WESSEX TALES

Contents:

PrefaceAn Imaginative WomanThe Three StrangersThe Withered ArmFellow-TownsmenInterlopers at the KnapThe Distracted Preacher

PREFACE

An apology is perhaps needed for the neglect of contrast which is shownby presenting two consecutive stories of hangmen in such a smallcollection as the following. But in the neighbourhood of county-townstales of executions used to form a large proportion of the localtraditions; and though never personally acquainted with any chiefoperator at such scenes, the writer of these pages had as a boy theprivilege of being on speaking terms with a man who applied for theoffice, and who sank into an incurable melancholy because he failed toget it, some slight mitigation of his grief being to dwell upon strikingepisodes in the lives of those happier ones who had held it with successand renown. His tale of disappointment used to cause some wonder why hisambition should have taken such an unfortunate form, but its noblenesswas never questioned. In those days, too, there was still living an oldwoman who, for the cure of some eating disease, had been taken in heryouth to have her 'blood turned' by a convict's corpse, in the mannerdescribed in 'The Withered Arm. '

Since writing this story some years ago I have been reminded by an agedfriend who knew 'Rhoda Brook' that, in relating her dream, myforgetfulness has weakened the facts our of which the tale grew. Inreality it was while lying down on a hot afternoon that the incubusoppressed her and she flung it off, with the results upon the body of theoriginal as described. To my mind the occurrence of such a vision in thedaytime is more impressive than if it had happened in a midnight dream. Readers are therefore asked to correct the misrelation, which affords aninstance of how our imperfect memories insensibly formalize the freshoriginality of living fact--from whose shape they slowly depart, asmachine-made castings depart by degrees from the sharp hand-work of themould. 

Among the many devices for concealing smuggled goods in caves and pits ofthe earth, that of planting an apple-tree in a tray or box which wasplaced over the mouth of the pit is, I believe, unique, and it isdetailed 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 thirtyyears. I never gathered from his reminiscences what means were adoptedfor lifting the tree, which, with its roots, earth, and receptacle, musthave been of considerable weight. There is no doubt, however, that thething was done through many years. My informant often spoke, too, of thehorribly suffocating sensation produced by the pair of spirit-tubs slungupon the chest and back, after stumbling with the burden of them forseveral miles inland over a rough country and in darkness. He said thatthough years of his youth and young manhood were spent in this irregularbusiness, his profits from the same, taken all together, did not averagethe wages he might have earned in a steady employment, whilst thefatigues and risks were excessive. 

I may add that the first story in the series turns upon a physicalpossibility that may attach to women of imaginative temperament, and thatis well supported by the experiences of medical men and other observersof such manifestations. 

T. H. April 1896. 

AN IMAGINATIVE WOMAN

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

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

Mrs. Marchmill started out of the reverie into which the book had thrownher. 'Yes, ' she said, 'you've been such a long time. I was tired ofstaying 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 andcomfortable 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 muchroom, I am afraid; hut I can light on nothing better. The town is ratherfull. '

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

In age well-balanced, in personal appearance fairly matched, and indomestic requirements conformable, in temper this couple differed, thougheven here they did not often clash, he being equable, if not lymphatic, and she decidedly nervous and sanguine. It was to their tastes andfancies, those smallest, greatest particulars, that no common denominatorcould be applied. Marchmill considered his wife's likes and inclinationssomewhat silly; she considered his sordid and material. The husband'sbusiness was that of a gunmaker in a thriving city northwards, and hissoul was in that business always; the lady was best characterized by thatsuperannuated phrase of elegance 'a votary of the muse. ' Animpressionable, palpitating creature was Ella, shrinking humanely fromdetailed knowledge of her husband's trade whenever she reflected thateverything he manufactured had for its purpose the destruction of life. She could only recover her equanimity by assuring herself that some, atleast, of his weapons were sooner or later used for the extermination ofhorrid vermin and animals almost as cruel to their inferiors in speciesas human beings were to theirs. 

She had never antecedently regarded this occupation of his as anyobjection to having him for a husband. Indeed, the necessity of gettinglife-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, hadpassed the honeymoon, and reached the reflecting stage. Then, like aperson who has stumbled upon some object in the dark, she wondered whatshe had got; mentally walked round it, estimated it; whether it were rareor 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 heartalive by pitying her proprietor's obtuseness and want of refinement, pitying herself, and letting off her delicate and ethereal emotions inimaginative occupations, day-dreams, and night-sighs, which perhaps wouldnot much have disturbed William if he had known of them. 

Her figure was small, elegant, and slight in build, tripping, or ratherbounding, in movement. She was dark-eyed, and had that marvellouslybright and liquid sparkle in each pupil which characterizes persons ofElla's cast of soul, and is too often a cause of heartache to thepossessor's male friends, ultimately sometimes to herself. Her husbandwas a tall, long-featured man, with a brown beard; he had a ponderingregard; and was, it must be added, usually kind and tolerant to her. Hespoke in squarely shaped sentences, and was supremely satisfied with acondition of sublunary things which made weapons a necessity. 

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

The householder, who bad been watching for the gentleman's return, metthem in the passage, and showed the rooms. She informed them that shewas a professional man's widow, left in needy circumstances by the rathersudden death of her husband, and she spoke anxiously of the conveniencesof the establishment. 

Mrs. Marchmill said that she liked the situation and the house; but, itbeing small, there would not be accommodation enough, unless she couldhave all the rooms. 

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

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

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

'O, it won't inconvenience him, I assure you!' said the landladyeloquently. 'You see, he's a different sort of young man frommost--dreamy, solitary, rather melancholy--and he cares more to be herewhen the south-westerly gales are beating against the door, and the seawashes over the Parade, and there's not a soul in the place, than he doesnow in the season. He'd just as soon be where, in fact, he's goingtemporarily, 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. Marchmillstrolled out towards the pier, and Mrs. Marchmill, having despatched thechildren to their outdoor amusements on the sands, settled herself inmore completely, examining this and that article, and testing thereflecting powers of the mirror in the wardrobe door. 

In the small back sitting-room, which had been the young bachelor's, shefound furniture of a more personal nature than in the rest. Shabbybooks, of correct rather than rare editions, were piled up in a queerlyreserved manner in corners, as if the previous occupant had not conceivedthe possibility that any incoming person of the season's bringing couldcare to look inside them. The landlady hovered on the threshold torectify anything that Mrs. Marchmill might not find to her satisfaction. 

'I'll make this my own little room, ' said the latter, 'because the booksare 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 theliterary line himself somewhat. He is a poet--yes, really a poet--and hehas a little income of his own, which is enough to write verses on, butnot 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 writtenon the title-page. 'Dear me!' she continued; 'I know his name verywell--Robert Trewe--of course I do; and his writings! And it is hisrooms we have taken, and him we have turned out of his home?'

Ella Marchmill, sitting down alone a few minutes later, thought withinterested surprise of Robert Trewe. Her own latter history will bestexplain that interest. Herself the only daughter of a struggling man ofletters, she had during the last year or two taken to writing poems, inan endeavour to find a congenial channel in which to let flow herpainfully embayed emotions, whose former limpidity and sparkle seemeddeparting in the stagnation caused by the routine of a practicalhousehold and the gloom of bearing children to a commonplace father. These poems, subscribed with a masculine pseudonym, had appeared invarious obscure magazines, and in two cases in rather prominent ones. Inthe 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 thesame 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 hadused it simultaneously as an inspiration, the editor remarking in a noteupon the coincidence, and that the excellence of both poems prompted himto give them together. 

After that event Ella, otherwise 'John Ivy, ' had watched with muchattention the appearance anywhere in print of verse bearing the signatureof Robert Trewe, who, with a man's unsusceptibility on the question ofsex, had never once thought of passing himself off as a woman. To besure, Mrs. Marchmill had satisfied herself with a sort of reason fordoing the contrary in her case; that nobody might believe in herinspiration if they found that the sentiments came from a pushingtradesman's wife, from the mother of three children by a matter-of-factsmall-arms manufacturer. 

Trewe's verse contrasted with that of the rank and file of recent minorpoets in being impassioned rather than ingenious, luxuriant rather thanfinished. Neither symboliste nor decadent, he was a pessimist in so faras that character applies to a man who looks at the worst contingenciesas well as the best in the human condition. Being little attracted byexcellences of form and rhythm apart from content, he sometimes, whenfeeling outran his artistic speed, perpetrated sonnets in the looselyrhymed Elizabethan fashion, which every right-minded reviewer said heought not to have done. 

With sad and hopeless envy, Ella Marchmill had often and often scannedthe rival poet's work, so much stronger as it always was than her ownfeeble lines. She had imitated him, and her inability to touch his levelwould send her into fits of despondency. Months passed away thus, tillshe observed from the publishers' list that Trewe had collected hisfugitive pieces into a volume, which was duly issued, and was much orlittle praised according to chance, and had a sale quite sufficient topay for the printing. 

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

The author's thoughts were diverted to another groove just then by thediscovery that she was going to have a third child, and the collapse ofher poetical venture had perhaps less effect upon her mind than it mighthave done if she had been domestically unoccupied. Her husband had paidthe publisher's bill with the doctor's, and there it all had ended forthe time. But, though less than a poet of her century, Ella was morethan a mere multiplier of her kind, and latterly she had begun to feelthe old afflatus once more. And now by an odd conjunction she foundherself in the rooms of Robert Trewe. 

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

'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 seemednothing loth to minister to her tenant's curiosity about her predecessor. 'Lived here long? Yes, nearly two years. He keeps on his rooms evenwhen he's not here: the soft air of this place suits his chest, and helikes to be able to come back at any time. He is mostly writing orreading, and doesn't see many people, though, for the matter of that, heis such a good, kind young fellow that folks would only be too glad to befriendly with him if they knew him. You don't meet kind-hearted peopleevery day. '

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

'Yes; he'll oblige me in anything if I ask him. "Mr. Trewe, " I say tohim 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 saythat he will take a trip to Paris, or Norway, or somewhere; and I assureyou 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 poemof his composition late at night he walked up and down the roomrehearsing it; and the floors being so thin--jerry-built houses, youknow, though I say it myself--he kept me awake up above him till I wishedhim further . . . But we get on very well. '

This was but the beginning of a series of conversations about the risingpoet as the days went on. On one of these occasions Mrs. Hooper drewElla's attention to what she had not noticed before: minute scribblingsin pencil on the wall-paper behind the curtains at the head of the bed. 

'O! let me look, ' said Mrs. Marchmill, unable to conceal a rush of tendercuriosity as she bent her pretty face close to the wall. 

'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 triedto rub most of them out, but you can read them still. My belief is thathe wakes up in the night, you know, with some rhyme in his head, and jotsit down there on the wall lest he should forget it by the morning. Someof these very lines you see here I have seen afterwards in print in themagazines. Some are newer; indeed, I have not seen that one before. Itmust have been done only a few days ago. '

'O yes! . . . '

Ella Marchmill flushed without knowing why, and suddenly wished hercompanion would go away, now that the information was imparted. Anindescribable consciousness of personal interest rather than literarymade her anxious to read the inscription alone; and she accordinglywaited till she could do so, with a sense that a great store of emotionwould be enjoyed in the act. 

Perhaps because the sea was choppy outside the Island, Ella's husbandfound it much pleasanter to go sailing and steaming about without hiswife, who was a bad sailor, than with her. He did not disdain to go thusalone on board the steamboats of the cheap-trippers, where there wasdancing by moonlight, and where the couples would come suddenly down witha lurch into each other's arms; for, as he blandly told her, the companywas too mixed for him to take her amid such scenes. Thus, while thisthriving manufacturer got a great deal of change and sea-air out of hissojourn here, the life, external at least, of Ella was monotonous enough, and mainly consisted in passing a certain number of hours each day inbathing and walking up and down a stretch of shore. But the poeticimpulse having again waxed strong, she was possessed by an inner flamewhich 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 ofthem, till, in her failure, she burst into tears. The personal elementin the magnetic attraction exercised by this circumambient, unapproachable master of hers was so much stronger than the intellectualand abstract that she could not understand it. To be sure, she wassurrounded noon and night by his customary environment, which literallywhispered of him to her at every moment; but he was a man she had neverseen, and that all that moved her was the instinct to specialize awaiting emotion on the first fit thing that came to hand did not, ofcourse, suggest itself to Ella. 

In the natural way of passion under the too practical conditions whichcivilization has devised for its fruition, her husband's love for her hadnot survived, except in the form of fitful friendship, any more than, oreven so much as, her own for him; and, being a woman of very livingardours, that required sustenance of some sort, they were beginning tofeed on this chancing material, which was, indeed, of a quality farbetter 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. Hooperexplained that it belonged to Mr. Trewe, and hung it up in the closetagain. Possessed of her fantasy, Ella went later in the afternoon, whennobody was in that part of the house, opened the closet, unhitched one ofthe articles, a mackintosh, and put it on, with the waterproof capbelonging to it. 

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

Her eyes always grew wet when she thought like that, and she turned tolook at herself in the glass. His heart had beat inside that coat, andhis brain had worked under that hat at levels of thought she would neverreach. The consciousness of her weakness beside him made her feel quitesick. Before she had got the things off her the door opened, and herhusband 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 landlady, who might herselfhave nourished a half-tender regard for the poet, so ready was she todiscourse ardently about him. 

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

'O yes!'

'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 good deal and left you without much toamuse you. Perhaps it's true. To-day, as there's not much sea, I'lltake 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 thepoet she was now distinctly in love with overpowered all otherconsiderations. 

'I don't want to go, ' she said to herself. 'I can't bear to be away! AndI 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 outupon the sands. The blinds waved in the sunshine to the soft, steadystroke of the sea beyond the wall; and the notes of the Green Silesianband, a troop of foreign gentlemen hired for the season, had drawn almostall the residents and promenaders 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 becameimpatient. 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. 

'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 wronghouse. I forgot to tell you that Mr. Trewe sent a note just before lunchto 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 hismournful ballad on 'Severed Lives, ' so aching was her erratic littleheart, and so tearful her eyes. When the children came in with wetstockings, and ran up to her to tell her of their adventures, she couldnot feel that she cared about them half as much as usual. 

* * * * *

'Mrs. Hooper, have you a photograph of--the gentleman 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 ownbedroom, ma'am. '

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

'Yes, so they are; but he's behind them. He belongs rightly to thatframe, which I bought on purpose; but as he went away he said: "Cover meup from those strangers that are coming, for God's sake. I don't wantthem staring at me, and I am sure they won't want me staring at them. " SoI slipped in the Duke and Duchess temporarily in front of him, as theyhad no frame, and Royalties are more suitable for letting furnished thana 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 tenantwould be such an attractive lady as you, or he wouldn't have thought ofhiding 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 thanhandsome; a large-eyed thoughtful fellow, you know, with a very electricflash in his eye when he looks round quickly, such as you'd expect a poetto be who doesn't get his living by it. '

'How old is he?'

'Several years older than yourself, ma'am; about thirty-one or two, Ithink. '

Ella was, as a matter of fact, a few months over thirty herself; but shedid not look nearly so much. Though so immature in nature, she wasentering on that tract of life in which emotional women begin to suspectthat 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 ofher sex shrink from receiving a male visitor otherwise than with theirbacks 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 hadgone 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 tilldusk, thinking of the yet uncovered photograph in her room, with a serenesense of something ecstatic to come. For, with the subtle luxuriousnessof fancy in which this young woman was an adept, on learning that herhusband was to be absent that night she had refrained from incontinentlyrushing upstairs and opening the picture-frame, preferring to reserve theinspection till she could be alone, and a more romantic tinge be impartedto the occasion by silence, candles, solemn sea and stars outside, thanwas afforded by the garish afternoon sunlight. 

