mug, after which, shaking hands heartily at the
door, and wishing each other well, they went their
several ways.

In the meantime the company of pursuers had
reached the end of the hog's-back elevation which
dominated this part of the down. They had decided
on no particular plan of action j and, finding that the
man of the baleful trade was no longer in their company,
they seemed quite unable to form any such plan now.
They descended in all directions down the hill, and
straightway several of the party fell into the snare set
by Nature for all misguided midnight ramblers over
this part of the cretaceous formation. The ' lanchets,'
or flint slopes, which belted the escarpment at intervals
of a dozen yards, took the less cautious ones unawares,
and losing their footing on the rubbly steep they slid

'56

THE THREE STRANGERS

sharply downwards, the lanterns rolling from their
hands to the bottom, and there lying on their sides till
the horn was scorched through.

When they had again gathered themselves together,
the shepherd, as the man who knew the country best,
took the lead, and guided them round these treacherous
inclines. The lanterns, which seemed rather to dazzle
their eyes and warn the fugitive than to assist them
in the exploration, were extinguished, due silence was
observed ; and in this more rational order they plunged
into the vale. It was a grassy, briery, moist defile,
affording some shelter to any person who had sought
it ; but the party perambulated it in vain, and ascended
on the other side. Here they wandered apart, and after
an interval closed together again to report progress.
At the second time of closing in they found themselves
near a lonely ash, the single tree on this part of the
coomb, probably sown there by a passing bird some
fifty years before. And here, standing a little to one
side of the trunk, as motionless as the trunk itself,
appeared the man they were in quest of, his outline
being well defined against the sky beyond. The band
noiselessly drew up and faced him.

' Your money or your life ! ' said the constable sternly
to the still figure.

' No, no,' whispered John Pitcher. c 'Tisn't our side
ought to say that. That's the doctrine of vagabonds
like him, and we be on the side of the law.'

1 Well, well,' replied the constable impatiently ; « I
must say something, mustn't I ? and if you had all the
weight o' this undertaking upon your mind, perhaps
you'd say the wrong thing too ! — Prisoner at the bar,
surrender, in the name of the Father — the Crown, I
mane ! '

The man under the tree seemed now to notice them
for the first time, and, giving them no opportunity
whatever for exhibiting their courage, he strolled slowly
57

WESSEX TALES

towards them. He was, indeed, the little man, the
third stranger ; but his trepidation had in a great
measure gone.

* Well, travellers/ he said, ' did I hear ye speak to
me?'

* You did : you've got to come and be our prisoner
at once ! ' said the constable. ' We arrest 'ee on the
charge of not biding in Casterbridge jail in a decent
proper manner to be hung to-morrow morning. Neigh-
bours, do your duty, and seize the culpet ! '

On hearing the charge, the man seemed enlightened,
and, saying not another word, resigned himself with
preternatural civility to the search-party, who, with their
staves in their hands, surrounded him on all sides, and
marched him back towards the shepherd's cottage.

It was eleven o'clock by the time they arrived. The
light shining from the open door, a sound of men's
voices within, proclaimed to them as they approached
the house that some new events had arisen in their
absence. On entering they discovered the shepherd's
living room to be invaded by two officers from Caster-
bridge jail, and a well-known magistrate who lived at
the nearest country-seat, intelligence of the escape having
become generally circulated.

' Gentlemen,' said the constable, ' I have brought
back your man — not without risk and danger ; but
every one must do his duty ! He is inside this circle
of able-bodied persons, who have lent me useful aid,
considering their ignorance of Crown work. Men, bring
forward your prisoner ! ' And the third stranger was
led to the light.

' Who is this ? ' said one of the officials.

' The man,' said the constable.

'Certainly not/ said the turnkey; and the first
corroborated his statement.

* But how can it be otherwise ? ' asked the constable.
1 Or why was he so terrified at sight o' the singing

THE THREE STRANGERS

instrument of the law who sat there ? ' Here he re-
lated the strange behaviour of the third stranger on
entering the house during the hangman's song.

* Can't understand it,' said the officer coolly. ' All
I know is that it is not the condemned man. He's
quite a different character from this one; a gauntish
fellow, with dark hair and eyes, rather good-looking,
and with a musical bass voice that if you heard it once
you'd never mistake as long as you lived.'

* Why, souls — 'twas the man in the chimney-corner ! '
' Hey — what ? ' said the magistrate, coming forward

after inquiring particulars from the shepherd in the
background. ' Haven't you got the man after all ? '

' Well, sir,' said the constable, * he's the man we
were in search of, that's true; and yet he's not the
man we were in search of. For the man we were in
search of was not the man we wanted, sir, if you
understand my everyday way; for 'twas the man in the
chimney-corner ! '

' A pretty kettle of fish altogether ! ' said the
magistrate. ' You had better start for the other man
at once.'

The prisoner now spoke for the first time. The
mention of the man in the chimney-corner seemed to
have moved him as nothing else could do. * Sir,' he
said, stepping forward to the magistrate, ' take no more
trouble about me. The time is come when I may as
well speak. I have done nothing; my crime is that
the condemned man is my brother. Early this after-
noon I left home at Shottsford to tramp it all the way
to Casterbridge jail to bid him farewell. I was be-
nighted, and called here to rest and ask the way.
When I opened the door I saw before me the very
man, my brother, that I thought to see in the con-
demned cell at Casterbridge. He was in this chimney-
corner; and jammed close to him, so that he could
not have got out if he had tried, was the executioner
59

WESSEX TALES

who'd come to take his life, singing a song about it and
not knowing that it was his victim who was close by,
joining in to save appearances. My brother looked a
glance of agony at me, and I knew he meant, " Don't
reveal what you see; my life depends on it." I was
so terror-struck that I could hardly stand, and, not
knowing what I did, I turned and hurried away.'

The narrator's manner and tone had the stamp of
truth, and his story made a great impression on all
around. « And do you know where your brother is at
the present time ? ' asked the magistrate.

*I do not. I have never seen him since I closed
this door.'

' I can testify to that, for we've been between ye
ever since,' said the constable.

c Where does he think to fly to ? — what js his
occupation ? '

' He's a watch-and-clock-maker, sir.'

"A said 'a was a wheelwright — a wicked rogue,'
said the constable.

'The wheels of clocks and watches he meant, no
doubt,' said Shepherd Fennel. ' I thought his hands
were palish for's trade.'

1 Well, it appears to me that nothing can be gained
by retaining this poor man in custody,' said the magis-
trate; 'your business lies with the other, unquestion-
ably.'

And so the little man was released off-hand ; but he
looked nothing the less sad on that account, it being
beyond the power of magistrate or constable to raze out
the written troubles in his brain, for they concerned
another whom he regarded with more solicitude than
himself. When this was done, and the man had gone
his way, the night was found to be so far advanced that
it was deemed useless to renew the search before the
next morning.

Next day, accordingly, the quest for the clever sheep-
60

THE THREE STRANGERS

stealer became general and keen, to all appearance at
least. But the intended punishment was cruelly dis-
proportioned to the transgression, and the sympathy of
a great many country-folk in that district was strongly
on the side of the fugitive. Moreover, his marvellous
coolness and daring in hob-and-nobbing with the hang-
man, under the unprecedented circumstances of the
shepherd's party, won their admiration. So that it may
be questioned if all those who ostensibly made them-
selves so busy in exploring woods and fields and lanes
were quite so thorough when it came to the private
examination of their own lofts and outhouses. Stories
were afloat of a mysterious figure being occasionally
seen in some old overgrown trackway or other, remote
from turnpike roads ; but when a search was instituted
in any of these suspected quarters nobody was found.
Thus the days and weeks passed without tidings.

In brief, the bass-voiced man of the chimney-corner
was never recaptured. Some said that he went across
the sea, others that he did not, but buried himself in the
depths of a populous city. At any rate, the gentleman
in cinder-gray never did his morning's work at Caster-
bridge, nor met anywhere at all, for business purposes,
the genial comrade with whom he had passed an hour
of relaxation in the lonely house on the coomb.

The grass has long been green on the graves of
Shepherd Fennel and his frugal wife; the guests who
made up the christening party have mainly followed their
entertainers to the tomb; the baby in whose honour they
all had met is a matron in the sere and yellow leaf. But
the arrival of the three strangers at the shepherd's that
night, and the details connected therewith, is a story
as well known as ever in the country about Higher
Crowstairs.

March 1883.

THE WITHERED ARM

A LORN MILKMAID

IT was an eighty-cow dairy, and the troop of milkers,
regular and supernumerary, were all at work; for,
though the time of year was as yet but early April,
the feed lay entirely in water-meadows, and the cows
were 'in full pail.' The hour was about six in the
evening, and three-fourths of the large, red, rectangular
animals having been finished off, there was opportunity
for a little conversation.

' He do bring home his bride to-morrow, I hear.
They've come as far as Anglebury to-day.'

The voice seemed to proceed from the belly of the
cow called Cherry, but the speaker was a milking-woman,
whose face was buried in the flank of that motionless
beast.

' Hav' anybody seen her ? ' said another.

There was a negative response from the first.
' Though they say she's a rosy-cheeked, tisty-tosty little
body enough,' she added; and as the milkmaid spoke
she turned her face so that she could glance past her
cow's tail to the other side of the barton, where a thin,
fading woman of thirty milked somewhat apart from
the rest.

6S *

WESSEX TALES

'Years younger than he, they say/ continued the
second, with also a glance of reflectiveness in the same
direction.

' How old do you call him, then ? '

< Thirty or so.7

' More like forty,' broke in an old milkman near, in
a long white pinafore or 'wropper,' and with the brim
of his hat tied down, so that he looked like a woman.
1 'A was born before our Great Weir was builded, and
I hadn't man's wages when I laved water there.'

The discussion waxed so warm that the purr of the
milk-streams became jerky, till a voice from another
cow's belly cried with authority, ' Now then, what the
Turk do it matter to us about Farmer Lodge's age, or
Farmer Lodge's new mis'ess? I shall have to pay
him nine pound a year for the rent of every one of
these milchers, whatever his age or hers. Get on with
your work, or 'twill be dark afore we have done. The
evening is pinking in a'ready.' This speaker was the
dairyman himself, by whom the milkmaids and men
were employed.

Nothing more was said publicly about Farmer Lodge's
wedding, but the first woman murmured under her cow
to her next neighbour, ' 'Tis hard for she] signifying the
thin worn milkmaid aforesaid.

' O no,' said the second. c He ha'n't spoke to
Rhoda Brook for years.'

When the milking was done they washed their pails
and hung them on a many-forked stand made of the
peeled limb of an oak-tree, set upright in the earth, and
resembling a colossal antlered horn. The majority then
dispersed in various directions homeward. The thin
woman who had not spoken was joined by a boy of
twelve or thereabout, and the twain went away up the
field also.

Their course lay apart from that of the others, to a
lonely spot high above the water-meads, and not far

THE WITHERED ARM

from the border of Egdon Heath, whose dark counte-
nance was visible in the distance as they drew nigh to
their home.

'They've just been 'saying down in barton that your
father brings his young wife home from Anglebury to-
morrow,' the woman observed. 'I shall want to send
you for a few things to market, and you'll be pretty
sure to meet 'em/

'Yes, mother,' said the boy. {Is father married
then ? '

'Yes. . . . You can give her a look, and tell me
what's she's like, if you do see her.'

'Yes, mother.'

' If she's dark or fair, and if she's tall — as tall as I.
And if she seems like a woman who has ever worked
for a living, or one that has been always well off, and
has never done anything, and shows marks of the lady
on her, as I expect she do.'

'Yes.'

They crept up the hill in the twilight, and entered
the cottage. It was built of mud-walls, the surface of
which had been washed by many rains into channels and
depressions that left none of the original flat face visible ;
while here and there in the thatch above a rafter
showed like a bone portruding through the skin.

She was kneeling down in the chimney-corner, before
two pieces of turf laid together with the heather inwards,
blowing at the red-hot ashes with her breath till the
turves flamed. The radiance lit her pale cheek, and
made her dark eyes, that had once been handsome,
seem handsome anew. ' Yes,' she resumed, ' see if she
is dark or fair, and if you can, notice if her hands be
white ; if not, see if they look as though she had ever
done housework, or are milker's hands like mine.'

The boy again promised, inattentively this time, his
mother not observing that he was cutting a notch with
his pocket-knife in the beech-backed chair.
67

WESSEX TALES

THE YOUNG WIFE

1 HE road from Anglebury to Holmstoke is in general
level; but there is one place where a sharp ascent
breaks its monotony. Farmers homeward-bound from
the former market-town, who trot all the rest of the
way, walk their horses up this short incline.

The next evening, while the sun was yet bright, a
handsome new gig, with a lemon-coloured body and
red wheels, was spinning westward along the level
highway at the heels of a powerful mare. The driver
was a yeoman in the prime of life, cleanly shaven like
an actor, his face being toned to that bluish-vermilion
hue which so often graces a thriving farmer's features
when returning home after successful dealings in the
town. Beside him sat a woman, many years his junior
— almost, indeed, a girl. Her face too was fresh in
colour, but it was of a totally different quality — soft and
evanescent, like the light under a heap of rose-petals.

Few people travelled this way, for it was not a
main road; and the long white riband of gravel that
stretched before them was empty, save of one small
scarce-moving speck, which presently resolved itself
into the figure of a boy, who was creeping on at a

THE WITHERED ARM

snail's pace, and continually looking behind him — the
heavy bundle he carried being some excuse for, if not
the reason of, his dilatoriness. When the bouncing
gig-party slowed at the bottom of the incline above
mentioned, the pedestrian was only a few yards in
front. Supporting the large bundle by putting one
hand on his hip, he turned and looked straight at the
farmer's wife as though he would read her through and
through, pacing along abreast of the horse.

The low sun was full in her face, rendering every
feature, shade, and contour distinct, from the curve of
her little nostril to the colour of her eyes. The farmer,
though he seemed annoyed at the boy's persistent pre-
sence, did not order him to get out of the way ; and thus
the lad preceded them, his hard gaze never leaving her,
till they reached the top of the ascent, when the farmer
trotted on with relief in his lineaments — having taken
no outward notice of the boy whatever.

' How that poor lad stared at me ! ' said the young
wife.

' Yes, dear ; I saw that he did.'

* He is one of the village, I suppose ? '

' One of the neighbourhood. I think he lives with
his mother a mile or two off.'

' He knows who we are, no doubt ? '

1 0 yes. You must expect to be stared at just at
first, my pretty Gertrude.'

' I do, — though I think the poor boy may have
looked at us in the hope we might relieve him of his
heavy load, rather than from curiosity.'

'O no,' said her husband off-handedly. 'These
country lads will carry a hundredweight once they get
it on their backs ; besides his pack had more size than
weight in it. Now, then, another mile and I shall be
able to show you our house in the distance — if it is
not too dark before we get there.' The wheels spun
round, and particles flew from their periphery as before,

WESSEX TALES

till a white house of ample dimensions revealed itself,
with farm-buildings and ricks at the back.

Meanwhile the boy had quickened his pace, and
turning up a by-lane some mile and half short of the
white farmstead, ascended towards the leaner pastures,
and so on to the cottage of his mother.

She had reached home after her day's milking at the
outlying dairy, and was washing cabbage at the doorway
in the declining light. ' Hold up the net a moment/
she said, without preface, as the boy came up.

He flung down his bundle, held the edge of the
cabbage-net, and as she filled its meshes with the
dripping leaves she went on, ' Well, did you see her ? '

' Yes ; quite plain.'

'Is she ladylike?'

' Yes ; and more. A lady complete.'

1 Is she young ? '

'Well, she's growed up, and her ways be quite a
woman's.'

' Of course. What colour is her hair and face ? '

' Her hair is lightish, and her face as comely as a
live doll's.'

' Her eyes, then, are not dark like mine ? '

' No — of a bluish turn, and her mouth is very nice
and red ; and when she smiles, her teeth show white.'

' Is she tall ? ' said the woman sharply.

' I couldn't see. She was sitting down.'

'Then do you go to Holmstoke church to-morrow
morning : she's sure to be there. Go early and notice
her walking in, and come home and tell me if she's
taller than I.'

' Very well, mother. But why don't you go and see
for yourself?'

' / go to see her ! I wouldn't look up at her if she
were to pass my window this instant. She was with
Mr. Lodge, of course. What did he say or do ? '

' Just the same as usual.'
70

THE WITHERED ARM

c Took no notice of you ? '

« None.'

Next day the mother put a clean shirt on the boy,
and started him off for Holmstoke church. He reached
the ancient little pile when the door was just being
opened, and he was the first to enter. Taking his seat
by the font, he watched all the parishioners file in. The
well-to-do Farmer Lodge came nearly last; and his
young wife, who accompanied him, walked up the aisle
with the shyness natural to a modest woman who had
appeared thus for the first time. As all other eyes were
fixed upon her, the youth's stare was not noticed now.

When he reached 'home his mother said, ' Well ? '
before he had entered the room.

' She is not tall. She is rather short,' he replied.

' Ah ! ' said his mother, with satisfaction.

« But she's very pretty — very. In fact, she's lovely.'
The youthful freshness of the yeoman's wife had evi-
dently made an impression even on the somewhat hard
nature of the boy.

' That's all I want to hear,' said his mother quickly.
{ Now, spread the table-cloth. The hare you caught is
very tender ; but mind that nobody catches you. — You've
never told me what sort of hands she had.'

'I have never seen 'em. She never took off her
gloves.'

' What did she wear this morning ? '

' A white bonnet and a silver-coloured gownd. It
whewed and whistled so loud when it rubbed against
the pews that the lady coloured up more than ever for
very shame at the noise, and pulled it in to keep it from
touching ; but when she pushed into her seat, it whewed
more than ever. Mr. Lodge, he seemed pleased, and
his waistcoat stuck out, and his great golden seals hung
like a lord's ; but she seemed to wish her noisy gownd
anywhere but on her.'

1 Not she ! However, that will do now.'

WESSEX TALES

These descriptions of the newly-married couple were
continued from time to time by the boy at his mother's
request, after any chance encounter he had had with
them. But Rhoda Brook, though she might easily have
seen young Mrs. Lodge for herself by walking a couple
of miles, would never attempt an excursion towards the
quarter where the farmhouse lay. Neither did she, at
the daily milking in the dairyman's yard on Lodge's
outlying second farm, ever speak on the subject of the
recent marriage. The dairyman, who rented the cows
of Lodge, and knew perfectly the tall milkmaid's history,
with manly kindliness always kept the gossip in the
cow-barton from annoying Rhoda. But the atmosphere
thereabout was full of the subject during the first days
of Mrs. Lodge's arrival ; and from her boy's description
and the casual words of the other milkers, Rhoda Brook
could raise a mental image of the unconscious Mrs,
Lodge that was realistic as a photograph.

THE WITHERED ARM

A VISION

III

ONE night, two or three weeks after the bridal return,
when the boy was gone to bed, Rhoda sat a long time
over the turf ashes that she had raked out in front of
her to extinguish them. She contemplated so intently
the new wife, as presented to her in her mind's eye over
the embers, that she forgot the lapse of time. At last,
wearied with her day's work, she too retired.

But the figure which had occupied her so much
during this and the previous days was not to be banished
at night. For the first time Gertrude Lodge visited
the supplanted woman in her dreams, Rhoda Brook
dreamed — since her assertion that she really saw, before
falling asleep, was not to be believed — that the young
wife, in the pale silk dress and white bonnet, but with
features shockingly distorted, and wrinkled as by age,
was sitting upon her chest as she lay. The pressure of
Mrs, Lodge's person grew heavier ; the blue eyes peered
cruelly into her face ; and then the figure thrust forward
its left hand mockingly, so as to make the wedding-
ring it wore glitter in Rhoda's eyes. Maddened men-
tally, and nearly suffocated by pressure, the sleeper
struggled ; the incubus, still regarding her, withdrew to
73

WESSEX TALES

the foot of the bed, only, however, to come forward by
degrees, resume her seat, and flash her left hand as
before.

Gasping for breath, Rhoda, in a last desperate effort,
swung out her right hand, seized the confronting
' spectre by its obtrusive left arm, and whirled it back-
ward to the floor, starting up herself as she did so with
a low cry.

' O, merciful heaven ! ' she cried, sitting on the edge
of the bed in a cold sweat; * that was not a dream —
she was here ! '

She could feel her antagonist's arm within her grasp
even now — the very flesh and bone of it, as it seemed.
She looked on the floor whither she had whirled the
spectre, but there was nothing to be seen.

Rhoda Brook slept no more that night, and when
she went milking at the next dawn they noticed how
pale and haggard she looked. The milk that she drew
quivered into the pail ; her hand had not calmed even
yet, and still retained the feel of the arm. She came
home to breakfast as wearily as if it had been supper-
time.

' What was that noise in your chimmer, mother, last
night ? ' said her son. * You fell off the bed, surely ? '

'Did you hear anything fall? At what time? '

'Just when the clock struck two.'

She could not explain, and when the meal was done
went silently about her household work, the boy assist-
ing her, for he hated going afield on the farms, and she
indulged his reluctance. Between eleven and twelve
the garden-gate clicked, and she lifted her eyes to the
window. At the bottom of the garden, within the
gate, stood the woman of her vision, Rhoda seemed
transfixed.

' Ah, she said she would come ! ' exclaimed the boy,
also observing her.

1 Said so — when ? How does she know us ? '
74

THE WITHERED ARM

' I have seen and spoken to her. I talked to her
yesterday.'

* I told you,' said the mother, flushing indignantly,
1 never to speak to anybody in that house, or go near
the place.'

1 1 did not speak to her till she spoke to me. And
I did not go near the place. I met her in the road.'

' What did you tell her ? '

'Nothing. She said, "Are you the poor boy who
had to bring the heavy load from market ? " And she
looked at my boots, and said they would not keep my
feet dry if it came on wet, because they were so cracked.
I told her I lived with my mother, and we had enough
to do to keep ourselves, and that's how it was ; and she
said then, " I'll come and bring you some better boots,
and see your mother." She gives away things to other
folks in the meads besides us.'

Mrs. Lodge was by this time close to the door — not
in her silk, as Rhoda had seen her in the bed-chamber,
but in a morning hat, and gown of common light material,
which became her better than silk. On her arm she
carried a basket.

The impression remaining from the night's experience
was still strong. Brook had almost expected to see the
wrinkles, the scorn, and the cruelty on her visitor's face.
She would have escaped an interview, had escape been
possible. There was, however, no backdoor to the
cottage, and in an instant the boy had lifted the latch
to Mrs. Lodge's gentle knock.

' I see I have come to the right house,' said she,
glancing at the lad, and smiling. ' But I was not sure
till you opened the door.'

The figure and action were those of the phantom ;
but her voice was so indescribably sweet, her glance so
winning, her smile so tender, so unlike that of Rhoda's
midnight visitant, that the latter could hardly believe
the evidence of her senses. She was truly glad that
75

WESSEX TALES

she had not hidden away in sheer aversion, as she had
been inclined to do. In her basket Mrs. Lodge brought
the pair of boots that she had promised to the boy, and
other useful articles.

At these proofs of a kindly feeling towards her and
hers Rhoda's heart reproached her bitterly. This inno-
cent young thing should have her blessing and not her
curse. When she left them a light seemed gone from
the dwelling. Two days later she came again to know
if the boots fitted ; and less than a fortnight after that
paid Rhoda another call. On this occasion the boy
was absent.

' I walk a good deal,' said Mrs. Lodge, ' and your
house is the nearest outside our own parish. I hope
you are well. You don't look quite well.'

Rhoda said she was well enough; and, indeed,
though the paler of the two, there was more of the
strength that endures in her well-defined features and
large frame, than in the soft- cheeked young woman be-
fore her. The conversation became quite confidential
as regarded their powers and weaknesses; and when
Mrs. Lodge was leaving, Rhoda said, ' I hope you will
find this air agree with you, ma'am, and not suffer from
the damp of the water-meads.'

The younger one replied that there was not much
doubt of it, her general health being usually good.
' Though, now you remind me,' she added, * I have
one litttle ailment which puzzles me. It is nothing
serious, but I cannot make it out.'

She uncovered her left hand and arm; and their
outline confronted Rhoda's gaze as the exact original
of the limb she had beheld and seized in her dream.
Upon the pink round surface of the arm were faint
marks of an unhealthy colour, as if produced by a
rough grasp. Rhoda's eyes became riveted on the dis-
colorations ; she fancied that she discerned in them the
shape of her own four fingers.

THE WITHERED ARM

' How did it happen ? ' she said mechanically.

4 1 cannot tell,' replied Mrs. Lodge, shaking her head.
'One night when I was sound asleep, dreaming I was
away in some strange place, a pain suddenly shot into
my arm there, and was so keen as to awaken me. I
must have struck it in the daytime, I suppose, though
I don't remember doing so.' She added, laughing, « I
tell my dear husband that it looks just as if he had
flown into a rage and struck me there. O, I daresay
it will soon disappear.'

« Ha, ha ! Yes. ... On what night did it come ? '

Mrs. Lodge considered, and said it would be a
fortnight ago on the morrow. ' When I awoke I could
not remember where I was,' she added, ' till the clock
striking two reminded me.'

She had named the night and the hour of Rhoda's
spectral encounter, and Brook felt like a guilty thing.
The artless disclosure startled her; she did not reason
on the freaks of coincidence; and all the scenery of
that ghastly night returned with double vividness to
her mind.

' O, can it be,' she said to herself, when her visitor
had departed, ' that I exercise a malignant power over
people against my own will ? ' She knew that she had
been slily called a witch since her fall; but never
having understood why that particular stigma had been
attached to her, it had passed disregarded. Could this
be the explanation, and had such things as this ever
happened before?

WESSEX TALES

A SUGGESTION

1 HE summer drew on, and Rhoda Brook almost
dreaded to meet Mrs. Lodge again, notwithstanding
that her feeling for the young wife amounted well-
nigh to affection. Something in her own individuality
seemed to convict Rhoda of crime. Yet a fatality
sometimes would direct the steps of the latter to the
outskirts of Holmstoke whenever she left her house
for any other purpose than her daily work ; and hence
it happened that their next encounter was out of doors.
Rhoda could not avoid the subject which had so mysti-
fied her, and after the first few words she stammered,
*I hope your — arm is well again, ma'am ?' She had
perceived with consternation that Gertrude Lodge carried
her left arm stiffly.

' No ; it is not quite well. Indeed it is no better
at all ; it is rather worse. It pains me dreadfully
sometimes/

* Perhaps you had better go to a doctor, ma'am.'

She replied that she had already seen a doctor. Her

husband had insisted upon her going to one. But the

surgeon had not seemed to understand the afflicted

limb at all ; he had told her to bathe it in hot water,

THE WITHERED ARM

and she had bathed it, but the treatment had done no
good.

' Will you let me see it ? ' said the milkwoman.

Mrs. Lodge pushed up her sleeve and disclosed the
place, which was a few inches above the wrist. As
soon as Rhoda Brook saw it, she could hardly preserve
her composure. There was nothing of the nature of a
wound, but the arm at that point had a shrivelled look,
and the outline of the four fingers appeared more dis-
tinct than at the former time. Moreover, she fancied
that they were imprinted in precisely the relative posi-
tion of her clutch upon the arm in the trance ; the first
finger towards Gertrude's wrist, and the fourth towards
her elbow.

What the impress resembled seemed to have struck
Gertrude herself since their last meeting. * It looks
almost like finger-marks,' she said ; adding with a faint
laugh, ' my husband says it is as if some witch, or the
devil himself, had taken hold of me there, and blasted
the flesh.'

Rhoda shivered. ' That's fancy,' she said hurriedly.
4 1 wouldn't mind it, if I were you.'

'I shouldn't so much mind it,' said the younger,
with hesitation, ' if — if I hadn't a notion that it makes
my husband — dislike me — no, love me less. Men
think so much of personal appearance.'

' Some do — he for one.'

' Yes ; and he was very proud of mine, at first.'

* Keep your arm covered from his sight.'

( Ah — he knows the disfigurement is there ! ' She
tried to hide the tears that filled her eyes.

'Well, ma'am, I earnestly hope it will go away
soon.'

And so the milkwoman's mind was chained anew
to the subject by a horrid sort of spell as she returned
home. The sense of having been guilty of an act of
malignity increased, affect as she might to ridicule her

WESSEX TALES

superstition. In her secret heart Rhoda did not alto-
gether object to a slight diminution of her successor's
beauty, by whatever means it had come about; but
she did not wish to inflict upon her physical pain. For
though this' pretty young woman had rendered impossible
any reparation which Lodge might have made Rhoda
for his past conduct, everything like resentment at the
unconscious usurpation had quite passed away from the
elder's mind.

If the sweet and kindly Gertrude Lodge only knew
of the scene in the bed-chamber, what would she think ?
Not to inform her of it seemed treachery in the presence
of her friendliness ; but tell she could not of her own
accord — neither could she devise a remedy.

She mused upon the matter the greater part of the
night; and the next day, after the morning milking,
set out to obtain another glimpse of Gertrude Lodge if
she could, being held to her by a gruesome fascination.
By watching the house from a distance the milkmaid
was presently able to discern the farmer's wife in a ride
she was taking alone — probably to join her husband
in some distant field. Mrs. Lodge perceived her, and
cantered in her direction.

* Good morning, Rhoda ! ' Gertrude said, when she
had come up. c I was going to call.'

Rhoda noticed that Mrs. Lodge held the reins with
some difficulty.

' I hope — the bad arm,' said Rhoda.

'They tell me there is possibly one way by which
I might be able to find out the cause, and so perhaps
the cure, of it,' replied the other anxiously. ' It is by
going to some clever man over in Egdon Heath. They
did not know if he was still alive — and I cannot re-
member his name at this moment; but they said that
you knew more of his movements than anybody else
hereabout, and could tell me if he were still to be con-
sulted. Dear me — what was his, name ? But you know.'

THE WITHERED ARM

' Not Conjuror Trendle ? ' said her thin companion,
turning pale.

1 Trendle — yes. Is he alive ? '

c I believe so,' said Rhoda, with reluctance.

' Why do you call him conjuror ? '

'Well — they say — they used to say he was a — he
had powers other folks have not.'

1 O, how could my people be so superstitious as to
recommend a man of that sort ! I thought they meant
some medical man. I shall think no more of him.'

Rhoda looked relieved, and Mrs. Lodge rode on.
The milkwoman had inwardly seen, from the moment
she heard of her having been mentioned as a reference
for this man, that there must exist a sarcastic feeling
among the work-folk that a sorceress would know the
whereabouts of the exorcist. They suspected her, then.
A short time ago this would have given no concern to
a woman of her common-sense. But she had a haunt-
ing reason to be superstitious now; and she had been
seized with sudden dread that this Conjuror Trendle
might name her as the malignant influence which was
blasting the fair person of Gertrude, and so lead her
friend to hate her for ever, and to treat her as some
fiend in human shape.

But all was not over. Two days after, a shadow
intruded into the window-pattern thrown on Rhoda
Brook's floor by the afternoon sun. The woman opened
the door at once, almost breathlessly.

1 Are you alone ? ' said Gertrude. She seemed to be
no less harassed and anxious than Brook herself.

< Yes,' said Rhoda.

' The place on my arm seems worse, and troubles
me ! ' the young farmer's wife went on. ' It is so
mysterious ! I do hope it will not be an incurable
wound, I have again been thinking of what they
said about Conjuror Trendle. I don't really believe
in such men, but I should not mind just visiting him,

81 P

WESSEX TALES

from curiosity — though on no account must my husband
know. Is it far to where he lives ? '

< Yes — five miles,' said Rhoda backwardly. ' In the
heart of Egdon.'

' Well, I should have to walk. Could not you go
with me to show me the way — say to-morrow after-
noon ? '

' O, not I — that is,' the milkwoman murmured,
with a start of dismay. Again the dread seized her
that something to do with her fierce act in the dream
might be revealed, and her character in the eyes of
the most useful friend she had ever had be ruined
irretrievably.

Mrs. Lodge urged, and Rhoda finally assented, though
with much misgiving. Sad as the journey would be to
her, she could not conscientiously stand in the way of
a possible remedy for her patron's strange affliction.
It was agreed that, to escape suspicion of their mystic
intent, they should meet at the edge of the heath at the
corner of a plantation which was visible from the spot
where they now stood.

THE WITHERED ARM

CONJUROR TRENDLE

J3Y the next afternoon Rhoda would have done any-
thing to escape this inquiry. But she had premised to
go. Moreover, there was a horrid fascination at times
in becoming instrumental in throwing such possible light
on her own character as would reveal her to be some-
thing greater in the occult world than she had ever her-
self suspected.

She started just before the time of day mentioned
between them, and half-an-hour's brisk walking brought
her to the south-eastern extension of the Egdon tract of
country, where the fir plantation was. A slight figure,
cloaked and veiled, was already there. Rhoda recog-
nized, almost with a shudder, that Mrs. Lodge bore her
left arm in a sling.

They hardly spoke to each other, and immediately
set out on their climb into the interior of this solemn
country, which stood high above the rich alluvial soil
they had left half-an-hour before. It was a long walk ;
thick clouds made the atmosphere dark, though it was
as yet only early afternoon; and the wind howled
dismally over the hills of the heath — not improbably
the same heath which had witnessed the agony of the
83

WESSEX TALES

Wessex King Ina, presented to after-ages as Lear.
Gertrude Lodge talked most, Rhoda replying with
monosyllabic preoccupation. She had a strange dislike
to walking on the side of her companion where hung
the afflicted arm, moving round to the other when in-
advertently near it. Much heather had been brushed
by their feet when they descended upon a cart-track,
beside which stood the house of the man they sought.

He did not profess his remedial practices openly,
or care anything about their continuance, his direct
interests being those of a dealer in furze, turf, 'sharp
sand,' and other local products. Indeed, he affected
not to believe largely in his own powers, and when
warts that had been shown him for cure miraculously
disappeared — which it must be owned they infallibly
did — he would say lightly, ' O, I only drink a glass of
grog upon 'em — perhaps it's all chance,' and immedi-
ately turn the subject.

He was at home when they arrived, having in fact
seen them descending into his valley. He was a gray-
bearded man, with a reddish face, and he looked
singularly at Rhoda the first moment he beheld her.
Mrs. Lodge told him her errand ; and then with words
of self-disparagement he examined her arm.

'Medicine can't cure it,' he said promptly. "Tis
the work of an enemy.'

Rhoda shrank into herself, and drew back.

' An enemy ? What enemy ? ' asked Mrs. Lodge.

He shook his head. 'That's best known to your-
self,' he said. ' If you like, I can show the person to
you, though I shall not myself know who it is. I can
do no more ; and don't wish to do that.'

She pressed him; on which he told Rhoda to wait
outside where she stood, and took Mrs. Lodge into the
room. It opened immediately from the door ; and, as
the latter remained ajar, Rhoda Brook could see the
proceedings without taking part in them. He brought

THE WITHERED ARM

a tumbler from the dresser, nearly rilled it with water,
and fetching an egg, prepared it in some private way;
after which he broke it on the edge of the glass, so
that the white went in and the yolk remained. As it
was getting gloomy, he took the glass and its contents
to the window, and told Gertrude to watch them
closely. They leant over the table together, and the
milkwoman could see the opaline hue of the egg-fluid
changing form as it sank in the water, but she was not
near enough to define the shape that it assumed.

' Do you catch the likeness of any face or figure
as you look ? ' demanded the conjuror of the young
woman.

She murmured a reply, in tones so low as to be
inaudible to Rhoda, and continued to gaze intently
into the glass. Rhoda turned, and walked a few steps
away.

When Mrs. Lodge came out, and her face was met
by the light, it appeared exceedingly pale — as pale as
Rhoda's — against the sad dun shades of the upland's
garniture. Trendle shut the door behind her, and they
at once started homeward together. But Rhoda per-
ceived that her companion had quite changed.

' Did he charge much ? ' she asked tentatively.

<O no — nothing. He would not take a farthing,'
said Gertrude.

' And what did you see ? ' inquired Rhoda.

* Nothing I — care to speak of.' The constraint in
her manner was remarkable ; her face was so rigid as to
wear an oldened aspect, faintly suggestive of the face
in Rhoda's bed-chamber.

{ Was it you who first proposed coming here ? ' Mrs.
Lodge suddenly inquired, after a long pause. ' How
very odd, if you did ! '

' No. But I am not sorry we have come, all things
considered,' she replied. For the first time a sense
of triumph possessed her, and she did not altogether
8$

WESSEX TALES

deplore that the young thing at her side should learn
that their lives had been antagonized by other influences
than their own.

The subject was no more alluded to during the long
and dreary walk home. But in some way or other a
story was whispered about the many-dairied lowland
that winter that Mrs. Lodge's gradual loss of the use
of her left arm was owing to her being * overlooked :
by Rhoda Brook. The latter kept her own counsel
about the incubus, but her face grew sadder and thinner ;
and in the spring she and her boy disappeared from the
neighbourhood of Holmstoke.

THE WITHERED ARM

A SECOND ATTEMPT

JTlALF-a-dozen years passed away, and Mr. and Mrs.
Lodge's married experience sank into prosiness, and
worse. The farmer was usually gloomy and silent : the
woman whom he had wooed for her grace and beauty
was contorted and disfigured in the left limb ; moreover,
she had brought him no child, which rendered it likely
that he would be the last of a family who had occupied
that valley for some two hundred years. He thought
of Rhoda Brook and her son ; and feared this might be
a judgment from heaven upon him.

The once blithe-hearted and enlightened Gertrude
was changing into an irritable, superstitious woman,
whose whole time was given to experimenting upon
her ailment with every quack remedy she came across.
She was honestly attached to her husband, and was
ever secretly hoping against hope to win back his
heart again by regaining some at least of her personal
beauty. Hence it arose that her closet was lined with
bottles, packets, and ointment-pots of every description
— nay, bunches of mystic herbs, charms, and books of
necromancy, which in her schoolgirl time she would
have ridiculed as folly.

WESSEX TALES

' ' Damned if you won't poison yourself with these
apothecary messes and witch mixtures some time or
other,' said her husband, when his eye chanced to fall
upon the multitudinous array.

She did not reply, but 'turned her sad, soft glance
upon him in such heart-swollen reproach that he looked
sorry for his words, and added, ' I only meant it for
your good, you know, Gertrude.'

1 I'll clear out the whole lot, and destroy them,' said
she huskily, « and try such remedies no more ! '

'You want somebody to cheer you,' he observed.
' I once thought of adopting a boy ; but he is too old
now. And he is gone away I don't know where.'

She guessed to whom he alluded ; for Rhoda Brook's
story had in the course of years become known to
her; though not a word had ever passed between her
husband and herself on the subject. Neither had she
ever spoken to him of her visit to Conjuror Trendle,
and of what was revealed to her, or she thought was
revealed to her, by that solitary heath-man.

She was now five-and-twenty ; but she seemed older.
' Six years of marriage, and only a few months of love,'
she sometimes whispered to herself. And then she
thought of the apparent cause, and said, with a tragic
glance at her withering limb, ' If I could only again be
as I was when he first saw me ! '

She obediently destroyed her nostrums and charms ;
but there remained a hankering wish to try something
else — some other sort of cure altogether. She had
never revisited Trendle since she had been conducted
to the house of the solitary by Rhoda against her will ;
but it now suddenly occurred to Gertrude that she
would, in a last desperate effort at deliverance from
this seeming curse, again seek out the man, if he yet
lived. He was entitled to a certain credence, for the
indistinct form he had raised in the glass had un-
doubtedly resembled the only woman in the world who

THE WITHERED ARM

— as she now knew, though not then — could have a
reason for bearing her ill-will. The visit should be paid.

This time she went alone, though she nearly got
lost on the heath, and roamed a considerable distance
out of her way. Trendle's house was reached at last,
however: he was not indoors, and instead of waiting
at the cottage, she went to where his bent figure was
pointed out to her at work a long way off. Trendle
remembered her, and laying down the handful of
furze-roots which he was gathering and throwing into
a heap, he offered to accompany her in her homeward
direction, as the distance was considerable and the days
were short. So they walked together, his head bowed
nearly to the earth, and his form of a colour with it.

' You can send away warts and other excrescences,
I know,' she said ; ' why can't you send away this ? '
And the arm was uncovered.

' You think too much of my powers ! ' said Trendle ;
' and I am old and weak now, too. No, no ; it is too
much for me to atttempt in my own person. What
have ye tried?'

She named to him some of the hundred medica-
ments and counterspells which she had adopted from
time to time. He shook his head.

* Some were good enough,' he said approvingly ;
' but not many of them for such as this. This is of
the nature -of a blight, not of the nature of a wound;
and if you ever do throw it off, it will be all at once.'

< If I only could ! '

' There is only one chance of doing it known to me.
It has never failed in kindred afflictions, — that I can
declare. But it is hard to carry out, and especially for
a woman.'

< Tell me ! ' said she.

* You must touch with the limb the neck of a man
who's been hanged.'

She started a little at the image he had raised.
89

WESSEX TALES

'Before he's cold — just after he's cut down,' con-
tinued the conjuror impassively.

' How can that do good ? '

1 It will turn the blood and change the constitution.
But, as I say, to do it is hard. You must get into jail,
and wait for him when he's brought off the gallows. Lots
have done it, though perhaps not such pretty women
as you. I used to send dozens for skin complaints.
But that was in former times. The last I sent was
in '13 — near twenty years ago.1

He had no more to tell her ; and, when he had put
her into a straight track homeward, turned and left her,
refusing all money as at first.

THE WITHERED ARM

A RIDE

VII

1 HE communication sank deep into Gertrude's mind.
Her nature was rather a timid one ; and probably of all
remedies that the white wizard could have suggested
there was not one which would have filled her with so
much aversion as this, not to speak of the immense
obstacles in the way of its adoption.

Casterbridge, the county-town, was a dozen or fifteen
miles off; and though in those days, when men were
executed for horse-stealing, arson, and burglary, an
assize seldom passed without a hanging, it was not
likely that she could get access to the body of the
criminal unaided. And the fear of her husband's anger
made her reluctant to breathe a word of Trendle's
suggestion to him or to anybody about him.

She did nothing for months, and patiently bore her
disfigurement as before. But her woman's nature,
craving for renewed love, through the medium of
renewed beauty (she was but twenty-five), was ever
stimulating her to try what, at any rate, could hardly
do her any harm. 'What came by a spell will go by
a spell surely,' she would say. Whenever her imagi-
nation pictured the act she shrank in terror from the

WESSEX TALES

possibility of it : then the words of the conjuror, ' It
will turn your blood,' were seen to be capable of a scien-
tific no less than a ghastly interpretation ; the mastering
desire returned, and urged her on again.

There was at this time but one county paper, and
that her husband only occasionally borrowed. But
old-fashioned days had old-fashioned means, and news
was extensively conveyed by word of mouth from market
to market, or from fair to fair, so that, whenever such
an event as an execution was about to take place, few
within a radius of twenty miles were ignorant of the
coming sight ; and, so far as Holmstoke was concerned,
some enthusiasts had been known to walk all the way to
Casterbridge and back in one day, solely to witness the
spectacle. The next assizes were in March ; and when
Gertrude Lodge heard that they had been held, she in-
quired stealthily at the inn as to the result, as soon as
she could find opportunity.

She was, however, too late. The time at which the
sentences were to be carried out had arrived, and to
make the journey and obtain admission at such short
notice required at least her husband's assistance. She
dared not tell him, for she had found by delicate ex-
periment that these smouldering village beliefs made
him furious if mentioned, partly because he half enter-
tained them himself. It was therefore necessary to
wait for another opportunity.

Her determination received a fillip from learning that
two epileptic children had attended from this very
village of Holmstoke many years before with beneficial
results, though the experiment had been strongly con-
demned by the neighbouring clergy. April, May, June,
passed ; and it is no overstatement to say that by the
end of the last-named month Gertrude well-nigh longed
for the death of a fellow-creature. Instead of her formal
prayers each night, her unconscious prayer was, ' O Lord,
hang some guilty or innocent person soon ! '

THE WITHERED ARM

This time she made earlier inquiries, and was alto-
gether more systematic in her proceedings. Moreover,
the season was summer, between the haymaking and
the harvest, and in the leisure thus afforded him her hus-
band had been holiday-taking away from home.

The assizes were in July, and she went to the inn as
before. There was to be one execution — only one — for
arson.

Her greatest problem was not how to get to Caster-
bridge, but what means she should adopt for obtaining
admission to the jail. Though access for such purposes
had formerly never been denied, the custom had fallen
into desuetude ; and in contemplating her possible diffi-
culties, she was again almost driven to fall back upon
her husband. But, on sounding him about the assizes,
he was so uncommunicative, so more than usually cold,
that she did not proceed, and decided that whatever she
did she would do alone.

Fortune, obdurate hitherto, showed her unexpected
favour. On the Thursday before the Saturday fixed for
the execution, Lodge remarked to her that he was going
away from home for another day or two on business
at a fair, and that he was sorry he could not take her
with him.

She exhibited on this occasion so much readiness to
stay at home that he looked at her in surprise. Time
had been when she would have shown deep disappoint-
ment at the loss of such a jaunt. However, he lapsed
into his usual taciturnity, and on the day named left
Holmstoke.

It was now her turn. She at first had thought of
driving, but on reflection held that driving would not
do, since it would necessitate her keeping to the turn-
pike-road, and so increase by tenfold the risk of her
ghastly errand being found out. She decided to ride,
and avoid the beaten track, notwithstanding that in
her husband's stables there was no animal just at

WESSEX TALES

present which by any stretch of imagination could be
considered a lady's mount, in spite of his promise be-
fore marriage to always keep a mare for her. He had,
however, many cart-horses, fine ones of their kind ;
and among the rest was a serviceable creature, an
equine Amazon, with a back as broad as a sofa, on
which Gertrude had occasionally taken an airing when
unwell. This horse she chose.

On Friday afternoon one of the men brought it
round. She was dressed, and before going down looked
at her shrivelled arm. ' Ah ! ' she said to it, « if it had
not been for you this terrible ordeal would have been
saved me ! '

When strapping up the bundle in which she carried
a few articles of clothing, she took occasion to say to the
servant, ' I take these in case I should not get back to-
night from the person I am going to visit. Don't be
alarmed if I am not in by ten, and close up the house
as usual. I shall be at home to-morrow for certain.'
She meant then to privately tell her husband : the deed
accomplished was not like the deed projected. He
would almost certainly forgive her.

And then the pretty palpitating Gertrude Lodge
went from her husband's homestead ; but though her
goal was Casterbridge she did not take the direct route
thither through Stickleford. Her cunning course at
first was in precisely the opposite direction. As soon
as she was out of sight, however, she turned to the left,
by a road which led into Egdon, and on entering the
heath wheeled round, and set out in the true course,
due westerly. A more private way down the county
could not be imagined; and as to direction, she had
merely to keep her horse's head to a point a little to
the right of the sun. She knew that she would light
upon a furze-cutter or cottager of some sort from time
to time, from whom she might correct her bearing.

Though the date was comparatively recent, Egdon
94

THE WITHERED ARM

was much less fragmentary in character than now.
The attempts — successful and otherwise — at cultivation
on the lower slopes, which intrude and break up the
original heath into small detached heaths, had not been
carried far; Enclosure Acts had not taken effect, and
the banks and fences which now exclude the cattle
of those villagers who formerly enjoyed rights of
commonage thereon, and the carts of those who had
turbary privileges which kept them in firing all the year
round, were not erected. Gertrude, therefore, rode
along with no other obstacles than the prickly furze-
bushes, the mats of heather, the white water-courses,
and the natural steeps and declivities of the ground.

Her horse was sure, if heavy-footed and slow, and
though a draught animal, was easy-paced ; had it been
otherwise, she was not a woman who could have
ventured to ride over such a bit of country with a
half-dead arm. It was therefore nearly eight o'clock
when she drew rein to breathe the mare on the last
outlying high point of heath-land towards Casterbridge,
previous to leaving Egdon for the cultivated valleys.

She halted before a pool called Rushy-pond, flanked
by the ends of two hedges ; a railing ran through the
centre of the pond, dividing it in half. Over the railing
she saw the low green country ; over the green trees the
roofs of the town ; over the roofs a white flat fagade, de-
noting the entrance to the county jail. On the roof of
this front specks were moving about ; they seemed to be
workmen erecting something. Her flesh crept. She
descended slowly, and was* soon amid corn-fields and
pastures. In another half-hour, when it was almost
dusk, Gertrude reached the White Hart, the first inn
of the town on that side.

Little surprise was excited by her arrival; farmers'

wives rode on horseback then more than they do now ;

though, for that matter, Mrs. Lodge was not imagined

to be a wife at all; the innkeeper supposed her some

WESSEX TALES

harum-skarum young woman who had come to attend
1 hang-fair ' next day. Neither her husband nor herself
ever dealt in Casterbridge market, so that she was
unknown. While dismounting she beheld a crowd of
boys standing at the door of a harness-maker's shop
just above the inn, looking inside it with deep interest.

' What is going on there ? ' she asked of the ostler.

1 Making the rope for to-morrow.'

She throbbed responsively, and contracted her arm.

' 'Tis sold by the -inch afterwards,' the man con-
tinued. * I could get you a bit, miss, for nothing, if
you'd like?'

She hastily repudiated any such wish, all the more
from a curious creeping feeling that the condemned
wretch's destiny was becoming interwoven with her
own; and having engaged a room for the night, sat
down to think.

Up to this time she had formed but the vaguest
notions about her means of obtaining access to the
prison. The words of the cunning-man returned to
her mind. He had implied that she should use her
beauty, impaired though it was, as a pass-key. In her
inexperience she knew little about jail functionaries;
she had heard of a high-sheriff and an under-sheriff,
but dimly only. She knew, however, that there must
be a hangman, and to the hangman she determined to
apply.

THE WITHERED ARM

A WATER-SIDE HERMIT

VIII

this date, and for several years after, there was a
hangman to almost every jail. Gertrude found, on
inquiry, that the Casterbridge official dwelt in a lonely
cottage by a deep slow river flowing under the cliff on
which the prison buildings were situate — the stream
being the self-same one, though she did not know it,
which watered the Stickleford and Holmstoke meads
lower down in its course.

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 water-side 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.

97 G

WESSEX TALES

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 candle-light, such as it was, fell upon her im-
ploring, pale, upturned face, and Davies (as the hang-
man was called) backed down the ladder. * 1 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 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. My real calling is officer of justice,' 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) c 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.'

1 0 — a reprieve — I hope not ! ' she said involun-
tarily.

THE WITHERED ARM

* Well, — hee, hee ! — 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. Howsom-
ever, 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.'

' O 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, examin-
ing 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.'

* O, thank you ! I would rather do it this way, as
I should like it kept private.'

1 Lover not to know, eh ? '
' No — husband.'

1 Aha ! Very well. I'll get ee' a touch of the corpse.'
' Where is it now ? ' she said, shuddering.
99

WESSEX TALES

'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 to 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 pre-
cincts. The steep was so great that, having reached the
wicket, she stopped a moment to breathe ; and, looking
back upon the water-side 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.

THE WITHERED ARM

A RENCOUNTER

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 ashlar, then compa-
ratively 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

101

WESSEX TALES

the gatehouse, 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 at 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, wear-
ing the smockfrock of a rustic, and fustian breeches.
The corpse had been thrown into the coffin so hastily
that the skirt of the smockfrock 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 dis-
cern anything: it was as though she had nearly died,
but was held up by a sort of galvanism.

' Now ! ' said a voice close at hand, and she was just
conscious that the word had been addressed to her.

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

Gertrude shrieked : * the turn o' the blood,' predicted
by the conjuror, had taken place. But at that moment
a second shriek rent the air of the enclosure : 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 Gertrude's own husband ; his countenance
lined, his eyes dim, but without a tear.

102

THE WITHERED ARM

' 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 hus-
band. 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 waggon
and 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 at Anglebury, which
he had so much frequented, and very seldom in public
103

WESSEX TALES

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 towards 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 even-
tually 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 — per-
haps by long pressure against the cows. Here, some-
times, those who knew her experiences would stand and
observe her, and wonder what sombre thoughts were
beating inside that impassive, wrinkled brow, to the
rhythm of the alternating milk-streams.

(' Blackwood's Magazine' January 1888 )

FRLLG W- TO WNSMRN

FELLOW-TOWNSMEN

FELL 0 W^ TO WNSMEN

1 HE shepherd on the east hill could shout out lamb-
ing intelligence to the shepherd on the west hill, over
the intervening town chimneys, without great incon-
venience to his voice, so nearly did the steep pastures
encroach upon the burghers' backyards. And at night
it was possible to stand in the very midst of the town
and hear from their native paddocks on the lower levels
of greensward the mild lowing of the farmer's heifers,
and the profound, warm blowings of breath in which
those creatures indulge. But the community which had
jammed itself in the valley thus flanked formed a veri-
table town, with a real mayor and corporation, and a
staple manufacture.

During a certain damp evening five-and-thirty years
ago, before the twilight was far advanced, a pedestrian
of professional appearance, carrying a small bag in his
hand and an elevated umbrella, was descending one of
these hills by the turnpike road when he was overtaken
by a phaeton.

' Hullo, Downe — is that you ? ' said the driver of
the vehicle, a young man of pale and refined appearance.
' Jump up here with me, and ride down to your door.'
107

WESSEX TALES

The other turned a plump, cheery, rather self-indul-
gent face over his shoulder towards the hailer.

* O, good evening, Mr. Barnet — thanks,' he said, and
mounted beside his acquaintance.

They were fellow-burgesses of the town which lay
beneath them, but though old and very good friends,
they were differently circumstanced. Barnet was a
richer man than the struggling young lawyer Downe,
a fact which was to some extent perceptible in Downe's
manner towards his companion, though nothing of it
ever showed in Barnet's manner towards the solicitor.
Barnet's position in the town was none of his own
making; his father had been a very successful flax-
merchant in the same place, where the trade was still
carried on as briskly as the small capacities of its
quarters would allow. Having acquired a fair fortune,
old Mr. Barnet had retired from business, bringing up
his son as a gentleman-burgher, and, it must be added,
as a well-educated, liberal-minded young man.

* How is Mrs. Barnet ? ' asked Downe.

' Mrs. Barnet was very well when I left home,' the
other answered constrainedly, exchanging his meditative
regard of the horse for one of self-consciousness.

Mr. Downe seemed to regret his inquiry, and imme-
diately took up another thread of conversation. He
congratulated his friend on his election as a council-
man; he thought he had not seen him since that
event took place; Mrs. Downe had meant to call and
congratulate Mrs. Barnet, but he feared that she had
failed to do so as yet.

Barnet seemed hampered in his replies. * We should
have been glad to see you. I — my wife would wel-
come Mrs. Downe at any time, as you know. . . .
Yes, I am a member of the corporation — rather an
inexperienced member, some of them say. It is quite
true ; and I should have declined the honour as
premature — having other things on my hands just now,
108

FELLOW-TOWNSMEN

too — if it had not been pressed upon me so very
heartily.'

' There is one thing you have on your hands which
I can never quite see the necessity for,' said Downe,
with good-humoured freedom. * What the deuce do
you want to build that new mansion for, when you
have already got such an excellent house as the one
you live in ? '

Barnet's face acquired a warmer shade of colour;
but as the question had been idly asked by the solicitor
while regarding the surrounding flocks and fields, he
answered after a moment with no apparent embarrass-
ment—

« Well, we wanted to get out of the town, you know ;
the house I am living in is rather old and inconvenient.'

Mr. Downe declared that he had chosen a pretty
site for the new building. They would be able to see
for miles and miles from the windows. Was he going
to give it a name ? He supposed so.

Barnet thought not. There was no other house
near that was likely to be mistaken for it. And he
did not care for a name.

' But I think it has a name ! ' Downe observed : ' I
went past — when was it? — this morning; and I saw
something, — " Chateau Ringdale," I think it was, stuck
up on a board ! '

' It was an idea she — we had for a short time,' said
Barnet hastily. 'But we have decided finally to do
without a name — at any rate such a name as that. It
must have been a week ago that you saw it. It was
taken down last Saturday. . . . Upon that matter I
am firm ! ' he added grimly.

Downe murmured in an unconvinced tone that he
thought he had seen it yesterday.

Talking thus they drove into the town. The street
was unusually still for the hour of seven in the evening ;
an increasing drizzle had prevailed since the afternoon,
109

WESSEX TALES

and now formed a gauze across the yellow lamps, and
trickled with a gentle rattle down the heavy roofs of
stone tile, that bent the house-ridges hollow-backed
with its weight, and in some instances caused the walls
to bulge outwards in the upper story. Their route took
them past the little town-hall, the Black-Bull Hotel, and
onward to the junction of a small street on the right,
consisting of a row of those two-and-two windowed brick
residences of no particular age, which are exactly alike
wherever found, except in the people they contain.

< Wait — I'll drive you up to your door,' said Barnet,
when Downe prepared to alight at the corner. He
thereupon turned into the narrow street, when the
faces of three little girls could be discerned close to
the panes of a lighted window a few yards ahead, sur-
mounted by that of a young matron, the gaze of all
four being directed eagerly up the empty street. c You
are a fortunate fellow, Downe,' Barnet continued, as
mother and children disappeared from the window to
run to the door. * You must be happy if any man is.
I would give a hundred such houses as my new one to
have a home like yours.'

< Well — yes, we get along pretty comfortably,' replied
Downe complacently.

'That house, Downe, is none of my ordering,'
Barnet broke out, revealing a bitterness hitherto sup-
pressed, and checking the horse a moment to finish his
speech before delivering up his passenger. ' The house
I have already is good enough for me, as you supposed.
It is my own freehold ; it was built by my grandfather,
and is stout enough for a castle. My father was born
there, lived there, and died there. I was born there,
and have always lived there ; yet I must needs build a
new one.'

1 Why do you ? ' said Downe.

' Why do I ? To preserve peace in the household.
I do anything for that; but I don't succeed. I was
no

FELLOW-TOWNSMEN

firm in resisting " Chateau Ringdale," however ; not
that I would not have put up with the absurdity of
the name, but it was too much to have your house
christened after Lord Ringdale, because your wife once
had a fancy for him. If you only knew everything,
you would think all attempt at reconciliation hopeless.
In your happy home you have had no such experiences ;
and God forbid that you ever should. See, here they
are all ready to receive you ! '

' Of course ! And so will your wife be waiting to
receive you,' said Downe. ' Take my word for it she
will! And with a dinner prepared for you far better
than mine/

' I hope so,' Barnet replied dubiously.

He moved on to Downe's door, which the solicitor's
family had already opened. Downe descended, but-
being encumbered with his bag and umbrella, his foot
slipped, and he fell upon his knees in the gutter.

* O, my dear Charles ! ' said his wife, running down
the steps ; and, quite ignoring the presence of Barnet,
she seized hold of her husband, pulled him to his feet,
and kissed him, exclaiming, c I hope you are not hurt .
darling ! ' The children crowded round, chiming in
piteously, ' Poor papa ! '

1 He's all right,' said Barnet, perceiving that Downe
was only a little muddy, and looking more at the wife
than at the husband. Almost at any other time —
certainly during his fastidious bachelor years — he would
have thought her a too demonstrative woman; but
those recent circumstances of his own life to which
he had just alluded made Mrs. Downe's solicitude so
affecting that his eye grew damp as he witnessed it.
Bidding the lawyer and his family good-night he left
them, and drove slowly into the main street towards
his own house.

The heart of Barnet was sufficiently impressionable
to be influenced by Downe's parting prophecy that he

All

WESSEX TALES

might not be so unwelcome home as he imagined : the
dreary night might, at least on this one occasion, make
Downe's forecast true. Hence it was in a suspense
that he could hardly have believed possible that he
halted at his door. On entering his wife was nowhere
to be seen, and he inquired for her. The servant in-
formed him that her mistress had the dressmaker with
her, and would be engaged for some time.

' Dressmaker at this time of day ! '

- She dined early, sir, and hopes you will excuse her
joining you this evening.'

' But she knew I was coming to-night ? '

' O yes, sir.'

' Go up and tell her I am come.'

The servant did so; but the mistress of the house
•merely transmitted her former words.

Barnet said nothing more, and presently sat down
to his lonely meal, which was eaten abstractedly, the
domestic scene he had lately witnessed still impressing
him by its contrast with the situation here. His mind
fell back into past years upon a certain pleasing and
gentle being whose face would loom out of their shades
at such times as these. Barnet turned in his chair,
and looked with unfocused eyes in a direction south-
ward from where he sat, as if he saw not the room but
a long way beyond. ' I wonder if she lives there still ! '
he said.

FELLOW-TOWNSMEN

11 E rose with a sudden rebelliousness, put on his
hat and coat, and went out of the house, pursuing
his way along the glistening pavement while eight
o'clock was striking from St. Mary's tower, and the
apprentices and shopmen were slamming up the shutters
from end to end of the town. In two minutes only
those shops which could boast of no attendant save the
master or the mistress remained with open eyes. These
were ever somewhat less prompt to exclude customers
than the others : for their owners' ears the closing
hour had scarcely the cheerfulness that it possessed
for the hired servants of the rest. Yet the night being
dreary the delay was not for long, and their windows,
too, blinked together one by one.

During this time Barnet had proceeded with decided
step in a direction at right angles to the broad main
thoroughfare of the town, by a long street leading due
southward. Here, though his family had no more to
do with the flax manufacture, his own name occasion-
ally greeted him on gates and warehouses, being used
allusively by small rising tradesmen as a recommerda-
tion, in such words as * Smith, from Barnet & Co.' —
' Robinson, late manager at Barnet's.' The sight led
him to reflect upon his father's busy life, and he ques-
tioned if it had not been far happier than his own.
113 l-l

WESSEX TALES

The houses along the road became fewer, and pre-
sently open ground appeared between them on either
side, the track on the right hand rising to a higher level
till it merged in a knoll. On the summit a row of
builders' scaffold-poles probed the indistinct sky like
spears, and at their bases could be discerned the lower
courses of a building lately begun. Barnet slackened
his pace and stood for a few moments without leaving
the centre of the road, apparently not much interested
in the sight, till suddenly his eye was caught by a
post in the fore part of the ground bearing a white
board at the top. He went to the rails, vaulted over,
and walked in far enough to discern painted upon the
board ' Chateau Ringdale.'

A dismal irony seemed to lie in the words, and its
effect was to irritate him. Downe, then, had spoken
truly. He stuck his umbrella into the sod, and seized
the post with both hands, as if intending to loosen
and throw it down. Then, like one bewildered by an
opposition which would exist none the less though its
manifestations were removed, he allowed his arms to
sink to his side.

1 Let it be,' he said to himself. ' I have declared
there shall be peace — if possible.'

Taking up his umbrella he quietly left the enclosure,
and went on his way, still keeping his back to the town.
He had advanced with more decision since passing the
new building, and soon a hoarse murmur rose upon the
gloom ; it was the sound of the sea. The road led to
the harbour, at a distance of a mile from the town,
from which the trade of the district was fed. After
seeing the obnoxious name-board Barnet had forgotten
to open his umbrella, and the rain tapped smartly on his
hat, and occasionally stroked his face as he went on.

Though the lamps were still continued at the road-
side, they stood at wider intervals than before, and the
pavement had given place to common road. Every
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FELLOW-TOWNSMEN

time he came to a lamp an increasing shine made itself
visible upon his shoulders, till at last they quite glistened
with wet. The murmur from the shore grew stronger,
but it was still some distance off when he paused before
one of the smallest of the detached houses by the way-
side, standing in its own garden, the latter being divided
from the road by a row of wooden palings. Scrutinizing
the spot to ensure that he was not mistaken, he opened
the gate and gently knocked at the cottage door.

When he had patiently waited minutes enough to
lead any man in ordinary cases to knock again, the door
was heard to open, though it was impossible to see by
whose hand, there being no light in the passage. Barnet
said at random, ' Does Miss Savile live here ? '

A youthful voice assured him that she did live there,
and by a sudden afterthought asked him to come in.
It would soon get a light, it said : but the night being
wet, mother had not thought it worth while to trim the
passage lamp.

' Don't trouble yourself to get a light for me,' said
Barnet hastily; 'it is not necessary at all. Which is
Miss Savile's sitting-room ? '

The young person, whose white pinafore could just
be discerned, signified a door in the side of the passage,
and Barnet went forward at the same moment, so that
no light should fall upon his face. On entering the
room he closed the door behind him, pausing till he
heard the retreating footsteps of the child.

He found himself in an apartment which was simply
and neatly, though not poorly furnished; everything,
from the miniature chiffonnier to the shining little
daguerreotype which formed the central ornament of
the mantelpiece, being in scrupulous order. The picture
was enclosed by a frame of embroidered card-board —
evidently the work of feminine hands — and it was the
portrait of a thin faced, elderly lieutenant in the navy.
From behind the lamp on the table a female form now

WESSEX TALES

rose into view, that of a young girl, and a resemblance
between her and the portrait was early discoverable.
She had been so absorbed in some occupation on the
other side of the lamp as to have barely found time to
realize her visitor's presence.

They both remained standing for a few seconds
without speaking. The face that confronted Barnet
had a beautiful outline ; the Raffaelesque oval of its
contour was remarkable for an English countenance,
and that countenance housed in a remote country-road
to an unheard-of harbour. But her features did not
do justice to this splendid beginning: Nature had
recollected that she was not in Italy; and the young
lady's lineaments, though not so inconsistent as to
make her plain, would have been accepted rather as
pleasing than as correct. The preoccupied expression
which, like images on the retina, remained with her
for a moment after the state that caused it had ceased,
now changed into a reserved, half-proud, and slightly
indignant look, in which the blood diffused itself quickly
across her cheek, and additional brightness broke the
shade of her rather heavy eyes.

' I know I have no business here,' he said, answer-
ing the look. ' But I had a great wish to see you,
and inquire how you were. You can give your hand
to me, seeing how often I have held it in past
days ? '

'I would rather forget than remember all that, Mr.
Barnet,' she answered, as she coldly complied with the
request. « When I think of the circumstances of our
last meeting, I can hardly consider it kind of you to
allude to such a thing as our past — or, indeed, to come
here at all.'

' There was no harm in it surely ? I don't trouble
you often, Lucy.'

4 1 have not had the honour of a visit from you for
a very long time, certainly, and I did not expect it
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FELLOW-TOWNSMEN

now,' she said, with the same stiffness in her air. ' I
hope Mrs. Barnet is very well ? '

I Yes, yes ! ' he impatiently returned. ' At least I
suppose so — though I only speak from inference ! '

'But she is your wife, sir,' said the young girl
tremulously.

The unwonted tones of a man's voice in that femi-
nine chamber had startled a canary that was roosting in
its cage by the window; the bird awoke hastily, and
fluttered against the bars. She went and stilled it
by laying her face against the cage and murmuring a
coaxing sound. It might partly have been done to
still herself.

I 1 didn't come to talk of Mrs. Barnet,' he pursued ;
' I came to talk of you, of yourself alone ; to inquire
how you are getting on since your great loss.' And
he turned towards the portrait of her father.

1 1 am getting on fairly well, thank you.'

The force of her utterance was scarcely borne out
by her look; but Barnet courteously reproached him-
self for not having guessed a thing so natural; and to
dissipate all embarrassment, added, as he bent over the
table, 'What were you doing when I came? — painting
flowers, and by candlelight ? '

' O no,' she said, ' not painting them — only sketching
the outlines. I do that at night to save time — I have
to get three dozen done by the end of the month.'

Barnet looked as if he regretted it deeply. ' You
will wear your poor eyes out,' he said, with more senti-
ment than he had hitherto shown. ' You ought not to
do it. There was a time when I should have said you
must not. Well — I almost wish I had never seen light
with my own eyes when I think of that ! '

' Is this a time or place for recalling such matters ? '
she asked, with dignity. 'You used to have a gentle-
manly respect for me, and for yourself. Don't speak
any more as you have spoken, and don't come again,
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WESSEX TALES

I cannot think that this visit is serious, or was closely
considered by you.'

* Considered : well, I came to see you as an old and
good friend — not to mince matters, to visit a woman I
loved. Don't be angry ! I could not help doing it,
so many things brought you into my mind. . . . This
evening I fell in with an acquaintance, and when I saw
how happy he was with his wife and family welcoming
him home, though with only one-tenth of my income
and chances, and thought what might have been in my
case, it fairly broke down my discretion, and off I came
here. Now I am here I feel that I am wrong to some
extent. But the feeling that I should like to see you,
and talk of those we used to know in common, was
very strong^.'

* Before that can be the case a little more time must
pass/ said Miss Savile quietly; 'a time long enough
for me to regard with some calmness what at present I
remember far too impatiently — though it may be you
almost forget it. Indeed you must have forgotten it
long before you acted as you did.' Her voice grew
stronger and more vivacious as she added : ' But I am
doing my best to forget it too, and I know I shall
succeed from the progress I have made already ! '

She had remained standing till now, when she turned
and sat down, facing half away from him.

Barnet watched her moodily. * Yes, it is only what
I deserve,' he said. 'Ambition pricked me on — no,
it was not ambition, it was wrongheadedness ! Had I
but reflected. . . .' He broke out vehemently: 'But
always remember this, Lucy : if you had written to me
only one little line after that misunderstanding, I declare
I should have come back to you. That ruined me ! '
he slowly walked as far as the little room would allow
him to go, and remained with his eyes on the skirting.

1 But, Mr. Barnet, how could I write to you ? There
was no opening for my doing so.'
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FELLOW-TOWNSMEN

1 Then there ought to have been,' said Barnet, turn-
ing. ' That was my fault ! '

'Well, I don't know anything about that; but as
there had been nothing said by me which required any
explanation by letter, I did not send one. Everything
was so indefinite, and feeling your position to be so
much wealthier than mine, I fancied I might have
mistaken your meaning. And when I heard of the
other lady — a woman of whose family even you might
be proud— I thought how foolish I had been, and said
nothing.'

'Then I suppose it was destiny — accident — I don't
know what, that separated us, dear Lucy. Anyhow you
were the woman I ought to have made my wife— and I
let you slip, like the foolish man that I was ! '

£O, Mr. Barnet,' she said, almost in tears, 'don't
revive the subject to me ; I am the wrong one to con-
sole you — think, sir, — you should not be here — it would
be so bad for me if it were known ! '

' It would — it would, indeed,' he said hastily. ' I
am not right in doing this, and I won't do it again.'

' It is a very common folly of human nature, you
know, to think the course you did not adopt must have
been the best,' she continued, with gentle solicitude, as
she followed him to the door of the room. « And you
don't know that I should have accepted you, even if
you had asked me to be your wife.' At this his eye
met hers, and she dropped her gaze. She knew that
her voice belied her. There was a silence till she
looked up to add, in a voice of soothing playfulness,
' My family was so much poorer than yours, even before
I lost my dear father, that — perhaps your companions
would have made it unpleasant for us on account of my
deficiencies.'

' Your disposition would soon have won them round,'
said Barnet.

She archly expostulated : ' Now, never mind my dis-
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WESSEX TALES

position ; try to make it up with your wife ! Those
are my commands to you. And now you are to leave
me at once.'

* I will. I must make the best of it all, I suppose,'
he replied, more cheerfully than he had as yet spoken.
' But I shall never again meet with such a dear girl as
you ! ' And he suddenly opened the door, and left her
alone. When his glance again fell on the lamps that
were sparsely ranged along the dreary level road, his
eyes were in a state which showed straw-like motes of
light radiating from each flame into the surrounding air.

On the other side of the way Barnet observed a
man under an umbrella, walking parallel with himself.
Presently this man left the footway, and gradually con-
verged on Barnet's course. The latter then saw that
it was Charlson, a surgeon of the town, who owed him
money. Charlson was a man not without ability; yet
he did not prosper. Sundry circumstances stood in his
way as a medical practitioner : he was needy ; he was
not a coddle; he gossiped with men instead of with
women ; he had married a stranger instead of one of
the town young ladies ; and he was given to conver-
sational buffoonery. Moreover, his look was quite
erroneous. Those only proper features in the family
doctor, the quiet eye, and the thin straight passionless
lips which never curl in public either for laughter or
for scorn, were not his; he had a full-curved mouth,
and a bold black eye that made timid people nervous.
His companions were what in old times would have
been called boon companions — an expression which,
though of irreproachable root, suggests fraternization
carried to the point of unscrupulousness. All this was
against him in the little town of his adoption.

Charlson had been in difficulties, and to oblige him

Barnet had put his name to a bill; and, as he had

expected, was called upon to meet it when it fell due.

It had been only a matter of fifty pounds, which Barnet

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FELLOW-TOWNSMEN

Could well afford to lose, and he bore no ill-will to the
thriftless surgeon on account of it. But Charlson had
a little too much brazen indifferentism in his composi-
tion to be altogether a desirable acquaintance.

* I hope to be able to make that little bill-business
right with you in the course of three weeks, Mr. Barnet,'
said Charlson with hail-fellow friendliness.

Barnet replied good-naturedly that there was no hurry.

This particular three weeks had moved on in advance
of Charlson's present with the precision of a shadow for
some considerable time.

'I've had a dream,' Charlson continued. Barnet
knew from his tone that the surgeon was going to begin
his characteristic nonsense, and did not encourage him.
' I've had a dream,' repeated Charlson, who required
no encouragement. ' I dreamed that a gentleman, who
has been very kind to me, married a haughty lady in
haste, before he had quite forgotten a nice little girl he
knew before, and that one wet evening, like the present,
as I was walking up the harbour-road, I saw him come
out of that dear little girl's present abode.'