The children had been sent to bed, and Ella soon followed, though it wasnot yet ten o'clock. To gratify her passionate curiosity she now madeher preparations, first getting rid of superfluous garments and puttingon her dressing-gown, then arranging a chair in front of the table andreading several pages of Trewe's tenderest utterances. Then she fetchedthe 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 luxuriantblack moustache and imperial, and a slouched hat which shaded theforehead. The large dark eyes, described by the landlady, showed anunlimited capacity for misery; they looked out from beneath well-shapedbrows as if they were reading the universe in the microcosm of theconfronter's face, and were not altogether overjoyed at what thespectacle portended. 

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

As she gazed long at the portrait she fell into thought, till her eyesfilled with tears, and she touched the cardboard with her lips. Then shelaughed with a nervous lightness, and wiped her eyes. 

She thought how wicked she was, a woman having a husband and threechildren, to let her mind stray to a stranger in this unconscionablemanner. No, he was not a stranger! She knew his thoughts and feelingsas well as she knew her own; they were, in fact, the self-same thoughtsand feelings as hers, which her husband distinctly lacked; perhapsluckily for himself; considering that he had to provide for familyexpenses. 

'He's nearer my real self, he's more intimate with the real me than Willis, 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 shewas reclining on the pillow she re-read those of Robert Trewe's verseswhich she had marked from time to time as most touching and true. Puttingthese aside, she set up the photograph on its edge upon the coverlet, andcontemplated it as she lay. Then she scanned again by the light of thecandle the half-obliterated pencillings on the wall-paper beside herhead. There they were--phrases, couplets, bouts-rimes, beginnings andmiddles of lines, ideas in the rough, like Shelley's scraps, and theleast of them so intense, so sweet, so palpitating, that it seemed as ifhis very breath, warm and loving, fanned her cheeks from those walls, walls that had surrounded his head times and times as they surrounded herown now. He must often have put up his hand so--with the pencil in it. Yes, the writing was sideways, as it would be if executed by one whoextended 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 himin the dead of night, when he could let himself go and have no fear ofthe frost of criticism. No doubt they had often been written up hastilyby the light of the moon, the rays of the lamp, in the blue-grey dawn, infull daylight perhaps never. And now her hair was dragging where his armhad lain when he secured the fugitive fancies; she was sleeping on apoet's lips, immersed in the very essence of him, permeated by his spiritas by an ether. 

While she was dreaming the minutes away thus, a footstep came upon thestairs, and in a moment she heard her husband's heavy step on the landingimmediately without. 

'Ell, where are you?'

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

'O, I beg pardon, ' said William Marchmill. 'Have you a headache? I amafraid 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 Ididn'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 instraight off. I want to get 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 areawake. ' And he came forward into the room. 

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

'Sure you're not ill?' he asked, bending over her. 

'No, only wicked!'

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

Next morning Marchmill was called at six o'clock; and in waking andyawning she heard him muttering to himself: 'What the deuce is thisthat's been crackling under me so?' Imagining her asleep he searchedround him and withdrew something. Through her half-opened eyes sheperceived 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. Iwonder how it came here; whisked off the table by accident perhaps whenthey 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 hearhim ridiculed. 'He's a clever man!' she said, with a tremor in hergentle voice which she herself felt to be absurdly uncalled for. 

'He is a rising poet--the gentleman who occupied two of these roomsbefore we came, though I've never seen him. '

'How do you know, if you've never seen him?'

'Mrs. Hooper told me when she showed me the photograph. '

'O; well, I must up and be off. I shall be home rather early. Sorry Ican't take you to-day, dear. Mind the children don't go gettingdrowned. '

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

'Yes, ' said Mrs. Hooper. 'He's coming this day week to stay with afriend near here till you leave. He'll be sure to call. '

Marchmill did return quite early in the afternoon; and, opening someletters which had arrived in his absence, declared suddenly that he andhis family would have to leave a week earlier than they had expected todo--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 fetchyou! No: we'll all return together; and we'll make out our time in NorthWales or Brighton a little later on. Besides, you've three days longeryet. '

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

What a useless journey it was! Ella knew but vaguely where the housestood, and when she fancied she had found it, and ventured to inquire ofa pedestrian if he lived there, the answer returned by the man was thathe did not know. And if he did live there, how could she call upon him?Some women might have the assurance to do it, but she had not. How crazyhe would think her. She might have asked him to call upon her, perhaps;but she had not the courage for that, either. She lingered mournfullyabout the picturesque seaside eminence till it was time to return to thetown and enter the steamer for recrossing, reaching home for dinnerwithout having been greatly missed. 

At the last moment, unexpectedly enough, her husband said that he shouldhave no objection to letting her and the children stay on till the end ofthe week, since she wished to do so, if she felt herself able to get homewithout 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 familydeparted from the place which had been productive of so much fervour inher. The dreary, dreary train; the sun shining in moted beams upon thehot cushions; the dusty permanent way; the mean rows of wire--thesethings were her accompaniment: while out of the window the deep blue sea-levels disappeared from her gaze, and with them her poet's home. Heavy-hearted, she tried to read, and wept instead. 

Mr. Marchmill was in a thriving way of business, and he and his familylived in a large new house, which stood in rather extensive grounds a fewmiles outside the city wherein he carried on his trade. Ella's life waslonely here, as the suburban life is apt to be, particularly at certainseasons; and she had ample time to indulge her taste for lyric andelegiac composition. She had hardly got back when she encountered apiece by Robert Trewe in the new number of her favourite magazine, whichmust have been written almost immediately before her visit to Solentsea, for it contained the very couplet she had seen pencilled on the wallpaperby the bed, and Mrs. Hooper had declared to be recent. Ella could resistno 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 histriumphant executions in metre and rhythm of thoughts that moved hissoul, as compared with her own brow-beaten efforts in the same pathetictrade. 

To this address there came a response in a few days, little as she haddared to hope for it--a civil and brief note, in which the young poetstated that, though he was not well acquainted with Mr. Ivy's verse, herecalled the name as being one he had seen attached to some verypromising pieces; that he was glad to gain Mr. Ivy's acquaintance byletter, and should certainly look with much interest for his productionsin the future. 

There must have been something juvenile or timid in her own epistle, asone ostensibly coming from a man, she declared to herself; for Trewequite adopted the tone of an elder and superior in this reply. But whatdid it matter? he had replied; he had written to her with his own handfrom that very room she knew so well, for he was now back again in hisquarters. 

The correspondence thus begun was continued for two months or more, EllaMarchmill sending him from time to time some that she considered to bethe best of her pieces, which he very kindly accepted, though he did notsay he sedulously read them, nor did he send her any of his own inreturn. Ella would have been more hurt at this than she was if she hadnot known that Trewe laboured under the impression that she was one ofhis own sex. 

Yet the situation was unsatisfactory. A flattering little voice told herthat, were he only to see her, matters would be otherwise. No doubt shewould have helped on this by making a frank confession of womanhood, tobegin with, if something had not happened, to her delight, to render itunnecessary. A friend of her husband's, the editor of the most importantnewspaper 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 thetwo men were at that very moment in Wales together. 

Ella was slightly acquainted with the editor's brother. The next morningdown she sat and wrote, inviting him to stay at her house for a shorttime on his way back, and requesting him to bring with him, ifpracticable, his companion Mr. Trewe, whose acquaintance she was anxiousto make. The answer arrived after some few days. Her correspondent andhis friend Trewe would have much satisfaction in accepting her invitationon their way southward, which would be on such and such a day in thefollowing week. 

Ella was blithe and buoyant. Her scheme had succeeded; her belovedthough as yet unseen one was coming. "Behold, he standeth behind ourwall; he looked forth at the windows, showing himself through thelattice, " she thought ecstatically. "And, lo, the winter is past, therain is over and gone, the flowers appear on the earth, the time of thesinging of birds is come, and the voice of the turtle is heard in ourland. "

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 andthe editor's brother's voice in the hall. Poetess as she was, or as shethought herself, she had not been too sublime that day to dress withinfinite trouble in a fashionable robe of rich material, having a faintresemblance to the chiton of the Greeks, a style just then in vogue amongladies of an artistic and romantic turn, which had been obtained by Ellaof her Bond Street dressmaker when she was last in London. Her visitorentered the drawing-room. She looked towards his rear; nobody else camethrough the door. Where, in the name of the God of Love, was RobertTrewe?

'O, I'm sorry, ' said the painter, after their introductory words had beenspoken. 'Trewe is a curious fellow, you know, Mrs. Marchmill. He saidhe'd come; then he said he couldn't. He's rather dusty. We've beendoing a few miles with knapsacks, you know; and he wanted to get onhome. '

'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 offquivering so much that it was like a tremolo-stop opened in her speech. She longed to run away from this dreadful bore and cry her eyes out. 

'Just now, in the turnpike road yonder there. '

'What! he has actually gone past my gates?'

'Yes. When we got to them--handsome gates they are, too, the finest bitof 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 tosee anybody. He's a very good fellow, and a warm friend, but a littleuncertain and gloomy sometimes; he thinks too much of things. His poetryis rather too erotic and passionate, you know, for some tastes; and hehas just come in for a terrible slating from the --- Review that waspublished yesterday; he saw a copy of it at the station by accident. Perhaps you've read it?'

'No. '

'So much the better. O, it is not worth thinking of; just one of thosearticles written to order, to please the narrow-minded set of subscribersupon whom the circulation depends. But he's upset by it. He says it isthe misrepresentation that hurts him so; that, though he can stand a fairattack, he can't stand lies that he's powerless to refute and stop fromspreading. That's just Trewe's weak point. He lives so much by himselfthat these things affect him much more than they would if he were in thebustle of fashionable or commercial life. So he wouldn't come here, making the excuse that it all looked so new and monied--if you'llpardon--'

'But--he must have known--there was sympathy here! Has he never saidanything about getting letters from this address?'

'Yes, yes, he has, from John Ivy--perhaps a relative of yours, hethought, visiting here at the time?'

'Did he--like Ivy, did he say?'

'Well, I don't know that he took any great interest in Ivy. '

'Or in his poems?'

'Or in his poems--so far as I know, that is. '

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

The obtuse and single-minded landscape-painter never once perceived fromher conversation that it was only Trewe she wanted, and not himself. Hemade the best of his visit, seeming to enjoy the society of Ella'shusband, who also took a great fancy to him, and showed him everywhereabout the neighbourhood, neither of them noticing Ella's mood. 

The painter had been gone only a day or two when, while sitting upstairsalone one morning, she glanced over the London paper just arrived, andread 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 following letter wasread, it having been addressed to a friend at a distance:-

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

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

Her grief and distraction shook her to pieces; and she lay in this frenzyof sorrow for more than an hour. Broken words came every now and thenfrom her quivering 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 hishot forehead--kissed him--let him know how I loved him--that I would havesuffered shame and scorn, would have lived and died, for him! Perhaps itwould have saved his dear life! . . . But no--it was not allowed! God isa jealous God; and that happiness was not for him and me!'

All possibilities were over; the meeting was stultified. Yet it wasalmost visible to her in her fantasy even now, though it could never besubstantiated -

 '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 subdueda style as she could command, enclosing a postal order for a sovereign, and informing Mrs. Hooper that Mrs. Marchmill had seen in the papers thesad account of the poet's death, and having been, as Mrs. Hooper wasaware, much interested in Mr. Trewe during her stay at Coburg House, shewould be obliged if Mrs. Hooper could obtain a small portion of his hairbefore 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 secured it in her private drawer; thelock of hair she tied with white ribbon and put in her bosom, whence shedrew it and kissed it every now and then in some unobserved nook. 

'What's the matter?' said her husband, looking up from his newspaper onone of these occasions. 'Crying over something? A lock of hair? Whoseis it?'

'He's dead!' she murmured. 

'Who?'

'I 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 hehad got down to his factory in the city the subject came into Marchmill'shead again. 

He, too, was aware that a suicide had taken place recently at the housethey had occupied at Solentsea. Having seen the volume of poems in hiswife's hand of late, and heard fragments of the landlady's conversationabout 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 slyanimals women are!'

Then he placidly dismissed the matter, and went on with his dailyaffairs. By this time Ella at home had come to a determination. Mrs. Hooper, in sending the hair and photograph, had informed her of the dayof the funeral; and as the morning and noon wore on an overpowering wishto know where they were laying him took possession of the sympatheticwoman. Caring very little now what her husband or any one else mightthink of her eccentricities; she wrote Marchmill a brief note, statingthat she was called away for the afternoon and evening, but would returnon the following morning. This she left on his desk, and having giventhe same information to the servants, went out of the house on foot. 

When Mr. Marchmill reached home early in the afternoon the servantslooked anxious. The nurse took him privately aside, and hinted that hermistress's sadness during the past few days had been such that she fearedshe had gone out to drown herself. Marchmill reflected. Upon the wholehe thought that she had not done that. Without saying whither he wasbound he also started off, telling them not to sit up for him. He droveto the railway-station, and took a ticket for Solentsea. 

It was dark when he reached the place, though he had come by a fasttrain, and he knew that if his wife had preceded him thither it couldonly have been by a slower train, arriving not a great while before hisown. The season at Solentsea was now past: the parade was gloomy, andthe flys were few and cheap. He asked the way to the Cemetery, and soonreached it. The gate was locked, but the keeper let him in, declaring, however, that there was nobody within the precincts. Although it was notlate, the autumnal darkness had now become intense; and he found somedifficulty in keeping to the serpentine path which led to the quarterwhere, as the man had told him, the one or two interments for the day hadtaken 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, andsprang up. 

'Ell, how silly this is!' he said indignantly. 'Running away from home--Inever heard such a thing! Of course I am not jealous of this unfortunateman; but it is too ridiculous that you, a married woman with threechildren and a fourth coming, should go losing your head like this over adead lover! . . . Do you know you were locked in? You might not havebeen able to get out all night. '

She did not answer. 

'I 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. Itwas impossible to get back that night; and not wishing to be recognizedin their present sorry condition, he took her to a miserable littlecoffee-house close to the station, whence they departed early in themorning, travelling almost without speaking, under the sense that it wasone of those dreary situations occurring in married life which wordscould not mend, and reaching their own door at noon. 

The months passed, and neither of the twain ever ventured to start aconversation upon this episode. Ella seemed to be only too frequently ina sad and listless mood, which might almost have been called pining. Thetime was approaching when she would have to undergo the stress ofchildbirth for a fourth time, and that apparently did not tend to raiseher 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 asever?'

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

'And me!'

'You'll soon find somebody to fill my place, ' she murmured, with a sadsmile. '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 overmy 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, infact, six weeks later, in the month of May, she was lying in her room, pulseless and bloodless, with hardly strength enough left to follow upone feeble breath with another, the infant for whose unnecessary life shewas slowly parting with her own being fat and well. Just before herdeath she spoke to Marchmill softly:-

'Will, I want to confess to you the entire circumstances of that--aboutyou know what--that time we visited Solentsea. I can't tell whatpossessed me--how I could forget you so, my husband! But I had got intoa 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 aboveit. I wanted a fuller appreciator, perhaps, rather than another lover--'

She could get no further then for very exhaustion; and she went off insudden collapse a few hours later, without having said anything more toher husband on the subject of her love for the poet. William Marchmill, in truth, like most husbands of several years' standing, was littledisturbed by retrospective jealousies, and had not shown the leastanxiety to press her for confessions concerning a man dead and gonebeyond 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 beforehis second wife entered the house, he lighted on a lock of hair in anenvelope, with the photograph of the deceased poet, a date being writtenon the back in his late wife's hand. It was that of the time they spentat Solentsea. 