Barnet glanced towards the speaker. The rays from
a neighbouring lamp struck through the drizzle under
Charlson's umbrella, so as just to illumine his face
against the shade behind, and show that his eye was
turned up under the outer corner of its lid, whence it
leered with impish jocoseness as he thrust his tongue
into his cheek.

* Come,' said Barnet gravely, c we'll have no more
of that.'

' No, no — of course not,' Charlson hastily answered,
seeing that his humour had carried him too far, as it
had done many times before. He was profuse in his
apologies, but Barnet did not reply. Of one thing
he was certain — that scandal was a plant of quick root,
and that he was bound to obey Lucy's injunction for
Lucy's own sake.

121

WESSEX TALES

III

riE did so, to the letter; and though, as the crocus
followed the snowdrop and the daffodil the crocus in
Lucy's garden, the harbour-road was a not unpleasant
place to walk in, Barnet's feet never trod its stones,
much less approached her door. He avoided a saunter
that way as he would have avoided a dangerous dram,
and took his airings a long distance northward, among
severely square and brown ploughed fields, where no
other townsman came. Sometimes he went round by
the lower lanes of the borough, where the rope-walks
stretched in which his family formerly had share, and
looked at the rope-makers walking backwards, overhung
by apple-trees and bushes, and intruded on by cows
and calves, as if trade had established itself there at
considerable inconvenience to Nature.

One morning, when the sun was so warm as to
raise a steam from the south-eastern slopes of those
flanking hills that looked so lovely above the old roofs,
but made every low-chimneyed house in the town as
smoky as Tophet, Barnet glanced from the windows of
the town-council room for lack of interest in what was
proceeding within. Several members of the corporation
were present, but there was not much business doing,
and in a few minutes Downe came leisurely across to
him, saying that he seldom saw Barnet now.
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FELLOW-TOWNSMEN

Barnet owned that he was not often present.

Dovvne looked at the crimson curtain which hung
down beside the panes, reflecting its hot hues into their
faces, and then out of the window. At that moment
there passed along the street a tall commanding lady,
in whom the solicitor recognized Barnet's wife. Barnet
had done the same thing, and turned away.

' It will be all right some day,' said Downe, with
cheering sympathy.

' You have heard, then, of her last outbreak ? '

Downe depressed his cheerfulness to its very reverse
in a moment. ' No, I have not heard of anything
serious,' he said, with as long a face as one naturally
round could be turned into at short notice. * I only
hear vague reports of such things.'

'You may think it will be all right,' said Barnet
drily. ' But I have a different opinion. . . . No,
Downe, we must look the thing in the face. Not
poppy nor mandragora — however, how are your wife
and children?'

Downe said that they were all well, thanks ; they
were out that morning somewhere ; he was just looking
to see if they were walking that way. Ah, there they
were, just coming down the street ; and Downe pointed
to the figures of two children with a nursemaid, and a
lady walking behind them.

' You will come out and speak to her ? ' he asked.

{ Not this morning. The fact is I don't care to
speak to anybody just now.'

'You are too sensitive, Mr. Barnet. At school I
remember you used to get as red as a rose if anybody
uttered a word that hurt your feelings.'

Barnet mused. ' Yes,' he admitted, ' there is a grain
of truth in that. It is because of that I often try to
make peace at home. Life would be tolerable then at
any rate, even if not particularly bright.'

' I have thought more than once of proposing a little
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WESSEX TALES

plan to you,' said Downe with some hesitation. * I
don't know whether it will meet your views, but take
it or leave it, as you choose. In fact, it was my wife
who suggested it : that she would be very glad to call
on Mrs. Barnet and get into her confidence. She seems
to think that Mrs. Barnet is rather alone in the town,
and without advisers. Her impression is that your
wife will listen to reason. Emily has a wonderful way
of winning the hearts of people of her own sex.'

4 And of the other sex too, I think. She is a charm-
ing woman, and you were a lucky fellow to find her.'

'Well, perhaps I was,' simpered Downe, trying to
wear an aspect of being the last man in the world to
feel pride. ' However, She will Jbe likely to find out
what ruffles Mrs. Barnet. Perhaps it is some mis-
understanding, you know — something that she is too
proud to ask you to explain, or some little thing in
your conduct that irritates her because she does not
fully comprehend you. The truth is, Emily would have
been more ready to make advances if she had been
quite sure of her fitness for Mrs. Barnet's society, who
has of course been accustomed to London people of
good position, which made Emily fearful of intruding.7

Barnet expressed his warmest thanks for the well-
intentioned proposition. There was reason in Mrs.
Downe's fear — that he owned. * But do let her call,'
he said. * There is no woman in England I would so
soon trust on such an errand. I am afraid there will
not be any brilliant result; still I shall take it as the
kindest and nicest thing if she will try it, and not be
frightened at a repulse.'

When Barnet and Downe had parted, the former
went to the Town Savings-Bank, of which he was a
trustee, and endeavoured to forget his troubles in the
contemplation of low sums of money, and figures in a
network of red and blue lines. He sat and watched
the working-people making their deposits, to which at
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FELLOW-TOWNSMEN

intervals he signed his name. Before he left in the
afternoon Dovvne put his head inside the door.

' Emily has seen Mrs. Barnet/ he said, in a low
voice. ' She has got Mrs. Barnet's promise to take
her for a drive down to the shore to-morrow, if it is
fine. Good afternoon ! '

Barnet shook Downe by the hand without speaking,
and Downe went away.

WESSEX TALES

1 HE next day was as fine as the arrangement could
possibly require. As the sun passed the meridian and
declined westward, the tall shadows from the scaffold-
poles of Barnet's rising residence streaked the ground
as far as to the middle of the highway. Barnet him-
self was there inspecting the progress of the works for
the first time during several weeks. A building in an
old-fashioned town five-and- thirty years ago did not, as
in the modern fashion, rise from the sod like a booth
at a fair. The foundations and lower courses were put
in and allowed to settle for many weeks before the
superstructure was built up, and a whole summer of
drying was hardly sufficient to do justice to the impor-
tant issues involved. Barnet stood within a window-
niche which had as yet received no frame, and thence
looked down a slope into the road. The wheels of a
chaise were heard, and then his handsome Xantippe,
in the company of Mrs. Downe, drove past on their
way to the shore. They were driving slowly; there
was a pleasing light in Mrs. Downe's face, which
seemed faintly to reflect itself upon the countenance
of her companion — that politesse du cceur which was so
natural to her having possibly begun already to work
results. But whatever the situation, Barnet resolved
not to interfere, or do anything to hazard the promise of
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FELLOW-TOWNSMEN

the day. He might well afford to trust the issue to
another when he could never direct it but to ill himself.
His wife's clenched rein-hand in its lemon-coloured
glove, her stiff erect figure, clad in velvet and lace,
and her boldly-outlined face, passed on, exhibiting their
owner as one fixed for ever above the level of her com-
panion— socially by her early breeding, and materially
by her higher cushion.

Barnet decided to allow them a proper time to them-
selves, and then stroll down to the shore and drive them
home. After lingering on at the house for another hour
he started with this intention. A few hundred yards
below « Chateau Ringdale ' stood the cottage in which
the late lieutenant's daughter had her lodging. Barnet
had not been so far that way for a long time, and as
he approached the forbidden ground a curious warmth
passed into him, which led him to perceive that, unless
he were careful, he might have to fight the battle with
himself about Lucy over again. A tenth of his present
excuse would, however, have justified him in travelling
by that road to-day.

He came opposite the dwelling, and turned his eyes
for a momentary glance into the little garden that
stretched from the palings to the door. Lucy was in
the enclosure ; she was walking and stooping to gather
some flowers, possibly for the purpose of painting them,
for she moved about quickly, as if anxious to save time.
She did not see him ; he might have passed unnoticed ;
but a sensation which was not in strict unison with his
previous sentiments that day led him to pause in his
walk and watch her. She went nimbly round and
round the beds of anemones, tulips, jonquils, polyan-
thuses, and other old-fashioned flowers, looking a very
charming figure in her half-mourning bonnet, and with
an incomplete nosegay in her left hand. Raising herself
to pull down a lilac blossom she observed him.

1 Mr. Barnet ! ' she said, innocently smiling. ' Why, I
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WESSEX TALES

have been thinking of you many times since Mrs. Barnet
went by in the pony-carriage, and now here you are ! '

' Yes, Lucy,' he said.

Then she seemed to recall particulars of their last
meeting, and he believed that she flushed, though it
might have been only the fancy of his own super-
sensitivenesss.

* I am going to the harbour,' he added.

* Are you ? ' Lucy remarked simply. ' A great many
people begin to go there now the summer is draw-
ing on/

Her face had come more into his view as she spoke,
and he noticed how much thinner and paler it was than
when he had seen it last. ' Lucy, how weary you look !
tell me, can I help you ? ' he was going to cry out. —
' If I do/ he thought, < it will be the ruin of us both ! '
He merely said that the afternoon was fine, and went
on his way.

As he went a sudden bhst of air came over the
hill as if in contradiction to his words, and spoilt the
previous quiet of the scene. The wind had already
shifted violently, and now smelt of the sea.

The harbour-road soon began to justify its name.
A gap appeared in the rampart of hills which shut out
the sea, and on the left of the opening rose a vertical
cliff, coloured a burning orange by the sunlight, the
companion cliff on the right being livid in shade. Be-
tween these cliffs, like the Libyan bay which sheltered
the shipwrecked Trojans, was a little haven, seemingly
a beginning made by Nature herself of a perfect harbour,
which appealed to the passer-by as only requiring a little
human industry to finish it and make it famous, the
ground on each side as far back as the daisied slopes
that bounded the interior valley being a mere layer
of blown sand. But the Port-Bredy burgesses a mile
inland had, in the course of ten centuries, responded
many times to that mute appeal, with the result that
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FELLOW-TOWNSMEN

the tides had invariably choked up their works with
sand and shingle as soon as completed. There were
but few houses here : a rough pier, a few boats, some
stores, an inn, a residence or two, a ketch unloading in
the harbour, were the chief features of the settlement.
On the open ground by the shore stood his wife's
pony-carriage, empty, the boy in attendance holding the
horse.

When Bar net drew nearer, he saw an indigo-coloured
spot moving swiftly along beneath the radiant base of
the eastern cliff, which proved to be a man in a jersey,
running with all his might. He held up his hand to
Barnet, as it seemed, and they approached each other.
The man was local, but a stranger to him.

' What is it, my man ? ' said Barnet.

* A terrible calamity ! ' the boatman hastily explained.
Two ladies had been capsized in a boat — they were
Mrs. Downe and Mrs. Barnet of the old town ; they
had driven down there that afternoon — they had alighted,
and it was so fine, that, after walking about a little while,

. they had been tempted to go out for a short sail round
the cliff. Just as they were putting in to the shore, the
wind shifted with a sudden gust, the boat listed over,
and it was thought they were both drowned. How it
could have happened was beyond his mind to fathom,
for John Green knew how to sail a boat ,as well as any
man there.

* Which is the way to the place ? ' said Barnet.
It was just round the cliff.

' Run to the carriage and tell the boy to bring it
to the place as soon as you can. Then go to the
Harbour Inn and tell them to ride to town for a doctor.
Have they been got out of the water ? '

1 One lady has.'

< Which ? '

< Mrs. Barnet. Mrs. Downe, it is feared, has fleeted
out to sea.'

129 I

WESSEX TALES

Barnet ran on to that part of the shore which the
cliff had hitherto obscured from his view, and there
discerned, a long way ahead, a group of fishermen
standing. As soon as he came up one or two recog-
nized him, and, not liking to meet his eye, turned aside
with misgiving. He went amidst them and saw a small
sailing-boat lying draggled at the water's edge ; and, on
the sloping shingle beside it, a soaked and sandy
woman's form in the velvet dress and yellow gloves of
his wife.

FELLOW-TOWNSMEN

-A.LL had been done that could be done. Mrs.
Barnet was in her own house under medical hands, but
the result was still uncertain. Barnet had acted as if
devotion to his wife were the dominant passion of his
existence. There had been much to decide — whether
to attempt restoration of the apparently lifeless body
as it lay on the shore — whether to carry her to the
Harbour Inn — whether to drive with her at once to
his own house. The first course, with no skilled help
or appliances near at hand, had seemed hopeless. The
second course would have occupied nearly as much
time as a drive to the town, owing to the intervening
ridges of shingle, and the necessity of crossing the
harbour by boat to get to the house, added to which
much time must have elapsed before a doctor could
have arrived down there. By bringing her home in the
carriage some precious moments had slipped by; but
she had been laid in her own bed in seven minutes, a
doctor called to her side, and every possible restorative
brought to bear upon her.

At what a tearing pace he had driven up that
road, through the yellow evening sunlight, the shadows
flapping irksomely into his eyes as each wayside object
rushed past between him and the west ! Tired work-
men with their baskets at their backs had turned on

WESSEX TALES

their homeward journey to wonder at his speed. Half-
way between the shore and Port-Bredy town he had met
Charlson, who had been the first surgeon to hear of the
accident. He was accompanied by his assistant in a
gig. Barnet had sent on the latter to the coast in case
that Downe's poor wife should by that time have been
reclaimed from the waves, and had brought Charlson
back with him to the house.

Barnet's presence was not needed here, and he felt
it to be his next duty to set off at once and find Downe,
that no other than himself might break the news to
him.

He was quite sure that no chance had been lost for
Mrs. Downe by his leaving the shore. By the time
that Mrs. Barnet had been laid in the carriage, a much
larger group had assembled to lend assistance in finding
her friend, rendering his own help superfluous. But
the duty of breaking the news was made doubly painful
by the circumstance that the catastrophe which had
befallen Mrs. Downe was solely the result of her own
and her husband's loving-kindness towards himself.

He found Downe in his office. When the solicitor
comprehended the intelligence he turned pale, stood
up, and remained for a moment perfectly still, as if
bereft of his faculties; then his shoulders heaved, he
pulled out his handkerchief and began to cry like a
child. His sobs might have been heard in the next
room. He seemed to have no idea of going to the
shore, or of doing anything ; but when Barnet took him
gently by the hand and proposed to start at once, he
quietly acquiesced, neither uttering any further word
nor making any effort to repress his tears.

Barnet accompanied him to the shore, where, finding
that no trace had as yet been seen of Mrs. Downe, and
that his stay would be of no avail, he left Downe with
his friends and the young doctor, and once more
hastened back to his own house.
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FELLOW-TOWNSMEN

At the door he met Charlson. < Well ! ' Barnet said

1 1 have just come down,' said the doctor ; ' we have
done everything, but without result. I sympathize with
you in your bereavement.'

Barnet did not much appreciate Charlson's sympathy,
which sounded to his ears as something of a mockery
from the lips of a man who knew what Charlson knew
about their domestic relations. Indeed there seemed
an odd spark in Charlson's full black eye as he said
the words ; but that might have been imaginary.

'And, Mr. Barnet,' Charlson resumed, 'that little
matter between us — I hope to settle it finally in three
weeks at least.'

* Never mind that now,' said Barnet abruptly, lie
directed the surgeon to go to the harbour in case his
services might even now be necessary there : and him-
self entered the house.

The servants were coming from his wife's chamber,
looking helplessly at each other and at him. He
passed them by and entered the room, where he stood
mutely regarding the bed for a few minutes, after
which he walked into his own dressing-room adjoining,
and there paced up and down. In a minute or two
he noticed what a strange and total silence had come
over the upper part of the house ; his own movements,
muffled as they were by the carpet, seemed noisy, and
his thoughts to disturb the air like articulate utterances.
His eye glanced through the window. Far down the
road to the harbour a roof detained his gaze : out of
it rose a red chimney, and out of the red chimney a
curl of smoke, as from a fire newly kindled. He had
often seen such a sight before. In that house lived
Lucy Savile; and the smoke was from the fire which
was regularly lighted at this time to make her tea.

After that he went back to the bedroom, and stood
there some time regarding his wife's silent form. She
was a woman some years older than himself, but had
133

WESSEX TALES

not by any means overpassed the maturity of good
looks and vigour-. Her passionate features, well-defined,
firm, and statuesque in life, were doubly so now : her
mouth and brow, beneath her purplish black hair,
showed only too clearly that the turbulency of character
which had made a bear-garden of his house had been
no temporary phase of her existence. While he re-
flected, he suddenly said to himself, I wonder if all
has been done?

The thought was led up to by his having fancied
that his wife's features lacked in its complete form the
expression which he had been accustomed to associate
with the faces of those whose spirits have fled for ever.
The effacement of life was not so marked but that,
entering uninformed, he might have supposed her sleep-
ing. Her complexion was that seen in the numerous
faded portraits by Sir Joshua Reynolds ; it was pallid
in comparison with life, but there was visible on a close
inspection the remnant of what had once been a flush ;
the keeping between the cheeks and the hollows of the
face being thus preserved, although positive colour was
gone. Long orange rays of evening sun stole in through
chinks in the blind, striking on the large mirror, and
being thence reflected upon the crimson hangings and
woodwork of the heavy bedstead, so that the general
tone of light was remarkably warm; and it was pro-
bable that something might be due to this circumstance.
Still the fact impressed him as strange. Charlson had
been gone more than a quarter of an hour : could it be
possible that he had left too soon, and that his attempts
to restore her had operated so sluggishly as only now to
have made themselves felt ? Barnet laid his hand upon
her chest, and fancied that ever and anon a faint flutter
of palpitation, gentle as that of a butterfly's wing,
disturbed the stillness there — ceasing for a time, then
struggling to go on, then breaking down in weakness
and ceasing again.

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FELLOW-TOWNSMEN

Barnet's mother had been an active practitioner of
the healing art among her poorer neighbours, and her
inspirations had all been derived from an octavo volume
of Domestic Medicine, which at this moment was lying,
as it had lain for many years, on a shelf in Barnet's
dressing-room. He hastily fetched it, and there read
under the head ' Drowning : ' —

'Exertions for the recovery of any person who has not been
immersed for a longer period than half-an-hour should be continued
for at least four hours, as there have been many cases in which
returning life has made itself visible even after a longer interval.

' Should, however, a weak action of any of the organs show itself
when the case seems almost hopeless, our efforts must be redoubled ;
the feeble spark in this case requires to be solicited ; it will certainly
disappear under a relaxation of labour.'

Barnet looked at his watch ; it was now barely two
hours and a half from the time when he had first heard
of the accident. He threw aside the book and turned
quickly to reach a stimulant which had previously been,
used. Pulling up the blind for more light, his eye
glanced out of the window. There he saw that red
chimney still smoking cheerily, and that roof, and
through the roof that somebody. His mechanical
movements stopped, his hand remained on the blind-
cord, and he seemed to become breathless, as if he had
suddenly found himself treading a high rope.

While he stood a sparrow lighted on the window-
sill, saw him, and flew away. Next a man and a dog
walked over one of the green hills which bulged above
the roofs of the town. But Barnet took no notice.

We may wonder what were the exact images that
passed through his mind during those minutes of gazing
upon Lucy Savile's house, the sparrow, the man and
the dog, and Lucy Savile's house again. There are
honest men who will not admit to their thoughts, even
as idle hypotheses, views of the future that assume as
135

WESSEX TALES

done a deed which they would recoil from doing ; and
there are other honest men for whom morality ends at
the surface of their own heads, who will deliberate
what the first will not so much as suppose. Barnet
had a wife whose presence distracted his home ; she
now lay as in death; by merely doing nothing — by
letting the intelligence which had gone forth to the
world lie undisturbed — he would effect such a deliver-
ance for himself as he had never hoped for, and open
up an opportunity of which till now he had never
dreamed. Whether the conjuncture had arisen through
any unscrupulous, ill-considered impulse of Charlson to
help out of a strait the friend who was so kind as never
to press him for what was due could not be told ;
there was nothing to prove it ; and it was a question
which could never be asked. The triangular situation
— himself — his wife — Lucy Savile — was the one clear
thing.

From Barnet's actions we may infer that he supposed
such and such a result, for a moment, but did not
deliberate. He withdrew his hazel eyes from the scene
without, calmly turned, rang the bell for assistance,
and vigorously exerted himself to learn if life still
lingered in that motionless frame. In a short time
another surgeon was in attendance ; and then Barnet's
surmise proved to be true. The slow life timidly
heaved again ; but much care and patience were needed
to catch and retain it, and a considerable period elapsed
before it could be said with certainty that Mrs. Barnet
lived. When this was the case, and there was no
further room for doubt, Barnet left the chamber. The
blue evening smoke from Lucy's chimney had died
down to an imperceptible stream, and as he walked
about downstairs he murmured to himself, « My wife
was dead, and she is alive again.'

It was not so with Downe. After three hours'
immersion his wife's body had been recovered, life, of
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FELLOW-TOWNSMEN

course, being quite extinct. Barnet on descending,
went straight to his friend's house, and there learned
the result. Downe was helpless in his wild grief,
occasionally even hysterical. Barnet said little, but
finding that some guiding hand was necessary in the
sorrow-stricken household, took upon him to supervise
and manage till Downe should be in a state of mind to
do so for himself.

WESSEX TALES

vJNE September evening, four months later, when Mrs.
Barnet was in perfect health, and Mrs. Downe but a
weakening memory, an errand-boy paused to rest him-
self in front of Mr. Barnet's old house, depositing his
basket on one of the window-sills. The street was not
yet lighted, but there were lights in the house, and at
intervals a flitting shadow fell upon the blind at his
elbow. Words also were audible from the same apart-
ment, and they seemed to be those of persons in violent
altercation. But the boy could not gather their purport,
and he went on his way.

Ten minutes afterwards the door of Barnet's house
opened, and a tall closely- veiled lady in a travelling-dress
came out and descended the freestone steps. The
servant stood in the doorway watching her as she
went with a measured tread down the street. When
she had been out of sight for some minutes Barnet
appeared at the door from within.

* Did your mistress leave word where she was
going?' he asked.

4 No, sir.'

' Is the carriage ordered to meet her anywhere ? *

' No, sir/

* Did she take a latch-key ? '
' No, sir.'

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FELLOW-TOWNSMEN

Barnet went in again, sat down in his chair, and
leaned back. Then in solitude and silence he brooded
over the bitter emotions that filled his heart. It was
for this that he had gratuitously restored her to life,
and made his union with another impossible ! The
evening drew on, and nobody came to disturb him. At
bedtime he told the servants to retire, that he would
sit up for Mrs. Barnet himself; and when they were
gone he leaned his head upon his hand and mused
for hours.

The clock struck one, two; still his wife came not,
and, with impatience added to depression, he went from
room to room till another weary hour had passed. This
was not altogether a new experience for Barnet ; but she
had never before so prolonged her absence. At last he
sat down again and fell asleep.

He awoke at six o'clock to find that she had not
returned. In searching about the rooms he discovered
that she had taken a case of jewels which had been hers
before her marriage. At eight a note was brought him ;
it was from his wife, in which she stated that she had
gone by the coach to the house of a distant relative near
London, and expressed a wish that certain boxes, articles
of clothing, and so on, might be sent to her forthwith.
The note was brought to him by a waiter at the Black-
Bull Hotel, and had been written by Mrs. Barnet imme-
diately before she took her place in the stage.

By the evening this order was carried out, and
Barnet, with a sense of relief, walked out into the
town. A fair had been held during the day, and the
large clear moon which rose over the most prominent
hill flung its light upon the booths and standings that
still remained in the street, mixing its rays curiously
with those from the flaring naphtha lamps. The town
was full of country-people who had come in to enjoy
themselves, and on this account Barnet strolled through
the streets unobserved. With a certain recklessness he
139 •

WESSEX TALES

made for the harbour-road, and presently found himself
by the shore, where he walked on till he came to the
spot near which his friend the kindly Mrs. Downe had
lost her life, and his own wife's life had been preserved.
A tremulous pathway of bright moonshine now stretched
over the water which had engulfed them, and not a
living soul was near.

Here he ruminated on their characters, and next on
the young girl in whom he now took a more sensitive
interest than at the time when he had been free to
marry her. Nothing, so far as he was aware, had ever
appeared in his own conduct to show that such an
interest existed. He had made it a point of the utmost
strictness to hinder that feeling from influencing in the
faintest degree his attitude towards his wife; aftd this
was made all the more easy for him by the small
demand Mrs. Barnet made upon his attentions, for
which she ever evinced the greatest contempt ; thus
unwittingly giving him the satisfaction of knowing that
their severance owed nothing to jealousy, or, indeed,
to any personal behaviour of his at all. Her concern
was not with him or his feelings, as she frequently told
him ; but that she had, in a moment of weakness,
thrown herself away upon a common burgher when she
might have aimed at, and possibly brought down, a peer
of the realm. Her frequent depreciation of Barnet in
these terms had at times been so intense that he was
sorely tempted to retaliate on her egotism by owning that
he loved at the same low level on which he lived ; but
prudence had prevailed, for which he was now thankful.

Something seemed to sound upon the shingle behind
him over and above the raking of the wave. He looked
round, and a slight girlish shape appeared quite close to
him. He could not see her face because it was in the
direction of the moon.

* Mr. Barnet ? ' the rambler said, in timid surprise.
The voice was the voice of Lucy Savile.
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FELLOW-TOWNSMEN

* Yes,' said Barnet. ' How can I repay you for this
pleasure ? '

1 I only came because the night was so clear. I am
now on my way home.'

' I am glad we have met. I want to know if you
will let me do something for you, to give me an occupa-
tion, as an idle man ? I am sure I ought to help you,
for I know you are almost without friends.'

She hesitated. « Why should you tell me that ? '
she said.

' In the hope that you will be frank with me.'

' I am not altogether without friends here. But I
am going to make a little change in my life — to go out
as a teacher of freehand drawing and practical perspec-
tive, of course I mean on a comparatively humble scale,
because I have not been specially educated for that
profession. But I am sure I shall like it much.'

' You have an opening ? '

' I have not exactly got it, but I have advertised
for one.'

' Lucy, you must let me help you ! '

' Not at all.'

* You need not think it would compromise you, or
that I am indifferent to delicacy. I bear in mind how
we stand. It is very unlikely that you will succeed as
teacher of the class you mention, so let me do some-
thing of a different kind for you. Say what you would
like, and it shall be done.'

' No ; if I can't be a drawing-mistress or governess,
or something of that sort, I shall go to India and join
my brother.'

*I wish I could go abroad, anywhere, everywhere
with you, Lucy, and leave this place and its associations
for ever ! '

She played with the end of her bonnet-string, and
hastily turned aside. ' Don't ever touch upon that kind
of topic again,' she said, with a quick severity not free
141

WESSEX TALES

from anger. ' It simply makes it impossible for me to
see you, much less receive any guidance from you. No,
thank you, Mr. Barnet ; you can do nothing for me at
present; and as I suppose my uncertainty will end in
my leaving for India, I fear you never will. If ever I
think you can do anything, I will take the trouble to ask
you. Till then, good-bye/

The tone of her latter words was equivocal, and
while he remained in doubt whether a gentle irony was
or was not inwrought with their sound, she swept lightly
round and left him alone. He saw her form get smaller
and smaller along the damp belt of sea-sand between
ebb and flood ; and when she had vanished round the
cliff into the harbour-road, he himself followed in the
same direction.

That her hopes from an advertisement should be the
single thread which held Lucy Savile in England was
too much for Barnet. On reaching the town he went
straight to the residence of Downe, now a widower with
four children. The young motherless brood had been
sent to bed about a quarter of an hour earlier, and when
Barnet entered he found Downe sitting alone. It was
the same room as that from which the family had been
looking out for Downe at the beginning of the year,
when Downe had slipped into the gutter and his wife
had been so enviably tender towards him. The old
neatness had gone from the house; articles lay in places
which could show no reason for their presence, as if
momentarily deposited there some months ago, and
forgotten ever since ; there were no flowers ; things
were jumbled together on the furniture which should
have been in cupboards ; and the place in general had
that stagnant, unrenovated air which usually pervades
the maimed home of the widower.

Downe soon renewed his customary full-worded
lament over his wife, and even when he had worked
himself up to tears, went on volubly, as if a listener
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FELLOW-TOWNSMEN

were a luxury to be enjoyed whenever he could be
caught.

' She was a treasure beyond compare, Mr. Barnet !
I shall never see such another. Nobody now to nurse
me — nobody to console me in those daily troubles, you
know, Barnet, which make consolation so necessary to
a nature like mine. It would be unbecoming to re-
pine, for her spirit's home was elsewhere — the tender
light in her eyes always showed it ; but it is a long
dreary time that I have before me, and nobody else
can ever fill the void left in my heart by her loss —
nobody — nobody ! ' And Downe wiped his eyes again.

' She was a good woman in the highest sense,'
gravely answered Barnet, who, though Downe's words
drew genuine compassion from his heart, could not
help feeling that a tender reticence would have been a
finer tribute to Mrs. Downe's really sterling virtues than
such a second-class lament as this.

' I have something to show you,' Downe resumed,
producing from a drawer a sheet of paper on which
was an elaborate design for a canopied tomb. 'This
has been sent me by the architect, but it is not exactly
what I want.'

* You have got Jones to do it, I see, the man who is
carrying out my house,' said Barnet, as he glanced at
the signature to the drawing.

' Yes, but it is not quite what I want. I want some-
thing more striking — more, like a tomb I have seen in
St. Paul's Cathedral. Nothing less will do justice to my
feelings, and how far short of them that will fall ! '

Barnet privately thought the design a sufficiently
imposing one as it stood, even extravagantly ornate;
but, feeling that he had no right to criticize, he said
gently, ' Downe, should you not live more in your
children's lives at the present time, and soften the
sharpness of regret for your own past by thinking of
their future?'

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WESSEX TALES

* Yes, yes ; but what can I do more ? ' asked Downe,
wrinkling his forehead hopelessly.

It was with anxious slowness that Barnet produced
his reply — the secret object of his visit to-night. ' Did
you not say one day that you ought by rights to get a
governess for the children ? '

Downe admitted that he had said so, but that he
could not see his way to it. * The kind of woman I
should like to have,' he said, * would be rather beyond
my means. No; I think I shall send them to school
in the town when they are old enough to go out alone.'

' Now, I know of something better than that. The
late Lieutenant Savile's daughter, Lucy, wants to do
something for herself in the way of teaching. She
would be inexpensive, and would answer your purpose
as well as anybody for six or twelve months. She
would probably come daily if you were to ask her, and
so your housekeeping arrangements would not be much
affected.'

' I thought she had gone away,' said the solicitor,
musing. ' Where does she live ? '

Barnet told him, and added that, if Downe should
think of her as suitable, he would do well to call as
soon as possible, or she might be on the wing. c If you
do see her,' he said, ' it would be advisable not to men-
tion my name. She is rather stiff in her ideas of me,
and it might prejudice her against a course if she knew
that I recommended it.'

Downe promised to give the subject his considera-
tion, and nothing more was said about it just then.
But when Barnet rose to go, which was not till nearly
bedtime, he reminded Downe of the suggestion and
went up the street to his own solitary home with a
sense of satisfaction at his promising diplomacy in a
charitable cause.

FELLOW-TOWN SMEN

VII

iHE walls of his new house were carried up nearly
to their full height. By a curious though not infre-
quent reaction, Barnet's feelings about that unnecessary
structure had undergone a change ; he took considerable
interest in its progress as a long-neglected thing, his
wife before her departure having grown quite weary of
it as a hobby. Moreover, it was an excellent distraction
for a man in the unhappy position of having to live in
a provincial town with nothing to do. He was pro-
bably the first of his line who had ever passed a day
without toil, and perhaps something like an inherited
instinct disqualifies such men for a life of pleasant in-
action, such as lies in the power of those whose leisure
is not a personal accident, but a vast historical accretion
which has become part of their natures.

Thus Barnet got into a way of spending many of
his leisure hours on the site of the new building, and he
might have been seen on most days at this time trying
the temper of the mortar by punching the joints with his
stick, looking at the grain of a floor-board, and meditat-
ing where it grew, or picturing under what circumstances
the last fire would be kindled in the at present sootless
chimneys. One day when thus occupied he saw three
children pass by in the company of a fair young woman,
whose sudden appearance caused him to flush perceptibly.
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WESSEX TALES

' Ah, she is there,' he thought. « That's a blessed
thing.'

Casting an interested glance over the rising building
and the busy workmen, Lucy Savile and the little
Downes passed by ; and after that time it became a re-
gular though almost unconscious custom of Barnet to
stand in the half-completed house and look from the
ungarnished windows at the governess as she tripped
towards the sea-shore with her young charges, which
she was in the habit of doing on most fine afternoons.
It was on one of these occasions, when he had been
loitering on the first-floor landing, near the hole left
for the staircase, not yet erected, that there appeared
above the edge of the floor a little hat, followed by a
little head.

Barnet withdrew through a doorway, and the child
came to the top of the ladder, stepping on to the floor
and crying to her sisters and Miss Savile to follow.
Another head rose above the floor, and another, and
then Lucy herself came into view. The troop ran
hither and thither through the empty, shaving-strewn
rooms, and Barnet came forward.

Lucy uttered a small exclamation : she was very
sorry that she had intruded ; she had not the least idea
that Mr. Barnet was there : the children had come up,
and she had followed.

Barnet replied that he was only too glad to see them
there. ' And now, let me show you the rooms,' he said.

She passively assented, and he took her round.
There was not much to show in such a bare skeleton
of a house, but he made the most of it, and explained
the different ornamental fittings that were soon to be
fixed here and there. Lucy made but few remarks in
reply, though she seemed pleased with her visit, and stole
away down the ladder, followed by her companions.

After this the new residence became yet more of a
hobby for Barnet. Downe's children did not forget their
146

FELLOW-TOWNSMEN

first visit, and when the windows were glazed, and the
handsome staircase spread its broad low steps into the
hall, they came again, prancing in unwearied succession
through every room from ground-floor to attics, while
Lucy stood waiting for them at the door. Barnet, who
rarely missed a day in coming to inspect progress,
stepped out from the drawing-room.

' I could not keep them out,' she said, with an
apologetic blush. ' I tried to do so very much : but
they are rather wilful, and we are directed to walk this
way for the sea air.'

' Do let them make the house their regular play-
ground, and you yours,' said Barnet. * There is no
better place for children to romp and take their exercise
in than an empty house, particularly in muddy or damp
weather such as we shall get a good deal of now ; and
this place will not be furnished for a long long time —
perhaps never. I am not at all decided about it.'

1 0, but it must ! ' replied Lucy, looking round at
the hall. * The rooms are excellent, twice as high as
ours ; and the views from the windows are so lovely.'

* I daresay, I daresay,' he said absently.

' Will all the furniture be new ? ' she asked.

* All the furniture be new — that's a thing I have not
thought of. In fact I only come here and look on.
My father's house would have been large enough for
me, but another person had a voice in the matter,
and it was settled that we should build. However,
the place grows upon me ; its recent associations are
cheerful, and I am getting to like it fast.'

A certain uneasiness in Lucy's manner showed that
the conversation was taking too personal a turn for her.
' Still, as modern tastes develop, people require more
room to gratify them in,' she said, withdrawing to call
the children ; and serenely bidding him good afternoon
she went on her way.

Barnet's life at this period was singularly lonely, and
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WESSEX TALES

yet he was happier than he could have expected. His
wife's estrangement and absence, which promised to be
permanent, left him free as a boy in his movements,
and the solitary walks that he took gave him ample
opportunity for chastened reflection on what might have
been his lot if he had only shown wisdom enough to
claim Lucy Savile when there was no bar between their
lives, and she was to be had for the asking. He would
occasionally call at the house of his friend Downe ; but
there was scarcely enough in common between their two
natures to make them more than friends of that excellent
sort whose personal knowledge of each other's history
and character is always in excess of intimacy, whereby
they are not so likely to be severed by a clash of senti-
ment as in cases where intimacy springs up in excess of
knowledge. Lucy was never visible at these times, being
either engaged in the school-room, or in taking an airing
out of doors ; but, knowing that she was now comfort-
able, and had given up the, to him, depressing idea
of going off to the other side of the globe, he was quite
content.

The new house had so far progressed that the
gardeners were beginning to grass down the front.
During an afternoon which he was passing in marking
the curve for the carriage drive, he beheld her coming
in boldly towards him from the road. Hitherto Barnet
had only caught her on the premises by stealth ; and
this advance seemed to show that at last her reserve
had broken down.

A smile gained strength upon her face as she ap-
proached, and it was quite radiant when she came up,
and said, without a trace of embarrassment, * I find I
owe you a hundred thanks — and it comes to me quite
as a surprise ! It was through your kindness that I
was engaged by Mr. Downe. Believe me, Mr. Barnet,
I did not know it until yesterday, or I should have
thanked you long and long ago ! '

FELLOW-TOWNSMEN

'I had offended you — just a trifle — at the time, I
think ? ' said Barnet, smiling, ' and it was best that you
should not know.'

' Yes, yes,' she returned hastily. ' Don't allude to
that; it is past and over, and we will let it be. The
house is finished almost, is it not ? How beautiful it
will look when the evergreens are grown ! Do you call
the style Palladian, Mr. Barnet ? '

1 1 — really don't quite know what it is. Yes, it must
be Palladian, certainly. But I'll ask Jones, the architect ;
for, to tell the truth, I had not thought much about the
style : I had nothing to do with choosing it, I am sorry
to say.'

She would not let him harp on this gloomy refrain,
and talked on bright matters till she said, producing a
small roll of paper which he had noticed in her hand all
the while, ' Mr. Downe wished me to bring you this
revised drawing of the late Mrs. Downe's tomb, which
the architect has just sent him. He would like you to
look it over.'

The children came up with their hoops, and she went
off with them down the harbour-road as usual. Barnet
had been glad to get those words of thanks ; he had
been thinking for many months that he would like her
to know of his share in finding her a home such as it
was ; and what he could not do for himself, Downe had
now kindly done for him. He returned to his desolate
house with a lighter tread ; though in reason he hardly
knew why his tread should be light.

On examining the drawing, Barnet found that, in-
stead of the vast altar-tomb and canopy Downe had
determined on at their last meeting, it was to be a more
modest memorial even than had been suggested by the
architect ; a coped tomb of good solid construction, with
no useless elaboration at all. Barnet was truly glad to
see that Downe had come to reason of his own accord ;
and he returned the drawing with a note of approval.
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WESSEX TALES

He followed up the house-work as before, and as
he walked up and down the rooms, occasionally gazing
from the windows over the bulging green hills and the
quiet harbour that lay between them, he murmured
words and fragments of words, which, if listened to,
would have revealed all the secrets of his existence.
Whatever his reason in going there, Lucy did not call
again : the walk to the shore seemed to be abandoned :
he must have thought it as well for both that it should
be so, for he did not go anywhere out of his accustomed
ways to endeavour to discover her.

FELLOW-TOWNSMEM

VIII

1 HE winter and the spring had passed, and the house
was complete. It was a fine morning in the early part
of June, and Barnet, though not in the habit of rising
early, had taken a long walk before breakfast ; returning
by way of the new building. A sufficiently exciting
cause of his restlessness to-day might have been the
intelligence which had reached him the night before,
that Lucy Savile was going to India after all, and not-
withstanding the representations of her friends that such
a journey was unadvisable in many ways for an un-
practised girl, unless some more definite advantage lay
at the end of it than she could show to be the case.
Barnet's walk up the slope to the building betrayed
that he was in a dissatisfied mood. He hardly saw
that the dewy time of day lent an unusual freshness
to the bushes and trees which had so recently put on
their summer habit of heavy leafage, and made his
newly -laid lawn look as well established as an old
manorial meadow. The house had been so adroitly
placed between six tall elms which were growing on
the site beforehand, that they seemed like real ancestral
trees ; and the rooks, young and old, cawed melodiously
to their visitor.

The door was not locked, and he entered. No
workmen appeared to be present, and he walked from

WESSEX TALES

sunny window to sunny window of the empty rooms,
with a sense of seclusion which might have been very
pleasant but for the antecedent knowledge that his
almost paternal care of Lucy Savile was to be thrown
away by her wilfulness. Footsteps echoed through an
adjoining room ; and bending his eyes in that direc-
tion, he perceived Mr. Jones, the architect. He had
come to look over the building before giving the con-
tractor his final certificate. They walked over the
house together. Everything was finished except the
papering : there were the latest improvements of the
period in bell-hanging, ventilating, smoke-jacks, fire-
grates, and French windows. The business was soon
ended, and Jones, having directed Barnet's attention
to a roll of wall-paper patterns which lay on a bench
for his choice, was leaving to keep another engagement,
when Barnet said, c Is the tomb finished yet for Mrs.
Downe ? '

' Well — yes : it is at last,' said the architect, coming
back and speaking as if he were in a mood to make
a confidence. ' I have had no end of trouble in the
matter, and, to tell the truth, I am heartily glad it is
over.'

Barnet expressed his surprise. * I thought poor
Downe had given up those extravagant notions of his ?
then he has gone back to the altar and canopy after
all ? Well, he is to be excused, poor fellow ! '

<O no — he has not at all gone back to them —
quite the reverse/ Jones hastened to say. ' He has so
reduced design after design, that the whole thing has
been nothing but waste labour for me; till in the end
it has become a common headstone, which a mason put
up in half a day.'

' A common headstone ? ' said Barnet.

* Yes. I held out for some time for the addition
of a footstone at least. But he said, " O no — he
couldn't afford it." '

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FELLOW-TOWNSMEN

I Ah, well — his family is growing up, poor fellow,
and his expenses are getting serious.'

' Yes, exactly/ said Jones, as if the subject were
none of his. And again directing Barnet's attention to
the wall-papers, the bustling architect left him to keep
some other engagement.

' A common headstone,7 murmured Barnet, left again
to himself. He mused a minute or two, and next began
looking over and selecting from the patterns ; but had
not long been engaged in the work when he heard
another footstep on the gravel without, and somebody
enter the open porch.

Barnet went to the door — it was his manservant in
search of him.

I 1 have been trying for some time to find you, sir,'
he said. ' This letter has come by the post, and it is
marked immediate. And there's this one from Mr.
Downe, who called just now wanting to see you.' He
searched his pocket for the second.

Barnet took the first letter — it had a black border,
and bore the London postmark. It was not in his
wife's handwriting, or in that of any person he knew ;
but conjecture soon ceased as he read the page, where-
in he was briefly informed that Mrs. Barnet had died
suddenly on the previous day, at the furnished villa
she had occupied near London.

Barnet looked vaguely round the empty hall, at the
blank walls, out of the doorway. Drawing a long palpi-
tating breath, and with eyes downcast, he turned and
climbed the stairs slowly, like a man who doubted their
stability. The fact of his wife having, as it were, died
once already, and lived on again, had entirely dislodged
the possibility of her actual death from his conjecture.
He went to the landing, leant over the balusters, and
after a reverie, of whose duration he had but the faintest
notion, turned to the window and stretched his gaze to
the cottage further down the road, which was visible
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WESSEX TALES

from his landing, and from which Lucy still walked
to the solicitor's house by a cross path. The faint
words that came from his moving lips were simply, ' At
last ! '

Then, almost involuntarily, Barnet fell down on his
knees and murmured some incoherent words of thanks-
giving. Surely his virtue in restoring his wife to life
had been rewarded ! But, as if the impulse struck un-
easily on his conscience, he quickly rose, brushed the
dust from his trousers, and set himself to think of his
next movements. He could not start for London for
some hours ; and as he had no preparations to make
that could not be made in half-an-hour, he mechanically
descended and resumed his occupation of turning over
the wall-papers. They had all got brighter for him,
those papers. It was all changed — who would sit in
the rooms that they were to line? He went on to
muse upon Lucy's conduct in so frequently coming to
the house with the children; her occasional blush in
speaking to him; her evident interest in him. What
woman can in the long run avoid being interested
in a man whom she knows to be devoted to her ?
If human solicitation could ever effect anything, there
should be no going to India for Lucy now. All
the papers previously chosen seemed wrong in their
shades, and he began from the beginning to choose
again.

While entering on the task he heard a forced ' Ahem ! '
from without the porch, evidently uttered to attract his
attention, and footsteps again advancing to the door.
His man, whom he had quite forgotten in his mental
turmoil, was still waiting there.

* I beg your pardon, sir,' the man said from round
the doorway ; ' but here's the note from Mr. Downe
that you didn't take. He called just after you went
out, and as he couldn't wait, he wrote this on your
study-table.'

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FELLOW TOWNSMEN

He handed in the letter — no black- bordered one
now, but a practical-looking note in the well-known
writing of the solicitor.

'DEAR BARNET' — it ran — 'Perhaps you will be prepared for
the information I am about to give — that Lucy Savile and myself
are going to be married this morning. I have hitherto said nothing
as to my intention to any of my friends, for reasons which I am sure
you will fully appreciate. The crisis has been brought about by
her expressing her intention to join her brother in India. I then
discovered that I could not do without her.

' It is to be quite a private wedding ; but it is my particular wish
that you come down here quietly at ten, and go to church with us ;
it will add greatly to the pleasure I shall experience in the cere-
mony, and, I believe, to Lucy's also. I have called on you very
early to make the request, in the belief that I should find you at
home ; but you are beforehand with me in your early rising. — Yours
sincerely, C. DOWNE.'

{ Need I wait, sir ? ' said the servant after a dead
silence.

* That will do, William. No answer,' said Barnet
calmly.

When the man had gone Barnet re-read the letter.
Turning eventually to the wall-papers, which he had
been at such pains to select, he deliberately tore them
into halves and quarters, and threw them into the
empty fireplace. Then he went out of the house, locked
the door, and stood in the front awhile. Instead of
returning into the town, he went down the harbour-
road and thoughtfully lingered about by the sea, near
the spot where the body of Downe's late wife had been
found and brought ashore.

Barnet was a man with a rich capacity for misery,
and there is no doubt that he exercised it to its fullest
extent now. The events that had, as it were, dashed
themselves together into one half-hour of this day
showed that curious refinement of cruelty in their
arrangement which often proceeds from the bosom, of
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WESSEX TALES

the whimsical god at other times known as blind
Circumstance. That his few minutes of hope, between
the reading of the first and second letters, had carried
him to extraordinary heights of rapture was proved by
the immensity of his suffering now. The sun blazing
into his face would have shown a close watcher that a
horizontal line, which he had never noticed before, but
which was never to be gone thereafter, was somehow
gradually forming itself in the smooth of his forehead.
His eyes, of a light hazel, had a curious look which can
only be described by the word bruised ; the sorrow that
looked from them being largely mixed with the surprise
of a man taken unawares.

The secondary particulars of his present position,
too, were odd enough, though for some time they ap-
peared to engage little of his attention. Not a soul in
the town knew, as yet, of his wife's death ; and he
almost owed Downe the kindness of not publishing it
till the day was over : the conjuncture, taken with that
which had accompanied the death of Mrs. Downe,
being so singular as to be quite sufficient to darken the
pleasure of the impressionable solicitor to a cruel extent,
if made known to him. But as Barnet could not set
out on his journey to London, where his wife lay, for
some hours (there being at this date no railway within
a distance of many miles), no great reason existed why
he should leave the town.

Impulse in all its forms characterized Barnet, and
when he heard the distant clock strike the hour of ten
his feet began to carry him up the harbour-road with
the manner of a man who must do something to bring
himself to life. He passed Lucy Savile's old house,
his own new one, and came in view of the church.
Now he gave a perceptible start, and his mechanical
condition went away. Before the church-gate were a
couple of carriages, and Barnet then could perceive that
the marriage between Downe and Lucy was at that

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FELLOW-TOWNSMEN

moment being solemnized within. A feeling of sudden,
proud self-confidence, an indocile wish to walk un-
moved in spite of grim environments, plainly possessed
him, and when he reached the wicket-gate he turned in
without apparent effort. Pacing up the paved footway
he entered the church and stood for a while in the nave
passage. A group of people was standing round the
vestry door ; Barnet advanced through these and stepped
into the vestry.

There they were, busily signing their names. Seeing
Downe about to look round, Barnet averted his some-
what disturbed face for a second or two; when he
turned again front to front he was calm and quite
smiling ; it was a creditable triumph over himself, and
deserved to be remembered in his native town. He
greeted Downe heartily, offering his congratulations.

It seemed as if Barnet expected a half-guilty look
upon Lucy's face; but no, save the natural flush and
flurry engendered by the service just performed, there
was nothing whatever in her bearing which showed a
disturbed mind : her gray-brown eyes carried in them
now as at other times the well-known expression of
common-sensed rectitude which never went so far as
to touch on hardness. She shook hands with him, and
Downe said warmly, 'I wish you could have come
sooner : I called on purpose to ask you. You'll drive
back with us now ? '

' No, no,' said Barnet ; { I am not at all prepared ;
but I thought I would look in upon you for a moment,
even though I had not time to go home and dress. I'll
stand back and see you pass out, and observe the effect
of the spectacle upon myself as one of the public.'

Then Lucy and her husband laughed, and Barnet
laughed and retired ; and the quiet little party went
gliding down the nave and towards the porch, Lucy's
new silk dress sweeping with a smart rustle round the
base-mouldings of the ancient font, and Downe's little
157

WESSEX TALES

daughters following in a state of round-eyed interest
in their position, and that of Lucy, their teacher and
friend.

So Downe was comforted after his Emily's death,
which had taken place twelve months, two weeks, and
three days before that time.

When the two flys had driven off and the spectators
had vanished, Barnet followed to the door, and went
out into the sun. He took no more trouble to preserve
a spruce exterior; his step was unequal, hesitating,
almost convulsive; and the slight changes of colour
which went on in his face seemed refracted from some
inward flame. In the churchyard he became pale as a
summer cloud, and finding it not easy to proceed he
sat down on one of the tombstones and supported his
head with his hand.

Hard by was a sexton filling up a grave which he
had not found time to finish on the previous evening.
Observing Barnet, he went up to him, and recognizing
him, said, * Shall I help you home, sir ? '

1 0 no, thank you,' said Barnet, rousing himself
and standing up. The sexton returned to his grave,
followed by Barnet, who, after watching him awhile,
stepped into the grave, now nearly filled, and helped to
tread in the earth.

The sexton apparently thought his conduct a little
singular, but he made no observation, and when the
grave was full, Barnet suddenly stopped, looked far
away, and with a decided step proceeded to the gate
and vanished. The sexton rested on his shovel and
looked after him for a few moments, and then began
banking up the mound.

In those short minutes of treading in the dead man
Barnet had formed a design, but what it was the in-
habitants of that town did not for some long time
imagine. He went home, wrote several letters of busi-
ness, called on his lawyer, an old man of the same

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FELLOW-TOWNSMEN

place who had been the legal adviser of Barnet's father
before him, and during the evening overhauled a large
quantity of letters and other documents in his posses-
sion. By eleven o'clock the heap of papers in and
before Barnet's grate had reached formidable dimen-
sions, and he began to burn them. This, owing to
their quantity, it was not so easy to do as he had ex-
pected, and he sat long into the night to complete the
task.

The next morning Barnet departed for London,
leaving a note for Downe to inform him of Mrs. Barnet's
sudden death, and that he was gone to bury her; but
when a thrice-sufficient time for that purpose had
elapsed, he was not seen again in his accustomed walks,
or in his new house, or in his old one. He was gone
for good, nobody knew whither. It was soon dis-
covered that he had empowered his lawyer to dispose
of all his property, real and personal, in the borough,
and pay in the proceeds to the account of an unknown
person at one of the large London banks. The person
was by some supposed to be himself under an assumed
name ; but few, if any, had certain knowledge of that
fact.

The elegant new residence was sold with the rest of
his possessions ; and its purchaser was no other than
Downe, now a thriving man in the borough, and one
whose growing family and new wife required more roomy
accommodation than was afforded by the little house
up the narrow side street. Barnet's old habitation was
bought by the trustees of the Congregational Baptist
body in that town, who pulled down the time-honoured
dwelling and built a new chapel on its site. By the
time the last hour of that, to Barnet, eventful year had
chimed, every vestige of him had disappeared from the
precincts of his native place, and the name became
extinct in the borough of Port-Bredy, after having been
a living force therein for more than two hundred years.
X59

WESSEX TALES

TWENTY-ONE years and six months do not pass
without setting a mark even upon durable stone and
triple brass ; upon humanity such a period works nothing
less than transformation. In Barnet's old birthplace
vivacious young children with bones like india-rubber
had grown up to be stable men and women, men and
women had dried in the skin, stiffened, withered, and
sunk into decrepitude ; while selections from every class
had been consigned to the outlying cemetery. Of in-
organic differences the greatest was that a railway had
invaded the town, tying it on to a main line at a junction
a dozen miles off. Barnet's house on the harbour-road,
once so insistently new, had acquired a respectable
mellowness, with ivy, Virginia creepers, lichens, damp
patches, and even constitutional infirmities of its own
like its elder fellows. Its architecture, once so very
improved and modern, had already become stale in style,
without having reached the dignity of being old-fashioned.
Trees about the harbour-road had increased in circum-
ference or disappeared under the saw ; while the church
had had such a tremendous practical joke played upon
it by some facetious restorer or other as to be scarce
recognizable by its dearest old friends.

During this long interval George Barnet had never
once been seen or heard of in the town of his fathers
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FELLOW-TOWNSMEN

It was the evening of a market-day, and some half-
dozen middle-aged farmers and dairymen were lounging
round the bar of the Black-Bull Hotel, occasionally
dropping a remark to each other, and less frequently to
the two barmaids who stood within the pewter-topped
counter in a perfunctory attitude of attention, these
latter sighing and making a private observation to one
another at odd intervals, on more interesting experiences
than the present.

' Days get shorter,' said one of the dairymen, as he
looked towards the street, and noticed that the lamp-
lighter was passing by.

The farmers merely acknowledged by their counte-
nances the propriety of this remark, and finding that
nobody else spoke, one of the barmaids said ' yes,' in a
tone of painful duty.

' Come fair-day we shall have to light up before we
start for home-along.'

'That's true,' his neighbour conceded, with a gaze
of blankness.

' And after that we shan't see much further difference
all's winter.'

The rest were not unwilling to go even so far as
this.

The barmaid sighed again, and raised one of her
hands from the counter on which they rested to scratch
the smallest surface of her face with the smallest of her
fingers. She looked towards the door, and presently
remarked, « I think I hear the 'bus coming in from
station.'

The eyes of the dairymen and farmers turned to
the glass door dividing the hall from the porch, and in
a minute or two the omnibus drew up outside. Then
there was a lumbering down of luggage, and then a man
came into the hall, followed by a porter with a port-
manteau on his poll, which he deposited on a bench.

The stranger was an elderly person, with curly ashen-
161 L

WESSEX TALES

white hair, a deeply-creviced outer corner to each eyelid,
and a countenance baked by innumerable suns to the
colour of terra-cotta, its hue and that of his hair con-
trasting like heat and cold respectively. He walked
meditatively and gently, like one who was fearful of dis-
turbing his own mental equilibrium. But whatever lay
at the bottom of his breast had evidently made him so
accustomed to its situation there that it caused him little
practical inconvenience.

He paused in silence while, with his dubious eyes
fixed on the barmaids, he seemed to consider himself.
In a moment or two he addressed them, and asked to
be accommodated for the night. As he waited he
looked curiously round the hall, but said nothing. As
soon as invited he disappeared up the staircase, pre-
ceded by a chambermaid and candle, and followed by a
lad with his trunk. Not a soul had recognized him.

A quarter of an hour later, when the farmers and
dairymen had driven off to their homesteads in the
country, he came downstairs, took a biscuit and one
glass of wine, and walked out into the town, where the
radiance from the shop -windows had grown so in volume
of late years as to flood with cheerfulness every standing
cart, barrow, stall, and idler that occupied the wayside,
whether shabby or genteel. His chief interest at present
seemed to lie in the names painted over the shop-fronts
and on door-ways, as far as they were visible; these
now differed to an ominous extent from what they had
been one-and-twenty years before.

The traveller passed on till he came to the book-
seller's, where he looked in through the glass door. A
fresh-faced young man was standing behind the counter,
otherwise the shop was empty. The gray-haired observer
entered, asked for some periodical by way of paying for
admission, and with his elbow on the counter began
to turn over the pages he had bought, though that he
read nothing was obvious.

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FELLOW-TOWNSMEN

At length he said, ' Is old Mr. Watkins still alive ? '
in a voice which had a curious youthful cadence in it
even now.

' My father is dead, sir,' said the young man.

'Ah, I am sorry to hear it,' said the stranger,
' But it is so many years since I last visited this town
that I could hardly expect it should be otherwise.'
After a short silence he continued — ' And is the firm
of Barnet, Browse, and Company still in existence? —
they used to be large flax-merchants and twine-spinners
here?'

'The firm is still going on, sir, but they have
dropped the name of Barnet. I believe that was a sort
of fancy name — at least, I never knew of any living
Barnet. 'Tis now Browse and Co.'

' And does Andrew Jones still keep on as architect ?

1 He's dead, sir.'

' And the Vicar of St. Mary's — Mr. Melrose ? '

' He's been dead a great many years.'

' Dear me ! ' He paused yet longer, and cleared
his voice. ' Is Mr. Downe, the solicitor, still in
practice ? '

' No, sir, he's dead. He died about seven years
ago.'

Here it was a longer silence still; and an attentive
observer would have noticed that the paper in the
stranger's hand increased its imperceptible tremor to a
visible shake. That gray-haired gentleman noticed it
himself, and rested the paper on the counter. ' Is
Mrs. Downe still alive ? ' he asked, closing his lips
firmly as soon as the words were out of his mouth, and
dropping his eyes.

'Yes, sir, she's alive and well. She's living at the
old place.'

' In East Street ? '

'O no; at Chateau Ringdale. I believe it has
been in the family for some generations.'
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WESSEX TALES

' She lives with her children, perhaps ? '

' No ; she has no children of her own. There were
some Miss Downes ; I think they were Mr. Downe's
daughters by a former wife; but they are married and
living in other parts of the town. Mrs. Downe lives
alone.'

1 Quite alone ? '

' Yes, sir ; quite alone.'

The newly-arrived gentleman went back to the hotel
and dined; after which he made some change in his
dress, shaved back his beard to the fashion that had
prevailed twenty years earlier, when he was young and
interesting, and once more emerging, bent his steps in
the direction of the harbour-road. Just before getting
to the point where the pavement ceased and the houses
isolated themselves, he overtook a shambling, stooping,
unshaven man, who at first sight appeared like a pro-
fessional tramp, his shoulders having a perceptible
greasiness as they passed under the gaslight. Each
pedestrian momentarily turned and regarded the other,
and the tramp-like gentleman started back.

<Good— why— is that Mr. Barnet? 'Tis Mr.
Barnet, surely ! '

' Yes ; and you are Charlson ? '

'Yes — ah — you notice my appearance. The Fates
have rather ill-used me. By- the- bye, that fifty pounds.
I never paid it, did I ? . . . But I was not ungrateful ! '
Here the stooping man laid one hand emphatically
on the palm of the other. ' I gave you a chance, Mr.
George Barnet, which many men would have thought
full value received — the chance to marry your Lucy.
As far as the world was concerned, your wife was a
drowned woman, hey ? '

1 Heaven forbid all that, Charlson ! '

( Well, well, 'twas a wrong way of showing gratitude,
I suppose. And now a drop of something to drink for
old acquaintance' sake ! And Mr. Barnet, she's again
164

FELLOW-TOWNSMEN

free — there's a chance now if you care for it — ha, ha ! '
And the speaker pushed his tongue into his hollow
cheek and slanted his eye in the old fashion.

'I know all/ said Barnet quickly; and slipping a
small present into the hands of the needy, saddening
man, he stepped ahead and was soon in the outskirts
of the town.

He reached the harbour-road, and paused before
the entrance to a well-known house. It was so highly
bosomed in trees and shrubs planted since the erection
of the building that one would scarcely have recognized
the spot as that which had been a mere neglected slope
till chosen as a site for a dwelling. He opened the
swing-gate, closed it noiselessly, and gently moved into
the semicircular drive, which remained exactly as it had
been marked out by Barnet on the morning when Lucy
Savile ran in to thank him for procuring her the post
of governess to Downe's children. But the growth of
trees and bushes which revealed itself at every step
was beyond all expectation ; sun-proof and moon-proof
bowers vaulted the walks, and the walls of the house
were uniformly bearded with creeping plants as high as
the first-floor windows.

After lingering for a few minutes in the dusk of the
bending boughs, the visitor rang the door-bell, and on
the servant appearing, he announced himself as { an old
friend of Mrs. Downe's.'

The hall was lighted, but not brightly, the gas being
turned low, as if visitors were rare. There was a stagna-
tion in the dwelling ; it seemed to be waiting. Could
it really be waiting for him ? The partitions which had
been probed by Barnet's walking-stick when the mortar
was green, were now quite brown with the antiquity of
their varnish, and the ornamental woodwork of the
staircase, which had glistened with a pale yellow new-
ness when first erected, was now of a rich wine-colour.
During the servant's absence the following colloquy

WESSEX TALES

could be dimly heard through the nearly closed door of
the drawing-room.

1 He didn't give his name ? '

' He only said " an old friend," ma'am.'

' What kind of gentleman is he ? '

1 A staidish gentleman, with gray hair.'

The voice of the second speaker seemed to affect
the listener greatly. After a pause, the lady said, * Very
well, I will see him.'

And the stranger was shown in face to face with the
Lucy who had once been Lucy Savile. The round
cheek of that formerly young lady had, of course, alarm-
ingly flattened its curve in her modern representative ; a
pervasive grayness overspread her once dark brown hair,
like morning rime on heather. The parting down the
middle was wide and jagged ; once it had been a thin
white line, a narrow crevice between two high banks of
shade. But there was still enough left to form a hand-
some knob behind, and some curls beneath inwrought
with a few hairs like silver wires were very becoming.
In her eyes the only modification was that their originally
mild rectitude of expression had become a little more
stringent than heretofore. Yet she was still girlish — a
girl who had been gratuitously weighted by destiny with
a burden of five-and-forty years instead of her proper
twenty.

1 Lucy, don't you know me ? ' he said, when the
servant had closed the door.

' I knew you the instant I saw you ! ' she returned
cheerfully. c I don't know why, but I always thought
you would come back to your old town again.'

She gave him her hand, and then they sat down.
' They said you were dead,' continued Lucy, ' but I never
thought so. We should have heard of it for certain
if you had been.'

* It is a very long time since we met.'
* Yes ; what you must have seen, Mr. Barnet, in all
166

FELLOW-TOWNSMEN

these roving years, in comparison with what I have seen
in this quiet place ! J 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.
k 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
167

WESSEX TALES

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.'

1 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 ! '
168

FELLOW-TOWNSMEN

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.'

1 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 sup-
pose.' 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
169

WESSEX TALES

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 philo-
sophically 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
170

FELLOW-TOWNSMEN

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 dif-
ferent from those which ruled only four-and-twenty
short hours ago. What had been at first a tantalizing
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 resem-
bling 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 pro-
bably return in the course of the week.

The note was sent back, to be given to him immedi-
ately 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.

171

WESSEX TALES

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

1 HE 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, never-
theless, 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 merci-
lessly 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
175

WESSEX TALES

there filled his mind ; for in truth it was important.
Not altogether so important was it, perhaps, when esti-
mated 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 Barton'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 brim-
ming with commercial subtlety. In Darton the son,
this trade subtlety had become transmuted into emo-
tional, 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 Barton'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^

INTERLOPERS AT THE KNAP

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
177 "M

WESSEX TALES

(in a measured musical voice of confidence which re-
vealed 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.'

' Ay,' said Johns. « However, I shouldn't call Sally
Hall simple. Primary, because no Sally is ; secondary,
because if some could be, this one wouldn't. Tis a
wrong denomination to apply to a woman, Charles, and
affects me, as your best man, like cold water. 'Tis like
recommending a stage play by saying there's neither
murder, villainy, nor harm of any sort in it, when that's
what you've paid your half-crown to see.'

'Well; may your opinion do you good. Mine's a
different one.' And turning the conversation from the
philosophical to the practical, Darton expressed a hope
that the said Sally had received what he'd sent on by
the carrier that day.

Johns wanted to know what that was.

' It is a dress,' said Darton. * Not exactly a wedding-
dress ; though she may use it as one if she likes. It
is rather serviceable than showy — suitable for the winter
weather.'

' Good,' said Johns. ' Serviceable is a wise word in
a bridegroom. I commend ye, Charles.'

' For,' said Darton, c why should a woman dress up
like a rope-dancer because she's going to do the most
solemn deed of her life except dying ? '

' Faith, why ? But she will, because she will, I
suppose,' said Dairyman Johns.
178

INTERLOPERS AT THE KNAP

* H'm,' said Barton.

The lane they followed had been nearly straight for
several miles, but it now took a turn, and winding un-
certainly for some distance forked into two. By night
country roads are apt to reveal ungainly qualities which
pass without observation during day ; and though Darton
had travelled this way before, he had not done so fre-
quently, Sally having been wooed at the house of a
relative near his own. He never remembered seeing
at this spot a pair of alternative ways looking so equally
probable as these two did now. Johns rode on a few
steps.

1 Don't be out of heart, sonny/ he cried. ' Here's a
handpost. Enoch — come and climm this post, and tell
us the way.'

The lad dismounted, and jumped into the hedge
where the post stood under a tree.

' Unstrap the baskets, or you'll smash up that wine ! '
cried Darton, as the young man began spasmodically to
climb the post, baskets and all.

'Was there ever less head in a brainless world?'
said Johns. ' Here, simple Nocky, I'll do it.' He
leapt off, and with much puffing climbed the post,
striking a match when he reached the top, and moving
the light along the arm, the lad standing and gazing at
the spectacle.

' I have fared tantalization these twenty years with a
temper as mild as milk ! ' said Japheth ; * but such' things
as this don't come short of devilry ! ' And flinging the
match away, he slipped down to the ground.

' What's the matter ? ' asked Darton.

'Not a letter, sacred or heathen — not so much as
would tell us the way to the great fireplace — ever I
should sin to say it ! Either the moss and mildew
have eat away the words, or we have arrived in a land
where the natyves have lost the art o' writing, and should
ha' brought our compass like Christopher Columbus.'
179

WESSEX TALES

'Let us take the straightest road,' said Darton
placidly; 'I shan't he sorry to get there — 'tis a tire-
some ride. I would have driven if I had known.'

* Nor I neither, sir/ said Enoch. ' These straps
plough my shoulder like a zull. If 'tis much further
to your lady's home, Maister Darton, I shall ask to be
let carry half of these good things in my innerds —
hee, hee ! '

' Don't you be such a reforming radical, Enoch,' said
Johns sternly. ' Here, I'll take the turkey.'

This being done, they went forward by the right-hand
lane, which ascended a hill, the left winding away under
a plantation. The pit-a-pat of their horses' hoofs lessened
up the slope; and the ironical directing-post stood in
solitude as before, holding out its blank arms to the
raw breeze, which brought a snore from the wood as if
Skrymir the Giant were sleeping there.

INTERLOPERS AT THE KNAP

THREE miles to the left of the travellers, along the
road they had not followed, rose an old house with
mullioned windows of Ham-hill stone, and chimneys of
lavish solidity. It stood at the top of a slope beside
King's-Hintock village-street ; and immediately in front
of it grew a large sycamore-tree, whose bared roots
formed a convenient staircase from the road below to
the front door of the dwelling. Its situation gave the
house what little distinctive name it possessed, namely,
' The Knap.' Some forty yards off a brook dribbled
past, which, for its size, made a great deal of noise. At
the back was a dairy barton, accessible for vehicles and
live-stock by a side ' drong.' Thus much only of the
character of the homestead could be divined out of
doors at this shady evening-time.

But within there was plenty of light to see by, as
plenty was construed at Hintock. Beside a Tudor
fireplace, whose moulded four-centred arch was nearly
hidden by a figured blue-cloth blower, were seated two
women — mother and daughter — Mrs. Hall, and Sarah,
or Sally; for this was a part of the world where the
latter modification had not as yet been effaced as a
vulgarity by the march of intellect. The owner of
the name was the young woman by whose means Mr,
181

WESSEX TALES

Darton proposed to put an end to his bachelor condition
on the approaching day.

The mother's bereavement had been so long ago as
not to leave much mark of its occurrence upon her
now, either in face or clothes. She had resumed the
mob-cap of her early married life, enlivening its white-
ness by a few rose-du-Barry ribbons. Sally required
no such aids to pinkness. Roseate good-nature lit up
her gaze; her features showed curves of decision and
judgment ; and she might have been regarded without
much mistake as a warm-hearted, quick-spirited, hand-
some girl.

She did most of the talking, her mother listening
with a half-absent air, as she picked up fragments of
red-hot wood ember with the tongs, and piled them
upon the brands. But the number of speeches that
passed was very small in proportion to the meanings
exchanged. Long experience together often enabled
them to see the course of thought in each other's
minds without a word being spoken. Behind them, in
the centre of the room, the table was spread for supper,
certain whiffs of air laden with fat vapours, which ever
and anon entered from the kitchen, denoting its prepara-
tion there.

'The new gown he was going to send you stays
about on the way like himself,' Sally's mother was
saying.

'Yes, not finished, I daresay,' cried Sally indepen-
dently. ' Lord, I shouldn't be amazed if it didn't come
at all ! Young men make such kind promises when
they are near you, and forget 'em when they go away.
But he doesn't intend it as a wedding-gown — he gives
it to me merely as a gown to wear when I like — a
travelling-dress is what it would be called by some.
Come rathe or come late it don't much matter, as I
have a dress of my own to fall back upon. But what
time is it ? '

182

INTERLOPERS AT THE KNAP*

She went to the family clock and opened the glass,
for the hour was not otherwise discernible by night,
and indeed at all times was rather a thing to be in-
vestigated than beheld, so much more wall than window
was there in the apartment. ' It is nearly eight,' said
she.

'Eight o'clock, and neither dress nor man,' said
Mrs. Hall.

* Mother, if you think to tantalize me by talking like
that, you are much mistaken ! Let him be as late as
he will — or stay away altogether — I don't care,' said
Sally. But a tender, minute quaver in the negation
showed that there was something forced in that state-
ment.

Mrs. Hall perceived it, and drily observed that she
was not so sure about Sally not caring. ' But perhaps
you don't care so much as I do, after all,' she said.
< For I see what you don't, that it is a good and
flourishing match for you; a very honourable offer in
Mr. Barton. And I think I see a kind husband in
him. So pray God 'twill go smooth, and wind up
well.'

Sally would not listen to misgivings. Of course it
would go smoothly, she asserted. ' How you are up
and down, mother ! ' she went on. ' At this moment,
whatever hinders him, we are not so anxious to see him
as he is to be here, and his thought runs on before
him, and settles down upon us like the star in the
east. Hark ! ' she exclaimed, with a breath of relief,
her eyes sparkling. ' I heard something. Yes — here
they are ! '

The next moment her mother's slower ear also dis-
tinguished the familiar reverberation occasioned by foot-
steps clambering up the roots of the sycamore.

' Yes it sounds like them at last,' she said. ' Well,
it is not so very late after all, considering the dis-
tance.'

183

WESSEX TALES

The footfall ceased, and they arose, expecting a
knock. They began to think it might have been, after
all, some neighbouring villager under Bacchic influence,
giving the centre of the road a wide berth, when their
doubts were dispelled by the new-comer's entry into the
passage. The door of the room was gently opened,
and there appeared, not the pair of travellers with
whom we have already made acquaintance, but a pale-
faced man in the garb of extreme poverty — almost
in rags.

' O, it's a tramp — gracious me ! ' said Sally, starting
back.

His cheeks and eye-orbits were deep concaves —
rather, it might be, from natural weakness of constitu-
tion than irregular living, though there were indica-
tions that he had led no careful life. He gazed at
the two women fixedly for a moment: then with an
abashed, humiliated demeanour, dropped his glance
to the floor, and sank into a chair without uttering a
word.

Sally was in advance of her mother, who had re-
mained standing by the fire. She now tried to discern
the visitor across the candles.

1 Why — mother,' said Sally faintly, turning back to
Mrs. Hall. ' It is Phil, from Australia ! '

Mrs. Hall started, and grew pale, and a fit of
coughing seized the man with the ragged clothes.
'To come home like this ! ' she said. ' O, Philip — are
you ill ? '

* No, no, mother,' replied he impatiently, as soon as
he could speak.

'But for God's sake how do you come here — and
just now too ? '

'Well, I am here,' said the man. 'How it is I
hardly know. I've come home, mother, because I was
driven to it. Things were against me out there, and
went from bad to worse.'

184

INTERLOPERS AT THE KNAP

' Then why didn't you let us know ? — you've not
writ a line for the last two or three years.'

The son admitted sadly that he had not. He said
that he had hoped and thought he might fetch up again,
and be able to send good news. Then he had been
obliged to abandon that hope, and had finally come
home from sheer necessity — previously to making a
new start. ' Yes, things are very bad with me,' he
repeated, perceiving their commiserating glances at his
clothes.

They brought him nearer the fire, took his hat
from his thin hand, which was so small and smooth
as to show that his attempts to fetch up again
had not been in a manual direction. His mother re-
sumed her inquiries, and dubiously asked if he had
chosen to come that particular night for any special
reason.

For no reason, he told her. His arrival had been
quite at random. Then Philip Hall looked round the
room, and saw7 for the first time that the table was laid
somewhat luxuriously, and for a larger number than
themselves ; and that an air of festivity pervaded their
dress. He asked quickly what was going on.

' Sally is going to be married in a day or two,' re-
plied the mother ; and she explained how Mr. Darton,
Sally's intended husband, was coming there that night
with the groomsman, Mr. Johns, and other details. ' We
thought it must be their step when we heard you,' said
Mrs. Hall.

The needy wanderer looked again on the floor. ' I
see — I see,' he murmured. 'Why, indeed, should I
have come to-night? Such folk as I are^ not wanted
here at these times, naturally. And I have no business
here — spoiling other people's happiness.'