Marchmill looked long and musingly at the hair and portrait, forsomething struck him. Fetching the little boy who had been the death ofhis mother, now a noisy toddler, he took him on his knee, held the lockof hair against the child's head, and set up the photograph on the tablebehind, so that he could closely compare the features each countenancepresented. There were undoubtedly strong traces of resemblance; thedreamy and peculiar expression of the poet's face sat, as the transmittedidea, upon the child's, and the hair was of the same hue. 

'I'm damned if I didn't think so!' murmured Marchmill. 'Then she didplay me false with that fellow at the lodgings! Let me see: thedates--the second week in August . . . The third week in May . . . Yes . . . Yes . . . Get away, you poor little brat! You are nothing to me!'

1893. 

THE THREE STRANGERS

Among the few features of agricultural England which retain an appearancebut little modified by the lapse of centuries, may be reckoned the high, grassy and furzy downs, coombs, or ewe-leases, as they are indifferentlycalled, 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 usuallytakes the form of the solitary cottage of some shepherd. 

Fifty years ago such a lonely cottage stood on such a down, and maypossibly be standing there now. In spite of its loneliness, however, thespot, 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, andmists, afford withdrawing space enough to isolate a Timon or aNebuchadnezzar; much less, in fair weather, to please that less repellenttribe, the poets, philosophers, artists, and others who 'conceive andmeditate of pleasant things. '

Some old earthen camp or barrow, some clump of trees, at least somestarved fragment of ancient hedge is usually taken advantage of in theerection of these forlorn dwellings. But, in the present case, such akind of shelter had been disregarded. Higher Crowstairs, as the housewas called, stood quite detached and undefended. The only reason for itsprecise situation seemed to be the crossing of two footpaths at rightangles hard by, which may have crossed there and thus for a good fivehundred 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 therain hit hard whenever it fell, the various weathers of the winter seasonwere not quite so formidable on the coomb as they were imagined to be bydwellers on low ground. The raw rimes were not so pernicious as in thehollows, and the frosts were scarcely so severe. When the shepherd andhis family who tenanted the house were pitied for their sufferings fromthe exposure, they said that upon the whole they were less inconveniencedby 'wuzzes and flames' (hoarses and phlegms) than when they had lived bythe stream of a snug neighbouring valley. 

The night of March 28, 182-, was precisely one of the nights that werewont to call forth these expressions of commiseration. The levelrainstorm smote walls, slopes, and hedges like the clothyard shafts ofSenlac and Crecy. Such sheep and outdoor animals as had no shelter stoodwith their buttocks to the winds; while the tails of little birds tryingto roost on some scraggy thorn were blown inside-out like umbrellas. Thegable-end of the cottage was stained with wet, and the eavesdroppingsflapped against the wall. Yet never was commiseration for the shepherdmore misplaced. For that cheerful rustic was entertaining a large partyin glorification of the christening of his second girl. 

The guests had arrived before the rain began to fall, and they were allnow assembled in the chief or living room of the dwelling. A glance intothe apartment at eight o'clock on this eventful evening would haveresulted in the opinion that it was as cosy and comfortable a nook ascould be wished for in boisterous weather. The calling of its inhabitantwas proclaimed by a number of highly-polished sheep-crooks without stemsthat were hung ornamentally over the fireplace, the curl of each shiningcrook varying from the antiquated type engraved in the patriarchalpictures of old family Bibles to the most approved fashion of the lastlocal sheep-fair. The room was lighted by half-a-dozen candles, havingwicks only a trifle smaller than the grease which enveloped them, incandlesticks that were never used but at high-days, holy-days, and familyfeasts. The lights were scattered about the room, two of them standingon the chimney-piece. This position of candles was in itselfsignificant. Candles on the chimney-piece always meant a party. 

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

Nineteen persons were gathered here. Of these, five women, wearing gownsof various bright hues, sat in chairs along the wall; girls shy and notshy filled the window-bench; four men, including Charley Jake the hedge-carpenter, Elijah New the parish-clerk, and John Pitcher, a neighbouringdairyman, the shepherd's father-in-law, lolled in the settle; a young manand maid, who were blushing over tentative pourparlers on alife-companionship, sat beneath the corner-cupboard; and an elderlyengaged man of fifty or upward moved restlessly about from spots wherehis betrothed was not to the spot where she was. Enjoyment was prettygeneral, and so much the more prevailed in being unhampered byconventional restrictions. Absolute confidence in each other's goodopinion begat perfect ease, while the finishing stroke of manner, amounting to a truly princely serenity, was lent to the majority by theabsence of any expression or trait denoting that they wished to get on inthe world, enlarge their minds, or do any eclipsing thing whatever--whichnowadays so generally nips the bloom and bonhomie of all except the twoextremes of the social scale. 

Shepherd Fennel had married well, his wife being a dairyman's daughterfrom a vale at a distance, who brought fifty guineas in her pocket--andkept them there, till they should be required for ministering to theneeds of a coming family. This frugal woman had been somewhat exercisedas to the character that should be given to the gathering. A sit-stillparty had its advantages; but an undisturbed position of ease in chairsand settles was apt to lead on the men to such an unconscionable deal oftoping that they would sometimes fairly drink the house dry. A dancing-party was the alternative; but this, while avoiding the foregoingobjection on the score of good drink, had a counterbalancing disadvantagein the matter of good victuals, the ravenous appetites engendered by theexercise causing immense havoc in the buttery. Shepherdess Fennel fellback upon the intermediate plan of mingling short dances with shortperiods of talk and singing, so as to hinder any ungovernable rage ineither. But this scheme was entirely confined to her own gentle mind:the shepherd himself was in the mood to exhibit the most reckless phasesof hospitality. 

The fiddler was a boy of those parts, about twelve years of age, who hada wonderful dexterity in jigs and reels, though his fingers were so smalland short as to necessitate a constant shifting for the high notes, fromwhich he scrambled back to the first position with sounds not of unmixedpurity of tone. At seven the shrill tweedle-dee of this youngster hadbegun, accompanied by a booming ground-bass from Elijah New, the parish-clerk, who had thoughtfully brought with him his favourite musicalinstrument, the serpent. Dancing was instantaneous, Mrs. Fennelprivately enjoining the players on no account to let the dance exceed thelength of a quarter of an hour. 

But Elijah and the boy, in the excitement of their position, quite forgotthe injunction. Moreover, Oliver Giles, a man of seventeen, one of thedancers, who was enamoured of his partner, a fair girl of thirty-threerolling 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 herguests, crossed over and touched the fiddler's elbow and put her hand onthe serpent's mouth. But they took no notice, and fearing she might loseher character of genial hostess if she were to interfere too markedly, she retired and sat down helpless. And so the dance whizzed on withcumulative fury, the performers moving in their planet-like courses, direct and retrograde, from apogee to perigee, till the hand of the well-kicked clock at the bottom of the room had travelled over thecircumference of an hour. 

While these cheerful events were in course of enactment within Fennel'spastoral dwelling, an incident having considerable bearing on the partyhad occurred in the gloomy night without. Mrs. Fennel's concern aboutthe growing fierceness of the dance corresponded in point of time withthe ascent of a human figure to the solitary hill of Higher Crowstairsfrom the direction of the distant town. This personage strode on throughthe rain without a pause, following the little-worn path which, furtheron in its course, skirted the shepherd's cottage. 

It was nearly the time of full moon, and on this account, though the skywas lined with a uniform sheet of dripping cloud, ordinary objects out ofdoors were readily visible. The sad wan light revealed the lonelypedestrian to be a man of supple frame; his gait suggested that he hadsomewhat passed the period of perfect and instinctive agility, though notso far as to be otherwise than rapid of motion when occasion required. Ata rough guess, he might have been about forty years of age. He appearedtall, but a recruiting sergeant, or other person accustomed to thejudging of men's heights by the eye, would have discerned that this waschiefly 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, asin that of one who mentally feels his way; and despite the fact that itwas not a black coat nor a dark garment of any sort that he wore, therewas something about him which suggested that he naturally belonged to theblack-coated tribes of men. His clothes were of fustian, and his bootshobnailed, yet in his progress he showed not the mud-accustomed bearingof hobnailed and fustianed peasantry. 

By the time that he had arrived abreast of the shepherd's premises therain came down, or rather came along, with yet more determined violence. The outskirts of the little settlement partially broke the force of windand rain, and this induced him to stand still. The most salient of theshepherd's domestic erections was an empty sty at the forward corner ofhis hedgeless garden, for in these latitudes the principle of masking thehomelier features of your establishment by a conventional frontage wasunknown. The traveller's eye was attracted to this small building by thepallid 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, andthe lesser strains of the fiddler, reached the spot as an accompanimentto the surging hiss of the flying rain on the sod, its louder beating onthe cabbage-leaves of the garden, on the eight or ten beehives justdiscernible by the path, and its dripping from the eaves into a row ofbuckets and pans that had been placed under the walls of the cottage. Forat Higher Crowstairs, as at all such elevated domiciles, the granddifficulty of housekeeping was an insufficiency of water; and a casualrainfall was utilized by turning out, as catchers, every utensil that thehouse contained. Some queer stories might be told of the contrivancesfor economy in suds and dish-waters that are absolutely necessitated inupland habitations during the droughts of summer. But at this seasonthere were no such exigencies; a mere acceptance of what the skiesbestowed was sufficient for an abundant store. 

At last the notes of the serpent ceased and the house was silent. Thiscessation of activity aroused the solitary pedestrian from the reverieinto which he had lapsed, and, emerging from the shed, with an apparentlynew 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 ofvessels, and to drink a copious draught from one of them. Havingquenched his thirst he rose and lifted his hand to knock, but paused withhis eye upon the panel. Since the dark surface of the wood revealedabsolutely nothing, it was evident that he must be mentally lookingthrough the door, as if he wished to measure thereby all thepossibilities that a house of this sort might include, and how they mightbear upon the question of his entry. 

In his indecision he turned and surveyed the scene around. Not a soulwas anywhere visible. The garden-path stretched downward from his feet, gleaming like the track of a snail; the roof of the little well (mostlydry), the well-cover, the top rail of the garden-gate, were varnishedwith the same dull liquid glaze; while, far away in the vale, a faintwhiteness of more than usual extent showed that the rivers were high inthe meads. Beyond all this winked a few bleared lamplights through thebeating drops--lights that denoted the situation of the county-town fromwhich he had appeared to come. The absence of all notes of life in thatdirection seemed to clinch his intentions, and he knocked at the door. 

Within, a desultory chat had taken the place of movement and musicalsound. The hedge-carpenter was suggesting a song to the company, whichnobody just then was inclined to undertake, so that the knock afforded anot unwelcome diversion. 

'Walk in!' said the shepherd promptly. 

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

Their light disclosed that the stranger was dark in complexion and notunprepossessing as to feature. His hat, which for a moment he did notremove, hung low over his eyes, without concealing that they were large, open, and determined, moving with a flash rather than a glance round theroom. 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 askleave to come in and rest awhile. '

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

'Nor less, ' spoke up a woman. 'For 'tis best to get your family over anddone with, as soon as you can, so as to be all the earlier out of the fago'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 unhappy either by too manyor too few of such episodes, and being invited by a gesture to a pull atthe mug, he readily acquiesced. His manner, which, before entering, hadbeen so dubious, was now altogether that of a careless and candid man. 

'Late to be traipsing athwart this coomb--hey?' said the engaged man offifty. 

'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 onthe 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 hislegs 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 theeyes of the shepherd's wife fell upon his boots, 'and I am not wellfitted either. I have had some rough times lately, and have been forcedto pick up what I can get in the way of wearing, but I must find a suitbetter 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 myneighbourhood. '

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

This testimony to the youthfulness of his hostess had the effect ofstopping 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 outof. '

'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, 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 ascrew of paper. ' Lighting his pipe at the candle with a suction thatdrew the whole flame into the bowl, he resettled himself in the cornerand bent his looks upon the faint steam from his damp legs, as if hewished to say no more. 

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

At sound of the same the man in the chimney-corner took up the poker andbegan stirring the brands as if doing it thoroughly were the one aim ofhis existence; and a second time the shepherd said, 'Walk in!' In amoment another man stood upon the straw-woven door-mat. He too was astranger. 

This individual was one of a type radically different from the first. There was more of the commonplace in his manner, and a certain jovialcosmopolitanism sat upon his features. He was several years older thanthe first arrival, his hair being slightly frosted, his eyebrows bristly, and his whiskers cut back from his cheeks. His face was rather full andflabby, and yet it was not altogether a face without power. A few grog-blossoms marked the neighbourhood of his nose. He flung back his longdrab greatcoat, revealing that beneath it he wore a suit of cinder-grayshade throughout, large heavy seals, of some metal or other that wouldtake a polish, dangling from his fob as his only personal ornament. Shaking the water-drops from his low-crowned glazed hat, he said, 'I mustask for a few minutes' shelter, comrades, or I shall be wetted to my skinbefore I get to Casterbridge. '

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

However, the second comer, after taking off his greatcoat, and hanginghis hat on a nail in one of the ceiling-beams as if he had been speciallyinvited to put it there, advanced and sat down at the table. This hadbeen pushed so closely into the chimney-corner, to give all availableroom to the dancers, that its inner edge grazed the elbow of the man whohad ensconced himself by the fire; and thus the two strangers werebrought into close companionship. They nodded to each other by way ofbreaking the ice of unacquaintance, and the first stranger handed hisneighbour the family mug--a huge vessel of brown ware, having its upperedge worn away like a threshold by the rub of whole generations ofthirsty lips that had gone the way of all flesh, and bearing thefollowing inscription burnt upon its rotund side in yellow letters

 THERE IS NO FUN UNTiLL 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 theshepherd's wife, who had regarded with no little surprise the firststranger's free offer to the second of what did not belong to him todispense. 

'I knew it!' said the toper to the shepherd with much satisfaction. 'WhenI 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'shoney there's mead. " But mead of such a truly comfortable sort as this Ireally didn't expect to meet in my older days. ' He took yet another pullat 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 enthusiasmwhich seemed to say that it was possible to buy praise for one's cellarat too heavy a price. 'It is trouble enough to make--and really I hardlythink we shall make any more. For honey sells well, and we ourselves canmake shift with a drop o' small mead and metheglin for common use fromthe comb-washings. '

'O, but you'll never have the heart!' reproachfully cried the stranger incinder-gray, after taking up the mug a third time and setting it downempty. 'I love mead, when 'tis old like this, as I love to go to churcho' 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 thetaciturnity induced by the pipe of tobacco, could not or would notrefrain from this slight testimony to his comrade's humour. 

Now the old mead of those days, brewed of the purest first-year or maidenhoney, four pounds to the gallon--with its due complement of white ofeggs, cinnamon, ginger, cloves, mace, rosemary, yeast, and processes ofworking, bottling, and cellaring--tasted remarkably strong; but it didnot taste so strong as it actually was. Hence, presently, the strangerin cinder-gray at the table, moved by its creeping influence, unbuttonedhis waistcoat, threw himself back in his chair, spread his legs, and madehis presence felt in various ways. 

'Well, well, as I say, ' he resumed, 'I am going to Casterbridge, and toCasterbridge 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. 