' Phil,' said his mother, with a tear in her eye, but
with a thinness of lip and severity of manner which
were presumably not more than past events justified;

WESSEX TALES

' since you speak like that to me, I'll speak honestly to
you. For these three years you have taken no thought
for us. You left home with a good supply of money,
and strength and education, and you ought to have
made good use of it all. But you come back like a
beggar ; and that you come in a very awkward time for
us cannot be denied. Your return to-night may do us
much harm. But mind — you are welcome to this home
as long as it is mine. I don't wish to turn you adrift.
We will make the best of a bad job; and I hope you
are not seriously ill ? '

' O no. I have only this infernal cough.'

She looked at him anxiously. ' I think you had
better go to bed at once,' she said.

'Well — I shall be out of the way there,' said the
son wearily. < Having ruined myself, don't let me ruin
you by being seen in these togs, for Heaven's sake.
Who do you say Sally is going to be married to — a
Farmer Darton?'

'Yes — a gentleman-farmer — quite a wealthy man.
Far better in station than she could have expected. It
is a good thing, altogether.'

1 Well done, little Sal ! ' said her brother, brightening
and looking up at her with a smile. ' I ought to have
written ; but perhaps I have thought of you all the more.
But let me get out of sight. I would rather go and
jump into the river than be seen here. But have you
anything I can drink ? I am confoundedly thirsty with
my long tramp.'

' Yes, yes, we will bring something upstairs to you,'
said Sally, with grief in her face.

' Ay, that will do nicely. But, Sally and mother — '
He stopped, and they waited. c Mother, I have not
told you all,' he resumed slowly, still looking on the
floor between his knees. ' Sad as what you see of me
is, there's worse behind.'

His mother gazed upon him in grieved suspense,
186

INTERLOPERS AT THE KNAP

and Sally went and leant upon the bureau, listening for
every sound, and sighing. Suddenly she turned round,
saying, ' Let them come, I don't care ! Philip, tell the
worst, and take your time.'

' Well, then,' said the unhappy Phil, ' I am not the
only one in this mess. Would to Heaven I were !
But '

1 O, Phil ! '

* I have a wife as destitute as I.'

* A wife ? ' said his mother.

< Unhappily ! '

c A wife ! Yes, that is the way with sons ! ;
'And besides ' said he.

< Besides ! O, Philip, surely '

' I have two little children.'

' Wife and children ! ' whispered Mrs. Hall, sinking
down confounded.

' Poor little things ! ' said Sally involuntarily.

His mother turned again to him. ' I suppose these
helpless beings are left in Australia ? '

' No. They are in England.'

4 Well, I can only hope you've left them in a respect-
able place.'

' I have not left them at all. They are here —
within a few yards of us. In short, they are in the
stable.'

'Where?'

' In the stable. I did not like to bring them indoors
till I had seen you, mother, and broken the bad news
a bit to you. They were very tired, and are resting out
there on some straw.'

Mrs. Hall's fortitude visibly broke down. She had
been brought up not without refinement, and was even
more moved by such a collapse of genteel aims as this
than a substantial dairyman's widow would in ordinary
have been moved. ' Well, it must be borne,' she said,
in a low voice, with her hands tightly joined. ' A

WESSEX TALES

starving son, a starving wife, starving children ! Let
it be. But why is this come to us now, to-day, to-
night? Could no other misfortune happen to help-
less women than this, which will quite upset my poor
girl's chance of a happy life? Why have you done
us this wrong, Philip? What respectable man will
come here, and marry open-eyed into a family of vaga-
bonds ? '

' Nonsense, mother ! ' said Sally vehemently, while
her face flushed. « Charley isn't the man to desert me.
But if he should be, and won't marry me because
Phil's come, let him go and marry elsewhere. I won't
be ashamed of my own flesh and 'blood for any man in
England — not I ! ' And then Sally turned away and
burst into tears.

' Wait till you are twenty years older and you will
tell a different tale,' replied her mother.

The son stood up. « Mother,' he said bitterly, « as
I have come, so I will go. All I ask of you is that you
will allow me and mine to lie in your stable to-night.
I give you my word that we'll be gone by break of day,
and trouble you no further ! '

Mrs. Hall, the mother, changed at that. ' O no/
she answered hastily; 'never shall it be said that I
sent any of my own family from my door. Bring 'em
in, Philip, or take me out to them.'

' We will put 'em all into the large bedroom,' said
Sally, brightening, * and make up a large fire. Let's go
and help them in, and call Rebekah.' (Rebekah was
the woman who assisted at the dairy and housework ;
she lived in a cottage hard by with her husband, who
attended to the cows.)

Sally went to fetch a lantern from the back-kitchen,
but her brother said, ' You won't want a light. I lit the
lantern that was hanging there.'

' What must we call your wife ? ' asked Mrs. Hall.

' Helena,' said Philip.

188

INTERLOPERS AT THE KNAP

With shawls over their heads they proceeded towards
the back door.

' One minute before you go,' interrupted Philip. ' I
— I haven't confessed all.'

* Then Heaven help us ! ' said Mrs. Hall, push-
ing to the door and clasping her hands in calm
despair.

' We passed through Evershead as we came,' he con-
tinued, ' and I just looked in at the " Sow-and-Acorn "
to see if old Mike still kept on there as usual. The
carrier had come in from Sherton Abbas at that moment,
and guessing that I was bound for this place — for I
think he knew me — he asked me to bring on a dress-
maker's parcel for Sally that was marked " immediate."
My wife had walked on with the children. 'Twas a
flimsy parcel, and the paper was torn, and I found on
looking at it that it was a thick warm gown. I didn't
wish you to see poor Helena in a shabby state. I
was ashamed that you should — 'twas not what she
was born to. I untied the parcel in the road, took
it on to her where she was waiting in the Lower Barn,
and told her I had managed to get it for her, and
that she was to ask no question. She, poor thing, must
have supposed I obtained it on trust, through having
reached a place where I was known, for she put it on
gladly enough. She has it on now. Sally has other
gowns, I daresay.'

Sally looked at her mother, speechless.

' You have others, I daresay ! ' repeated Phil, with a
sick man's impatience. ' I thought to myself, " Better
Sally cry than Helena freeze." Well, is the dress of
great consequence? 'Twas nothing very ornamental,
as far as I could see.'

' No — no ; not of consequence,' returned Sally sadly,
adding in a gentle voice, ' You will not mind if I lend
her another instead of that one, will you ? '

Philip's agitation at the confession had brought on
189

WESSEX TALES

another attack of the cough, which seemed to shake
him to pieces. He was so obviously unfit to sit in
a chair that they helped him upstairs at once; and
having hastily given him a cordial and kindled the bed-
room fire, they descended to fetch their unhappy new
relations.

INTERLOPERS AT THE KNAP

III

IT was with strange feelings that the girl and her
mother, lately so cheerful, passed out of the back door
into the open air of the barton, laden with hay scents
and the herby breath of cows. A fine sleet had begun
to fall, and they trotted across the yard quickly. The
stable-door was open ; a light* shone from it — from the
lantern which always hung there, and which Philip had
lighted, as he said. Softly nearing the door, Mrs. Hall
pronounced the name ' Helena ! '

There was no answer for the moment. Looking in
she was taken by surprise. Two people appeared
before her. For one, instead of the drabbish woman
she had expected, Mrs. Hall saw a pale, dark-eyed, lady-
like creature, whose personality ruled her attire rather
than was ruled by it. She was in a new and handsome
gown, of course, and an old bonnet. She was standing
up, agitated; her hand was held by her companion —
none else than Sally's affianced, Farmer Charles Darton,
upon whose fine figure the pale stranger's eyes were
fixed, as his were fixed upon her. His other hand held
the rein of his horse, which was standing saddled as if
just led in.

At sight of Mrs. Hall they both turned, looking at
her in a way neither quite conscious nor unconscious,
and without seeming to recollect that words were neces-

19T

WESSEX TALES

sary as a solution to the scene. In another moment
Sally entered also, when Mr. Darton dropped his com-
panion's hand, led the horse aside, and came to greet
his betrothed and Mrs. Hall.

* Ah ! ' he said, smiling — with something like forced
composure — ' this is a roundabout way of arriving, you
will say, my dear Mrs. Hall. But we lost our way,
which made us late. I saw a light here, and led in my
horse at once — my friend Johns and my man have gone
back to the little inn with theirs, not to crowd you too
much. No sooner had I entered than I saw that this
lady had taken temporary shelter here — and found I
was intruding.'

* She is my daughter-in-law,' said Mrs. Hall calmly.
1 My son, too, is in the house, but he has gone to bed
unwell.'

Sally had stood staring wonderingly at the scene
until this moment, hardly recognizing Darton's shake of
the hand. The spell that bound her was broken by her
perceiving the two little children seated on a heap of
hay. She suddenly went forward, spoke to them, and
took one on her arm and the other in her hand.

' And two children ? ' said Mr. Darton, showing thus
that he had not been there long enough as yet to under-
stand the situation.

' My grandchildren,' said Mrs. Hall, with as much
affected ease as before.

• Philip Hall's wife, in spite of this interruption to
her first rencounter, seemed scarcely so much affected
by it as to feel any one's presence in addition to Mr.
Darton's. However, arousing herself by a quick re-
flection, she threw a sudden critical glance of her sad
eyes upon Mrs. Hall ; and, apparently finding her satis-
factory, advanced to her in a meek initiative. Then
Sally and the stranger spoke some friendly words to
each other, and Sally went on with the children into
the house. Mrs. Hall and Helena followed, and Mr.
192

INTERLOPERS AT THE KNAP

Darton followed these, looking at Helena's dress and
outline, and listening to her voice like a man in a
dream.

By the time the others 'reached the house Sally had
already gone upstairs with the tired children. She
rapped against the wall for Rebekah^to come in and
help to attend to them, Rebekah's house being a little
' spit-and-dab ' cabin leaning against the substantial stone-
work of Mrs. Hall's taller erection. When she came a
bed was made up for the little ones, and some supper given
to them. On descending the stairs after seeing this done
Sally went to the sitting-room. Young Mrs. Hall
entered it just in advance of her, having in the interim
retired with her mother-in-law to take off her bonnet,
and otherwise make herself presentable. Hence it was
evident that no further communication could have
passed between her and Mr. Darton since their brief
interview in the stable.

Mr. Japheth Johns now opportunely arrived, and
broke up the restraint of the company, after a few
orthodox meteorological commentaries had passed be-
tween him and Mrs. Hall by way of introduction. They
at once sat down to supper, the present of wine and
turkey not being produced for consumption to-night,
lest the premature display of those gifts should seem
to throw doubt on Mrs. Hall's capacities as a provider.

1 Drink hearty, Mr. Johns — drink hearty,' said that
matron magnanimously. 'Such as it is there's plenty
of. But perhaps cider-wine is not to your taste? —
though there's body in it.'

'Quite the contrairy, ma'am — quite the contrairy,'
said the dairyman. 'For though I inherit the malt-
liquor principle from my father, I am a cider-drinker
on my mother's side. She came from these parts, you
know. And there's this to be said for't — 'tis a more
peaceful liquor, and don't lie about a man like your
hotter drinks. With care, one may live on it a twelve-

I93 N

WESSEX TALES

month without knocking down a neighbour, or getting
a black eye from an old acquaintance.'

The general conversation thus begun was continued
briskly, though it was in the main restricted to Mrs.
Hall and Japheth, who in truth required but little help
from anybody. There being slight call upon Sally's
tongue, she had ample leisure to do what her heart
most desired, namely, watch her intended husband and
her sister-in-law with a view of elucidating the strange
momentary scene in which her mother and herself had
surprised them in the stable. If that scene meant
anything, it meant, at least, that they had met before.
That there had been no time for explanations Sally
could see, for their manner was still one of suppressed
amazement at each other's presence there. Barton's
eyes, too, fell continually on the gown worn by Helena
as if this were an added riddle to his perplexity ; though
to Sally it was the one feature in the case which was
no mystery. He seemed to feel that fate had impishly
changed his vis-a-vis in the lover's jig he was about
to foot; that while the gown had been expected to
enclose a Sally, a Helena's face looked out from the
bodice; that some long-lost hand met his own from
the sleeves.

Sally could see that whatever Helena might 'know
of Darton, she knew nothing of how the dress entered
into his embarrassment. And at moments the young
girl would have persuaded herself that Barton's looks
at her sister-in-law were entirely the fruit of the clothes
query. But surely at other times a more extensive
range of speculation and sentiment was expressed by
her lover's eye than that which the changed dress would
account for.

Sally's independence made her one of the least
jealous of women. But there was something in the
relations of these two visitors which ought to be
explained.

194

INTERLOPERS AT THE KNAP

Japheth Johns continued to converse in his well-
known style, interspersing his talk with some private
reflections on the position of Darton and Sally, which,
though the sparkle in his eye showed them to be highly
entertaining to himself, were apparently not quite com-
municable to the company. At last he withdrew for
the night, going off to the roadside inn half-a-mile
back, whither Darton promised to follow him in a few
minutes.

Half-an-hour passed, and then Mr. Darton also rose
to leave, Sally and her sister-in-law simultaneously wish-
ing him good-night as they retired upstairs to their
rooms. But on his arriving at the front door with Mrs.
Hall a sharp shower of rain began to come down, when
the widow suggested that he should return to the fire-
side till the storm ceased.

Darton accepted her proposal, but insisted that, as it
was getting late, and she was obviously tired, she should
not sit up on his account, since he could let himself out
of the house, and would quite enjoy smoking a pipe by
the hearth alone. Mrs. Hall assented ; and Darton was
left by himself. He spread his knees to the brands, lit
up his tobacco as he had said, and sat gazing into the
fire, and at the notches of the chimney-crook which
hung above.

An occasional drop of rain rolled down the chimney
with a hiss, and still he smoked on ; but not like a man
whose mind was at rest. In the long run, however,
despite his meditations, early hours afield and a long
ride in the open air produced their natural result. He
began to doze.

How long he remained in this half-unconscious state
he did not know. He suddenly opened his eyes. The
back-brand had burnt itself in two, and ceased to flame ;
the light which he had placed on the mantelpiece had
nearly gone out. But in spite of these deficiencies
there was a light in the apartment, and it came from.
195

WESSEX TALES

elsewhere. Turning his head he saw Philip Hall's wife
standing at the entrance of the room with a bed-candle
in one hand, a small brass tea-kettle in the other, and
his gown, as it certainly seemed, still upon her.

' Helena ! ' said Darton, starting up.

Her countenance expressed dismay, and her first
words were an apology. « I — did not know you were
here, Mr. Darton,' she said, while a blush flashed to
her cheek. 'I thought every one had retired — I was
coming to make a little water boil ; my husband seems
to be worse. But perhaps the kitchen fire can be
lighted up again.'

* Don't go on my account. By all means put it on
here as you intended,' said Darton. * Allow me to help
you/ He went forward to take the kettle from her
hand, but she did not allow him, and placed it on the
fire herself.

They stood some way apart, one on each side of the
fireplace, waiting till the water should boil, the candle
on the mantel between them, and Helena with her eyes
on the kettle. Darton was the first to break the silence.
< Shall I call Sally ? ' he said.

* O no/ she quickly returned. ' We have given
trouble enough already. We have no right here. But
we are the sport of fate, and were obliged to come/

* No right here ! ' said he in surprise.

'None. I can't explain it now,' answered Helena,
' This kettle is very slow.'

There was another pause ; the proverbial dilatoriness
of watched pots was never more clearly exemplified.

Helena's face was of that sort which seems to ask
for assistance without the owner's knowledge — the very
antipodes of Sally's, which was self-reliance expressed.
Darton's eyes travelled from the kettle to Helena's face,
then back to the kettle, then to the face for rather a
longer time. ' So I am not to know anything of the
mystery that has distracted me all the evening?' he
196

INTERLOPERS AT THE KNAP

said. * How is it that a woman, who refused me because
(as I supposed) my position was not good enough for
her taste, is found to be the wife of a man who certainly
seems to be worse off than I ? '

1 He had the prior claim,' said she.

* What ! you knew him at that time ? '

' Yes, yes ! Please say no more,' she implored.
• Whatever my errors, I have paid for them during the
last five years ! '

The heart of Darton was subject to sudden over-
flowings. He was kind to a fault. * I am sorry from
my soul,' he said, involuntarily approaching her. Helena
withdrew a step or two, at which he became conscious
of his movement, and quickly took his former place.
Here he stood without speaking, and the little kettle
began to sing.

'Well, you might have been my wife if you had
chosen,' he said at last. ' But that's all past and gone.
However, if you are in any trouble or poverty I shall be
glad to be of service, and as your relation by marriage
I shall have a right to be. Does your uncle know of
your distress ? '

' My uncle is dead. He left me without a farthing.
And now we have two children to maintain.'

' What, left you nothing ? How could he be so cruel
as that ? '

' I disgraced myself in his eyes/

'Now/ said Darton earnestly, 'let me take care of
the children, at least while you are so unsettled. You
belong to another, so I cannot take care of you.'

'Yes you can,' said a voice; and suddenly a third
figure stood beside them. It was Sally. 'You can,
since you seem to wish to?' she repeated. 'She no
longer belongs to another. . . . My poor brother is
dead ! '

Her face was red, her eyes sparkled, and all the
woman came to the front. ' I have heard it ! ' she
197

WESSEX TALES

went on to him passionately. 'You can protect her
now as well as the children ! ' She turned then to her
agitated sister-in-law. 'I heard something,' said Sally
(in a gentle murmur, differing much from her previous
passionate words), * and I went into his room. It must
have been the moment you left. He went off so quickly,
and weakly, and it was so unexpected, that I couldn't
leave even to call you.'

Darton was just able to gather from the confused
discourse which followed that, during his sleep by
the fire, this brother whom he had never seen had
become worse; and that during Helena's absence for
water the end had unexpectedly come. The two young
women hastened upstairs, and he was again left
alone.

After standing there a short time he went to the
front door and looked out ; till, softly closing it behind
him, he advanced and stood under the large sycamore-
tree. The stars were flickering coldly, and the damp-
ness which had just descended upon the earth in rain
now sent up a chill from it. Darton was in a strange
position, and he felt it. The unexpected appearance,
in deep poverty, of Helena — a young lady, daughter of
a deceased naval officer, who had been brought up by
her uncle, a solicitor, and had refused Darton in marriage
years ago — the passionate, almost angry demeanour of
Sally at discovering them, the abrupt announcement that
Helena was a widow; all this coming together was a
conjuncture difficult to cope with in a moment, and
made him question whether he ought to leave the house
or offer assistance. But for Sally's manner he would
unhesitatingly have done the latter.

He was still standing under the tree when the door

in front of him opened, and Mrs. Hall came out. She

went round to the garden-gate at the side without

seeing him. Darton followed her, intending to speak.

198

INTERLOPERS AT THE KNAP

Pausing outside, as if in thought, she proceeded to a
spot where the sun came earliest in spring-time, and
where the north wind never blew; it was where the
row of beehives stood under the wall. Discerning her
object, he waited till she had accomplished it.

It was the universal custom thereabout to wake the
bees by tapping at their hives whenever a death occurred
in the household, under the belief that if this were not
done the bees themselves would pine away and perish
during the ensuing year. As soon as an interior buzzing
responded to her tap at the first hive Mrs. Hall went
on to the second, and thus passed down the row. As
soon as she came back he met her.

'What can I do in this trouble, Mrs. Hall?' he
said.

' O — nothing, thank you, nothing,' she said in a
tearful voice, now just perceiving him. 'We have
called Rebekah and her husband, and they will do
everything necessary.' She told him in a few words
the particulars of her son's arrival, broken in health
— indeed, at death's very door, though they did not
suspect it — and suggested, as the result of a conversa-
tion between her and her daughter, that the wedding
should be postponed.

'Yes, of course/ said Darton. 'I think now to
go straight to the inn and tell Johns what has hap-
pened.' It was not till after he had shaken hands
with her that he turned hesitatingly and added, 'Will
you tell the mother of his children that, as they are
now left fatherless, I shall be glad to take the eldest
of them, if it would be any convenience to her and to
you?'

Mrs. Hall promised that her son's widow should be
told of the offer, and they parted. He retired down
the rooty slope and disappeared in the direction of the
inn, where he informed Johns of the circumstances.
Meanwhile Mrs. Hall had entered the house. Sally
199

WESSEX TALES

was downstairs in the sitting-room alone, and her mother
explained to her that Darton had readily assented to
the postponement.

c No doubt he has/ said Sally, with sad emphasis.
'It is not put off for a week, or a month, or a year.
I shall never marry him, and she will ! '

INTERLOPERS AT THE KNAP

1 IME passed, and the household on the Knap became
again serene under the composing influences of daily
routine. A desultory, very desultory correspondence,
dragged on between Sally Hall and Darton, who, not
quite knowing how to take her petulant words on the
night of her brother's death, had continued passive thus
long. Helena and her children remained at the dairy-
house, almost of necessity, and Darton therefore deemed
it advisable to stay away.

One day, seven months later on, when Mr. Darton
was as usual at his farm, twenty miles from Hintock,
a note reached him from Helena. She thanked him
for his kind offer about her children, which her mother-
in-law had duly communicated, and stated that she
would be glad to accept it as regarded the eldest, the
boy. Helena had, in truth, good need to do so, for
her uncle had left her penniless, and all application to
some relatives in the north had failed. There was,
besides, as she said, no good school near Hintock to
which she could send the child.

On a fine summer day the boy came. He was
accompanied half-way by Sally and his mother — to the
1 White Horse/ at Chalk Newton — where he was handed
over to Darton 's bailiff in a shining spring-cart, who
met them there.

201

WESSEX TALES

He was entered as a day-scholar at a popular school
at Casterbridge, three or four miles from Barton's,
having first been taught by Darton to ride a forest-
pony, on which he cantered to and from the aforesaid
fount of knowledge, and (as Darton hoped) brought
away a promising headful of the same at each diurnal
expedition. The thoughtful taciturnity into which
Darton had latterly fallen was quite dissipated by the
presence of this boy.

When the Christmas holidays came it was arranged
that he should spend them with his mother. The
journey was, for some reason or other, performed in
two stages, as at his coming, except that Darton in
person took the place of the bailiff, and that the boy
and himself rode on horseback.

Reaching the renowned ' White Horse,' Darton in-
quired if Miss and young Mrs. Hall were there to
meet little Philip (as they had agreed to be). He was
answered by the appearance of Helena alone at the door.

'At the last moment Sally would not come,' she
faltered.

That meeting practically settled the point towards
which these long-severed persons were converging.
But nothing was broached about it for some time yet.
Sally Hall had, in fact, imparted the first decisive
motion to events by refusing to accompany Helena.
She soon gave them a second move by writing the
following note : —

' [Private.]

' DEAR CHARLES, — Living here so long and intimately with
Helena, I have naturally learnt her history, especially that of it
which refers to you. I am sure she would accept you as a husband
at the proper time, and I think you ought to give her the oppor-
tunity. You inquire in an old note if I am sorry that I showed
temper (which it wasn't] that night when I heard you talking to her.
No, Charles, I am not sorry at all for what I said then. — Yours
sincerely, SALLY HALL.'

202

INTERLOPERS AT THE KNAP

Thus set in train, the transfer of Barton's heart back
to its original quarters proceeded by mere lapse of
time. In the following July, Darton went to his friend
Japheth to ask him at last to fulfil the bridal office
which had been in abeyance since the previous January
twelvemonths.

* With all my heart, man o' constancy ! ' said Dairy-
man Johns warmly. « I've lost most of my genteel fair
complexion haymaking this hot weather, 'tis true, but
I'll do your business as well as them that look better.
There be scents and good hair-oil in the world yet,
thank God, and they'll take off the roughest o' my edge.
I'll compliment her. " Better late than never, Sally
Hall," I'll say.'

' It is not Sally,' said Darton hurriedly. ' It is young
Mrs. Hall.'

Japheth's face, as soon as he really comprehended,
became a picture of reproachful dismay. * Not Sally ? '
he said. ' Why not Sally ? I can't believe it ! Young
Mrs. Hall ! Well, well — where's your wisdom ? '

Darton shortly explained particulars ; but Johns
would not be reconciled. 'She was a woman worth
having if ever woman was,' he cried. ' And now to let
her go ! '

' But I suppose I can marry where I like,' said
Darton.

1 H'm,' replied the dairyman, lifting his eyebrows ex-
pressively. ' This don't become you, Charles — it really
do not. If I had done such a thing you would have
sworn I was a curst no'thern fool to be drawn off the
scent by such a red-herring doll-oll-oll.'

Farmer Darton responded in- such sharp terms to
this laconic opinion that the two friends finally parted
in a way they had never parted before. Johns was to
be no groomsman to Darton after all. He had flatly
declined. Darton went off sorry, and even unhappy,
particularly as Japheth was about to leave that side
203

WESSEX TALES

of the county, so that the words which had divided
them were not likely to be explained away or softened
down.

A short time after the interview Darton was united
to Helena at a simple matter-of fact wedding; and she
and her little girl joined the boy who had already grown
to look on Barton's house as home.

For some months the farmer experienced an unpre-
cedented happiness and satisfaction. There had been
a flaw in his life, and it was as neatly mended as was
humanly possible. But after a season the stream of
events followed less clearly, and there were shades in his
reveries. Helena was a fragile woman, of little staying
power, physically or morally, and since the time that he
had originally known her — eight or ten years before —
she had been severely tried. She had loved herself out,
in short, and was now occasionally given to moping.
Sometimes she spoke regretfully of the gentilities of her
early life, and instead of comparing her present state
with her condition as the wife of the unlucky Hall, she
mused rather on what it had been before she took the
first fatal step of clandestinely marrying him. She did
not care to please such people as those with whom she
was thrown as a thriving farmer's wife. She allowed
the pretty trifles of agricultural domesticity to glide by
her as sorry details, and had it not been for the children
Barton's house would have seemed but little brighter
than it had been before.

This led to occasional unpleasantness, until Barton
sometimes declared to himself that such endeavours as
his to rectify early deviations of the heart by harking
back to the old point mostly failed of success. ' Per-
haps Johns was right,' he would say. ' I should have
gone on with Sally. Better go with the tide and make
the best of its course than stem it at the risk of a
capsize/ But he kept these unmelodious thoughts to
himself, and was outwardly considerate and kind.
204

INTERLOPERS AT THE KNAP

This somewhat barren tract of his life had extended
to less than a year and a half when his ponderings were
cut short by the loss of the woman they concerned.
When she was in her grave he thought better of her
than when she had been alive ; the farm was a worse
place without her than with her, after all. No woman
short of divine could have gone through such an
experience as hers with her first husband without be-
coming a little soured. Her stagnant sympathies, her
sometimes unreasonable manner, had covered a heart
frank and well meaning, and originally hopeful and
warm. She left him a tiny red infant in white wrappings.
To make life as easy as possible to this touching object
became at once his care.

As this child learnt to walk and talk Darton learnt to
see feasibility in a scheme which pleased him. Revolv-
ing the experiment which he had hitherto made upon
life, he fancied he had gained wisdom from his mistakes
and caution from his miscarriages.

What the scheme was needs no penetration to dis-
cover. Once more he had opportunity to recast and
rectify his ill-wrought situations by returning to Sally
Hall, who still lived quietly on under her mother's roof
at Hintock. Helena had been a woman to lend pathos
and refinement to a home; Sally was the woman to
brighten it. She would not, as Helena did, despise the
rural simplicities of a farmer's fireside. Moreover, she
had a pre-eminent qualification for Barton's household ;
no other woman could make so desirable a mother to
her brother's two children and Barton's one as Sally —
while Barton, now that Helena had gone, was a more
promising husband for Sally than he had ever been
when liable to reminders from an uncured sentimental
wound.

Barton was not a man to act rapidly, and the work-
ing out of his reparative designs might have been delayed
for some time. But there came a winter evening pre-
205

WESSEX TALES

cisely like the one which had darkened over that former
ride to Hintock, and he asked himself why he should
postpone longer, when the very landscape called for a
repetition of that attempt.

He told his man to saddle the mare, booted and
spurred himself with a younger horseman's nicety,
kissed the two youngest children, and rode off. To
make the journey a complete parallel to the first, he
would fain have had his old acquaintance Japheth
Johns with him. But Johns, alas ! was missing. His
removal to the other side of the county had left unre-
paired the breach which had arisen between him and
Darton ; and though Darton had forgiven him a hundred
times, as Johns had probably forgiven Darton, the effort
of reunion in present circumstances was one not likely
to be made.

He screwed himself up to as cheerful a pitch as he
could without his former crony, and became content
with his own thoughts as he rode, instead of the words
of a companion. The sun went down; the boughs
appeared scratched in like an etching against the sky ;
old crooked men with faggots at their backs said
'Good- night,^ sir/ and Darton replied 'Good-night'
right heartily.

By the time he reached the forking roads it was
getting as dark as it had been on the occasion when
Johns climbed the directing-post. Darton made no
mistake this time. 'Nor shall I be able to mistake,
thank Heaven, when I arrive,' he murmured. It gave
him peculiar satisfaction to think that the proposed
marriage, like his first, was of the nature of setting in
order things long awry, and not a momentary freak of
fancy.

Nothing hindered the smoothness of his journey,

which seemed not half its former length. Though

dark, it was only between five and six o'clock when the

bulky chimneys of Mrs. Hall's residence appeared in

206

INTERLOPERS AT THE KNAP

view behind the sycamore-tree. On second thoughts
he retreated and put up at the ale-house as in former
time ; and when he had plumed himself before the inn
mirror, called for something to drink, and smoothed
out the incipient wrinkles of care, he walked on to the
Knap with a quick step.

WESSEX TALES

1 HAT evening Sally was making ' pinners ' for the
milkers, who were now increased by two, for her mother
and herself no longer joined in milking the cows them-
selves. But upon the whole there was little change in
the household economy, and not much in its appearance,
beyond such minor particulars as that the crack over
the window, which had been a hundred years coming,
was a trifle wider ; that the beams were a shade blacker ;
that the influence of modernism had supplanted the
open chimney corner by a grate; that Rebekah, who
had worn a cap when she had plenty of hair, had left it
off now she had scarce any, because it was reported that
caps were not fashionable; and that Sally's face had
naturally assumed a more womanly and experienced cast.

'Mrs. Hall was actually lifting coals with the tongs,
as she had used to do.

' Five years ago this very night, if I am not mis-
taken ' she said, laying on an ember.

4 Not this very night — though 'twas one night this
week,' said the correct Sally.

' Well, 'tis near enough. Five years ago Mr. Darton
came to marry you, and my poor boy Phil came home
to die.' She sighed. 'Ah, Sally,' she presently said,
' if you had managed well Mr. Darton would have had
you, Helena or none.'

208

INTERLOPERS AT THE KNAP

1 Don't be sentimental about that, mother/ begged
Sally. ' I didn't care to manage well in such a case.
Though I liked him, I wasn't so anxious. I would
never have married the man in the midst of such a
hitch as that was,' she added with decision ; ' and I
don't think I would if he were to ask me now.'

* I am not sure about that, unless you have another
in your eye.'

' I wouldn't ; and I'll tell you why. I could hardly
marry him for love at this time o' day. And as we've
quite enough to live on if we give up the dairy to-
morrow, I should have no need to marry for any meaner
reason. ... I am quite happy enough as I am, and
there's an end of it.'

Now it was not long after this dialogue that there
came a mild rap at the door, and in a moment there
entered Rebekah, looking as though a ghost had
arrived. The fact was that that accomplished skimmer
and churner (now a resident in the house) had over-
heard the desultory observations between mother and
daughter, and on opening the door to Mr. Darton
thought the coincidence must have a grisly meaning in
it. Mrs. Hall welcomed the farmer with warm surprise,
as did Sally, and for a moment they rather wanted
words.

* Can you push up the chimney-crook for me, Mr.
Darton ? the notches hitch,' said the matron. He did
it, and the homely little act bridged over the awkward
consciousness that he had been a stranger for four years.

Mrs. Hall soon saw what he had come for, and left
the principals together while she went to prepare him
a late tea, smiling at Sally's recent hasty assertions of
indifference, when she saw how civil Sally was. When
tea was ready she joined them. She fancied that Darton
did not look so confident as when he had arrived;
but Sally was quite light-hearted, and the meal passed
pleasantly.

209 Q

WESSEX TALES

About seven he took his leave of them. Mrs. Hall
went as far as the door to light him down the slope.
On the doorstep he said frankly —

' I came to ask your daughter to marry me ; chose
the night and everything, with an eye to a favourable
answer. But she won't.'

* Then she's a very ungrateful girl ! ' emphatically
said Mrs. Hall.

Darton paused to shape his sentence, and asked, c I
— I suppose there's nobody else more favoured ? '

' I can't say that there is, or that there isn't,' answered
Mrs. Hall. ' She's private in some things. I'm on
your side, however, Mr. Darton, and I'll talk to her.'

' Thank 'ee, thank 'ee ! ' said the farmer in a gayer
accent ; and with this assurance the not very satisfactory
visit came to an end. Darton descended the roots of
the sycamore, the light was withdrawn, and the door
closed. At the bottom of the slope he nearly ran
against a man about to ascend.

' Can a jack-o'-lent believe his few senses on such a
dark night, or can't he ? ' exclaimed one whose utterance
Darton recognized in a moment, despite its unexpected-
ness. ' I dare not swear he can, though I fain would ! '
The speaker was Johns.

Darton said he was glad of this opportunity, bad as
it was, of putting an end to the silence of years, and
asked the dairyman what he was travelling that way for.

Japheth showed the old jovial confidence in a
moment. ' I'm going to see your — relations — as they
always seem to me,' he said — ' Mrs. Hall and Sally.
Well, Charles, the fact is I find the natural barbarous-
ness of man is much increased by a bachelor life, and,
as your leavings were always good enough for me, I'm
trying civilization here.' He nodded towards the house.

' Not with Sally — to marry her ? ' said Darton,
feeling something like a rill of ice water between his
shoulders.

INTERLOPERS AT THE KNAP

' Yes, by the help of Providence and my personal
charms. And I think I shall get her. I am this road
every week — my present dairy is only four miles off, you
know, and I see her through the window. 'Tis rather
odd that I was going to speak practical to-night to her
for the first time. You've just called ? '

* Yes, for a short while. But she didn't say a word
about you.'

' A good sign, a good sign. Now that decides me.
I'll swing the mallet and get her answer this very night
as I planned.'

A few more remarks, and Darton, wishing his friend
joy of Sally in a slightly hollow tone of jocularity, bade
him good-bye. Johns promised to write particulars,
and ascended, and was lost in the shade of the house
and tree. A rectangle of light appeared when Johns
was admitted, and all was dark again.

' Happy Japheth ! ' said Darton. « This then is the
explanation ! '

He determined to return home that night. In a
quarter of an hour he passed out of the village, and
the next day went about his swede-lifting and storing
as if nothing had occurred.

He waited and waited to hear from Johns whether
the wedding-day was fixed : but no letter came. He
learnt not a single particular till, meeting Johns one
day at a horse-auction, Darton exclaimed genially —
rather more genially than he felt — c When is the joyful
day to be ? '

To his great surprise a reciprocity of gladness was
not conspicuous in Johns. 'Not at all,' he said, in a
very subdued tone. ' 'Tis a bad job ; she won't have
me.'

Darton held his breath till he said with treacherous
solicitude, « Try again — 'tis coyness.'

' O no,' said Johns decisively. ( There's been none
of that. We talked it over dozens of times in the most

211

WESSEX TALES

fair and square way. She tells me plainly, I don't suit
her. 'Twould be simply annoying her to ask her again.
Ah, Charles, you threw a prize away when you let her
slip five years ago.'

' I did — I did/ said Darton.

He returned from that auction with a new set of
feelings in play. He had certainly made a surprising
mistake in thinking Johns his successful rival. It really
seemed as if he might hope for Sally after all.

This time, being rather pressed by business, Darton
had recourse to pen-and-ink, and wrote her as manly
and straightforward a proposal as any woman could
wish to receive. The reply came promptly : —

'DEAR MR. DARTON, — I am as sensible as any woman can be
of the goodness that leads you to make me this offer a second time.
Better women than I would be proud of the honour, for when I
read your nice long speeches on mangold -wurzel, and such like
topics, at the Casterbridge Farmers' Club, I do feel it an honour, I
assure you. . But my answer is just the same as before. I will not
try to explain what, in truth, I cannot explain — my reasons ; I will
simply say that I must decline to be married to you. With good
wishes as in former times, I am, your faithful friend,

•SALLY HALL.'

Darton dropped the letter hopelessly. Beyond the
negative, there was just a possibility of sarcasm in it
— « nice long speeches on mangold- wurzel ' had a sus-
picious sound. However, sarcasm or none, there was
the answer, and he had to be content.

He proceeded to seek relief in a business which at
this time engrossed much of his attention — that of clear-
ing up a curious mistake just current in the county,
that he had been nearly ruined by the recent failure of
a local bank. A farmer named Darton had lost heavily,
and the similarity of name had probably led to the error.
Belief in it was so persistent that it demanded several
days of letter-writing to set matters straight, and per-
212

INTERLOPERS AT THE KNAP

suade the world that he was as solvent as ever he had
been in his life. He had hardly concluded this worry-
ing task when, to his delight, .another letter arrived in
the handwriting of Sally.

Barton tore it open ; it was very short.

' DEAR MR. DARTON,— We have been so alarmed these last few

days by the report that you were ruined by the stoppage of 's

Bank, that, now it is contradicted I hasten, by my mother's wish,
to say how truly glad we are to find there is no foundation for the
report. After your kindness to my poor brother's children, I can
do no less than write at such a moment. We had a letter from
each of them a few days ago. — Your faithful friend,

* SALLY HALL.'

' Mercenary little woman ! ' said Darton to himself
with a smile. ' Then that was the secret of her refusal
this time — she thought I was ruined.'

Now, such was Darton, that as hours went on he
could not help feeling too generously towards Sally to
condemn her in this. What did he want in a wife?
he asked himself. Love and integrity. What next ?
Worldly wisdom. And was there really more than
worldly wisdom in her refusal to go aboard a sinking
ship ? She now knew it was otherwise. ' Begad,' he
said, ' I'll try her again.'

The fact was he had so set his heart upon Sally, and
Sally alone, that nothing was to be allowed to baulk
him ; and his reasoning was purely formal.

Anniversaries having been unpropitious, he waited
on till a bright day late in May — a day when all animate
nature was fancying, in its trusting, foolish way, that it
was going to bask out of doors for evermore. As he
rode through Long-Ash Lane it was scarce recognizable
as the track of his two winter journeys. No mistake
could be made now, even with his eyes shut. The
cuckoo's note was at its best, between April tentative-
ness and midsummer decrepitude, and the reptiles in
213

WESSEX TALES

the sun behaved as winningly as kittens on a hearth.
Though afternoon, and about the same time as on the
last occasion, it was broad day and sunshine when he
entered Hintock, and the details of the Knap dairy-
house were visible far up the road. He saw Sally in
the garden, and was set vibrating. He had first in-
tended to go on to the inn ; but « No/ he said ; ' I'll
tie my horse to the garden-gate. If all goes well it can
soon be taken round : if not, I mount and ride away.'

The tall shade of the horseman darkened the room
in which Mrs. Hall sat, and made her start, for he had
ridden by a side path to the top of the slope, where
riders seldom came. In a few seconds he was in the
garden with Sally.

Five — ay, three minutes — did the business at the
back of that row of bees. Though spring had come,
and heavenly blue consecrated the scene, Darton suc-
ceeded not. 'No,' said Sally firmly. 'I will never,
never marry you, Mr. Darton. I would have done it
once ; but now I never can.'

* But ! ' — implored Mr. Darton. And with a burst of
real eloquence he went on to declare all sorts of things
that he would do for her. He would drive her to see
her mother every week — take her to London — settle so
much money upon her — Heaven knows what he did not
promise, suggest, and tempt her with. But it availed
nothing. She interposed with a stout negative, which
closed the course of his argument like an iron gate
across a highway. Darton paused.

'Then,' said he simply, 'you hadn't heard of my
supposed failure when you declined last time ? '

1 1 had not,' she said. * But if I had 'twould have
been all the same.7

1 And 'tis not because of any soreness from my
slighting you years ago ? '

' No. That soreness is long past.'

' Ah — then you despise me. Sally ! '
214

INTERLOPERS AT THE KNAP

I No,' she slowly answered. * I don't altogether
despise you. I don't think you quite such a hero as
I once did — that's all. The truth is, I am happy
enough as I am; and I don't mean to marry at all.
Now, may / ask a favour, sir ? ' She spoke with an
ineffable charm, which, whenever he thought of it, made
him curse his loss of her as .long as he lived.

'To any extent.'

4 Please do not put this question to me any more.
Friends as long as you like, but lovers and married
never.1'

I 1 never will,' said Darton. * Not if I live a hundred
years.'

And he never did. That he had worn out his
welcome in her heart was only too plain.

When his step-children had grown up, and were
placed out in life, all communication between Darton
and the Hall family ceased. It was only by chance
that, years after, he learnt that Sally, notwithstanding
the solicitations her attractions drew down upon her,
had refused several offers of marriage, and steadily
adhered to her purpose of leading a single life,

May 1884.

THE DISTRACTED PREACHER

HOW HIS COLD WAS CURED

SOMETHING delayed the arrival of the Wesleyan
minister, and a young man came temporarily in his
stead. It was on the thirteenth of January 183- that
Mr. Stockdale, the young man in question, made his
humble entry into the village, unknown, and almost
unseen. But when those of the inhabitants who styled
themselves of his connection became acquainted with
him, they were rather pleased with the substitute than
otherwise, though he had scarcely as yet acquired
ballast of character sufficient to steady the consciences
of the hundred-and-forty Methodists of pure blood who,
at this time, lived in Nether-Moynton, and to give in
addition supplementary support to the mixed race
which went to church in the morning and chapel in
the evening, or when there was a tea — as many as a
hundred-and-ten people more, all told, and including
the parish-clerk in the winter-time, when it was too
dark for the vicar to observe who passed up the street
at seven o'clock — which, to be just to him, he was
never anxious to do.

It was owing to this overlapping of creeds that the
celebrated population-puzzle arose among the denser
219

WESSEX TALES

gentry of the district around Nether-Moynton : how
could it be that a parish containing fifteen score of
strong full-grown Episcopalians, and nearly thirteen
score of well-matured Dissenters, numbered barely two-
and-twenty score adults in all ?

The young man being personally interesting, those
with whom he came in contact were content to waive
for a while the graver question of his sufficiency. It
is said that at this time of his life his eyes were
affectionate, though without a ray of levity ; that his
hair was curly, and his figure tall; that he was, in
short, a very lovable youth, who won upon his female
hearers as soon as they saw and heard him, and caused
them to say, ' Why didn't we know of this before he
came, that we might have gied him a warmer welcome ! '

The fact was that, knowing him to be only pro-
visionally selected, and expecting nothing remarkable in
his person or doctrine, they and the rest of his flock
in Nether-Moynton had felt almost as indifferent about
his advent as if they had been the soundest church-
going parishioners in the country, and he their true
and appointed parson. Thus when Stockdale set foot
in the place nobody had secured a lodging for him, and
though his journey had given him a bad cold in the
head, he was forced to attend to that business himself.
On inquiry he learnt that the only possible accommoda-
tion in the village would be found at the house of one
Mrs. Lizzy Newberry, at the upper end of the street.

It was a youth who gave this information, and
Stockdale asked him who Mrs. Newberry might be.

The boy said that she was a widow-woman, who
had got no husband, because he was dead. Mr. New-
berry, he added, had been a well-to-do man enough,
as the saying was, and a farmer ; but he had gone off
in a decline. As regarded Mrs. Newberry's serious side,
Stockdale gathered that she was one of the trimmers
who went to church and chapel both.
220

THE DISTRACTED PREACHER

'I'll go there,' said Stockdale, feeling that, in the
absence of purely sectarian lodgings, he could do no
better.

' She's a little particular, and won't hae gover'ment
folks, or curates, or the pa'son's friends, or such like,'
said the lad dubiously.

' Ah, that may be a promising sign : I'll call. Or
no ; just you go up and ask first if she can find room
for me. I have to see one or two persons on another
matter. You will find me down at the carrier's.'

In a quarter of an hour the lad came back, and said
that - Mrs. Newberry would have no objection to accom-
modate him, whereupon Stockdale called at the house.
It stood within a garden-hedge, and seemed to be
roomy and comfortable. He saw an elderly woman,
with whom he made arrangements to come the same
night, since there was no inn in the place, and he
wished to house himself as soon as possible ; the village
being a local centre from which he was to radiate at
once to the different small chapels in the neighbourhood.
He forthwith sent his luggage to Mrs. Newberry's from
the carrier's, where he had taken shelter, and in the
evening walked up to his temporary home.

As he now lived there, Stockdale felt it unnecessary
to knock at the door ; and entering quietly he had the
pleasure of hearing footsteps scudding away like mice
into the back quarters. He advanced to the parlour,
as the front room was called, though its stone floor
was scarcely disguised by the carpet, which only over-
laid the trodden areas, leaving sandy deserts under the
furniture. But the room looked snug and cheerful.
The firelight shone out brightly, trembling on the
bulging mouldings of the table-legs, playing with brass
knobs and handles, and lurking in great strength on
the under surface of the chimney-piece. A deep
arm-chair, covered with horsehair, and studded with
a countless throng of brass nails, was pulled up on
221

WESSEX TALES

one side of the fireplace. The tea-things were on the
table, the teapot cover was open, and a little hand-
bell had been laid at that precise point towards which
a person seated in the great chair might be expected
instinctively to stretch his hand.

Stockdale sat down, not objecting to his experience
of the room thus far, and began his residence by tink-
ling the bell. A little girl crept in at the summons,
and made tea for him. Her name, she said, was
Marther Sarer, and she lived out there, nodding towards
the road and village generally. Before Stockdale had
got far with his meal, a tap sounded on the door
behind him, and on his telling the inquirer to come
in, a rustle of garments caused him to turn his head.
He saw before him a fine and extremely well-made
young woman, with dark hair, a wide, sensible, beautiful
forehead, eyes that warmed him before he knew it, and
a mouth that was in itself a picture to all appreciative
souls.

'Can I get you anything else for tea?' she said,
coming forward a step or two, an expression of liveliness
on her features, and her hand waving the door by
its edge.

' Nothing, thank you/ said Stockdale, thinking less
of what he replied than of what might be her relation
to the household.

* You are quite sure ? ' said the young woman, appa-
rently aware that he had not considered his answer.

He conscientiously examined the tea-things, and found
them all there. ' Quite sure, Miss Newberry,' he said.

'It is Mrs. Newberry,' she said. 'Lizzy Newberry.
I used to be Lizzy Simpkins.'

' O, I beg your pardon, Mrs. Newberry.' And before
he had occasion to say more she left the room.

Stockdale remained in some doubt till Martha Sarah
came to clear the table. ' Whose house is this, my
little woman,' said he.

222

THE DISTRACTED PREACHER

' Mrs. Lizzy Newberry's, sir.'

1 Then Mrs. Newberry is not the old lady I saw this
afternoon ? '

' No. That's Mrs. Newberry's mother. It was Mrs.
Newberry who corned in to you just by now, because
she wanted to see if you was good-looking.'

Later in the evening, when Stockdale was about to
begin supper, she came again. ' I have come myself,
Mr. Stockdale,' she said. The minister stood up in
acknowledgment of the honour. ' I am afraid little
Marther might not make you understand. What will
you have for supper? — there's cold rabbit, and there's
a ham uncut.'

Stockdale said he could get on nicely with those
viands, and supper was laid. He had no more than
cut a slice when tap-tap came to the door again. The
minister had already learnt that this particular rhythm
in taps denoted the fingers of his enkindling landlady,
and the doomed young fellow buried his first mouthful
under a look of receptive blandness.

' We have a chicken in the house, Mr. Stockdale — I
quite forgot to mention it just now. Perhaps you would
like Marther Sarer to bring it up ? '

Stockdale had advanced far enough in the art of
being a young man to say that he did not want the
chicken, unless she brought it up herself; but when it
was uttered he blushed at the daring gallantry of the
speech, perhaps a shade too strong for a serious man
and a minister. In three minutes the chicken appeared,
but, to his great surprise, only in the hands of Martha
Sarah. Stockdale was disappointed, which perhaps it
was intended that he should be.

He had finished supper, and was not in the least
anticipating Mrs. Newberry again that night, when she
tapped and entered as before. Stockdale's gratified look
told that she had lost nothing by not appearing when
expected, It happened that the cold in the head from
223

WESSEX TALES

which the young man suffered had increased with the
approach of night, and before she had spoken he was
seized with a violent fit of sneezing which he could not
anyhow repress.

Mrs. Newberry looked full of pity. 'Your cold is
very bad to-night, Mr. Stockdale.'

Stockdale replied that it was rather troublesome.

1 And I've a good mind ' — she added archly, looking
at the cheerless glass of water on the table, which the
abstemious minister was going to drink.

' Yes, Mrs. Newberry ? '

' I've a good mind that you should have something
more likely to cure it than that cold stuff.'

'Well,' said Stockdale, looking down at the glass,
' as there is no inn here, and nothing better to be got
in the village, of course it will do.'

To this she replied, c There is something better, not
far off, though not in the house. I really think you
must try it, or you may be ill. Yes, Mr. Stockdale,
you shall.' She held up her finger, seeing that he was
about to speak. ' Don't ask what it is ; wait, and you
shall see.'

Lizzy went away, and Stockdale waited in a pleasant
mood. Presently she returned with her bonnet and
cloak on, saying, ' I am so sorry, but you must help
me to get it. Mother has gone to bed. Will you
wrap yourself up, and come this way, and please bring
that cup with you?'

Stockdale, a lonely young fellow, who had for weeks
felt a great craving for somebody on whom to throw
away superfluous interest, and even tenderness, was
not sorry to join her ; and followed his guide through
the back door, across the garden, to the bottom, where
the boundary was a wall. This wall was low, and
beyond it Stockdale discerned in the night shades
several grey headstones, and the outlines of the church
rqof and tower.

224

THE DISTRACTED PREACHER

I It is easy to get up this way,' she said, stepping
upon a bank which abutted on the wall ; then putting
her foot on the top of the stonework, and descending
by a spring inside, where the ground was much higher,
as is the manner of graveyards to be. Stockdale did
the same, and followed her in the dusk across the
irregular ground till they came to the tower door, which,
when they had entered, she softly closed behind them.

' You can keep a secret ? ' she said, in a musical
voice.

' Like an iron chest ! ' said he fervently.

Then from under her cloak she produced a small
lighted lantern, which the minister had not noticed
that she carried at all. The light showed them to be
close to the singing-gallery stairs, under which lay a
heap of lumber of all sorts, but consisting mostly of
decayed framework, pews, panels, and pieces of flooring,
that from time to time had been removed from their
original fixings in the body of the edifice and replaced
by new.

' Perhaps you will drag some of those boards aside ? '
she said, holding the lantern over her head to light
him better. * Or will you take the lantern while I
move them?'

I 1 can manage it,' said the young man, and acting
as she ordered, he uncovered, to his surprise, a row of
little barrels bound with wood hoops, each barrel being
about as large as the nave of a heavy waggon-wheel.
When they were laid open Lizzy fixed her eyes on him,
as if she wondered what he would say.

1 You know what they are ? ' she asked, finding that
he did not speak.

' Yes, barrels,' said Stockdale simply. He was an
inland man, the son of highly respectable parents, and
brought up with a single eye to the ministry ; and the
sight suggested nothing beyond the fact that such
articles were there.

225 p

WESSEX TALES

'You are quite right, they are barrels,' she said, in
an emphatic tone of candour that was not without a
touch of irony.

Stockdale looked at her with an eye of sudden mis-
giving. ' Not smugglers' liquor ? ' he said.

' Yes,' said she. ' They are tubs of spirit that have
accidentally come over in the dark from France.'

In Nether-Moynton and its vicinity at this date
people always smiled at the sort of sin called in the
outside world illicit trading; and these little kegs of
gin and brandy were as well known to the inhabitants
as turnips. So that Stockdale's innocent ignorance,
and his look of alarm when he guessed the sinister
mystery, seemed to strike Lizzy first as ludicrous, and
then as very awkward for the good impression that she
wished to produce upon him.

1 Smuggling is carried on here by some of the people,'
she said in a gentle, apologetic voice. ' It has been
their practice for generations, and they think it no harm.
Now, will you roll out one of the tubs ? '

1 What to do with it ? ' said the minister.

1 To draw a little from it to cure your cold,' she
answered. ' It is so 'nation strong that it drives away
that sort of thing in a jiffy. O, it is all right about
our taking it. I may have what I like; the owner of
the tubs says so. I ought to have had some in the
house, and then I shouldn't ha' been put to this
trouble ; but I drink none myself, and so I often forget
to keep it indoors.'

'You are allowed to help yourself, I suppose, that
you may not inform where their hiding-place is ? '

' Well, no ; not that particularly ; but I may take any
if I want it. So help yourself.'

' I will, to oblige you, since you have a right to it,'

murmured the minister; and though he was not quite

satisfied with his part in the performance, he rolled one

of the ' tubs ; out from the corner into the middle of the

226

THE DISTRACTED PREACHER

tower floor. ' How do you wish me to get it out — with
a gimlet, I suppose ? '

* No, I'll show you,' said his interesting companion ;
and she held up with her other hand a shoemaker's awl
and a hammer. « You must never do these things with
a gimlet, because the wood-dust gets in ; and when the
buyers pour out the brandy that would tell them that
the tub had been broached. An awl makes no dust,
and the hole nearly closes up again. Now tap one of
the hoops forward.'

Stockdale took the hammer and did so.

' Now make the hole in the part that was covered by
the hoop.'

He made the hole as directed. ' It won't run out,'
he said.

' O yes it will,' said she. * Take the tub between
your knees, and squeeze the heads; and I'll hold the
cup.'

Stockdale obeyed ; and the pressure taking effect
upon the tub, which seemed to be thin, the spirit
spirted out in a stream. When the cup was full he
ceased pressing, and the flow immediately stopped.
' Now we must fill up the keg with water,' said Lizzy,
' or it will cluck like forty hens when it is handled, and
show that 'tis not full.'

' But they tell you you may take it ? '

'Yes, the smugglers ; but the buyers must not know
that the smugglers have been kind to me at their
expense.'

' I see,' said Stockdale doubtfully. ' I much question
the honesty of this proceeding.'

By her direction he held the tub with the hole
upwards, and while he went through the process of
alternately pressing and ceasing to press, she produced
a bottle of water, from which she took mouthfuls, con-
veying each to the keg by putting her pretty lips to the
hole, where it was sucked in at each recovery of the
227

WESSEX TALES

cask from pressure. When it was again full he plugged
the hole, knocked the hoop down to its place, and
buried the tub in the lumber as before.

' Aren't the smugglers afraid that you will tell ? ' he
asked, as they recrossed the churchyard.

' O no ; they are not afraid of that. I couldn't do
such a thing.'

'They have put you into a very awkward corner,'
said Stockdale emphatically. ' You must, of course, as
an honest person, sometimes feel that it is your duty
to inform — really you must.'

' Well, I have never particularly felt it as a duty ;

and, besides, my first husband ' She stopped, and

there was some confusion in her voice. Stockdale was
so honest and unsophisticated that he did not at once
discern why she paused : but at last he did perceive
that the words were a slip, and that no woman would
have uttered 'first husband' by accident unless she
had thought pretty frequently of a second. He felt
for her confusion, and allowed her time to recover and
proceed. 'My husband,' she said, in a self-corrected
tone, 'used to know of their doings, and so did my
father, and kept the secret. I cannot inform, in fact,
against anybody.'

' I see the hardness of it,' he continued, like a man
who looked far into the moral of things. 'And it is
very cruel that you should be tossed and tantalized
between your memories and your conscience. I do
hope, Mrs. Newberry, that you will soon see your way
out of this unpleasant position/

' Well, I don't just now,' she murmured.

By this time they had passed over the wall and
entered the house, where she brought him a glass and
hot water, and left him to his own reflections. He
looked after her vanishing form, asking himself whether
he, as a respectable man, and a minister, and a shining
light, even though as yet only of the halfpenny-candle
228

THE DISTRACTED PREACHER

sort, were quite justified in doing this thing. A sneeze
settled the question ; and he found that when the fiery
liquor was lowered by the addition of twice or thrice
the quantity of water, it was one of the prettiest cures
for a cold in the head that he had ever known, parti-
cularly at this chilly time of the year.

Stockdale sat in the deep chair about twenty minutes
sipping and meditating, till he at length took warmer
views of things, and longed for the morrow, when he
would see Mrs. Newberry again. He then felt that,
though chronologically at a short distance, it would in
an emotional sense be very long before to-morrow
came, and walked restlessly round the room. His eye
was attracted by a framed and glazed sampler in which
a running ornament of fir-trees and peacocks surrounded
the following pretty bit of sentiment : —

' Rose-leaves smell when roses thrive,
Here's my work while I'm alive ;
Rose-leaves smell when shrunk and shed,
Here's my work when I am dead.

* Lizzy Simpkins. Fear God. Honour the King.
' Aged n years.'

c 'Tis hers,' he said to himself. ' Heavens, how I
like that name ! '

Before he had done thinking that no other name
from Abigail to Zenobia would have suited his young
landlady so well, tap-tap came again upon the door;
and the minister started as her face appeared yet
another time, looking so disinterested that the most
ingenious would have refrained from asserting that she
had come to affect his feelings by her seductive eyes.

' Would you like a fire in your room, Mr. Stockdale,
on account of your cold ? '

The minister, being still a little pricked in the con-
science for countenancing her in watering the spirits,
229

WESSEX TALES

saw here a way to self-chastisement. ' No, I thank you/
he said firmly ; ' it is not necessary. I have never been
used to one in my life, and it would be giving way to
luxury too far.'

'Then I won't insist,' she said, and disconcerted
him by vanishing instantly.

Wondering if she was vexed by his refusal, he wished
that he had chosen to have a fire, even though it should
have scorched him out of bed and endangered his self-
discipline for a dozen days. However, he consoled
himself with what was in truth a rare consolation for
a budding lover, that he was under the same roof with
Lizzy ; her guest, in fact, to take a poetical view of the
term lodger; and that he would certainly see her on
the morrow.

The morrow came, and Stockdale rose early, his cold
quite gone. He had never in his life so longed for the
breakfast hour as he did that day, and punctually at
eight o'clock, after a short walk, to reconnoitre the
premises, he re-entered the door of his dwelling. Break-
fast passed, and Martha Sarah attended, but nobody
came voluntarily as on the night before to inquire if
there were other wants which he had not mentioned,
and which she would attempt to gratify. He was dis-
appointed, and went out, hoping to see her at dinner.
Dinner time came ; he sat down to the meal, finished
it, lingered on for a whole hour, although two new
teachers were at that moment waiting at the chapel-door
to speak to him by appointment. It was useless to
wait longer, and he slowly went his way down the lane,
cheered by the thought that, after all, he would see her
in the evening, and perhaps engage again in the de-
lightful tub-broaching in the neighbouring church tower,
which proceeding he resolved to render more moral by
steadfastly insisting that no water should be introduced
to fill up, though the tub should cluck like all the hens
in Christendom. But nothing could disguise the fact
230

THE DISTRACTED PREACHER

that it was a queer business ; and his countenance fell
when he thought how much more his mind was interested
in that matter than in his serious duties.

However, compunction vanished with the decline
of day. Night came, and his tea and supper ; but no
Lizzy Newberry, and no sweet temptations. At last
the minister could bear it no longer, and said to his
quaint little attendant, ' Where is Mrs. Newberry to-
day?' judiciously handing a penny as he spoke.

' She's busy,' said Martha.

' Anything serious happened ? ' he asked, handing
another penny, and revealing yet additional pennies in
the background.

' O no — nothing at all ! ' said she, with breathless
confidence. ' Nothing ever happens to her. She's
only biding upstairs in bed because 'tis her way some-
times.'

Being a young man of some honour, he would not
question further, and assuming that Lizzy must have a
bad headache, or other slight ailment, in spite of what
the girl had said, he went to bed dissatisfied, not even
setting eyes on old Mrs. Simpkins. ' I said last night
that I should see her to-morrow,' he reflected ; * but
that was not to be ! '

Next day he had better fortune, or worse, meeting
her at the foot of the stairs in the morning, and being
favoured by a visit or two from her during the day —
once for the purpose of making kindly inquiries about
his comfort, as on the first evening, and at another time
to place a bunch of winter-violets on his table, with a
promise to renew them when they drooped. On these
occasions there was something in her smile which showed
how conscious she was of the effect she produced, though
it must be said that it was rather a humorous than a
designing consciousness, and savoured more of pride
than of vanity.

As for Stockdale, he clearly perceived that he pos-
231

WES'SEX TALES

sessed unlimited capacity for backsliding, and wished
that tutelary saints were not denied to Dissenters. He
set a watch upon his tongue and eyes for the space of
one hour and a half, after which he found it was useless
to struggle further, and gave himself up to the situation.
' The other minister will be here in a month,' he said to
himself when sitting over the fire. ' Then I shall be off,
and she will distract my mind no more ! . . . And then,
shall I go on living by myself for ever ? No ; when my
two years of probation are finished, I shall have a
furnished house to live in, with a varnished door and
a brass knocker; and I'll march straight back to her,
and ask her flat, as soon as the last plate is on the
dresser ! '

Thus a titillating fortnight was passed by young
Stockdale, during which time things proceeded much
as such matters have done ever since the beginning of
history. He saw the object of attachment several times
one day, did not see her at all the next, met her when
he least expected to do so, missed her when hints and
signs as to where she should be at a given hour almost
amounted to an appointment. This mild coquetry was
perhaps fair enough under the circumstances of their
being so closely lodged, and Stockdale put up with it as
philosophically as he was able. Being in her own house,
she could, after vexing him or disappointing him of
her presence, easily win him back by suddenly surround-
ing him with those little attentions which her position
as his landlady put it in her power to bestow. When
he had vraited indoors half the day to see her, and on
finding that she would not be seen, had gone off in a
huff to the dreariest and dampest walk he could discover,
she would restore equilibrium in the evening with * Mr.
Stockdale, I have fancied you must feel draught o' nights
from your bedroom window, and so I have been putting
up thicker curtains this afternoon while you were out ; '
or, ' I noticed that you sneezed twice again this morning,
232

THE DISTRACTED PREACHER

Mr. Stockdale. Depend upon it that cold is hanging
about you yet; I am sure it is — I have thought of it
continually; and you must let me make a posset for
you.'

Sometimes in coming home he found his sitting-room
rearranged, chairs placed where the table had stood, and
the table ornamented with the few fresh flowers and
leaves that could be obtained at this season, so as to
add a novelty to the room. At times she would be
standing on a chair outside the house, trying to nail up
a branch of the monthly rose which the winter wind had
blown down ; and of course he stepped forward to assist
her, when their hands got mixed in passing the shreds
and nails. Thus they became friends again after a dis-
agreement. She would utter on these occasions some
pretty and deprecatory remark on the necessity of her
troubling him anew ; and he would straightway say that
he would do a hundred times as much for her if she
should so require.

WESSEX TALES

HOW HE SAW TWO OTHER MEN

MATTERS being in this advancing state, Stockdale
was rather surprised one cloudy evening, while sitting
in his room, at hearing her speak in low tones of ex-
postulation to some one at the door. It was nearly
dark, but the shutters were not yet closed, nor the
candles lighted ; and Stockdale was tempted to stretch
his head towards the window. He saw outside the
door a young man in clothes of a whitish colour, and
upon reflection judged their wearer to be the well-
built and rather handsome miller who lived below.
The miller's voice was alternately low and firm, and
sometimes it reached the level of positive entreaty ; but
what the words were Stockdale could in no way hear.

Before the colloquy had ended, the minister's atten-
tion was attracted by a second incident. Opposite
Lizzy's home grew a clump of laurels, forming a thick
and permanent shade. One of the laurel boughs now
quivered against the light background of sky, and in a
moment the head of a man peered out, and remained
still. He seemed to be also much interested in the
conversation at the door, and was plainly lingering
there to watch and listen. Had Stockdale stood in
234

THE DISTRACTED PREACHER

any other relation to Lizzy than that of a lover, he
might have gone out and investigated the meaning of
this : but being as yet but an unprivileged ally, he did
nothing more than stand up and show himself against
the firelight, whereupon the listener disappeared, and
Lizzy and the miller spoke in lower tones.

Stockdale was made so uneasy by the circumstance,
that as soon as the miller was gone, he said, * Mrs.
Newberry, are you aware that you were watched just
now, and your conversation heard ? *

' When ? ' she said.

'When you were talking to that miller. A man
was looking from the laurel-tree as jealously as if he
could have eaten youj

She showed more concern than the trifling event
seemed to demand, and he added, ' Perhaps you were
talking of things you did not wish to be overheard ? '

' I was talking only on business,' she said.

* Lizzy, be frank ! ' said the young man. ' If it was
only on business, why should anybody wish to listen
to you?'

She looked curiously at him. ' What else do you
think it could be, then ? '

{ Well — the only talk between a young woman and
man that is likely to amuse an eavesdropper.'

'Ah yes,' she said, smiling in spite of her pre-
occupation. ' Well, my cousin Owlett has spoken to
me about matrimony, every now and then,' that's true ;
but he was not speaking of it then. I wish he had
been speaking of it, with all my heart. It would have
been much less serious for me.'

' O Mrs. Newberry ! '

* It would. Not that I should ha' chimed in with
him, of course. I wish it for other reasons. I am
glad, Mr. Stockdale, that you have told me of that
listener. It is a timely warning, and I must see my
cousin again.'

235

WESSEX TALES

' But don't go away till I have spoken,' said the
minister. « I'll out with it at once, and make no more
ado. Let it be Yes or No between us, Lizzy ; please
do ! ' And he held out his hand, in which she freely
allowed her own to rest, but without speaking.

' You mean Yes by that ? ' he asked, after waiting a
while.

' You may be my sweetheart, if you will.'

' Why not say at once you will wait for me until I
have a house and can come back to marry you.'

* Because I am thinking — thinking of something
else,' she said with embarrassment. ' It all comes upon
me at once, and I must settle one thing at a time.'

'At any rate, dear Lizzy, you can assure me that
the miller shall not be allowed to speak to you except
on business? You have never directly encouraged
him ? '

She parried the question by saying, « You see, he and
his party have been in the habit of leaving things on my
premises sometimes, and as I have not denied him, it
makes him rather forward.'

* Things — what things ? '

* Tubs — they are called Things here.'

* But why don't you deny him, my dear Lizzy ? '
' I cannot well/

' You are too timid. It is unfair of him to impose
so upon you, and get your good name into danger by
his smuggling tricks. Promise me that the next time
he wants to leave his tubs here you will let me roll them
into the street ? '

She shook her head. « I would not venture to offend
the neighbours so much as that,' said she, « or do any-
thing that would be so likely to put poor Owlett into
the hands of the excisemen.'

Stockdale sighed, and said that he thought hers a
mistaken generosity when it extended to assisting those
who cheated the king of his dues. ' At any rate, you
236

THE DISTRACTED PREACHER

will let me make him keep his distance as your lover,
and tell him flatly that you are not for him ? '

1 Please not, at present,' she said. * I don't wish to
offend my old neighbours. It is not only Owlett who
is concerned.'

' This is too bad,' said Stockdale impatiently.

'On my honour, I won't encourage him as my
lover,' Lizzy answered earnestly. 'A reasonable man
will be satisfied with that.'

•Well, so I am,' said Stockdale, his countenance
clearing.

WESSEX TALES

THE MYSTERIOUS GKEATCOAT

III

oTOCKDALE now began to notice more particularly
a feature in the life of his fair landlady, which he had
casually observed but scarcely ever thought of before.
It was that she was markedly irregular in her hours
of rising. For a week or two she would be tolerably
punctual, reaching the ground-floor within a few minutes
of half-past seven. Then suddenly she would not be
visible till twelve at noon, perhaps for three or four days
in succession ; and twice he had certain proof that she
did not leave her room till half-past three in the after-
noon. The second time that this extreme lateness
came under his notice was on a day when he had
particularly wished to consult with her about his future
movements ; and he concluded, as he always had done,
that she had a cold, headache, or other ailment, unless
she had kept herself invisible to avoid meeting and
talking to him, which he could hardly believe. The
former supposition was disproved, however, by her
innocently saying, some days later, when they were
speaking on a question of health, that she had never
had a moment's heaviness, headache, or illness of any
kind since the previous January twelvemonth.

238

THE DISTRACTED PREACHER

' I am glad to hear it,' said he. * I thought quite
otherwise.'

'What, do I look sickly?' she asked, turning up
her face to show the impossibility of his gazing on it
and holding such a belief for a moment.

' Not at all ; I merely thought so from your being
sometimes obliged to keep your room through the best
part of the day.'

*O, as for that — it means nothing,' she murmured,
with a look which some might have called cold, and
which was the worst look that he liked to see upon her.
It is pure sleepiness, Mr. Stockdale.'

' Never ! '

' It is, I tell you. When I stay in my room till half-
past three in the afternoon, you may always be sure
that I slept soundly till three, or I shouldn't have
stayed there.'

* It is dreadful,' said Stockdale, thinking of the
disastrous effects of such indulgence upon the house-
hold of a minister, should it become a habit of everyday
occurrence.

* But then,' she said, divining his good and prescient
thoughts, « it only happens when I stay awake all night.
I don't go to sleep till five or six in the morning
sometimes.'

1 Ah, that's another matter,' said Stockdale. ' Sleep-
lessness to such an alarming extent is real illness.
Have you spoken to a doctor ? '

' O no — there is no need for doing that — it is all
natural to me.' And she went away without further
remark.

Stockdale might have waited a long time to know
the real cause of her sleeplessness, had it not happened
that one dark night he was sitting in his bedroom
jotting down notes for a sermon, which occupied him
perfunctorily for a considerable time after the other
members of the household had retired. He did not
239

WESSEX TALES

get to bed till one o'clock. Before he had fallen asleep
he heard a knocking at the front door, first rather timidly
performed, and then louder. Nobody answered it, and
the person knocked again. As the house still remained
undisturbed, Stockdale got out of bed, went to his
window, which overlooked the door, and opening it,
asked who was there.

A young woman's voice replied that Susan Wallis
was there, and that she had come to ask if Mrs.
Newberry could give her some mustard to make a
plaster with, as her father was taken very ill on the
chest

The minister, having neither bell nor servant, was
compelled to act in person. c I will call Mrs. New-
berry,' he said. Partly dressing himself, he went along
the passage and tapped at Lizzy's door. She did not
answer, and, thinking of her erratic habits in the matter
of sleep, he thumped the door persistently, when he
discovered, by its moving ajar under his knocking, that
it had only been gently pushed to. As there was now
a sufficient entry for the voice, he knocked no longer,
but said in firm tones, * Mrs. Newberry, you are
wanted.'

The room was quite silent; not a breathing, not a
rustle, came from any part of it. Stockdale now sent
a positive shout through the open space of the door :
' Mrs. Newberry ! ' — still no answer, or movement of any
kind within. Then he heard sounds from the opposite
room, that of Lizzy's mother, as if she had been aroused
by his uproar though Lizzy had not, and was dressing
herself hastily. Stockdale softly closed the younger
woman's door and went on to the other, which was
opened by Mrs. Simpkins before he could reach it
She was in her ordinary clothes, and had a light in
her hand.

1 What's the person calling about ? ' she said in
alarm.

240

THE DISTRACTED PREACHER

Stockdale told the girl's errand, adding seriously, < I
cannot wake Mrs. Newberry.'

' It is no matter,' said her mother. ' I can let the
girl have what she wants as well as my daughter.' And
she came out of the room and went downstairs.

Stockdale retired towards his own apartment, saying,
however, to Mrs. Simpkins from the landing, as if on
second thoughts, ' I suppose there is nothing the matter
with Mrs. Newberry, that I could not wake her ? '

1 O no,' said the old lady hastily. 'Nothing at all.'

Still the minister was not satisfied. 'Will you go
in and see ? ' he said. ' I should be much more at
ease.'

Mrs. Simpkins returned up the staircase, went to her
daughter's room, and came out again almost instantly.
' There is nothing at all the matter with Lizzy/ she
said; and descended again to attend to the applicant,
who, having seen the light, had remained quiet during
this interval.

Stockdale went into his room and lay down as before.
He heard Lizzy's mother open the front door, admit
the girl, and then the murmured discourse of both as
they went to the store-cupboard for the medicament
required. The girl departed, the door was fastened,
Mrs. Simpkins came upstairs, and the house was again
in silence. Still the minister did not fall asleep. He
could not get rid of a singular suspicion, which was all
the more ,harassing in being, if true, the most unac-
countable thing within his experience. That Lizzy
Newberry was in her bedroom when he made such a
clamour at the door he could not possibly convince
himself, notwithstanding that he had heard her come
upstairs at the usual time, go into her chamber, and
shut herself up in the usual way. Yet all reason was
so much against her being elsewhere, that he was con-
strained to go back again to the unlikely theory of a
heavy sleep, though he had heard neither breath nor
241 Q

WESSEX TALES

movement during a shouting and knocking loud enough
to rouse the Seven Sleepers.