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

'Going to set up in trade, perhaps?'

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

The cinder-gray stranger paused, as if to consider whether he wouldaccept that definition of himself. He presently rejected it byanswering, 'Rich is not quite the word for me, dame. I do work, and Imust work. And even if I only get to Casterbridge by midnight I mustbegin work there at eight to-morrow morning. Yes, het or wet, blow orsnow, 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?' repliedthe shepherd's wife. 

''Tis the nature of my trade, men and maidens. 'Tis the nature of mytrade 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 notmove, and directly added, 'There's time for one more draught offriendship before I go; and I'd perform it at once if the mug were notdry. '

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

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

'Certainly not, ' broke in Fennel. 'We don't increase and multiply everyday, and I'll fill the mug again. ' He went away to the dark place underthe stairs where the barrel stood. The shepherdess followed him. 

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

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

'Very well--this time, then, ' she answered, looking wistfully at thebarrel. 'But what is the man's calling, and where is he one of; that heshould 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 strangerin 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 adiscreet distance from him. When he had tossed off his portion theshepherd 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 awheelwright. '

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

'And anybody may know mine--if they've the sense to find it out, ' saidthe 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 asan old pin-cushion is of pins. '

The hands of the man in the chimney-corner instinctively sought theshade, and he gazed into the fire as he resumed his pipe. The man at thetable took up the hedge-carpenter's remark, and added smartly, 'True; butthe oddity of my trade is that, instead of setting a mark upon me, itsets a mark upon my customers. '

No observation being offered by anybody in elucidation of this enigma, the shepherd's wife once more called for a song. The same obstaclespresented themselves as at the former time--one had no voice, another hadforgotten the first verse. The stranger at the table, whose soul had nowrisen to a good working temperature, relieved the difficulty byexclaiming that, to start the company, he would sing himself. Thrustingone thumb into the arm-hole of his waistcoat, he waved the other hand inthe air, and, with an extemporizing gaze at the shining sheep-crooksabove 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-clerk, the engagedman of fifty, the row of young women against the wall, seemed lost inthought not of the gayest kind. The shepherd looked meditatively on theground, the shepherdess gazed keenly at the singer, and with somesuspicion; she was doubting whether this stranger were merely singing anold song from recollection, or was composing one there and then for theoccasion. All were as perplexed at the obscure revelation as the guestsat Belshazzar's Feast, except the man in the chimney-corner, who quietlysaid, 'Second verse, stranger, ' and smoked on. 

The singer thoroughly moistened himself from his lips inwards, and wenton with the next stanza as requested:-

 '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 thestranger was answering his question rhythmically. The guests one and allstarted back with suppressed exclamations. The young woman engaged tothe man of fifty fainted half-way, and would have proceeded, but findinghim wanting in alacrity for catching her she sat down trembling. 

'O, he's the--!' whispered the people in the background, mentioning thename of an ominous public officer. 'He's come to do it! 'Tis to be atCasterbridge 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 todo--Timothy Summers, whose family were a-starving, and so he went out ofShottsford by the high-road, and took a sheep in open daylight, defyingthe farmer and the farmer's wife and the farmer's lad, and every man jackamong 'em. He' (and they nodded towards the stranger of the deadlytrade) 'is come from up the country to do it because there's not enoughto do in his own county-town, and he's got the place here now our owncounty man's dead; he's going to live in the same cottage under theprison wall. '

The stranger in cinder-gray took no notice of this whispered string ofobservations, but again wetted his lips. Seeing that his friend in thechimney-corner was the only one who reciprocated his joviality in anyway, he held out his cup towards that appreciative comrade, who also heldout his own. They clinked together, the eyes of the rest of the roomhanging upon the singer's actions. He parted his lips for the thirdverse; but at that moment another knock was audible upon the door. Thistime the knock was faint and hesitating. 

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

The door was gently opened, and another man stood upon the mat. He, likethose who had preceded him, was a stranger. This time it was a short, small personage, of fair complexion, and dressed in a decent suit of darkclothes. 

'Can you tell me the way to--?' he began: when, gazing round the room toobserve the nature of the company amongst whom he had fallen, his eyeslighted on the stranger in cinder-gray. It was just at the instant whenthe latter, who had thrown his mind into his song with such a will thathe scarcely heeded the interruption, silenced all whispers and inquiriesby bursting into his third verse:-

 '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 soheartily that his mead splashed over on the hearth, repeated in his bassvoice as before:-

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

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 guestsparticularly regarded him. They noticed to their surprise that he stoodbefore them the picture of abject terror--his knees trembling, his handshaking so violently that the door-latch by which he supported himselfrattled audibly: his white lips were parted, and his eyes fixed on themerry officer of justice in the middle of the room. A moment more and hehad turned, closed the door, and fled. 

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

The rest, between the awfulness of their late discovery and the oddconduct of this third visitor, looked as if they knew not what to think, and said nothing. Instinctively they withdrew further and further fromthe grim gentleman in their midst, whom some of them seemed to take forthe Prince of Darkness himself; till they formed a remote circle, anempty 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 init--that nothing could be heard but the patter of the rain against thewindow-shutters, accompanied by the occasional hiss of a stray drop thatfell down the chimney into the fire, and the steady puffing of the man inthe corner, who had now resumed his pipe of long clay. 

The stillness was unexpectedly broken. The distant sound of a gunreverberated 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. '

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

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

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

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

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

'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 boltedas 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, andtheir suspicions became a certainty. The sinister gentleman in cinder-gray roused himself. 'Is there a constable here?' he asked, in thicktones. 'If so, let him step forward. '

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

'You are a sworn constable?'

'I be, sir. '

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

'I will, sir, I will--when I've got my staff. I'll 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, andCharles Jake? No; for there's the king's royal crown a painted on en inyaller and gold, and the lion and the unicorn, so as when I raise en upand hit my prisoner, 'tis made a lawful blow thereby. I wouldn't 'temptto take up a man without my staff--no, not I. If I hadn't the law to gieme 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 forthis, ' said the formidable officer in gray. 'Now then, all of ye, beready. 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 yerhands 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 convincing, that but little argument was neededto show the shepherd's guests that after what they had seen it would lookvery much like connivance if they did not instantly pursue the unhappythird stranger, who could not as yet have gone more than a few hundredyards over such uneven country. 

A shepherd is always well provided with lanterns; and, lighting thesehastily, and with hurdle-staves in their hands, they poured out of thedoor, 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 roomoverhead. These notes of grief came down through the chinks of the floorto the ears of the women below, who jumped up one by one, and seemed gladof the excuse to ascend and comfort the baby, for the incidents of thelast half-hour greatly oppressed them. Thus in the space of two or threeminutes the room on the ground-floor was deserted quite. 

But it was not for long. Hardly had the sound of footsteps died awaywhen a man returned round the corner of the house from the direction thepursuers had taken. Peeping in at the door, and seeing nobody there, heentered leisurely. It was the stranger of the chimney-corner, who hadgone out with the rest. The motive of his return was shown by hishelping himself to a cut piece of skimmer-cake that lay on a ledge besidewhere 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 finishedwhen 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 helpin the capture. ' And this speaker also revealed the object of his returnby looking solicitously round for the fascinating mug of old mead. 

'And I thought you had gone, ' said the other, continuing his skimmer-cakewith some effort. 

'Well, on second thoughts, I felt there were enough without me, ' said thefirst confidentially, 'and such a night as it is, too. Besides, 'tis thebusiness 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 withoutme. '

'I don't want to break my limbs running over the humps and hollows ofthis 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 beforethe morning, and no trouble to me at all. '

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

'True, true. Well, my way is to Casterbridge; and 'tis as much as mylegs 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 noddedindefinitely to the right), 'and I feel as you do, that it is quiteenough 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, theywent 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 decidedon no particular plan of action; and, finding that the man of the balefultrade was no longer in their company, they seemed quite unable to formany such plan now. They descended in all directions down the hill, andstraightway several of the party fell into the snare set by Nature forall misguided midnight ramblers over this part of the cretaceousformation. The 'lanchets, ' or flint slopes, which belted the escarpmentat intervals of a dozen yards, took the less cautious ones unawares, andlosing their footing on the rubbly steep they slid sharply downwards, thelanterns rolling from their hands to the bottom, and there lying on theirsides till the horn was scorched through. 

When they had again gathered themselves together, the shepherd, as theman who knew the country best, took the lead, and guided them round thesetreacherous inclines. The lanterns, which seemed rather to dazzle theireyes and warn the fugitive than to assist them in the exploration, wereextinguished, due silence was observed; and in this more rational orderthey plunged into the vale. It was a grassy, briery, moist defile, affording some shelter to any person who had sought it; but the partyperambulated it in vain, and ascended on the other side. Here theywandered apart, and after an interval closed together again to reportprogress. 

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 apassing bird some fifty years before. And here, standing a little to oneside of the trunk, as motionless as the trunk itself; appeared the manthey were in quest of; his outline being well defined against the skybeyond. The band noiselessly drew up and faced him. 

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

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

'Well, well, ' replied the constable impatiently; 'I must say something, mustn't I? and if you had all the weight o' this undertaking upon yourmind, 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, hestrolled slowly towards them. He was, indeed, the little man, the thirdstranger; 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 theconstable. 'We arrest 'ee on the charge of not biding in Casterbridgejail in a decent proper manner to be hung to-morrow morning. Neighbours, do your duty, and seize the culpet!'

On hearing the charge, the man seemed enlightened, and, saying notanother word, resigned himself with preternatural civility to the search-party, who, with their staves in their hands, surrounded him on allsides, and marched him back towards the shepherd's cottage. 

It was eleven o'clock by the time they arrived. The light shining fromthe open door, a sound of men's voices within, proclaimed to them as theyapproached the house that some new events had arisen in their absence. Onentering they discovered the shepherd's living room to be invaded by twoofficers from Casterbridge jail, and a well-known magistrate who lived atthe nearest country-seat, intelligence of the escape having becomegenerally circulated. 

'Gentlemen, ' said the constable, 'I have brought back your man--notwithout risk and danger; but every one must do his duty! He is insidethis circle of able-bodied persons, who have lent me useful aid, considering their ignorance of Crown work. Men, bring forward yourprisoner!' 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 hisstatement. 

'But how can it be otherwise?' asked the constable. 'Or why was he soterrified at sight o' the singing instrument of the law who sat there?'Here he related the strange behaviour of the third stranger on enteringthe house during the hangman's song. 

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

'Why, souls--'twas the man in the chimney-corner!'

'Hey--what?' said the magistrate, coming forward after inquiringparticulars from the shepherd in the background. 'Haven't you got theman 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 manwe were in search of was not the man we wanted, sir, if you understand myeveryday way; for 'twas the man in the chimney-corner!'

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

The prisoner now spoke for the first time. The mention of the man in thechimney-corner seemed to have moved him as nothing else could do. 'Sir, 'he said, stepping forward to the magistrate, 'take no more trouble aboutme. The time is come when I may as well speak. I have done nothing; mycrime is that the condemned man is my brother. Early this afternoon Ileft home at Shottsford to tramp it all the way to Casterbridge jail tobid him farewell. I was benighted, and called here to rest and ask theway. When I opened the door I saw before me the very man, my brother, that I thought to see in the condemned cell at Casterbridge. He was inthis chimney-corner; and jammed close to him, so that he could not havegot out if he had tried, was the executioner who'd come to take his life, singing a song about it and not knowing that it was his victim who wasclose by, joining in to save appearances. My brother looked a glance ofagony at me, and I knew he meant, "Don't reveal what you see; my lifedepends 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 madea great impression on all around. 'And do you know where your brother isat 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 theconstable. 

'Where does he think to fly to?--what is 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 ShepherdFennel. 'I thought his hands were palish for's trade. '

'Well, it appears to me that nothing can be gained by retaining this poorman in custody, ' said the magistrate; 'your business lies with the other, unquestionably. '

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

Next day, accordingly, the quest for the clever sheep-stealer becamegeneral and keen, to all appearance at least. But the intendedpunishment was cruelly disproportioned to the transgression, and thesympathy of a great many country-folk in that district was strongly onthe side of the fugitive. Moreover, his marvellous coolness and daringin hob-and-nobbing with the hangman, under the unprecedentedcircumstances of the shepherd's party, won their admiration. So that itmay be questioned if all those who ostensibly made themselves so busy inexploring woods and fields and lanes were quite so thorough when it cameto the private examination of their own lofts and outhouses. Storieswere afloat of a mysterious figure being occasionally seen in some oldovergrown trackway or other, remote from turnpike roads; but when asearch was instituted in any of these suspected quarters nobody wasfound. 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 buriedhimself in the depths of a populous city. At any rate, the gentleman incinder-gray never did his morning's work at Casterbridge, nor metanywhere at all, for business purposes, the genial comrade with whom hehad 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 hisfrugal wife; the guests who made up the christening party have mainlyfollowed their entertainers to the tomb; the baby in whose honour theyall had met is a matron in the sere and yellow leaf. But the arrival ofthe three strangers at the shepherd's that night, and the detailsconnected therewith, is a story as well known as ever in the countryabout Higher Crowstairs. 

March 1883. 

THE WITHERED ARM

CHAPTER I--A LORN MILKMAID

It was an eighty-cow dairy, and the troop of milkers, regular andsupernumerary, were all at work; for, though the time of year was as yetbut early April, the feed lay entirely in water-meadows, and the cowswere '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 asAnglebury to-day. '

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

'Hav' anybody seen her?' said another. 

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

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

'How old do you call him, then?'

'Thirty or so. '

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

The discussion waxed so warm that the purr of the milk-streams becamejerky, till a voice from another cow's belly cried with authority, 'Nowthen, what the Turk do it matter to us about Farmer Lodge's age, orFarmer Lodge's new mis'ess? I shall have to pay him nine pound a yearfor 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 eveningis pinking in a'ready. ' This speaker was the dairyman himself; by whomthe milkmaids and men were employed. 

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

'O no, ' said the second. '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 theearth, and resembling a colossal antlered horn. The majority thendispersed in various directions homeward. The thin woman who had notspoken was joined by a boy of twelve or thereabout, and the twain wentaway up the field also. 

Their course lay apart from that of the others, to a lonely spot highabove the water-meads, and not far from the border of Egdon Heath, whosedark countenance was visible in the distance as they drew nigh to theirhome. 

'They've just been saying down in barton that your father brings hisyoung wife home from Anglebury to-morrow, ' the woman observed. 'I shallwant to send you for a few things to market, and you'll be pretty sure tomeet '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 youdo see her. '

'Yes, mother. '

'If she's dark or fair, and if she's tall--as tall as I. And if sheseems like a woman who has ever worked for a living, or one that has beenalways well off, and has never done anything, and shows marks of the ladyon her, as I expect she do. '

'Yes. '

They crept up the hill in the twilight, and entered the cottage. It wasbuilt of mud-walls, the surface of which had been washed by many rainsinto channels and depressions that left none of the original flat facevisible; while here and there in the thatch above a rafter showed like abone protruding through the skin. 

She was kneeling down in the chimney-corner, before two pieces of turflaid together with the heather inwards, blowing at the red-hot ashes withher breath till the turves flamed. The radiance lit her pale cheek, andmade 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, noticeif her hands be white; if not, see if they look as though she had everdone housework, or are milker's hands like mine. '

The boy again promised, inattentively this time, his mother not observingthat he was cutting a notch with his pocket-knife in the beech-backedchair. 