Before coming to any positive conclusion he fell
asleep himself, and did not awake till day. He saw
nothing of Mrs. Newberry in the morning, before he
went out to meet the rising sun, as he liked to do when
the weather was fine; but as this was by no means
unusual, he took no notice of it. At breakfast- time he
knew that she was not far off by hearing her in the
kitchen, and though he saw nothing of her person, that
back apartment being rigorously closed against his eyes,
she seemed to be talking, ordering, and bustling about
among the pots and skimmers in so ordinary a manner,
that there was no reason for his wasting more time in
fruitless surmise.

The minister suffered from these distractions, and
his extemporized sermons were not improved thereby.
Already he often said Romans for Corinthians in the
pulpit, and gave out hymns in strange cramped metres,
that hitherto had always been skipped, because the con-
gregation could not raise a tune to fit them. He fully
resolved that as soon as his few weeks of stay approached
their end he would cut the matter short, and commit
himself by proposing a definite engagement, repenting at
leisure if necessary.

With this end in view, he suggested to her on the
evening after her mysterious sleep that they should take
a walk together just before dark, the latter part of the
proposition being introduced that they might return
home unseen. She consented to go; and away they
went over a stile, to a shrouded footpath suited for the
occasion. But, in spite of attempts on both sides, they
were unable to infuse much spirit into the ramble. She
looked rather paler than usual, and sometimes turned
her head away.

' Lizzy,' said Stockdale reproachfully, when they had
walked in silence a long distance.
242

THE DISTRACTED PREACHER

' Yes,' said she.

4 You yawned — much my company is to you ! ' He
put it in that way, but he was really wondering whether
her yawn could possibly have more to do with physical
weariness from the night before than mental weariness
of that present "moment. Lizzy apologized, and owned
that she was rather tired, which gave him an opening
for a direct question on the point; but his modesty
would not allow him to put it to her; and he uncom-
fortably resolved to wait.

The month of February passed with alternations of
mud and frost, rain and sleet, east winds and north-
westerly gales. The hollow places in the ploughed
fields showed themselves as pools of water, which had
settled there from the higher levels, and had not yet
found time to soak away. The birds began to get
lively, and a single thrush came just before sunset each
evening, and sang hopefully on the large elm-tree which
stood nearest to Mrs. Newberry's house. Cold blasts
and brittle earth had given place to an oozing dampness
more unpleasant in itself than frost; but it suggested
coming spring, and its unpleasantness was of a bearable
kind.

Stockdale had been going to bring about a practical
understanding with Lizzy at least half-a-dozen times ;
but, what with the mystery of her apparent absence
on the night of the neighbour's call, and her curious
way of lying in bed at unaccountable times, he felt a
check within him whenever he wanted to speak out.
Thus they still lived on as indefinitely affianced lovers,
each of whom hardly acknowledged the other's claim
to the name of chosen one. Stockdale persuaded him-
self that his hesitation was owing to the postponement
of the ordained minister's arrival, and the consequent
delay in his own departure, which did away with all
necessity for haste in his courtship; but perhaps it
was only that his discretion was reasserting itself, and
243

WESSEX TALES

telling him that he had better get clearer ideas of Lizzy
before arranging for the grand contract of his life with
her. She, on her part, always seemed ready to be
urged further on that question than he had hitherto
attempted to go; but she was none the less inde-
pendent, and to a degree which would have kept from
flagging the passion of a far more mutable man.

On the evening of the first of March he went
casually into his bedroom about dusk, and noticed
lying on a chair a greatcoat, hat, and breeches. Having
no recollection of leaving any clothes of his own in
that spot, he went and examined them as well as he
could in the twilight, and found that they did not
belong to him. He paused for a moment to consider
how they might have got there. He was the only man
living in the house ; and yet these were not his garments,
unless he had made a mistake. No, they were not his.
He called up Martha Sarah.

1 How did these things come in my room ? ' he said,
flinging the objectionable articles to the floor.

Martha said that Mrs. Newberry had given them to
her to brush, and that she had brought them up there
thinking they must be Mr. Stockdale's, as there was no
other gentleman a lodging there.

' Of course you did,' said Stockdale. ' Now take
them down to your mis'ess, and say they are some
clothes I have found here and know nothing about.'

As the door was left open he heard the conversation
downstairs. « How stupid ! ' said Mrs. Newberry, in a
tone of confusion. « Why, Marther Sarer, I did not tell
you to take 'em to Mr. Stockdale's room ? '

' I thought they must be his as they was so muddy,'
said Martha humbly.

* You should have left 'em on the clothes-horse,'
said the young mistress severely; and she came up-
stairs with the garments on her arm, quickly passed
Stockdale's room, and threw them forcibly into a closet
244

THE DISTRACTED PREACHER

at the end of a passage. With this the incident ended,
and the house was silent again.

There would have been nothing remarkable in rind-
ing such clothes in a widow's house had they been
clean ; or moth-eaten, or creased, or mouldy from long
lying by; but that they should be splashed with recent
mud bothered Stockdale a good deal. When a young
pastor is in the aspen stage of attachment, and open
to agitation at the merest trifles, a really substantial
incongruity of this complexion is a disturbing thing.
However, nothing further occurred at that time; but
he became watchful, and given to conjecture, and was
unable to forget the circumstance.

One morning, on looking from his window, he saw
Mrs. Newberry herself brushing the tails of a long
drab greatcoat, which, if he mistook not, was the very
same garment as the one that had adorned the chair
of his room. It was densely splashed up to the hollow
of the back with neighbouring Nether-Moynton mud, to
judge by its colour, the spots being distinctly visible to
him in the sunlight. The previous day or two having
been wet, the inference was irresistible that the wearer
had quite recently been walking some considerable dis-
tance about the lanes and fields. Stockdale opened
the window and looked out, and Mrs. Newberry turned
her head. Her face became slowly red; she never
had looked prettier, or more incomprehensible, He
waved his hand affectionately, and said good-morning ;
she answered with embarrassment, having ceased her
occupation on the instant that she saw him, and rolled
up the coat half-cleaned.

Stockdale shut the window. Some simple explana-
tion of her proceeding was doubtless within the bounds
of possibility; but he himself could not think of one;
and he wished that she had placed the matter beyond
conjecture by voluntarily saying something about it
there and then.

245

WESSEX TALES

But, though Lizzy had not offered an explanation at
the moment, the subject was brought forward by her at
the next time of their meeting. She was chatting to
him concerning some other event, and remarked that it
happened about the time when she was dusting some
old clothes that had belonged to her poor husband.

1 You keep them clean out of respect to his memory ? '
said Stockdale tentatively.

' I air and dust them sometimes,' she said, with the
most charming innocence in the world.

* Do dead men come out of their graves and walk in
mud ? ' murmured the minister, in a cold sweat at the
deception that she was practising.

4 What did you say ? ' asked Lizzy.

* Nothing, nothing,' said he mournfully. * Mere
words — a phrase that will do for my sermon next
Sunday.' It was too plain that Lizzy was unaware that
he had seen actual pedestrian splashes upon the skirts
of the tell-tale overcoat, and that she imagined him to
believe it had come direct from some chest or drawer.

The aspect of the case was now considerably darker.
Stockdale was so much depressed by it that he did not
challenge her explanation, or threaten to go off as a
missionary to benighted islanders, or reproach her in
any way whatever. He simply parted from her when
she had done talking, and lived on in perplexity, till by
degrees his natural manner became sad and constrained.

;

THE DISTRACTED PREACHER

AT THE TIME OF THE NEW MOON

1 HE following Thursday was changeable, damp, and
gloomy; and the night threatened to be windy and
unpleasant. Stockdale had gone away to Knollsea in
the morning, to be present at some commemoration
service there, and on his return he was met by the
attractive Lizzy in the passage. Whether influenced
by the tide of cheerfulness which had attended him
that day, or by the drive through the open air, or
whether from a natural disposition to let bygones
alone, he allowed himself to be fascinated into forget-
fulness of the greatcoat incident, and upon the whole
passed a pleasant evening ; not so much in her society
as within sound of her voice, as she sat talking in the
back parlour to her mother, till the latter went to bed.
Shortly after this Mrs. Newberry retired, and then
Stockdale prepared to go upstairs himself. But before
he left the room he remained standing by the dying
embers awhile, thinking long of one thing and another ;
and was only aroused by the flickering of his candle
in the socket as it suddenly declined and went out.
Knowing that there were a tinder-box, matches, and
another candle in his bedroom, he felt his way upstairs
247

WESSEX TALES

without a light. On reaching his chamber he laid his
hand on every possible ledge and corner for the tinder-
box, but for a long time in vain. Discovering it at
length, Stockdale produced a spark, and was kindling
the brimstone, when he fancied that he heard a move-
ment in the passage. He blew harder at the lint, the
match flared up, and looking by aid of the blue light
through the door, which had been standing open all
this time, he was surprised to see a male figure vanish-
ing round the top of the staircase with the evident
intention of escaping unobserved. The personage wore
the clothes which Lizzy had been brushing, and some-
thing in the outline and gait suggested to the minister
that the wearer was Lizzy herself.

But he was not sure of this; and, greatly excited,
Stockdale determined to investigate the mystery, and
to adopt his own way for doing it. He blew out the
match without lighting the candle, went into the passage,
and proceeded on tiptoe towards Lizzy's room. A faint
grey square of light in the direction of the chamber-
window as he approached told him that the door was
open, and at once suggested that the occupant was gone.
He turned and brought down his fist upon the handrail
of the staircase : ' It was she ; in her late husband's
coat and hat ! '

Somewhat relieved to find that there was no intruder
in the case, yet none the less surprised, the minister
crept down the stairs, softly put on his boots, overcoat,
and hat, and tried the front door. It was fastened as
usual : he went to the back door, found this unlocked,
and emerged into the garden. The night was mild and
moonless, and rain had lately been falling, though for
the present it had ceased. There was a sudden dropping
from the trees and bushes every now and then, as each
passing wind shook their boughs. Among these sounds
Stockdale heard the faint fall of feet upon the road
outside, and he guessed from the step that it was
248

THE DISTRACTED PREACHER

Lizzy's, He followed the sound, and, helped by the
circumstance of the wind blowing from the direction
in which the pedestrian moved, he got nearly close to
her, and kept there, without risk of being overheard.
While he thus followed her up the street or lane, as it
might indifferently be called, there being more hedge
than houses on either side, a figure came forward to her
from one of the cottage doors. Lizzy stopped; the
minister stepped upon the grass and stopped also.

' Is that Mrs. Newberry ? ' said the man who had
come out, whose voice Stockdale recognized as that of
one of the most devout members of his congregation.

* It is/ said Lizzy.

' I be quite ready — I've been here this quarter-hour.'

' Ah, John,' said she, * I have bad news ; there is
danger to-night for our venture.'

' And d'ye tell o't ! I dreamed there might be.'

' Yes,' she said hurriedly ; ' and you must go at once
round to where the chaps are waiting, and tell them they
will not be wanted till to-morrow night at the same time.
I go to burn the lugger off.'

' I will,' he said ; and instantly went off through a
gate, Lizzy continuing her way.

On she tripped at a quickening pace till the lane
turned into the turnpike-road, which she crossed, and
got into the track for Ringsworth. Here she ascended
the hill without the least hesitation, passed the lonely
hamlet of Holworth, and went down the vale on the
other side. Stockdale had never taken any extensive
walks in this direction, but he was aware that if she
persisted in her course much longer she would draw
near to the coast, which was here between two and
three miles distant from Nether-Moynton ; and as it
had been about a quarter-past eleven o'clock when they
set out, her intention seemed to be to reach the shore
about midnight.

Lizzy soon ascended a small mound, which Stockdale
249

WESSEX TALES

at the same time adroitly skirted on the left ; and a dull
monotonous roar burst upon his ear. The hillock was
about fifty yards from the top of the cliffs, and by day
it apparently commanded a full view of the bay. There
was light enough in the sky to show her disguised figure
against it when she reached the top, where she paused,
and afterwards sat down. Stockdale, not wishing on
any account to alarm her at this moment, yet desirous
of being near her, sank upon his hands and knees, crept
a little higher up, and there stayed still

The wind was chilly, the ground damp, and his
position one in which he did not care to remain long.
However, before he had decided to leave it, the young
man heard voices behind him. What they signified he
did not know; but, fearing that Lizzy was in danger,
he was about to run forward and warn her that she
might be seen, when she crept to the shelter of a little
bush which maintained a precarious existence in that
exposed spot ; and her form was absorbed in its dark
and stunted outline as if she had become part of it.
She had evidently heard the men as well as he. They
passed near him, talking in loud and careless tones,
which could be heard above the uninterrupted washings
of the sea, and which suggested that they were not
engaged in any business at their own risk. This proved
to be the fact : some of their words floated across to
him, and caused him to forget at once the coldness of
his situation.

< What's the vessel ? '

' A lugger, about fifty tons/

' From Cherbourg, I suppose ? '

'Yes, 'ab'lieve.'

' But it don't all belong to Owlett ? '

* O no. He's only got a share. There's another or
two in it — a farmer and such like, but the names I
don't know/

The voices died away, and the heads and shoulders
250

THE DISTRACTED PREACHER

of the men diminished towards the cliff, and dropped
out of sight.

' My darling has been tempted to buy a share by
that unbeliever Owlett,' groaned the minister, his honest
affection for Lizzy having quickened to its intensest
point during these moments of risk to her person and
name. 'That's why she's here,' he said to himself.
' O, it will be the ruin of her ! '

His perturbation was interrupted by the sudden
bursting out of a bright and increasing light from the
spot where Lizzy was in hiding. A few seconds later,
and before it had reached the height of a blaze, he
heard her rush past him down the hollow like a stone
from a sling, in the direction of home. The light now
flared high and wide, and showed its position clearly.
She had kindled a bough of furze and stuck it into the
bush under which she had been crouching ; the wind
fanned the flame, which crackled fiercely, and threatened
to consume the bush as well as the bough. Stockdale
paused just long enough to notice thus much, and then
followed rapidly the route taken by the young woman.
His intention was to overtake her, and reveal himself
as a friend ; but run as he would he could see nothing
of her. Thus he flew across the open country about
Holworth, twisting his legs and ankles in unexpected
fissures and descents, till, on coming to the gate between
the downs and the road, he was forced to pause to get
breath. There was no audible movement either in front
or behind him, and he now concluded that she had not
outrun him, but that, hearing him at her heels, and
believing him one of the excise party, she had hidden
herself somewhere on the way, and let him pass by.

He went on at a more leisurely pace towards the
village. On reaching the house he found his surmise
to be correct, for the gate was on the latch, and the
door unfastened, just as he had left them. Stockdale
closed the door behind him, and waited silently in the
251

WESSEX TALES

passage. In about ten minutes he heard the same light
footstep that he had heard in going out ; it paused at
the gate, which opened and shut softly, and then the
door-latch was lifted, and Lizzy came in.

Stockdale went forward and said at once, ' Lizzy,
don't be frightened. I have been waiting up for you.'

She started, though she had recognized the voice.
< It is Mr. Stockdale, isn't it ? ' she said.

'Yes,' he answered, becoming angry now that she
was safe indoors, and not alarmed. ' And a nice game
I've found you out in to-night. You are in man's clothes,
and I am ashamed of you ! '

Lizzy could hardly find a voice to answer this un-
expected reproach.

1 1 am only partly in man's clothes,' she faltered,
shrinking back to the wall. * It is only his greatcoat
and hat and breeches that I've got on, which is no
harm, as he was my own husband ; and I do it only
because a cloak blows about so, and you can't use your
arms. I have got my own dress under just the same —
it is only tucked in ! Will you go away upstairs and let
me pass ? I didn't want you to see me at such a time
as this ! '

' But I have a right to see you ! How do you think
there can be anything between us now ? ' Lizzy was
silent. * You are a smuggler,' he continued sadly.

* I have only a share in the run,' she said.

'That makes no difference. Whatever did you
engage in such a trade as that for, and keep it such a
secret from me all this time ? '

* I don't do it always. I only do it in winter-time
when 'tis new moon.'

' Well, I suppose that's because it can't be done
anywhen else. . . . You have regularly upset me,
Lizzy/

' I am sorry for that,' Lizzy meekly replied.

' Well now/ said he more tenderly, ' no harm is done
252

THE DISTRACTED PREACHER

as yet. Won't you for the sake of me give up this
blamable and dangerous practice altogether ? '

'I must do my best to save this run,' said she,
getting rather husky in the throat. « I don't want to
give you up — you know that ; but I don't want to lose
my venture. I don't know what to do now ! Why I
have kept it so secret from you is that I was afraid you
would be angry if you knew.'

' I should think so ! I suppose if I had married you
without finding this out you'd have gone on witr! it just
the same ? '

' I don't know. I did not think so far ahead. I
only went to-night to burn the folks off, because we
found that the excisemen knew where the tubs were to
be landed.'

' It is a pretty mess to be in altogether, is this,' said
the distracted young minister. ' Well, what will you do
now?7

Lizzy slowly murmured the particulars of their plan,
the chief of which were that they meant to try their luck
at some other point of the shore the next night; that
three landing-places were always agreed upon before
the run was attempted, with the understanding that,
if the vessel was * burnt off ' from the first point, which
was Ringsworth, as it had been by her to-night, the
crew should attempt to make the second, which was
Lulstead Cove, on the second night ; and if there, too,
danger threatened, they should on the third night try the
third place, which was behind a headland further west.

' Suppose the officers hinder them landing there
too ? ' he said, his attention to this interesting pro-
gramme displacing for a moment his concern at her
share in it.

'Then we shan't try anywhere else all this dark —

that's what we call the time between moon and moon

— and perhaps they'll string the tubs to a stray-line,

and sink 'em a little-ways from shore, and take the

253

WESSEX TALES

bearings; and then when they have a chance they'll
go to creep for 'em.'

' What's that ? '

' O, they'll go out in a boat and drag a creeper —
that's a grapnel — along the bottom till it catch hold of
the stray-line.'

The minister stood thinking; and there was no
sound within doors but the tick of the clock on the
stairs, and the quick breathing of Lizzy, partly from
her walk and partly from agitation, as she stood close
to the wall, not in such complete darkness but that
he could discern against its whitewashed surface the
greatcoat and broad hat which covered her.

' Lizzy, all this is very wrong,' he said. * Don't you
remember the lesson of the tribute-money ? " Render
unto Caesar the things that are Caesar's." Surely you
have heard that read times enough in your growing up ? '

' He's dead,' she pouted.

* But the spirit of the text is in force just the same.'

' My father did it, and so did my grandfather, and
almost everybody in Nether-Moynton lives by it, and
life would be so dull if it wasn't for that, that I should
not care to live at all.'

'I am nothing to live for, of course,' he replied
bitterly. « You would not think it worth while to give
up this wild business and live for me alone ? '

1 1 have never looked at it like that.'

* And you won't promise and wait till I am ready ? '

' I cannot give you my word to-night.' And, look-
ing thoughtfully down, she gradually moved and moved
away, going into the adjoining room, and closing the
door between them. She remained there in the dark
till he was tired of waiting, and had gone up to his
own chamber.

Poor Stockdale was dreadfully depressed all the
next day by the discoveries of the night before. Lizzy
was unmistakably a fascinating young woman, but as
254

THE DISTRACTED PREACHER

a minister's wife she was hardly to be contemplated.
' If I had only stuck to father's little grocery business,
instead of going in for the ministry, she would have
suited me beautifully ! ' he said sadly, until he remem-
bered that in that case he would never have come from
his distant home to Nether-Moynton, and never have
known her.

The estrangement between them was not complete,
but it was sufficient to keep them out of each other's
company. Once during the day he met her in the
garden-path, and said, turning a reproachful eye upon
her, « Do you promise, Lizzy ? ' But she did not reply.
The evening drew on, and he knew well enough that
Lizzy would repeat her excursion at night — her half-
offended manner had shown that she had not the
slightest intention of altering her plans at present. He
did not wish to repeat his own share of the adventure ;
but, act as he would, his uneasiness on her account
increased with the decline of day. Supposing that
an accident should befall her, he would never forgive
himself for not being there to help, much as he dis-
liked the idea of seeming to countenance such unlawful
escapades.

WESSEX TALES

HOW THEY WENT TO

LULSTEAD COVE

-A.S he had expected, she left the house at the same
hour at night, this time passing his door without stealth,
as if she knew very well that he would be watching,
and were resolved to brave his displeasure. He was
quite ready, opened the door quickly, and reached the
back door almost as soon as she.

' Then you will go, Lizzy ? ' he said as he stood on
the step beside her, who now again appeared as a little
man with a face altogether unsuited to his clothes.

* I must,' she said, repressed by his stern manner.

' Then I shall go too,' said he.

' And I am sure you will enjoy it ! ' she exclaimed
in more buoyant tones. ' Everybody does who tries
it.'

< God forbid that I should ! ' he said. ' But I must
look after you.'

They opened the wicket and went up the road
abreast of each other, but at some distance apart,
scarcely a word passing between them. The evening
was rather less favourable to smuggling enterprise than
the last had been, the wind being lower, and the sky
somewhat clear towards the north.
256

THE DISTRACTED PREACHER

' It is rather lighter,' said Stockdale.

* Tis, unfortunately,' said she. ' But it is only from
those few stars over there. The moon was new to-day
at four o'clock, and I expected clouds. I hope we
shall be able to do it this dark, for when we have to
sink 'em for long it makes the stuff taste bleachy, and
folks don't like it so well.'

Her course was different from that of the preceding
night, branching off to the left over Lord's Barrow as
soon as they had got out of the lane and crossed the
highway. By the time they reached Chaldon Down,
Stockdale, who had been in perplexed thought as to
what he should say to her, decided that he would not
attempt expostulation now, while she was excited by
the adventure, but wait till it was over, and endeavour
to keep her from such practices in future. It occurred
to him once or twice, as they rambled on, that should
they be surprised by the excisemen, his situation would
be more awkward than hers, for it would be difficult to
prove his true motive in coming to the spot; but the
risk was a slight consideration beside his wish to be
with her.

They now arrived at a ravine which lay on the
outskirts of Chaldon, a village two miles on their way
towards the point of the shore they sought. Lizzy
broke the silence this time : ' I have to wait here to
meet the carriers. I don't know if they have come
yet. As I told you, we go to Lulstead Cove to-night,
and it is two miles further than Ringsworth.'

It turned out that the men had already come; for
while she spoke two or three dozen heads broke the
line of the slope, and a company of them at once
descended from the bushes where they had been lying
in wait. These carriers were men whom Lizzy and
other proprietors regularly employed to bring the tubs
from the boat to a hiding-place inland. They were
all young fellows of Nether-Moynton, Chaldon, and
257 R

WESSEX TALES

the neighbourhood, quiet and inoffensive persons, who
simply engaged to carry the cargo for Lizzy and her
cousin Owlett, as they would have engaged in any
other labour for which they were fairly well paid.
. At a word from her they closed in together. « You
had better take it now,' she said to them ; and handed
to each a packet. It contained six shillings, their
remuneration for the night's undertaking, which was
paid beforehand without reference to success or failure ;
but, besides this, they had the privilege of selling as
agents when the run was successfully made. As soon
as it was done, she said to them, ' The place is the old
one near Lulstead Cove ; ' the men till that moment not
having been told whither they were bound, for obvious
reasons. ' Owlett will meet you there,' added Lizzy.
1 1 shall follow behind, to see that we are not watched.'

The carriers went on, and Stockdale and Mrs. New-
berry followed at a distance of a stone's throw. ' What
do these men do by day ? ' he said.

'Twelve or fourteen of them are labouring men.
Some are brickmakers, some carpenters, some shoe-
makers, some thatchers. They are all known to me very
well. Nine of 'em are of your own congregation.'

< I can't help that,' said Stockdale.

*O, I know you can't. I only told you. The
others are more church-inclined, because they supply
the pa'son with all the spirits he requires, and they
don't wish to show unfriendliness to a customer.'

' How do you choose 'em ? ' said Stockdale.

' We choose 'em for their closeness, and because they
are strong and surefooted, and able to carry a heavy
load a long way without being tired/

Stockdale sighed as she enumerated each particular,
for it proved how far involved in the business a woman
must be who was so well acquainted with its conditions
and needs. And yet he felt more tenderly towards her
at this moment than he had felt all the foregoing day.

258

THE DISTRACTED PREACHER

Perhaps it was that her experienced manner and bold
indifference stirred his admiration in spite of himself.

' Take my arm, Lizzy,' he murmured.

' I don't want it,' she said. ' Besides, we may never
be to each other again what we once have been.'

' That depends upon you,' said he, and they went on
again as before.

The hired carriers paced along over Chaldon Down
with as little hesitation as if it had been day, avoiding
the cart-way, and leaving the village of East Chaldon
on the left, so as to reach the crest of the hill at a
lonely trackless place not far from the ancient earth-
work called Round Pound. An hour's brisk walking
brought them within sound of the sea, not many hundred
yards from Lulstead Cove. Here they paused, and
Lizzy and Stockdale came up with them, when they went
on together to the verge of the cliff. One of the men
now produced an iron bar, which he drove firmly into
the soil a yard from the edge, and attached to it
a rope that he had uncoiled from his body. They
all began to descend, partly stepping, partly sliding
down the incline, as the rope slipped through their
hands.

' You will not go to the bottom, Lizzy ? ' said Stock-
dale anxiously.

* No. I stay here to watch/ she said. ' Owlett is
down there.'

The men remained quite silent when they reached
the shore; and the next thing audible to the two at
the top was the dip of heavy oars, and the dashing of
waves against a boat's bow. In a moment the keel
gently touched the shingle, and Stockdale heard the
footsteps of the thirty-six carriers running forwards over
the pebbles towards the point of landing.

There was a sousing in the water as of a brood of
ducks plunging in, showing that the men had not been
particular about keeping their legs, or even their waists,
259

WESSEX TALES

dry from the brine : but it was impossible to see what
they were doing, and in a few minutes the shingle was
trampled again. The iron bar sustaining the rope, on
which Stockdale's hand rested, began to swerve a little,
and the carriers one by one appeared climbing up the
sloping cliff, dripping audibly as they came, and sus-
taining themselves by the guide-rope. Each man on
reaching the top was seen to be carrying a pair of tubs,
one on his back and one on his chest, the two being
slung together by cords passing round the chine hoops,
and resting on the carrier's shoulders. Some of the
stronger men carried three by putting an extra one on
the top behind, but the customary load was a pair,
these being quite weighty enough to give their bearer
the sensation of having chest and backbone in contact
after a walk of four or five miles.

* Where is Owlett ? ' said Lizzy to one of them.

' He will not come up this way,' said the carrier.
' He's to bide on shore till we be safe off.' Then,
without waiting for the rest, the foremost men plunged
across the down; and, when the last had ascended,
Lizzy pulled up the rope, wound it round her arm,
wriggled the bar from the sod, and turned to follow
the carriers.

'You are very anxious about Owlett's safety,' said
the minister.

1 Was there ever such a man ! ' said Lizzy. ' Why,
isn't he my cousin ? '

'Yes. Well, it is a bad night's work,' said Stock-
dale heavily. ' But I'll carry the bar and rope for
you/

'Thank God, the tubs have got so far all right,'
said she.

Stockdale shook his head, and, taking the bar,
walked by her side towards the downs; and the moan
of the sea was heard no more.

' Is this what you meant the other day when you
260

THE DISTRACTED PREACHER

spoke of having business with Owlett ? ' the young man
asked.

' This is it,' she replied. ' I never see him on any
other matter/

* A partnership of that kind with a young man is
very odd.'

' It was begun by my father and his, who were
brother-laws.'

Her companion could not blind himself to the fact
that where tastes and pursuits were so akin as Lizzy's
and Owlett's, and where risks were shared, as with
them, in every undertaking, there would be a peculiar
appropriateness in her answering Owlett's standing
question on matrimony in the affirmative. This did
not soothe Stockdale, its tendency being rather to
stimulate in him an effort to make the pair as inappro-
priate as possible, and win her away from this nocturnal
crew to correctness of conduct and a minister's parlour
in some far-removed inland county.

They had been walking near enough to the file of
carriers for Stockdale to perceive that, when they got
into the road to the village, they split up into two
companies of unequal size, each of which made off in
a direction of its own. One company, the smaller of
the two, went towards the church, and by the time that
Lizzy and Stockdale reached their own house these
men had scaled the churchyard wall, and were proceed-
ing noiselessly over the grass within.

' I see that Owlett has arranged for one batch to
be put in the church again,' observed Lizzy. £ Do you
remember my taking you there the first night you
came ? '

' Yes, of course,' said Stockdale. ' No wonder you
had permission to broach the tubs — they were his, I
suppose ? '

' No, they were not — they were mine ; I had per-
mission from myself. The day after that they went
261

WESSEX TALES

several miles inland in a waggon-load of manure, and
sold very well.'

At this moment the group of men who had made
off to the left some time before began leaping one by
one from the hedge opposite Lizzy's house, and the
first man, who had no tubs upon his shoulders, came
forward.

' Mrs. Newberry, isn't it ? ' he said hastily.

' Yes, Jim,' said she. ' What's the matter ? '

' I find that we can't put any in Badger's Clump
to-night, Lizzy,' said Owlett. 'The place is watched.
We must sling the apple-tree in the orchet if there's
time. We can't put any more under the church lumber
than I have sent on there, and my mixen hev already
more in en than is safe.'

'Very well,' she said. 'Be quick about it — that's
all. What can I do ? '

' Nothing at all, please. Ah, it is the minister ! —
you two that can't do anything had better get indoors
and not be zeed.'

While Owlett thus conversed, in a tone so full of
contraband anxiety and so free from lover's jealousy,
the men who followed him had been descending one
by one from the hedge ; and it unfortunately happened
that when the hindmost took his leap, the cord slipped
which sustained his tubs : the result was that both the
kegs fell into the road, one of them being stove in by
the blow.

' 'Od drown it all ! ' said Owlett, rushing back.

' It is worth a good deal, I suppose ? ' said Stock-
dale.

« O no — about two guineas and half to us now,'
said Lizzy excitedly. ' It isn't that — it is the smell !
It is so blazing strong before it has been lowered by
water, that it smells dreadfully when spilt in the road
like that ! I do hope Latimer won't pass by till it is
gone off.7

262

THE DISTRACTED PREACHER

Owlett and one or two others picked up the burst
tub and began to scrape and trample over the spot,
to disperse the liquor as much as possible ; and then
they all entered the gate of Ovvlett's orchard, which
adjoined Lizzy's garden on the right. Stockdale did
not care to follow them, for several on recognizing him
had looked wonderingly at his presence, though they
said nothing. Lizzy left his side and went to. the
bottom of the garden, looking over the hedge into the
orchard, where the men could be dimly seen bustling
about, and apparently hiding the tubs. All was done
noiselessly, and without a light ; and when it was over
they dispersed in different directions, those who had
taken their cargoes to the church having already gone
off to their homes.

Lizzy returned to the garden-gate, over which Stock-
dale was still abstractedly leaning. ' It is all finished :
I am going indoors now,' she said gently. ' I will leave
the door ajar for you.'

* O no — you needn't,' said Stockdale ; ' I am coming
too/

But before either of them had moved, the faint clatter
of horses' hoofs broke upon the ear, and it seemed to
come from the point where the track across the down
joined the hard road.

' They are just too late ! ' cried Lizzy exultingly.

< Who ? ' said Stockdale.

' Latimer, the riding-officer, and some assistant of
his. We had better go indoors.'

They entered the house, and Lizzy bolted the door.
' Please don't get a light, Mr. Stockdale,' she said.

' Of course I will not,' said he.

' I thought you might be on the side of the king,'
said Lizzy, with faintest sarcasm.

' I am,' said Stockdale. ' But, Lizzy Newberry, I
love you, and you know it perfectly well; and you
ought to know, if you do not, what I have suffered
263

WESSEX TALES

in my conscience on your account these last few
days ! '

' I guess very well/ she said hurriedly. * Yet I don't
see why. Ah, you are better than I ! '

The trotting of the horses seemed to have again died
away, and the pair of listeners touched each other's
fingers in the cold ' Good-night ' of those whom some-
thing seriously divided. They were on the landing, but
before they had taken three steps apart, the tramp of
the horsemen suddenly revived, almost close to the
house. Lizzy turned to the staircase window, opened
the casement about an inch, and put her face close
to the aperture. 'Yes, one of 'em is Larimer,' she
whispered. 'He always rides a white horse. One
would think it was the last colour for a man in that
line.'

Stockdale looked, and saw the white shape of the
animal as it passed by; but before the riders had gone
another ten yards, Latimer reined in his horse, and said
something to his companion which neither Stockdale
nor Lizzy could hear. Its drift was, however, soon
made evident, for the other man stopped also; and
sharply turning the horses' heads they cautiously re-
traced their steps. When they were again opposite
Mrs. Newberry's garden, Latimer dismounted, and the
man on the dark horse did the same.

Lizzy and Stockdale, intently listening and observing
the proceedings, naturally put their heads as close as
possible to the slit formed by the slightly opened case-
ment ; and thus it occurred that at last their cheeks
came positively into contact. They went on listening,
as if they did not know of the singular incident which
had happened to their faces, and the pressure of each
to each rather increased than lessened with the lapse
of time.

They could hear the excisemen sniffing the air like
hounds as they paced slowly along. When they reached
264

THE DISTRACTED PREACHER

the spot where the tub had burst, both stopped on the
instant.

'Ay, ay, 'tis quite strong here,' said the second
officer. ' Shall we knock at the door ? J

« Well, no,' said Latimer. ' Maybe this is only a
trick to put us off the scent. They wouldn't kick up
this stink anywhere near their hiding-place. I have
known such things before.'

'Anyhow, the things, or some of 'em, must have
been brought this way,' said the other.

' Yes,' said Latimer musingly. ' Unless 'tis all done
to tole us the wrong way. I have a mind that we go
home for to-night without saying a word, and come the
first thing in the morning with more hands. I know
they have storages about here, but we can do nothing
by this owl's light. We will look round the parish and
see if everybody is in bed, John • and if all is quiet, we
will do as I say.'

They went on, and the two inside the window could
hear them passing leisurely through the whole village,
the street of which curved round at the bottom and
entered the turnpike road at another junction. This
way the excisemen followed, and the amble of their
horses died quite away.

'What will you do?' said Stockdale, withdrawing
from his position.

She knew that he alluded to the coming search by
the officers, to divert her attention from their own
tender incident by the casement, which he wished to
be passed over as a thing rather dreamt of than done.
' O, nothing,' she replied, with as much coolness as
she could command under her disappointment at his
manner. ' We often have such storms as this. You
would not be frightened if you knew what fools they
are. Fancy riding o' horseback through the place:
of course they will hear and see nobody while they
make that noise ; but they are always afraid to get off,
265

WESSEX TALES

in case some of our fellows should burst out upon 'em,
and tie them up to the gate-post, as they have done
before now. Good-night, Mr. Stockdale.'

She closed the window and went to her room, where
a tear fell from her eyes ; and that not because of the
alertness of the riding-officers.

THE DISTRACTED PREACHER

THE GREAT SEARCH AT

NE THER-MO YNTON

was so excited by the events of the
evening, and the dilemma that he was placed in between
conscience and love, that he did not sleep, or even
doze, but remained as broadly awake as at noonday.
As soon as the grey light began to touch ever so faintly
the whiter objects in his bedroom he arose, dressed
himself, and went downstairs into the road.

The village was already astir. Several of the
carriers had heard the well-known tramp of Latimer's
horse while they were undressing in the dark that
night, and had already communicated with each other
and Owlett on the subject. The only doubt seemed
-to be about the safety of those tubs which had been
left under the church gallery-stairs, and after a short
discussion at the corner of the mill, it was agreed
that these should be removed before it got lighter,
and hidden in the middle of a double hedge border-
ing the adjoining field. However, before anything
could be carried into effect, the footsteps of many men
were heard coming down the lane from the highway.

* Damn it, here they be,' said Owlett, who, having
already drawn the hatch and started his mill for the
267

WESSEX TALES

day, stood stolidly at the mill-door covered with flour,
as if the interest of his whole soul was bound up in
the shaking walls around him.

The two or three with whom he had been talking
dispersed to their usual work, and when the excise
officers, and the formidable body of men they had
hired, reached the village cross, between the mill and
Mrs. Newberry's house, the village wore the natural
aspect of a place beginning its morning labours.

' Now,' said Latimer to his associates, who numbered
thirteen men in all, ' what I know is that the things are
somewhere in this here place. We have got the day
before us, and 'tis hard if we can't light upon 'em and
get 'em to Budmouth Custom-house before night. First
we will try the fuel-houses, and then we'll work our way
into the chimmers, and then to the ricks and stables,
and so creep round. You have nothing but your noses
to guide ye, mind, so use 'em to-day if you never did in
your lives before.'

Then the search began. Owlett, during the early
part, watched from his mill- window, Lizzy from the door
of her house, with the greatest self-possession. A farmer
down below, who also had a share in the run, rode about
with one eye on his fields and the other on Latimer and
his myrmidons, prepared to put them off the scent if
he should be asked a question. Stockdale, who was no
smuggler at all, felt more anxiety than the worst of them,
and went about his studies with a heavy heart, coming
frequently to the door to ask Lizzy some question or other
on the consequences to her of the tubs being found.