CHAPTER II--THE YOUNG WIFE

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

The next evening, while the sun was yet bright, a handsome new gig, witha lemon-coloured body and red wheels, was spinning westward along thelevel highway at the heels of a powerful mare. The driver was a yeomanin the prime of life, cleanly shaven like an actor, his face being tonedto that bluish-vermilion hue which so often graces a thriving farmer'sfeatures 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 differentquality--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 longwhite riband of gravel that stretched before them was empty, save of onesmall scarce-moving speck, which presently resolved itself into thefigure of boy, who was creeping on at a snail's pace, and continuallylooking behind him--the heavy bundle he carried being some excuse for, ifnot the reason of, his dilatoriness. When the bouncing gig-party slowedat the bottom of the incline above mentioned, the pedestrian was only afew yards in front. Supporting the large bundle by putting one hand onhis hip, he turned and looked straight at the farmer's wife as though hewould read her through and through, pacing along abreast of the horse. 

The low sun was full in her face, rendering every feature, shade, andcontour distinct, from the curve of her little nostril to the colour ofher eyes. The farmer, though he seemed annoyed at the boy's persistentpresence, did not order him to get out of the way; and thus the ladpreceded them, his hard gaze never leaving her, till they reached the topof the ascent, when the farmer trotted on with relief in hislineaments--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 ortwo off. '

'He knows who we are, no doubt?'

'O yes. You must expect to be stared at just at first, my prettyGertrude. '

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

'O no, ' said her husband off-handedly. 'These country lads will carry ahundredweight once they get it on their backs; besides his pack had moresize than weight in it. Now, then, another mile and I shall be able toshow you our house in the distance--if it is not too dark before we getthere. ' The wheels spun round, and particles flew from their peripheryas before, till a white house of ample dimensions revealed itself, withfarm-buildings and ricks at the back. 

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

She had reached home after her day's milking at the outlying dairy, andwas washing cabbage at the doorway in the declining light. 'Hold up thenet 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 shefilled its meshes with the dripping leaves she went on, 'Well, did yousee her?'

'Yes; quite plain. '

'Is she ladylike?'

'Yes; and more. A lady complete. '

'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 shesmiles, 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 bethere. Go early and notice her walking in, and come home and tell me ifshe's taller than I. '

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

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

'Just the same as usual. '

'Took no notice of you?'

'None. '

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

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

'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 evidently made animpression even on the somewhat hard nature of the boy. 

'That's all I want to hear, ' said his mother quickly. 'Now, spread thetable-cloth. The hare you caught is very tender; but mind that nobodycatches 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 soloud when it rubbed against the pews that the lady coloured up more thanever for very shame at the noise, and pulled it in to keep it fromtouching; but when she pushed into her seat, it whewed more than ever. Mr. Lodge, he seemed pleased, and his waistcoat stuck out, and his greatgolden seals hung like a lord's; but she seemed to wish her noisy gowndanywhere but on her. '

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

These descriptions of the newly-married couple were continued from timeto time by the boy at his mother's request, after any chance encounter hehad had with them. But Rhoda Brook, though she might easily have seenyoung Mrs. Lodge for herself by walking a couple of miles, would neverattempt an excursion towards the quarter where the farmhouse lay. Neitherdid she, at the daily milking in the dairyman's yard on Lodge's outlyingsecond farm, ever speak on the subject of the recent marriage. Thedairyman, who rented the cows of Lodge, and knew perfectly the tallmilkmaid's history, with manly kindliness always kept the gossip in thecow-barton from annoying Rhoda. But the atmosphere thereabout was fullof the subject during the first days of Mrs. Lodge's arrival; and fromher boy's description and the casual words of the other milkers, RhodaBrook could raise a mental image of the unconscious Mrs Lodge that wasrealistic as a photograph. 

CHAPTER III--A VISION

One night, two or three weeks after the bridal return, when the boy wasgone to bed, Rhoda sat a long time over the turf ashes that she had rakedout in front of her to extinguish them. She contemplated so intently thenew wife, as presented to her in her mind's eye over the embers, that sheforgot the lapse of time. At last, wearied with her day's work, she tooretired. 

But the figure which had occupied her so much during this and theprevious days was not to be banished at night. For the first timeGertrude Lodge visited the supplanted woman in her dreams. Rhoda Brookdreamed--since her assertion that she really saw, before falling asleep, was not to be believed--that the young wife, in the pale silk dress andwhite bonnet, but with features shockingly distorted, and wrinkled as byage, was sitting upon her chest as she lay. The pressure of Mrs. Lodge'sperson grew heavier; the blue eyes peered cruelly into her face; and thenthe figure thrust forward its left hand mockingly, so as to make thewedding-ring it wore glitter in Rhoda's eyes. Maddened mentally, andnearly suffocated by pressure, the sleeper struggled; the incubus, stillregarding her, withdrew to the foot of the bed, only, however, to comeforward by degrees, resume her seat, and flash her left hand as before. 

Gasping for breath, Rhoda, in a last desperate effort, swung out herright hand, seized the confronting spectre by its obtrusive left arm, andwhirled it backward to the floor, starting up herself as she did so witha low cry. 

'O, merciful heaven!' she cried, sitting on the edge of the bed in a coldsweat; 'that was not a dream--she was here!'

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

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

'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 herhousehold work, the boy assisting her, for he hated going afield on thefarms, and she indulged his reluctance. Between eleven and twelve thegarden-gate clicked, and she lifted her eyes to the window. At thebottom 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. 

'Said so--when? How does she know us?'

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

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

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

'What did you tell her?'

'Nothing. She said, "Are you the poor boy who had to bring the heavyload from market?" And she looked at my boots, and said they would notkeep my feet dry if it came on wet, because they were so cracked. I toldher 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 somebetter boots, and see your mother. " She gives away things to other folksin the meads besides us. '

Mrs. Lodge was by this time close to the door--not in her silk, as Rhodahad seen her in the bed-chamber, but in a morning hat, and gown of commonlight material, which became her better than silk. On her arm shecarried 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 crueltyon her visitor's face. 

She would have escaped an interview, had escape been possible. Therewas, however, no backdoor to the cottage, and in an instant the boy hadlifted 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 soindescribably sweet, her glance so winning, her smile so tender, sounlike that of Rhoda's midnight visitant, that the latter could hardlybelieve the evidence of her senses. She was truly glad that she had nothidden away in sheer aversion, as she had been inclined to do. In herbasket Mrs. Lodge brought the pair of boots that she had promised to theboy, and other useful articles. 

At these proofs of a kindly feeling towards her and hers Rhoda's heartreproached her bitterly. This innocent young thing should have herblessing and not her curse. When she left them a light seemed gone fromthe 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 thisoccasion the boy was absent. 

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

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 featuresand large frame, than in the soft-cheeked young woman before her. Theconversation became quite confidential as regarded their powers andweaknesses; and when Mrs. Lodge was leaving, Rhoda said, 'I hope you willfind this air agree with you, ma'am, and not suffer from the damp of thewater-meads. '

The younger one replied that there was not much doubt of it, her generalhealth being usually good. 'Though, now you remind me, ' she added, 'Ihave one little ailment which puzzles me. It is nothing serious, but Icannot make it out. '

She uncovered her left hand and arm; and their outline confronted Rhoda'sgaze as the exact original of the limb she had beheld and seized in herdream. Upon the pink round surface of the arm were faint marks of anunhealthy colour, as if produced by a rough grasp. Rhoda's eyes becameriveted on the discolorations; she fancied that she discerned in them theshape of her own four fingers. 

'How did it happen?' she said mechanically. 

'I cannot tell, ' replied Mrs. Lodge, shaking her head. 'One night when Iwas sound asleep, dreaming I was away in some strange place, a painsuddenly shot into my arm there, and was so keen as to awaken me. I musthave struck it in the daytime, I suppose, though I don't remember doingso. ' She added, laughing, 'I tell my dear husband that it looks just asif he had flown into a rage and struck me there. O, I daresay it willsoon disappear. '

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

Mrs. Lodge considered, and said it would be a fortnight ago on themorrow. '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, andBrook felt like a guilty thing. The artless disclosure startled her; shedid not reason on the freaks of coincidence; and all the scenery of thatghastly night returned with double vividness to her mind. 

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

CHAPTER IV--A SUGGESTION

The summer drew on, and Rhoda Brook almost dreaded to meet Mrs. Lodgeagain, notwithstanding that her feeling for the young wife amounted well-nigh to affection. Something in her own individuality seemed to convictRhoda of crime. Yet a fatality sometimes would direct the steps of thelatter to the outskirts of Holmstoke whenever she left her house for anyother purpose than her daily work; and hence it happened that their nextencounter was out of doors. Rhoda could not avoid the subject which hadso mystified her, and after the first few words she stammered, 'I hopeyour--arm is well again, ma'am?' She had perceived with consternationthat Gertrude Lodge carried her left arm stiffly. 

'No; it is not quite well. Indeed it is no better at all; it is ratherworse. 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 insistedupon her going to one. But the surgeon had not seemed to understand theafflicted limb at all; he had told her to bathe it in hot water, and shehad 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 fewinches above the wrist. As soon as Rhoda Brook saw it, she could hardlypreserve her composure. There was nothing of the nature of a wound, butthe arm at that point had a shrivelled look, and the outline of the fourfingers appeared more distinct than at the former time. Moreover, shefancied that they were imprinted in precisely the relative position ofher clutch upon the arm in the trance; the first finger towardsGertrude's wrist, and the fourth towards her elbow. 

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

Rhoda shivered. 'That's fancy, ' she said hurriedly. 'I wouldn't mindit, if I were you. '

'I shouldn't so much mind it, ' said the younger, with hesitation, 'if--ifI 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 tearsthat 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 horridsort of spell as she returned home. The sense of having been guilty ofan act of malignity increased, affect as she might to ridicule hersuperstition. In her secret heart Rhoda did not altogether object to aslight diminution of her successor's beauty, by whatever means it hadcome about; but she did not wish to inflict upon her physical pain. Forthough this pretty young woman had rendered impossible any reparationwhich Lodge might have made Rhoda for his past conduct, everything likeresentment at the unconscious usurpation had quite passed away from theelder'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 treacheryin the presence of her friendliness; but tell she could not of her ownaccord--neither could she devise a remedy. 

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

'Good morning, Rhoda!' Gertrude said, when she had come up. 'I was goingto 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 findout the cause, and so perhaps the cure, of it, ' replied the otheranxiously. 'It is by going to some clever man over in Egdon Heath. Theydid not know if he was still alive--and I cannot remember his name atthis moment; but they said that you knew more of his movements thananybody else hereabout, and could tell me if he were still to beconsulted. Dear me--what was his name? But you know. '

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

'Trendle--yes. Is he alive?'

'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 folkshave not. '

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

Rhoda looked relieved, and Mrs. Lodge rode on. The milkwoman hadinwardly seen, from the moment she heard of her having been mentioned asa reference for this man, that there must exist a sarcastic feeling amongthe work-folk that a sorceress would know the whereabouts of theexorcist. They suspected her, then. A short time ago this would havegiven no concern to a woman of her common-sense. But she had a hauntingreason to be superstitious now; and she had been seized with sudden dreadthat this Conjuror Trendle might name her as the malignant influencewhich was blasting the fair person of Gertrude, and so lead her friend tohate 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 womanopened the door at once, almost breathlessly. 

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

'Yes, ' said Rhoda. 

'The place on my arm seems worse, and troubles me!' the young farmer'swife went on. 'It is so mysterious! I do hope it will not be anincurable wound. I have again been thinking of what they said aboutConjuror Trendle. I don't really believe in such men, but I should notmind just visiting him, from curiosity--though on no account must myhusband 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 theway--say to-morrow afternoon?'

'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 inthe dream might be revealed, and her character in the eyes of the mostuseful 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 standin the way of a possible remedy for her patron's strange affliction. Itwas agreed that, to escape suspicion of their mystic intent, they shouldmeet at the edge of the heath at the corner of a plantation which wasvisible from the spot where they now stood. 

CHAPTER V--CONJUROR TRENDLE

By the next afternoon Rhoda would have done anything to escape thisinquiry. But she had promised to go. Moreover, there was a horridfascination at times in becoming instrumental in throwing such possiblelight on her own character as would reveal her to be something greater inthe occult world than she had ever herself 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 theEgdon tract of country, where the fir plantation was. A slight figure, cloaked and veiled, was already there. Rhoda recognized, almost with ashudder, that Mrs. Lodge bore her left arm in a sling. 

They hardly spoke to each other, and immediately set out on their climbinto the interior of this solemn country, which stood high above the richalluvial 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 earlyafternoon; and the wind howled dismally over the hills of the heath--notimprobably the same heath which had witnessed the agony of the WessexKing Ina, presented to after-ages as Lear. Gertrude Lodge talked most, Rhoda replying with monosyllabic preoccupation. She had a strangedislike to walking on the side of her companion where hung the afflictedarm, moving round to the other when inadvertently near it. Much heatherhad 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 abouttheir continuance, his direct interests being those of a dealer in furze, turf, 'sharp sand, ' and other local products. Indeed, he affected not tobelieve largely in his own powers, and when warts that had been shown himfor cure miraculously disappeared--which it must be owned they infalliblydid--he would say lightly, 'O, I only drink a glass of grog upon'em--perhaps it's all chance, ' and immediately turn the subject. 

He was at home when they arrived, having in fact seen them descendinginto his valley. He was a gray-bearded man, with a reddish face, and helooked singularly at Rhoda the first moment he beheld her. Mrs. Lodgetold him her errand; and then with words of self-disparagement heexamined 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 yourself, ' he said. 'If youlike, I can show the person to you, though I shall not myself know who itis. 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 proceedingswithout taking part in them. He brought a tumbler from the dresser, nearly filled it with water, and fetching an egg, prepared it in someprivate way; after which he broke it on the edge of the glass, so thatthe white went in and the yolk remained. As it was getting gloomy, hetook the glass and its contents to the window, and told Gertrude to watchthem closely. They leant over the table together, and the milkwomancould see the opaline hue of the egg-fluid changing form as it sank inthe water, but she was not near enough to define the shape that itassumed. 

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

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

When Mrs. Lodge came out, and her face was met by the light, it appearedexceedingly pale--as pale as Rhoda's--against the sad dun shades of theupland's garniture. Trendle shut the door behind her, and they at oncestarted homeward together. But Rhoda perceived that her companion hadquite 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 wasremarkable; her face was so rigid as to wear an oldened aspect, faintlysuggestive of the face in Rhoda's bed-chamber. 

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

'No. But I am not sorry we have come, all things considered, ' shereplied. For the first time a sense of triumph possessed her, and shedid not altogether deplore that the young thing at her side should learnthat 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-dairiedlowland that winter that Mrs. Lodge's gradual loss of the use of her leftarm was owing to her being 'overlooked' by Rhoda Brook. The latter kepther own counsel about the incubus, but her face grew sadder and thinner;and in the spring she and her boy disappeared from the neighbourhood ofHolmstoke. 

CHAPTER VI--A SECOND ATTEMPT

Half-a-dozen years passed away, and Mr. And Mrs. Lodge's marriedexperience sank into prosiness, and worse. The farmer was usually gloomyand silent: the woman whom he had wooed for her grace and beauty wascontorted and disfigured in the left limb; moreover, she had brought himno child, which rendered it likely that he would be the last of a familywho had occupied that valley for some two hundred years. He thought ofRhoda Brook and her son; and feared this might be a judgment from heavenupon him. 

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

'Damned if you won't poison yourself with these apothecary messes andwitch mixtures some time or other, ' said her husband, when his eyechanced 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 onlymeant it for your good, you know, Gertrude. '

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

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

She guessed to whom he alluded; for Rhoda Brook's story had in the courseof years become known to her; though not a word had ever passed betweenher husband and herself on the subject. Neither had she ever spoken tohim of her visit to Conjuror Trendle, and of what was revealed to her, orshe 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 sometimeswhispered to herself. And then she thought of the apparent cause, andsaid, with a tragic glance at her withering limb, 'If I could only againbe as I was when he first saw me!'

She obediently destroyed her nostrums and charms; but there remained ahankering wish to try something else--some other sort of cure altogether. She had never revisited Trendle since she had been conducted to the houseof the solitary by Rhoda against her will; but it now suddenly occurredto Gertrude that she would, in a last desperate effort at deliverancefrom this seeming curse, again seek out the man, if he yet lived. He wasentitled to a certain credence, for the indistinct form he had raised inthe glass had undoubtedly resembled the only woman in the world who--asshe 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, androamed a considerable distance out of her way. Trendle's house wasreached at last, however: he was not indoors, and instead of waiting atthe cottage, she went to where his bent figure was pointed out to her atwork a long way off. Trendle remembered her, and laying down the handfulof furze-roots which he was gathering and throwing into a heap, heoffered to accompany her in her homeward direction, as the distance wasconsiderable and the days were short. So they walked together, his headbowed nearly to the earth, and his form of a colour with it. 

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

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

She named to him some of the hundred medicaments and counterspells whichshe had adopted from time to time. He shook his head. 

'Some were good enough, ' he said approvingly; 'but not many of them forsuch as this. This is of the nature of a blight, not of the nature of awound; 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 failedin kindred afflictions, --that I can declare. But it is hard to carryout, 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. 

'Before he's cold--just after he's cut down, ' continued the conjurorimpassively. 

'How can that do good?'

'It will turn the blood and change the constitution. But, as I say, todo it is hard. You must get into jail, and wait for him when he'sbrought off the gallows. Lots have done it, though perhaps not suchpretty women as you. I used to send dozens for skin complaints. Butthat was in former times. The last I sent was in '13--near twenty yearsago. '

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

CHAPTER VII--A RIDE

The communication sank deep into Gertrude's mind. Her nature was rathera timid one; and probably of all remedies that the white wizard couldhave suggested there was not one which would have filled her with so muchaversion as this, not to speak of the immense obstacles in the way of itsadoption. 

Casterbridge, the county-town, was a dozen or fifteen miles off; andthough in those days, when men were executed for horse-stealing, arson, and burglary, an assize seldom passed without a hanging, it was notlikely that she could get access to the body of the criminal unaided. Andthe fear of her husband's anger made her reluctant to breathe a word ofTrendle's suggestion to him or to anybody about him. 

She did nothing for months, and patiently bore her disfigurement asbefore. But her woman's nature, craving for renewed love, through themedium of renewed beauty (she was but twenty-five), was ever stimulatingher to try what, at any rate, could hardly do her any harm. 'What cameby a spell will go by a spell surely, ' she would say. Whenever herimagination pictured the act she shrank in terror from the possibility ofit: then the words of the conjuror, 'It will turn your blood, ' were seento be capable of a scientific no less than a ghastly interpretation; themastering desire returned, and urged her on again. 

There was at this time but one county paper, and that her husband onlyoccasionally 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 wasabout to take place, few within a radius of twenty miles were ignorant ofthe coming sight; and, so far as Holmstoke was concerned, someenthusiasts had been known to walk all the way to Casterbridge and backin one day, solely to witness the spectacle. The next assizes were inMarch; and when Gertrude Lodge heard that they had been held, sheinquired stealthily at the inn as to the result, as soon as she couldfind opportunity. 

She was, however, too late. The time at which the sentences were to becarried out had arrived, and to make the journey and obtain admission atsuch short notice required at least her husband's assistance. She darednot tell him, for she had found by delicate experiment that thesesmouldering village beliefs made him furious if mentioned, partly becausehe half entertained them himself. It was therefore necessary to wait foranother opportunity. 

Her determination received a fillip from learning that two epilepticchildren had attended from this very village of Holmstoke many yearsbefore with beneficial results, though the experiment had been stronglycondemned by the neighbouring clergy. April, May, June, passed; and itis no overstatement to say that by the end of the last-named monthGertrude well-nigh longed for the death of a fellow-creature. Instead ofher formal prayers each night, her unconscious prayer was, 'O Lord, hangsome guilty or innocent person soon!'

This time she made earlier inquiries, and was altogether more systematicin her proceedings. Moreover, the season was summer, between thehaymaking and the harvest, and in the leisure thus afforded him herhusband had been holiday-taking away from home. 

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

Her greatest problem was not how to get to Casterbridge, but what meansshe should adopt for obtaining admission to the jail. Though access forsuch purposes had formerly never been denied, the custom had fallen intodesuetude; and in contemplating her possible difficulties, she was againalmost driven to fall back upon her husband. But, on sounding him aboutthe assizes, he was so uncommunicative, so more than usually cold, thatshe did not proceed, and decided that whatever she did she would doalone. 

Fortune, obdurate hitherto, showed her unexpected favour. On theThursday before the Saturday fixed for the execution, Lodge remarked toher that he was going away from home for another day or two on businessat 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 helooked at her in surprise. Time had been when she would have shown deepdisappointment at the loss of such a jaunt. However, he lapsed into hisusual taciturnity, and on the day named left Holmstoke. 

It was now her turn. She at first had thought of driving, but onreflection held that driving would not do, since it would necessitate herkeeping to the turnpike-road, and so increase by tenfold the risk of herghastly errand being found out. She decided to ride, and avoid thebeaten track, notwithstanding that in her husband's stables there was noanimal just at present which by any stretch of imagination could beconsidered a lady's mount, in spite of his promise before marriage toalways keep a mare for her. He had, however, many cart-horses, fine onesof their kind; and among the rest was a serviceable creature, an equineAmazon, with a back as broad as a sofa, on which Gertrude hadoccasionally 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 toit, 'if it had not been for you this terrible ordeal would have beensaved me!'

When strapping up the bundle in which she carried a few articles ofclothing, she took occasion to say to the servant, 'I take these in caseI should not get back to-night from the person I am going to visit. Don'tbe alarmed if I am not in by ten, and close up the house as usual. Ishall be at home to-morrow for certain. ' She meant then to privatelytell 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'shomestead; but though her goal was Casterbridge she did not take thedirect route thither through Stickleford. Her cunning course at firstwas in precisely the opposite direction. As soon as she was out ofsight, 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 alittle to the right of the sun. She knew that she would light upon afurze-cutter or cottager of some sort from time to time, from whom shemight correct her bearing. 

Though the date was comparatively recent, Egdon was much less fragmentaryin character than now. The attempts--successful and otherwise--atcultivation on the lower slopes, which intrude and break up the originalheath into small detached heaths, had not been carried far; EnclosureActs had not taken effect, and the banks and fences which now exclude thecattle of those villagers who formerly enjoyed rights of commonagethereon, and the carts of those who had turbary privileges which keptthem in firing all the year round, were not erected. Gertrude, therefore, rode along with no other obstacles than the prickly furzebushes, the mats of heather, the white water-courses, and the naturalsteeps and declivities of the ground. 

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

She halted before a pool called Rushy-pond, flanked by the ends of twohedges; a railing ran through the centre of the pond, dividing it inhalf. Over the railing she saw the low green country; over the greentrees the roofs of the town; over the roofs a white flat facade, denotingthe entrance to the county jail. On the roof of this front specks weremoving about; they seemed to be workmen erecting something. Her fleshcrept. She descended slowly, and was soon amid corn-fields and pastures. In another half-hour, when it was almost dusk, Gertrude reached the WhiteHart, the first inn of the town on that side. 

Little surprise was excited by her arrival; farmers' wives rode onhorseback then more than they do now; though, for that matter, Mrs. Lodgewas not imagined to be a wife at all; the innkeeper supposed her someharum-skarum young woman who had come to attend 'hang-fair' next day. Neither her husband nor herself ever dealt in Casterbridge market, sothat she was unknown. While dismounting she beheld a crowd of boysstanding 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. 

'Making the rope for to-morrow. '

She throbbed responsively, and contracted her arm. 

''Tis sold by the inch afterwards, ' the man continued. 'I could get youa bit, miss, for nothing, if you'd like?'

She hastily repudiated any such wish, all the more from a curiouscreeping feeling that the condemned wretch's destiny was becominginterwoven with her own; and having engaged a room for the night, satdown to think. 

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

CHAPTER VIII--A WATER-SIDE HERMIT

At this date, and for several years after, there was a hangman to almostevery jail. Gertrude found, on inquiry, that the Casterbridge officialdwelt in a lonely cottage by a deep slow river flowing under the cliff onwhich the prison buildings were situate--the stream being the self-sameone, though she did not know it, which watered the Stickleford andHolmstoke meads lower down in its course. 

Having changed her dress, and before she had eaten or drunk--for shecould not take her ease till she had ascertained someparticulars--Gertrude pursued her way by a path along the water-side tothe cottage indicated. Passing thus the outskirts of the jail, shediscerned on the level roof over the gateway three rectangular linesagainst the sky, where the specks had been moving in her distant view;she recognized what the erection was, and passed quickly on. Anotherhundred yards brought her to the executioner's house, which a boy pointedout It stood close to the same stream, and was hard by a weir, the watersof which emitted a steady roar. 

While she stood hesitating the door opened, and an old man came forthshading a candle with one hand. Locking the door on the outside, heturned to a flight of wooden steps fixed against the end of the cottage, and began to ascend them, this being evidently the staircase to hisbedroom. Gertrude hastened forward, but by the time she reached the footof the ladder he was at the top. She called to him loudly enough to beheard above the roar of the weir; he looked down and said, 'What d'yewant here?'

'To speak to you a minute. '

The candle-light, such as it was, fell upon her imploring, pale, upturnedface, and Davies (as the hangman was called) backed down the ladder. 'Iwas just going to bed, ' he said; '"Early to bed and early to rise, " but Idon't mind stopping a minute for such a one as you. Come into house. ' Hereopened 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 leaveCasterbridge for gentle nor simple--not I. My real calling is officer ofjustice, ' he added formally. 

'Yes, yes! That's it. To-morrow!'

'Ah! I thought so. Well, what's the matter about that? 'Tis no use tocome here about the knot--folks do come continually, but I tell 'em oneknot is as merciful as another if ye keep it under the ear. Is theunfortunate man a relation; or, I should say, perhaps' (looking at herdress) '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. '

'O--a reprieve--I hope not!' she said involuntarily, 'Well, --hee, hee!--as a matter of business, so do I! But still, if evera young fellow deserved to be let off, this one does; only just turnedeighteen, and only present by chance when the rick was fired. Howsomever, there's not much risk of it, as they are obliged to make an example ofhim, 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 ofan affliction, by the advice of a man who has proved the virtue of theremedy. '

'O yes, miss! Now I understand. I've had such people come in pastyears. But it didn't strike me that you looked of a sort to requireblood-turning. What's the complaint? The wrong kind for this, I'll bebound. '

'My arm. ' She reluctantly showed the withered skin. 

'Ah--'tis all a-scram!' said the hangman, examining it. 

'Yes, ' said she. 

'Well, ' he continued, with interest, 'that is the class o' subject, I'mbound to admit! I like the look of the place; it is truly as suitablefor 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 doctorwith '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 keptprivate. '

'Lover not to know, eh?'

'No--husband. '

'Aha! Very well. I'll get ee' a touch of the corpse. '

'Where is it now?' she said, shuddering. 

'It?--he, you mean; he's living yet. Just inside that little smallwinder 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 inthe wall, that you'll find up there in the lane, not later than oneo'clock. I will open it from the inside, as I shan't come home to dinnertill he's cut down. Good-night. Be punctual; and if you don't wantanybody to know 'ee, wear a veil. Ah--once I had such a daughter asyou!'

She went away, and climbed the path above, to assure herself that shewould be able to find the wicket next day. Its outline was soon visibleto her--a narrow opening in the outer wall of the prison precincts. Thesteep was so great that, having reached the wicket, she stopped a momentto breathe; and, looking back upon the water-side cot, saw the hangmanagain ascending his outdoor staircase. He entered the loft or chamber towhich it led, and in a few minutes extinguished his light. 

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

CHAPTER IX--A RENCOUNTER

It was one o'clock on Saturday. Gertrude Lodge, having been admitted tothe jail as above described, was sitting in a waiting-room within thesecond gate, which stood under a classic archway of ashlar, thencomparatively modern, and bearing the inscription, 'COVNTY JAIL: 1793. 'This had been the facade she saw from the heath the day before. Near athand was a passage to the roof on which the gallows stood. 

The town was thronged, and the market suspended; but Gertrude had seenscarcely 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 belowthe cliff where the spectators had gathered; but she could, even now, hear the multitudinous babble of their voices, out of which rose atintervals the hoarse croak of a single voice uttering the words, 'Lastdying speech and confession!' There had been no reprieve, and theexecution was over; but the crowd still waited to see the body takendown. 

Soon the persistent girl heard a trampling overhead, then a hand beckonedto her, and, following directions, she went out and crossed the innerpaved court beyond the gatehouse, her knees trembling so that she couldscarcely walk. One of her arms was out of its sleeve, and only coveredby her shawl. 

On the spot at which she had now arrived were two trestles, and beforeshe could think of their purpose she heard heavy feet descending stairssomewhere 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 hershoulder, borne by four men. It was open, and in it lay the body of ayoung man, wearing the smockfrock of a rustic, and fustian breeches. Thecorpse had been thrown into the coffin so hastily that the skirt of thesmockfrock was hanging over. The burden was temporarily deposited on thetrestles. 

By this time the young woman's state was such that a gray mist seemed tofloat before her eyes, on account of which, and the veil she wore, shecould scarcely discern 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 theword had been addressed to her. 

By a last strenuous effort she advanced, at the same time hearing personsapproaching behind her. She bared her poor curst arm; and Davies, uncovering the face of the corpse, took Gertrude's hand, and held it sothat her arm lay across the dead man's neck, upon a line the colour of anunripe blackberry, which surrounded 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 theenclosure: it was not Gertrude's, and its effect upon her was to make herstart round. 

Immediately behind her stood Rhoda Brook, her face drawn, and her eyesred with weeping. Behind Rhoda stood Gertrude's own husband; hiscountenance lined, his eyes dim, but without a tear. 

'D-n you! what are you doing here?' he said hoarsely. 

'Hussy--to come between us and our child now!' cried Rhoda. 'This is themeaning of what Satan showed me in the vision! You are like her atlast!' And clutching the bare arm of the younger woman, she pulled herunresistingly back against the wall. Immediately Brook had loosened herhold the fragile young Gertrude slid down against the feet of herhusband. When he lifted her up she was unconscious. 

The mere sight of the twain had been enough to suggest to her that thedead young man was Rhoda's son. At that time the relatives of anexecuted convict had the privilege of claiming the body for burial, ifthey chose to do so; and it was for this purpose that Lodge was awaitingthe inquest with Rhoda. He had been summoned by her as soon as the youngman was taken in the crime, and at different times since; and he hadattended in court during the trial. This was the 'holiday' he had beenindulging in of late. The two wretched parents had wished to avoidexposure; and hence had come themselves for the body, a waggon and sheetfor its conveyance and covering being in waiting outside. 