' The consequences,' she said quietly, ' are simply
that I shall lose 'em. As I have none in the house or
garden, they can't touch me personally,'

' But you have some in the orchard ? '

' Owlett rents that of me, and he lends it to others.
So it will be hard to say who put any tubs there if they
should be found.'

268

THE DISTRACTED PREACHER

There was never such a tremendous sniffing known
as that which took place in Nether-Moynton parish and
its vicinity this day. All was done methodically, and
mostly on hands and knees. At different hours of the
day they had different plans. From daybreak to break-
fast-time the officers used their sense of smell in a direct
and straightforward manner only, pausing nowhere but
at such places as the tubs might be supposed to be
secreted in at that very moment, pending their removal
on the following night. Among the places tested and
examined were : —

Hollow trees Cupboards Culverts

Potato-graves Clock-cases Hedgerows

Fuel-houses Chimney-flues Faggot-ricks

Bedrooms Rainwater-butts Haystacks

Apple-lofts Pigsties Coppers and ovens.

After breakfast they recommenced with renewed
vigour, taking a new line; that is to say, directing
their attention to clothes that might be supposed to
have come in contact with the tubs in their removal
from the shore, such garments being usually tainted
with the spirit, owing to its oozing between the staves.
They now sniffed at —

Smock-frocks Smiths' and shoemakers' aprons

Old shirts and waistcoats Knee-naps and hedging-gloves

Coats and hats Tarpaulins

Breeches and leggings Market-cloaks

Women's shawls and gowns Scarecrows

And as soon as the mid-day meal was over, they pushed
their search into places where the spirits might have been
thrown away in alarm : —

Horse-ponds Mixens Sinks in yards

Stable-drains Wet ditches Road-scrapings, and

Cinder-heaps Cesspools Back-door gutters.

269

WESSEX TALES

But still these indefatigable excisemen discovered
nothing more than the original tell-tale smell in the
road opposite Lizzy's house, which even yet had not
passed off.

' I'll tell ye what it is, men,' said Latimer, about
three o'clock in the afternoon, * we must begin over
again. Find them tubs I will.'

The men, who had been hired for the day, looked
at their hands and knees, muddy with creeping on all
fours so frequently, and rubbed their noses, as if they
had almost had enough of it; for the quantity of bad
air which had passed into each one's nostril had rendered
it nearly as insensible as a flue. However, after a
moment's hesitation, they prepared to start anew, except
three, whose power of smell had quite succumbed under
the excessive wear and tear of the day.

By this time not a male villager was to be seen in
the parish. Owlett was not at his mill, the farmers
were not in their fields, the parson was not in his
garden, the smith had left his forge, and the wheel-
wright's shop was silent.

« Where the divil are the folk gone ? ' said Latimer,
waking up to the fact of their absence, and looking
round. * I'll have 'em up for this ! Why don't they
come and help us ? There's not a man about the place
but the Methodist parson, and he's an old woman. I
demand assistance in the king's name ! '

* We must find the jineral public afore we can demand
that,' said his lieutenant.

'Well, well, we shall do better without 'em/ said
Latimer, who changed his moods at a moment's notice.
' But there's great cause of suspicion in this silence and
this keeping out of sight, and I'll bear it in mind. Now
we will go across to Owlett's orchard, and see what
we can find there.'

Stockdale, who heard this discussion from the garden-
gate, over which he had been leaning, was rather alarmed,
270

THE DISTRACTED PREACHER

and thought it a mistake of the villagers to keep so
completely out of the way. He himself, like the
excisemen, had been wondering for the last half-hour
what could have become of them. Some labourers
were of necessity engaged in distant fields, but the
master- workmen should have been at home; though
one and all, after just showing themselves at their
shops, had apparently gone off for the day. He went
in to Lizzy, who sat at a back window sewing, and
said, ' Lizzy, where are the men ? '

Lizzy laughed. ' Where they mostly are when
they're run so hard as this.' She cast her eyes to
heaven. ' Up there,' she said.

Stockdale looked up. ' What — on the top of the
church tower?' he asked, seeing the direction of her
glance.

' Yes.'

' Well, I expect they will soon have to come down,'
said he gravely. « I have been listening to the officers,
and they are going to search the orchard over again,
and then every nook in the church.'

Lizzy looked alarmed for the first time. ' Will you
go and tell our folk?' she said. 'They ought to be
let know/ Seeing his conscience struggling within
him like a boiling pot, she added, 'No, never mind,
I'll go myself/

She went out, descended the garden, and climbed
over the churchyard wall at the same time that the
preventive-men were ascending the road to the orchard.
Stockdale could do no less than follow her. By the
time that she reached the tower entrance he was at
her side, and they entered together.

Nether -Moynton church -tower was, as in many
villages, without a turret, and the only way to the top
was by going up to the singers' gallery, and thence
ascending by a ladder to a square trap-door in the floor
of the bell-loft, above which a permanent ladder was
271

WESSEX TALES

fixed, passing through the bells to a hole in the roof.
When Lizzy and Stockdale reached the gallery and
looked up, nothing but the trap-door and the five holes
for the bell-ropes appeared. The ladder was gone.

' There's no getting up,' said Stockdale.

* O yes, there is,' said she. ' There's an eye looking
at us at this moment through a knot-hole in that trap-
door.'

And as she spoke the trap opened, and the dark line
of the ladder was seen descending against the white-
washed wall. When it touched the bottom Lizzy dragged
it to its place, and said, * If you'll go up, I'll follow.'

The young man ascended, and presently found him-
self among consecrated bells for the first time in his life,
nonconformity having been in the Stockdale blood for
some generations. He eyed them uneasily, and looked
round for Lizzy. Owlett stood here, holding the top
of the ladder.

' What, be you really one of us ? ' said the miller.

' It seems so,' said Stockdale sadly.

1 He's not/ said Lizzy, who overheard. ' He's neither
for nor against us. He'll do us no harm.'

She stepped up beside them, and then they went on
to the next stage, which, when they had clambered over
the dusty bell-carriages, was of easy ascent, leading
towards the hole through which the pale sky appeared,
and into the open air. Owlett remained behind for a
moment, to pull up the lower ladder.

' Keep down your heads,' said a voice, as soon as
they set foot on the flat.

Stockdale here beheld all the missing parishioners,
lying on their stomachs on the tower roof, except a few
who, elevated on their hands and knees, were peeping
through the embrasures of the parapet. Stockdale did
the same, and saw the village lying like a map below
him, over which moved the figures of the excisemen,
each foreshortened to a crablike object, the crown o(
272

THE DISTRACTED PREACHER

his hat forming a circular disc in the centre of him.
Some of the men had turned their heads when the
young preacher's figure arose among them.

< What, Mr. Stockdale ? ' said Matt Grey, in a tone
of surprise.

' I'd as lief that it hadn't been,' said Jim Clarke.
' If the pa'son should see him a trespassing here in his
tower, 'twould be none the better for we, seeing how 'a
do hate chapel-members. He'd never buy a tub of us
again, and he's as good a customer as we have got this
side o' Warm'll.'

' Where is the pa'son ? ' said Lizzy.

' In his house, to be sure, that he mid see nothing
of what's going on — where all good folks ought to be,
and this young man likewise.'

'Well, he has brought some news,' said Lizzy.
f They are going to search the orchet and church ; can
we do anything if they should find ? '

' Yes/ said her cousin Owlett * That's what weVe
been talking o', and we have settled our line. WTell, be
dazed ! '

The exclamation was caused by his perceiving that
some of the searchers, having got into the orchard, and
begun stooping and creeping hither and thither, were
pausing in the middle, where a tree smaller than the
rest was growing, They drew closer, and bent lower
than ever upon the ground.

' O, my tubs ! ' said Lizzy faintly, as she peered
through the parapet at them.

1 They have got 'em, 'a b'lieve,' said Owlett.

The interest in the movements of the officers was
so keen that not a single eye was looking in any other
direction ; but at that moment a shout from the church
beneath them attracted the attention of the smugglers,
as it did also of the party in the orchard, who sprang to
their feet and went towards the churchyard wall At
the same time those of the Government men who had
273 3

WESSEX TALES

entered the church unperceived by the smugglers cried
aloud, ' Here be some of 'em at last.'

The smugglers remained in a blank silence, uncer-
tain whether 'some of 'em' meant tubs or men; but
again peeping cautiously over the edge of the tower
they learnt that tubs were the things descried ; and
soon these fated articles were brought one by one into
the middle of the churchyard from their hiding-place
under the gallery-stairs.

' They are going to put 'em on Hinton's vault till
they find the rest ! ' said Lizzy hopelessly. The excise-
men had, in fact, begun to pile up the tubs on a large
stone slab which was fixed there; and when all were
brought out from the tower, two or three of the men
were left standing by them, the rest of the party again
proceeding to the orchard.

The interest of the smugglers in the next manoeuvres
of their enemies became painfully intense. Only about
thirty tubs had been secreted in the lumber of the tower,
but seventy were hidden in the orchard, making up all
that they had brought ashore as yet, the remainder of
the cargo having been tied to a sinker and dropped
overboard for another night's operations. The excise-
men, having re-entered the orchard, acted as if they
were positive that here lay hidden the rest of the tubs,
which they were determined to find before nightfall.
They spread themselves out round the field, and ad-
vancing on all fours as before, went anew round every
apple-tree in the enclosure. The young tree in the
middle again led them to pause, and at length the whole
company gathered there in a way which signified that
a second chain of reasoning had led to the same results
as the first.

When they had examined the sod hereabouts for some

minutes, one of the men rose, ran to a disused porch of

the church where tools were kept, and returned with the

sexton's pickaxe and shovel, with which they set to work.

274

THE DISTRACTED PREACHER

' Are they really buried there ? ' said the minister, for
the grass was so green and uninjured that it was diffi-
cult to believe it had been disturbed. The smugglers
were too interested to reply, and presently they saw, to
their chagrin, the officers stand several on each side of the
tree; and, stooping and applying their hands to the
soil, they bodily lifted the tree and the turf around it.
The apple-tree now showed itself to l?e growing in a
shallow box, with handles for lifting at each of the four
sides. Under the site of the tree a square hole was
revealed, and an exciseman went and looked down.

' It is all up now,' said Owlett quietly, ' And now
all of ye get down before they notice we are here ; and
be ready for our next move. I had better bide here
till dark, or they may take me on suspicion, as 'tis on
my ground. I'll be with ye as soon as daylight begins
to pink in.'

'And I ? ' said Lizzy.

' You please look to the linch-pins and screws ; then
go indoors and know nothing at all. The chaps will
do the rest.'

The ladder was replaced, and all but Owlett de-
scended, the men passing off one by one" at the back of
the church, and vanishing on their respective errands.
Lizzy walked boldly along the street, followed closely
by the minister.

' You are going indoors, Mrs. Newberry ? ' he said.

She knew from the words * Mrs. Newberry ' that
the division between them had widened yet another
degree.

' I am not going home,' she said. ' I have a little
thing to do before I go in, Martha Sarah will get
your tea.'

' O, I don't mean on that account,7 said Stockdale.
'What can you have to do further in this unhallowed
affair ? '

' Only a little,' she said.

275

WESSEX TALES

< What is that ? I'll go with you.'

' No, I shall go by myself. Will you please go in-
doors ? I shall be there in less than an hour.'

' You are not going to run any danger, Lizzy ? ' said
the young man, his tenderness reasserting itself.

' None whatever — worth mentioning,' answered she,
and went down towards the Cross.

Stockdale entered the garden gate, and stood behind
it looking on. The excisemen were still busy in the
orchard, and at last he was tempted to enter, and watch
their proceedings. When he came closer he found that
the secret cellar, of whose existence he had been totally
unaware, was formed by timbers placed across from
side to side about a foot under the ground, and grassed
over.

The excisemen looked up at Stockdale's fair and
downy countenance, and evidently thinking him above
suspicion, went on with their work again. As soon as
all the tubs were taken out, they began tearing up the
turf, pulling out the timbers, and breaking in the sides,
till the cellar was wholly dismantled and shapeless, the
apple-tree lying with its roots high to the air. But the
hole which had in its time held so much contraband
merchandize was never completely filled up, either then
or afterwards, a depression in the greensward marking
the spot to this day.

THE DISTRACTED PREACHER

THE WALK TO WARM'ELL CROSS

AND AFTERWARDS

VII

the goods had all to be carried to Budmouth that
night, the excisemen's next object was to find horses
and carts for the journey, and they went about the
village for that purpose. Latimer strode hither and
thither with a lump of chalk in his hand, marking
broad-arrows so vigorously on every vehicle and set of
harness that he came across, that it seemed as if he
would chalk broad-arrows on the very hedges and roads.
The owner of every conveyance so marked was bound
to give it up for Government purposes. Stockdale,
who had had enough of the scene, turned indoors
thoughtful and depressed. Lizzy was already there,
having come in at the back, though she had not yet
taken off her bonnet. She looked tired, and her mood
was not much brighter than his own. They had but
little to say to each other ; and the minister went away
and attempted to read ; but at this he could not suc-
ceed, and he shook the little bell for tea.

Lizzy herself brought in the tray,, the girl having

run off into the village during the afternoon, too full

of excitement at the proceedings to remember her

state of life. However, almost before the sad lovers

277

WESSEX TALES

had said anything to each other, Martha came in in a
steaming state.

'O, there's such a stoor, Mrs. Newberry and Mr.
Stockdale ! The king's excisemen can't get the carts
ready nohow at all ! They pulled Thomas Ballam's,
and William Rogers's, and Stephen Sprake's carts into
the road, and off came the wheels, and down fell the
carts; and they found there was no linch-pins in the
arms ; and then they tried Samuel Shane's waggon,
and found that the screws were gone from he, and at
last they looked at the dairyman's cart, and he's got
none neither! They have gone now to the black-
smith's to get some made, but he's nowhere to be
found ! '

Stockdale looked at Lizzy, who blushed very slightly,
and went out of the room, followed by Martha Sarah.
But before they had got through the passage there
was a rap at the front door, and Stockdale recognized
Latimer's voice addressing Mrs. Newberry, who had
turned back.

' For God's sake, Mrs. Newberry, have you seen
Hardman the blacksmith up this way? If we could
get hold of him, we'd e'en a'most drag him by the hair
of his head to his anvil, where he ought to be.'

' He's an idle man, Mr. Latimer,' said Lizzy archly.
* What do you want him for ? '

' Why, there isn't a horse in the place that has got
more than three shoes on, and some have only two.
The waggon-wheels be without strakes, and there's no
linch-pins to the carts. What with that, and the
bother about every set of harness being out of order,
we shan't be off before nightfall — upon my soul we
shan't. 'Tis a rough lot, Mrs. Newberry, that you've
got about you here; but they'll play at this game
once too often, mark my words they will ! There's
not a man in the parish that don't deserve to be
whipped.'

278

THE DISTRACTED PREACHER

It happened that Hardman was at that moment a
little further up the lane, smoking his pipe behind a
holly-bush. When Latimer had done speaking he went
on in this direction, and Hardman, hearing the excise-
man's steps, found curiosity too strong for prudence.
He peeped out from the bush at the very moment that
Latimer's glance was on it. There was nothing left for
him to do but to come forward with unconcern.

' I've been looking for you for the last hour ! ' said
Latimer with a glare in his eye.

1 Sorry to hear that,' said Hardman. ' I've been out
for a stroll, to look for more hid tubs, to deliver 'em up
to Gover'ment.'

' O yes, Hardman, we know it,' said Latimer, with
withering sarcasm. ' We know that you'll deliver 'em
up to Gover'ment. We know that all the parish is
helping us, and have been all day ! Now you please
walk along with me down to your shop, and kindly let
me hire ye in the king's name.'

They went down the lane together; and presently
there resounded from the smithy the ring of a hammer
not very briskly swung. However, the carts and horses
were got into some sort of travelling condition, but it
was not until after the clock had struck six, when the
muddy roads were glistening under the horizontal light
of the fading day. The smuggled tubs were soon packed
into the vehicles, and Latimer, with three of his assist-
ants, drove slowly out of the village in the direction of
the port of Budmouth, some considerable number of
miles distant, the other excisemen being left to watch
for the remainder of the cargo, which they knew to have
been sunk somewhere between Ringsworth and Lulstead
Cove, and to unearth Owlett, the only person clearly im-
plicated by the discovery of the cave.

Women and children stood at the doors as the carts,
each chalked with the Government pitchfork, passed in
the increasing twilight ; and as they stood they looked
279

WESSEX TALES

at the confiscated property with a melancholy expression
that told only too plainly the relation which they bore
to the trade.

' Well, Lizzy,' said Stockdale, when the crackle of
the wheels had nearly died away. ' This is a fit finish
to your adventure. I am truly thankful that you have
got off without suspicion, and the loss only of the liquor.
Will you sit down and let me talk to you ? '

' By and by,' she said. ' But I must go out now.'

' Not to that horrid shore again ? ' he said blankly.

' No, not there. I am only going to see the end of
this day's business.'

He did not answer to this, and she moved towards
the door slowly, as if waiting for him to say something
more.

1 You don't offer to come with me,' she added at last.
1 1 suppose that's because you hate me after all this ? '

* Can you say it, Lizzy, when you know I only want
to save you from such practices ? Come with you I—-
of course I will, if it is only to take care of you. But
why will you go out again ? '

' Because I cannot rest indoors. Something is hap-
pening, and I must know what. Now, come ! ' And
they went into the dusk together.

When they reached the turnpike-road she turned to
the right, and he soon perceived that they were follow-
ing the direction of the excisemen and their load. He
had given her his arm, and every now and then she
suddenly pulled it back, to signify that he was to halt
a moment and listen. They had walked rather quickly
along the first quarter of a mile, and on the second or
third time of standing still she said, ' I hear them ahead
— don't you ? '

'Yes,' he said; 'I hear the wheels. But what of
that?'

'I only want to know if they get clear away from
the neighbourhood.'

280

THE DISTRACTED PREACHER

'Ah,' said he, a light breaking upon him. 'Some-
thing desperate is to be attempted ! — and now I re-
member there was not a man about the village when
we left.'

' Hark ! ' she murmured. The noise of the cart-
wheels had stopped, and given place to another sort of
sound.

"Tis a scuffle!' said Stockdale. 'There'll be
murder ! Lizzy, let go my arm ; I am going on. On
my conscience, I must not stay here and do nothing ! '

'There'll be no murder, and not even a broken
head,' she said. ' Our men are thirty to four of them :
no harm will be done at all.'

' Then there is an attack ! ' exclaimed Stockdale ;
'and you knew it was to be. Why should you side
with men who break the laws like this ? '

'Why should you side with men who take from
country traders what they have honestly bought wi'
their own money in France ? ' said she firmly.

' They are not honestly bought,' said he.

'They are,' she contradicted. 'I and Owlett and
the others paid thirty shillings for every one of the
tubs before they were put on board at Cherbourg, and
if a king who is nothing to us sends his people to
steal our property, we have a right to steal it back
again.'

Stockdale did not stop to argue the matter, but
went quickly in the direction of the noise, Lizzy keep-
ing at his side. ' Don't you interfere, will you, dear
Richard ? ' she said anxiously, as they drew near.
' Don't let us go any closer : 'tis at Warm'ell Cross
where they are seizing 'em. You can do no good, and
you may meet with a hard blow ! '

'Let us see first what is going on,' he said. But
before .they had got much further the noise of the cart-
wheels began again; and Stockdale soon found that
they were coming towards him. In another minute
281

WESSEX TALES

the three carts came up, and Stockdale and Lizzy stood
in the ditch to let them pass.

Instead of being conducted by four men, as had
happened when they went out of the village, the horses
and carts were now accompanied by a body of from
twenty to thirty, all of whom, as Stockdale perceived
to his astonishment, had blackened faces. Among them
walked six or eight huge female figures, whom, from
their wide strides, Stockdale guessed to be men in
disguise. As soon as the party discerned Lizzy and
her companion four or five fell back, and when the
carts had passed, came close to the pair.

' There is no walking up this way for the present,'
said one of the gaunt women, who wore curls a foot
long, dangling down the sides of her face, in the
fashion of the time. Stockdale recognized this lady's
voice as Owlett's.

'Why not?' said Stockdale. 'This is the public
highway.'

' Now look here, youngster,' said Owlett. ' O, 'tis
the Methodist parson ! — what, and Mrs. Newberry !
Well, you'd better not go up that way, Lizzy. They've
all run off, and folks have got their own again.'

The miller then hastened on and joined his com-
rades. Stockdale and Lizzy also turned back. ' I
wish all this hadn't been forced upon us,' she said
regretfully. 'But if those excisemen had got off with
the tubs, half the people in the parish would have been
in want for the next month or two.'

Stockdale was not paying much attention to her
words, and he said, ' I don't think I can go back like
this. Those four poor excisemen may be murdered
for all I know.'

1 Murdered ! ' said Lizzy impatiently. ' We don't do
murder here.'

'Well, I shall go as far as Warm'ell Cross to see,'
said Stockdale decisively ; and, without wishing her safe
282

THE DISTRACTED PREACHER

home or anything else, the minister turned back. Lizzy
stood looking at him till his form was absorbed in the
shades ; and then, with sadness, she went in the direction
of Nether-Moynton.

The road was lonely, and after nightfall at this
time of the year there was often not a passer for hours.
Stockdale pursued his way without hearing a sound
beyond that of his own footsteps; and in due time
he passed beneath the trees of the plantation which
surrounded the Warm'ell Cross-road. Before he had
reached the point of intersection he heard voices from
the thicket,

1 Hoi-hoi-hoi ! Help, help ! '

The voices were not at all feeble or despairing, but
they were unmistakably anxious. Stockdale had no
weapon, and before plunging into the pitchy darkness
of the plantation he pulled a stake from the hedge, to
use in case of need. When he got among the trees
he shouted — * What's the matter — where are you ? '

1 Here,' answered the voices ; and, pushing through
the brambles in that direction, he came near the objects
of his search.

' Why don't you come forward ? ' said Stockdale.

1 We be tied to the trees ! '

< Who are you ? '

1 Poor Will Latimer the exciseman ! ' said one
plaintively. 'Just come and cut these cords, there's
a good man. We were afraid nobody would pass by
to-night/

Stockdale soon loosened them, upon which they
stretched their limbs and stood at their ease,

' The rascals ! ' said Latimer, getting now into a rage,
though he had seemed quite meek when Stockdale first
came up. * 'Tis the same set of fellows. I know they
were Moynton chaps to a man.'

1 But we can't swear to 'em,' said another ' Not one
of 'em spoke.'

283

WE5SEX TALES

' What are you going to do ? ' said Stockdale.

'I'd fain go back to Moynton, and have at 'em
again ! ' said Latimer.

4 So would we ! ' said his comrades.

' Fight till we die ! ' said Latimer.

1 We will, we will ! ' said his men.

1 But,' said Latimer, more frigidly, as they came out
of the plantation, ' we don't know that these chaps with
black faces were Moynton men ? And proof is a hard
thing/

« So it is,' said the rest.

'And therefore we won't do nothing at all,' said
Latimer, with complete dispassionateness. ' For my
part, I'd sooner be them than we. The clitches of my
arms are burning like fire from the cords those two
strapping women tied round 'em. My opinion is, now
I have had time to think o't, that you may serve your
Gover'ment at too high a price. For these two nights
and days I have not had an hour's rest; and, please
God, here's for home-along.'

The other officers agreed heartily to this course ; and,
thanking Stockdale for his timely assistance, they parted
from him at the Cross, taking themselves the western
road, and Stockdale going back to Nether-Moynton.

During that walk the minister was lost in reverie
of the most painful kind. As soon as he got into the
house, and before entering his own rooms, he advanced
to the door of the little back parlour in which Lizzy
usually sat with her mother. He found her there alone.
Stockdale went forward, and, like a man in a dream,
looked down upon the table that stood between him
and the young woman, who had her bonnet and cloak
still on. As he did not speak, she looked up from her
chair at him, with misgiving in her eye.

' Where are they gone ? ' he then said listlessly.

'Who? — I don't know. I have seen nothing of
them since. I came straight in here.'
284

THE DISTRACTED PREACHER

' If your men can manage to get off with those tubs,
it wi]l be a great profit to you, I suppose ? '

* A share will be mine, a share my cousin Owlett's,
a share to each of the two farmers, and a share divided
amongst the men who helped us.'

' And you still think,' he went on slowly, 4 that you
will not give this business up ? '

IJzzy rose, and put her hand upon his shoulder.
' Don't ask that/ she whispered. ' You don't know
what you are asking. I must tell you, though I meant
not to do it. What I make by that trade is all I have
to keep my mother and myself with.'

He was astonished. 'I did not dream of such a
thing,' he said. ' I would rather have swept the streets,
had I been you. What is money compared with a clear
conscience ? '

* My conscience is clear. I know my mother, but
the king I have never seen. His dues are nothing to
me. But it is a great deal to me that my mother and
I should live.'

' Marry me, and promise to give it up. I will keep
your mother.'

'It is good of you/ she said, trembling a little.
' Let me think of it by myself. I would rather not
answer now.'

She reserved her answer till the next day, and came
into his room with a solemn face. ' I cannot do what
you wished ! ' she said passionately. * It is too much
to ask. My whole life ha' been passed in this way.'
Her words and manner showed that before entering
she had been struggling with herself in private, and that
the contention had been strong.

Stockdale turned pale, but he spoke quietly. ' Then,
Lizzy, we must part I cannot go against my principles
in this matter, and I cannot make my profession a
mockery. You know how I love you, and what I
would do for you ; but this one thing I cannot do.'

285

WESSEX TALES

' But why should you belong to that profession ? '
she burst out. « I have got this large house ; why can't
you marry me, and live here with us, and not be a
Methodist preacher any more ? I assure you, Richard,
it is no harm, and I wish you could only see it as I do !
We only carry it on in winter : in summer it is never
done at all. It stirs up one's dull life at this time o'
the year, and gives excitement, which I have got so
used to now that I should hardly know how to do
'ithout it. At nights, when the wind blows, instead of
being dull and stupid, and not noticing whether it do
blow or not, your mind is afield, even if you are not
afield yourself; and you are wondering how the chaps
are getting on ; and you walk up and down the room,
and look out o' window, and then you go out yourself,
and know your way about as well by night as by day,
and have hairbreadth escapes from old Latimer and his
fellows, who are too stupid ever to really frighten us,
and only make us a bit nimble.'

« He frightened you a little last night, anyhow : and
I would advise you to drop it before it is worse.'

She shook her head. « No, I must go on as I have
begun. I was born to it. It is in my blood, and I
can't be cured. O, Richard, you cannot think what
a hard thing you have asked, and how sharp you try
me when you put me between this and my love for 'ee ! '

Stockdale was leaning with his elbow on the mantel-
piece, his hands over his eyes. ' We ought never to
have met, Lizzy,' he said. ' It was an ill day for us !
I little thought there was anything so hopeless and
impossible in our engagement as this. Well, it is too
late now to regret consequences in this way. I have
had the happiness of seeing you and knowing you
at least.'

{ You dissent from Church, and I dissent from
State,' she said. 'And I don't see why we are not

well matched.

286

THE DISTRACTED PREACHER

He smiled sadly, while Lizzy remained looking down,
her eyes beginning to overflow.

That was an unhappy evening for both of them, and
the days that followed were unhappy days. J3oth she
and he went mechanically about their employments, and
his depression was marked in the village by more than
one of his denomination with whom he came in contact.
But Lizzy, who passed her days indoors, was unsuspected
of being the cause : for it was generally understood that
a quiet engagement to marry existed between her and
her cousin Owlett, and had existed for some time.

Thus uncertainly the week passed on ; till one morn-
ing Stockdale said to her : ' I have had a letter, Lizzy.
I must call you that till I am gone.'

' Gone ? ' said she blankly.

' Yes,' he said. ' I am going from this place. I
felt it would be better for us both that I should not
stay after what has happened. In fact, I couldn't stay
here, and look on you from day to day, without be-
coming weak and faltering in my course. I have just
heard of an arrangement by which the other minister
can arrive here in about a week ; and let me go else-
where.'

That he had all this time continued so firmly fixed
in his resolution came upon her as a grievous surprise.
' You never loved me ! ' she said bitterly.

' I might say the same,' he returned ; ' but I will
not. Grant me one favour. Come and hear my last
sermon on the day before I go.'

Lizzy, who was a church-goer on Sunday mornings,
frequently attended Stockdale's chapel in the evening
with the rest of the double-minded ; and she promised.

It became known that Stockdale was going to leave,
and a good many people outside his own sect were sorry
to hear it. The intervening days flew rapidly away,
and on the evening of the Sunday which preceded the
morning of his departure Lizzy sat in the chapel to hear

287

WESSEXL TALES

him for the last time. The little building was full to
overflowing, and he took up the subject which all had
expected, that of the contraband trade so extensively
practised among them. His hearers, in laying his
words to their own hearts, did not perceive that they
were most particularly directed against Lizzy, till the
sermon waxed warm, and Stockdale nearly broke down
with emotion. In truth his own earnestness, and her
sad eyes looking up at him, were too much for the
young man's equanimity. He hardly knew how he
ended. He saw Lizzy, as through a mist, turn and go
away with the rest of the congregation ; and shortly
afterwards followed her home.

She invited him to supper, and they sat down alone,
her mother having, as was usual with her on Sunday
nights, gone to bed early.

* We will part friends, won't we ? ' said Lizzy, with
forced gaiety, and never alluding to the sermon : a
reticence which rather disappointed him.

'We will,' he said, with a forced smile on his part;
and they sat down.

It was the first meal that they had ever shared
together in their lives, and probably the last that they
would so share. When it was over, and the indifferent
conversation could no longer be continued, he arose
and took her hand. ' Lizzy,' he said, * do you say we
must part — do you ? '

4 You do,' she said solemnly. ' I can say no
more.'

* Nor I,' said he. ' If that is your answer, good-
bye!'

Stockdale bent over her and kissed her, and she
involuntarily returned his kiss. * I shall go early,' he
said hurriedly. ' I shall not see you again.'

And he did leave early. He fancied, when stepping
forth into the grey morning light, to mount the van
which was to carry him away, that he saw a face between
388

THE DISTRACTED PREACHER

the parted curtains of Lizzy's window, but the light was
faint, and the panes glistened with wet; so he could
not be sure. Stockdale mounted the vehicle, and was
gone; and on the following Sunday the new minister
preached in the chapel of the Moynton Wesleyans.

One day, two years after the parting, Stockdale, now-
settled in a midland town, came into Nether-Moynton
by carrier in the original way. Jogging along in the
van that afternoon he had put questions to the driver,
and the answers that he received interested the minister
deeply. The result of them was that he went without
the least hesitation to the door of his former lodging.
It was about six o'clock in the evening, arid the same
time of year as when he had left ; now, too, the ground
was damp and glistening, the west was bright, and
Lizzy's snowdrops were raising their heads in the border
under the wall.

Lizzy must have caught sight of him from the window,
for by the time that he reached the door she was there
holding it open : and then, as if she had not sufficiently
considered her. act of coming out, she drew herself back,
saying with some constraint, ' Mr. Stockdale ! '

' You knew it was,' said Stockdale, taking her hand.
* I wrote to say I should call.'

* Yes, but you did not say when,' she answered.

c I did not. I was not quite sure when my business
would lead me to these parts.'

'You only came because business brought you
near ? '

' Well, that is the fact ; but I have often thought I
should like to come on purpose to see you. . . . But
what's all this that has happened ? I told you how it
would be, Lizzy, and you would not listen to me.'

'I would not,' she said sadly. 'But I had been
brought up to that life; and it was second nature to
me. However, it is all over now. The officers have
289 T

WESSEX TALES

blood-money for taking a man dead or alive, and the
trade is going to nothing. We were hunted down like
rats.'

' Owlett is quite gone, I hear.'

'Yes. He is in America. We had a dreadful
struggle that last time, when they tried to take him.
It is a perfect miracle that he lived through it; and it
is a wonder that I was not killed. I was shot in the
hand. It was not by aim; the shot was really meant
for my cousin ; but I was behind, looking on as usual,
and the bullet came to me. It bled terribly, but I got
home without fainting ; and it healed after a time. You
know how he suffered ? '

'No,' said Stockdale. 'I only heard that he just
escaped with his life.'

' He was shot in the back ; but a rib turned the
ball. He was badly hurt. We would not let him be
took. The men carried him all night across the meads
to Kingsbere, and hid him in a barn, dressing his wound
as well as they could, till he was so far recovered as to
be able to get about. He had gied up his mill for some
time ; and at last he got to Bristol, and took a passage
to America, and he's settled in Wisconsin.'

'What do you think of smuggling now?' said the
minister gravely.

' I own that we were wrong,' said she. ' But I
have suffered for it. I am very poor now, and my
mother has been dead these twelve months. . . . But
won't you come in, Mr. Stockdale ? '

Stockdale went in; and it is to be supposed that
they came to an understanding ; for a fortnight later
there was a sale of Lizzy's furniture, and after that a
wedding at a chapel in a neighbouring town.

He took her away from her old haunts to the home

that he had made for himself in his native county,

where she studied her duties as a minister's wife with

praiseworthy assiduity. It is said that in after years she

290

THE DISTRACTED PREACHER

wrote an excellent tract called Render unto Ccesar; or,
2^he Repentant Villagers, in which her own experience
was anonymously used as the introductory story.
Stockdale got it printed, after making some corrections,
and putting in a few powerful sentences of his own ; and
many hundreds of copies were distributed by the couple
in the course of their married life.

April 1879.

THE END

r i s t o

X>,0

Tjcon6uri

Map of the

WES SEX

ofthe
Novels and Poems

he Channel

THE

WORKS OF THOMAS HARDY

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TESS OF THE D'URBERVILLES.

FAR FROM THE MADDING CROWD.

THE MAYOR OF CASTERBRIDGE.
*A PAIR OF BLUE EYES.
*TWO ON A TOWER.

THE RETURN OF THE NATIVE.

THE WOODLANDERS.
*JUDE THE OBSCURE.

THE TRUMPET-MAJOR.
*THE HAND OF ETHELBERTA.
*A LAODICEAN.
* DESPERATE REMEDIES.

WESSEX TALES.

LIFE'S LITTLE IRONIES.
*A GROUP OF NOBLE DAMES.

UNDER THE GREENWOOD TREE.
*THE WELL-BELOVED.

A CHANGED MAN.

WESSEX POEMS, and other Verses.

POEMS OF THE PAST AND THE PRESENT

In the 3-r. 6d. edition the Poems are in two vols. In the Pocket
Edition they form 'one complete vol.

THE DYNASTS. A Drama. In three Parts. Crown
8vo. 45. 6d. net each. Also in one vol. Crown 8vo. 75. 6d.

SATIRES OF CIRCUMSTANCE. Lyrics and Reveries. Crown
8vo. 45. 6d. net.

TIME'S LAUGHINGSTOCKS, and other Verses. Second
Edition. Crown 8vo. 43. 6d. net.

MACMILLAN AND CO., LTD., LONDON

WESSEX EDITION OF THE

WORKS OF THOMAS HARDY

In 2 1 vols. 8vo. Cloth Gilt. 7s. 6d. net each.
With Preface, Notes, Frontispiece and Map in each vol.

THE WESSEX NOVELS

I.— NOVELS OF CHARACTER AND ENVIRONMENT

1. TESS OF THE D'URBERVILLES.

2. FAR FROM THE MADDING CROWD.

3. JUDE THE OBSCURE.

4. THE RETURN OF THE NATIVE.

5. THE MAYOR OF CASTERBRIDGE.

6. THE WOODLANDERS.

7. UNDER THE GREENWOOD TREE.

8. LIFE'S LITTLE IRONIES.

9. WESSEX TALES.

II.— ROMANCES AND FANTASIES
10. A PAIR OF BLUE EYES,
u. THE TRUMPET-MAJOR.

12. TWO ON A TOWER.

13. THE WELL-BELOVED.

14. A GROUP OF NOBLE DAMES.

III.— NOVELS OF INGENUITY

15. DESPERATE REMEDIES.

16. THE HAND OF ETHELBERTA.

17. A LAODICEAN.

IV.— MIXED NOVELS

18. A CHANGED MAN, THE WAITING SUPPER,

AND OTHER TALES, CONCLUDING WITH THE
ROMANTIC ADVENTURES OF A MILK-
MAID.

VERSE

1. WESSEX POEMS, AND POEMS OF THE PAST

AND THE PRESENT.

2. THE DYNASTS, PARTS I. AND II.

3. THE DYNASTS, PART III., AND TIME'S

LAUGHINGSTOCKS.
MACMILLAN AND CO., LTD., LONDON.

LIBRARY

PLEASE DO NOT REMOVE
CARDS OR SLIPS FROM THIS POCKET

UNIVERSITY OF TORONTO LIBRARY

Hardy, Thomas
Wessex tales

Al
1917

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