Gertrude's case was so serious that it was deemed advisable to call toher the surgeon who was at hand. She was taken out of the jail into thetown; but she never reached home alive. Her delicate vitality, sappedperhaps by the paralyzed arm, collapsed under the double shock thatfollowed the severe strain, physical and mental, to which she hadsubjected herself during the previous twenty-four hours. Her blood hadbeen 'turned' indeed--too far. Her death took place in the town threedays after. 

Her husband was never seen in Casterbridge again; once only in the oldmarket-place at Anglebury, which he had so much frequented, and veryseldom in public anywhere. Burdened at first with moodiness and remorse, he eventually changed for the better, and appeared as a chastened andthoughtful man. Soon after attending the funeral of his poor young wifehe took steps towards giving up the farms in Holmstoke and the adjoiningparish, 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 lodgingstill his death two years later of a painless decline. It was then foundthat he had bequeathed the whole of his not inconsiderable property to areformatory for boys, subject to the payment of a small annuity to RhodaBrook, if she could be found to claim it. 

For some time she could not be found; but eventually she reappeared inher old parish, --absolutely refusing, however, to have anything to dowith the provision made for her. Her monotonous milking at the dairy wasresumed, and followed for many long years, till her form became bent, andher once abundant dark hair white and worn away at the forehead--perhapsby long pressure against the cows. Here, sometimes, those who knew herexperiences would stand and observe her, and wonder what sombre thoughtswere beating inside that impassive, wrinkled brow, to the rhythm of thealternating milk-streams. 

('Blackwood's Magazine, ' January 1888. )

FELLOW-TOWNSMEN

CHAPTER I

The shepherd on the east hill could shout out lambing intelligence to theshepherd on the west hill, over the intervening town chimneys, withoutgreat inconvenience to his voice, so nearly did the steep pasturesencroach upon the burghers' backyards. And at night it was possible tostand in the very midst of the town and hear from their native paddockson the lower levels of greensward the mild lowing of the farmer'sheifers, and the profound, warm blowings of breath in which thosecreatures indulge. But the community which had jammed itself in thevalley thus flanked formed a veritable town, with a real mayor andcorporation, and a staple manufacture. 

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

'Hullo, Downe--is that you?' said the driver of the vehicle, a young manof pale and refined appearance. 'Jump up here with me, and ride down toyour door. '

The other turned a plump, cheery, rather self-indulgent face over hisshoulder towards the hailer. 

'O, good evening, Mr. Barnet--thanks, ' he said, and mounted beside hisacquaintance. 

They were fellow-burgesses of the town which lay beneath them, but thoughold and very good friends, they were differently circumstanced. Barnetwas a richer man than the struggling young lawyer Downe, a fact which wasto some extent perceptible in Downe's manner towards his companion, though nothing of it ever showed in Barnet's manner towards thesolicitor. Barnet's position in the town was none of his own making; hisfather had been a very successful flax-merchant in the same place, wherethe trade was still carried on as briskly as the small capacities of itsquarters would allow. Having acquired a fair fortune, old Mr. Barnet hadretired 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 answeredconstrainedly, exchanging his meditative regard of the horse for one ofself-consciousness. 

Mr. Downe seemed to regret his inquiry, and immediately took up anotherthread of conversation. He congratulated his friend on his election as acouncil-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 fearedthat she had failed to do so as yet. 

Barnet seemed hampered in his replies. 'We should have been glad to seeyou. I--my wife would welcome 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 thehonour as premature--having other things on my hands just now, too--if ithad not been pressed upon me so very heartily. '

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

Barnet's face acquired a warmer shade of colour; but as the question hadbeen idly asked by the solicitor while regarding the surrounding flocksand fields, he answered after a moment with no apparent embarrassment -

'Well, we wanted to get out of the town, you know: the house I am livingin is rather old and inconvenient. ' Mr. Downe declared that he hadchosen a pretty site for the new building. They would be able to see formiles and miles from the windows. Was he going to give it a name? Hesupposed so. 

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

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

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

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

Talking thus they drove into the town. The street was unusually stillfor the hour of seven in the evening; an increasing drizzle had prevailedsince the afternoon, and now formed a gauze across the yellow lamps, andtrickled with a gentle rattle down the heavy roofs of stone tile, thatbent the house-ridges hollow-backed with its weight, and in someinstances caused the walls to bulge outwards in the upper story. Theirroute took them past the little town-hall, the Black-Bull Hotel, andonward to the junction of a small street on the right, consisting of arow of those two-and-two windowed brick residences of no particular age, which are exactly alike wherever found, except in the people theycontain. 

'Wait--I'll drive you up to your door, ' said Barnet, when Downe preparedto alight at the corner. He thereupon turned into the narrow street, when the faces of three little girls could be discerned close to thepanes of a lighted window a few yards ahead, surmounted by that of ayoung matron, the gaze of all four being directed eagerly up the emptystreet. 'You are a fortunate fellow, Downe, ' Barnet continued, as motherand children disappeared from the window to run to the door. 'You mustbe happy if any man is. I would give a hundred such houses as my new oneto 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, revealinga bitterness hitherto suppressed, and checking the horse a moment tofinish his speech before delivering up his passenger. 'The house I havealready 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. Myfather 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. '

'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 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 happyhome you have had no such experiences; and God forbid that you evershould. See, here they are all ready to receive you!'

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

'I hope so, ' Barnet replied dubiously. 

He moved on to Downe's door, which the solicitor's family had alreadyopened. 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, quiteignoring the presence of Barnet, she seized hold of her husband, pulledhim to his feet, and kissed him, exclaiming, 'I hope you are not hurt, darling!' The children crowded round, chiming in piteously, 'Poor papa!'

'He's all right, ' said Barnet, perceiving that Downe was only a littlemuddy, and looking more at the wife than at the husband. Almost at anyother time--certainly during his fastidious bachelor years--he would havethought her a too demonstrative woman; but those recent circumstances ofhis own life to which he had just alluded made Mrs. Downe's solicitude soaffecting that his eye grew damp as he witnessed it. Bidding the lawyerand his family good-night he left them, and drove slowly into the mainstreet towards his own house. 

The heart of Barnet was sufficiently impressionable to be influenced byDowne's parting prophecy that he might not be so unwelcome home as heimagined: the dreary night might, at least on this one occasion, makeDowne's forecast true. Hence it was in a suspense that he could hardlyhave believed possible that he halted at his door. On entering his wifewas nowhere to be seen, and he inquired for her. The servant informedhim that her mistress had the dressmaker with her, and would be engagedfor some time. 

'Dressmaker at this time of day!'

'She dined early, sir, and hopes you will excuse her joining you thisevening. '

'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 herformer words. 

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

CHAPTER II

He rose with a sudden rebelliousness, put on his hat and coat, and wentout of the house, pursuing his way along the glistening pavement whileeight o'clock was striking from St. Mary's tower, and the apprentices andshopmen were slamming up the shutters from end to end of the town. Intwo minutes only those shops which could boast of no attendant save themaster or the mistress remained with open eyes. These were ever somewhatless prompt to exclude customers than the others: for their owners' earsthe closing hour had scarcely the cheerfulness that it possessed for thehired servants of the rest. Yet the night being dreary the delay was notfor long, and their windows, too, blinked together one by one. 

During this time Barnet had proceeded with decided step in a direction atright angles to the broad main thoroughfare of the town, by a long streetleading due southward. Here, though his family had no more to do withthe flax manufacture, his own name occasionally greeted him on gates andwarehouses, being used allusively by small rising tradesmen as arecommendation, in such words as 'Smith, from Barnet & Co. '--'Robinson, late manager at Barnet's. ' The sight led him to reflect upon hisfather's busy life, and he questioned if it had not been far happier thanhis own. 

The houses along the road became fewer, and presently open groundappeared between them on either side, the track on the right hand risingto a higher level till it merged in a knoll. On the summit a row ofbuilders' scaffold-poles probed the indistinct sky like spears, and attheir bases could be discerned the lower courses of a building latelybegun. Barnet slackened his pace and stood for a few moments withoutleaving the centre of the road, apparently not much interested in thesight, till suddenly his eye was caught by a post in the fore part of theground bearing a white board at the top. He went to the rails, vaultedover, and walked in far enough to discern painted upon the board 'ChateauRingdale. '

A dismal irony seemed to lie in the words, and its effect was to irritatehim. 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 throwit down. Then, like one bewildered by an opposition which would existnone the less though its manifestations were removed, he allowed his armsto sink to his side. 

'Let it be, ' he said to himself. 'I have declared there shall bepeace--if possible. '

Taking up his umbrella he quietly left the enclosure, and went on hisway, still keeping his back to the town. He had advanced with moredecision since passing the new building, and soon a hoarse murmur roseupon the gloom; it was the sound of the sea. The road led to theharbour, at a distance of a mile from the town, from which the trade ofthe district was fed. After seeing the obnoxious name-board Barnet hadforgotten 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 roadside, they stood atwider intervals than before, and the pavement had given place to commonroad. Every time he came to a lamp an increasing shine made itselfvisible upon his shoulders, till at last they quite glistened with wet. The murmur from the shore grew stronger, but it was still some distanceoff when he paused before one of the smallest of the detached houses bythe wayside, standing in its own garden, the latter being divided fromthe road by a row of wooden palings. Scrutinizing the spot to ensurethat he was not mistaken, he opened the gate and gently knocked at thecottage door. 

When he had patiently waited minutes enough to lead any man in ordinarycases to knock again, the door was heard to open, though it wasimpossible 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 suddenafterthought 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 trimthe passage lamp. 

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

The young person, whose white pinafore could just be discerned, signifieda door in the side of the passage, and Barnet went forward at the samemoment, so that no light should fall upon his face. On entering the roomhe closed the door behind him, pausing till he heard the retreatingfootsteps of the child. 

He found himself in an apartment which was simply and neatly, though notpoorly furnished; everything, from the miniature chiffonnier to theshining little daguerreotype which formed the central ornament of themantelpiece, being in scrupulous order. The picture was enclosed by aframe of embroidered card-board--evidently the work of feminine hands--andit was the portrait of a thin faced, elderly lieutenant in the navy. Frombehind the lamp on the table a female form now rose into view, that of ayoung girl, and a resemblance between her and the portrait was earlydiscoverable. She had been so absorbed in some occupation on the otherside of the lamp as to have barely found time to realize her visitor'spresence. 

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

'I know I have no business here, ' he said, answering the look. 'But Ihad a great wish to see you, and inquire how you were. You can give yourhand 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 thecircumstances of our last meeting, I can hardly consider it kind of youto 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. '

'I have not had the honour of a visit from you for a very long time, certainly, and I did not expect it now, ' she said, with the samestiffness in her air. 'I hope Mrs. Barnet is very well?'

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

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

The unwonted tones of a man's voice in that feminine chamber had startleda canary that was roosting in its cage by the window; the bird awokehastily, and fluttered against the bars. She went and stilled it bylaying her face against the cage and murmuring a coaxing sound. It mightpartly have been done to still herself. 

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

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

The force of her utterance was scarcely borne out by her look; but Barnetcourteously reproached himself 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 dothat at night to save time--I have to get three dozen done by the end ofthe month. '

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

'Is this a time or place for recalling such matters?' she asked, withdignity. 'You used to have a gentlemanly respect for me, and foryourself. Don't speak any more as you have spoken, and don't come again. I cannot think that this visit is serious, or was closely considered byyou. '

'Considered: well, I came to see you as an old and good friend--not tomince matters, to visit a woman I loved. Don't be angry! I could nothelp doing it, so many things brought you into my mind . . . This eveningI fell in with an acquaintance, and when I saw how happy he was with hiswife and family welcoming him home, though with only one-tenth of myincome and chances, and thought what might have been in my case, itfairly broke down my discretion, and off I came here. Now I am here Ifeel that I am wrong to some extent. But the feeling that I should liketo see you, and talk of those we used to know in common, was verystrong. '

'Before that can be the case a little more time must pass, ' said MissSavile quietly; 'a time long enough for me to regard with some calmnesswhat at present I remember far too impatiently--though it may be youalmost forget it. Indeed you must have forgotten it long before youacted as you did. ' Her voice grew stronger and more vivacious as sheadded: 'But I am doing my best to forget it too, and I know I shallsucceed from the progress I have made already!'

She had remained standing till now, when she turned and sat down, facinghalf 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 alwaysremember this, Lucy: if you had written to me only one little line afterthat misunderstanding, I declare I should have come back to you. Thatruined me!' he slowly walked as far as the little room would allow him togo, and remained with his eyes on the skirting. 

'But, Mr. Barnet, how could I write to you? There was no opening for mydoing so. '

'Then there ought to have been, ' said Barnet, turning. 'That was myfault!'

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

'Then I suppose it was destiny--accident--I don't know what, thatseparated us, dear Lucy. Anyhow you were the woman I ought to have mademy 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 tome; I am the wrong one to console you--think, sir, --you should not behere--it would be so bad for me if it were known!'

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

'It is a very common folly of human nature, you know, to think the courseyou did not adopt must have been the best, ' she continued, with gentlesolicitude, as she followed him to the door of the room. 'And you don'tknow that I should have accepted you, even if you had asked me to be yourwife. ' At this his eye met hers, and she dropped her gaze. She knewthat her voice belied her. There was a silence till she looked up toadd, in a voice of soothing playfulness, 'My family was so much poorerthan yours, even before I lost my dear father, that--perhaps yourcompanions would have made it unpleasant for us on account of mydeficiencies. '

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

She archly expostulated: 'Now, never mind my disposition; try to make itup with your wife! Those are my commands to you. And now you are toleave me at once. '

'I will. I must make the best of it all, I suppose, ' he replied, morecheerfully than he had as yet spoken. 'But I shall never again meet withsuch a dear girl as you!' And he suddenly opened the door, and left heralone. When his glance again fell on the lamps that were sparsely rangedalong 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, andgradually converged on Barnet's course. The latter then saw that it wasCharlson, a surgeon of the town, who owed him money. Charlson was a mannot without ability; yet he did not prosper. Sundry circumstances stoodin 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 strangerinstead of one of the town young ladies; and he was given toconversational buffoonery. Moreover, his look was quite erroneous. Thoseonly proper features in the family doctor, the quiet eye, and the thinstraight passionless lips which never curl in public either for laughteror for scorn, were not his; he had a full-curved mouth, and a bold blackeye that made timid people nervous. His companions were what in oldtimes would have been called boon companions--an expression which, thoughof irreproachable root, suggests fraternization carried to the point ofunscrupulousness. All this was against him in the little town of hisadoption. 

Charlson had been in difficulties, and to oblige him Barnet had put hisname to a bill; and, as he had expected, was called upon to meet it whenit fell due. It had been only a matter of fifty pounds, which Barnetcould well afford to lose, and he bore no ill-will to the thriftlesssurgeon on account of it. But Charlson had a little too much brazenindifferentism in his composition to be altogether a desirableacquaintance. 

'I hope to be able to make that little bill-business right with you inthe course of three weeks, Mr. Barnet, ' said Charlson with hail-fellowfriendliness. 

Barnet replied good-naturedly that there was no hurry. 

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

'I've had a dream, ' Charlson continued. Barnet knew from his tone thatthe surgeon was going to begin his characteristic nonsense, and did notencourage him. 'I've had a dream, ' repeated Charlson, who required noencouragement. 'I dreamed that a gentleman, who has been very kind tome, married a haughty lady in haste, before he had quite forgotten a nicelittle 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 dearlittle girl's present abode. '

Barnet glanced towards the speaker. The rays from a neighbouring lampstruck through the drizzle under Charlson's umbrella, so as just toillumine his face against the shade behind, and show that his eye wasturned up under the outer corner of its lid, whence it leered with impishjocoseness as he thrust his tongue into his cheek. 

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

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

CHAPTER III

He did so, to the letter; and though, as the crocus followed the snowdropand the daffodil the crocus in Lucy's garden, the harbour-road was a notunpleasant place to walk in, Barnet's feet never trod its stones, muchless approached her door. He avoided a saunter that way as he would haveavoided a dangerous dram, and took his airings a long distance northward, among severely square and brown ploughed fields, where no other townsmancame. Sometimes he went round by the lower lanes of the borough, wherethe rope-walks stretched in which his family formerly had share, andlooked at the rope-makers walking backwards, overhung by apple-trees andbushes, and intruded on by cows and calves, as if trade had establisheditself 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 theold roofs, but made every low-chimneyed house in the town as smoky asTophet, Barnet glanced from the windows of the town-council room for lackof interest in what was proceeding within. Several members of thecorporation were present, but there was not much business doing, and in afew minutes Downe came leisurely across to him, saying that he seldom sawBarnet now. 

Barnet owned that he was not often present. 

Downe looked at the crimson curtain which hung down beside the panes, reflecting its hot hues into their faces, and then out of the window. Atthat moment there passed along the street a tall commanding lady, in whomthe 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, Ihave not heard of anything serious, ' he said, with as long a face as onenaturally round could be turned into at short notice. 'I only hear vaguereports of such things. '

'You may think it will be all right, ' said Barnet drily. 'But I have adifferent 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 morningsomewhere; 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 thefigures 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 justnow. '

'You are too sensitive, Mr. Barnet. At school I remember you used to getas 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. Itis because of that I often try to make peace at home. Life would betolerable then at any rate, even if not particularly bright. '

'I have thought more than once of proposing a little plan to you, ' saidDowne with some hesitation. 'I don't know whether it will meet yourviews, but take it or leave it, as you choose. In fact, it was my wifewho suggested it: that she would be very glad to call on Mrs. Barnet andget into her confidence. She seems to think that Mrs. Barnet is ratheralone in the town, and without advisers. Her impression is that yourwife will listen to reason. Emily has a wonderful way of winning thehearts of people of her own sex. '

'And of the other sex too, I think. She is a charming woman, and youwere a lucky fellow to find her. '

'Well, perhaps I was, ' simpered Downe, trying to wear an aspect of beingthe last man in the world to feel pride. 'However, she will be likely tofind out what ruffles Mrs. Barnet. Perhaps it is some misunderstanding, you know--something that she is too proud to ask you to explain, or somelittle thing in your conduct that irritates her because she does notfully comprehend you. The truth is, Emily would have been more ready tomake advances if she had been quite sure of her fitness for Mrs. Barnet'ssociety, who has of course been accustomed to London people of goodposition, which made Emily fearful of intruding. '

Barnet expressed his warmest thanks for the well-intentioned proposition. There was reason in Mrs. Downe's fear--that he owned. 'But do let hercall, ' he said. 'There is no woman in England I would so soon trust onsuch 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 troublesin the contemplation of low sums of money, and figures in a network ofred and blue lines. He sat and watched the working-people making theirdeposits, to which at intervals he signed his name. Before he left inthe afternoon Downe 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, ifit is fine. Good afternoon!'

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

CHAPTER IV

The next day was as fine as the arrangement could possibly require. Asthe sun passed the meridian and declined westward, the tall shadows fromthe scaffold-poles of Barnet's rising residence streaked the ground asfar as to the middle of the highway. Barnet himself was there inspectingthe progress of the works for the first time during several weeks. Abuilding in an old-fashioned town five-and-thirty years ago did not, asin the modern fashion, rise from the sod like a booth at a fair. Thefoundations and lower courses were put in and allowed to settle for manyweeks before the superstructure was built up, and a whole summer ofdrying was hardly sufficient to do justice to the important issuesinvolved. Barnet stood within a window-niche which had as yet receivedno frame, and thence looked down a slope into the road. The wheels of achaise 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 toreflect itself upon the countenance of her companion--that politesse ducoeur which was so natural to her having possibly begun already to workresults. But whatever the situation, Barnet resolved not to interfere, or do anything to hazard the promise of the day. He might well afford totrust the issue to another when he could never direct it but to illhimself. His wife's clenched rein-hand in its lemon-coloured glove, herstiff erect figure, clad in velvet and lace, and her boldly-outlinedface, passed on, exhibiting their owner as one fixed for ever above thelevel of her companion--socially by her early breeding, and materially byher higher cushion. 

Barnet decided to allow them a proper time to themselves, and then strolldown to the shore and drive them home. After lingering on at the housefor another hour he started with this intention. A few hundred yardsbelow 'Chateau Ringdale' stood the cottage in which the late lieutenant'sdaughter had her lodging. Barnet had not been so far that way for a longtime, and as he approached the forbidden ground a curious warmth passedinto him, which led him to perceive that, unless he were careful, hemight have to fight the battle with himself about Lucy over again. Atenth of his present excuse would, however, have justified him intravelling by that road to-day. 

He came opposite the dwelling, and turned his eyes for a momentary glanceinto the little garden that stretched from the palings to the door. Lucywas in the enclosure; she was walking and stooping to gather someflowers, possibly for the purpose of painting them, for she moved aboutquickly, as if anxious to save time. She did not see him; he might havepassed unnoticed; but a sensation which was not in strict unison with hisprevious 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, polyanthuses, and other old-fashioned flowers, looking a very charmingfigure in her half-mourning bonnet, and with an incomplete nosegay in herleft hand. Raising herself to pull down a lilac blossom she observedhim. 

'Mr. Barnet!' she said, innocently smiling. 'Why, I have been thinkingof you many times since Mrs. Barnet went by in the pony-carriage, and nowhere you are!'

'Yes, Lucy, ' he said. 

Then she seemed to recall particulars of their last meeting, and hebelieved that she flushed, though it might have been only the fancy ofhis own supersensitivenesss. 

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

'Are you?' Lucy remarked simply. 'A great many people begin to go therenow the summer is drawing on. '

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

As he went a sudden blast of air came over the hill as if incontradiction 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 therampart of hills which shut out the sea, and on the left of the openingrose a vertical cliff, coloured a burning orange by the sunlight, thecompanion cliff on the right being livid in shade. Between these cliffs, like the Libyan bay which sheltered the shipwrecked Trojans, was a littlehaven, seemingly a beginning made by Nature herself of a perfect harbour, which appealed to the passer-by as only requiring a little human industryto finish it and make it famous, the ground on each side as far back asthe daisied slopes that bounded the interior valley being a mere layer ofblown sand. But the Port-Bredy burgesses a mile inland had, in thecourse of ten centuries, responded many times to that mute appeal, withthe result that the tides had invariably choked up their works with sandand shingle as soon as completed. There were but few houses here: arough pier, a few boats, some stores, an inn, a residence or two, a ketchunloading in the harbour, were the chief features of the settlement. Onthe open ground by the shore stood his wife's pony-carriage, empty, theboy in attendance holding the horse. 

When Barnet drew nearer, he saw an indigo-coloured spot moving swiftlyalong beneath the radiant base of the eastern cliff, which proved to be aman in a jersey, running with all his might. He held up his hand toBarnet, 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 hadbeen capsized in a boat--they were Mrs. Downe and Mrs. Barnet of the oldtown; they had driven down there that afternoon--they had alighted, andit was so fine, that, after walking about a little while, they had beentempted to go out for a short sail round the cliff. Just as they wereputting in to the shore, the wind shifted with a sudden gust, the boatlisted over, and it was thought they were both drowned. How it couldhave happened was beyond his mind to fathom, for John Green knew how tosail 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 asyou can. Then go to the Harbour Inn and tell them to ride to town for adoctor. Have they been got out of the water?'

'One lady has. '

'Which?'

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

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

CHAPTER V

All had been done that could be done. Mrs. Barnet was in her own houseunder medical hands, but the result was still uncertain. Barnet hadacted as if devotion to his wife were the dominant passion of hisexistence. There had been much to decide--whether to attempt restorationof the apparently lifeless body as it lay on the shore--whether to carryher to the Harbour Inn--whether to drive with her at once to his ownhouse. The first course, with no skilled help or appliances near athand, had seemed hopeless. The second course would have occupied nearlyas much time as a drive to the town, owing to the intervening ridges ofshingle, and the necessity of crossing the harbour by boat to get to thehouse, added to which much time must have elapsed before a doctor couldhave arrived down there. By bringing her home in the carriage someprecious moments had slipped by; but she had been laid in her own bed inseven minutes, a doctor called to her side, and every possiblerestorative brought to bear upon her. 

At what a tearing pace he had driven up that road, through the yellowevening sunlight, the shadows flapping irksomely into his eyes as eachwayside object rushed past between him and the west! Tired workmen withtheir baskets at their backs had turned on their homeward journey towonder at his speed. Halfway between the shore and Port-Bredy town hehad 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 thelatter to the coast in case that Downe's poor wife should by that timehave been reclaimed from the waves, and had brought Charlson back withhim to the house. 

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

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

He found Downe in his office. When the solicitor comprehended theintelligence he turned pale, stood up, and remained for a momentperfectly still, as if bereft of his faculties; then his shouldersheaved, he pulled out his handkerchief and began to cry like a child. Hissobs might have been heard in the next room. He seemed to have no ideaof going to the shore, or of doing anything; but when Barnet took himgently by the hand and proposed to start at once, he quietly acquiesced, neither uttering any further word nor making any effort to repress histears. 

Barnet accompanied him to the shore, where, finding that no trace had asyet been seen of Mrs. Downe, and that his stay would be of no avail, heleft Downe with his friends and the young doctor, and once more hastenedback to his own house. 

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

'I have just come down, ' said the doctor; 'we have done everything, butwithout result. I sympathize with you in your bereavement. '

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

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

'Never mind that now, ' said Barnet abruptly. He directed the surgeon togo to the harbour in case his services might even now be necessary there:and himself entered the house. 

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

After that he went back to the bedroom, and stood there some timeregarding his wife's silent form. She was a woman some years older thanhimself, but had not by any means overpassed the maturity of good looksand vigour. Her passionate features, well-defined, firm, and statuesquein life, were doubly so now: her mouth and brow, beneath her purplishblack hair, showed only too clearly that the turbulency of characterwhich had made a bear-garden of his house had been no temporary phase ofher existence. While he reflected, he suddenly said to himself, I wonderif all has been done?

The thought was led up to by his having fancied that his wife's featureslacked in its complete form the expression which he had been accustomedto 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 sleeping. Her complexion was that seen in thenumerous faded portraits by Sir Joshua Reynolds; it was pallid incomparison with life, but there was visible on a close inspection theremnant of what had once been a flush; the keeping between the cheeks andthe hollows of the face being thus preserved, although positive colourwas gone. Long orange rays of evening sun stole in through chinks in theblind, striking on the large mirror, and being thence reflected upon thecrimson hangings and woodwork of the heavy bedstead, so that the generaltone of light was remarkably warm; and it was probable that somethingmight be due to this circumstance. Still the fact impressed him asstrange. Charlson had been gone more than a quarter of an hour: could itbe possible that he had left too soon, and that his attempts to restoreher 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 afaint flutter of palpitation, gentle as that of a butterfly's wing, disturbed the stillness there--ceasing for a time, then struggling to goon, then breaking down in weakness and ceasing again. 

Barnet's mother had been an active practitioner of the healing art amongher poorer neighbours, and her inspirations had all been derived from anoctavo volume of Domestic Medicine, which at this moment was lying, as ithad lain for many years, on a shelf in Barnet's dressing-room. Hehastily 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 fromthe time when he had first heard of the accident. He threw aside thebook and turned quickly to reach a stimulant which had previously beenused. Pulling up the blind for more light, his eye glanced out of thewindow. There he saw that red chimney still smoking cheerily, and thatroof, and through the roof that somebody. His mechanical movementsstopped, his hand remained on the blind-cord, and he seemed to becomebreathless, as if he had suddenly found himself treading a high rope. 

While he stood a sparrow lighted on the windowsill, saw him, and flewaway. Next a man and a dog walked over one of the green hills whichbulged above the roofs of the town. But Barnet took no notice. 

We may wonder what were the exact images that passed through his mindduring those minutes of gazing upon Lucy Savile's house, the sparrow, theman and the dog, and Lucy Savile's house again. There are honest men whowill not admit to their thoughts, even as idle hypotheses, views of thefuture that assume as done a deed which they would recoil from doing; andthere are other honest men for whom morality ends at the surface of theirown heads, who will deliberate what the first will not so much assuppose. Barnet had a wife whose pretence distracted his home; she nowlay as in death; by merely doing nothing--by letting the intelligencewhich had gone forth to the world lie undisturbed--he would effect such adeliverance for himself as he had never hoped for, and open up anopportunity of which till now he had never dreamed. Whether theconjuncture had arisen through any unscrupulous, ill-considered impulseof Charlson to help out of a strait the friend who was so kind as neverto press him for what was due could not be told; there was nothing toprove it; and it was a question which could never be asked. Thetriangular situation--himself--his wife--Lucy Savile--was the one clearthing. 

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

It was not so with Downe. After three hours' immersion his wife's bodyhad been recovered, life, of course, being quite extinct. Barnet ondescending, went straight to his friend's house, and there learned theresult. Downe was helpless in his wild grief, occasionally evenhysterical. Barnet said little, but finding that some guiding hand wasnecessary in the sorrow-stricken household, took upon him to superviseand manage till Downe should be in a state of mind to do so for himself. 

CHAPTER VI

One September evening, four months later, when Mrs. Barnet was in perfecthealth, and Mrs. Downe but a weakening memory, an errand-boy paused torest himself in front of Mr. Barnet's old house, depositing his basket onone of the window-sills. The street was not yet lighted, but there werelights in the house, and at intervals a flitting shadow fell upon theblind at his elbow. Words also were audible from the same apartment, andthey seemed to be those of persons in violent altercation. But the boycould not gather their purport, and he went on his way. 

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

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

'No, sir. '

'Is the carriage ordered to meet her anywhere?'

'No, sir. '

'Did she take a latch-key?'

'No, sir. '

Barnet went in again, sat down in his chair, and leaned back. Then insolitude and silence he brooded over the bitter emotions that filled hisheart. It was for this that he had gratuitously restored her to life, and made his union with another impossible! The evening drew on, andnobody 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 heleaned his head upon his hand and mused for hours. 

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

He awoke at six o'clock to find that she had not returned. In searchingabout the rooms he discovered that she had taken a case of jewels whichhad been hers before her marriage. At eight a note was brought him; itwas from his wife, in which she stated that she had gone by the coach tothe house of a distant relative near London, and expressed a wish thatcertain boxes, articles of clothing, and so on, might be sent to herforthwith. The note was brought to him by a waiter at the Black-BullHotel, and had been written by Mrs. Barnet immediately before she tookher place in the stage. 

By the evening this order was carried out, and Barnet, with a sense ofrelief, 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 flungits light upon the booths and standings that still remained in thestreet, mixing its rays curiously with those from the flaring naphthalamps. The town was full of country-people who had come in to enjoythemselves, and on this account Barnet strolled through the streetsunobserved. With a certain recklessness he made for the harbour-road, and presently found himself by the shore, where he walked on till he cameto the spot near which his friend the kindly Mrs. Downe had lost herlife, and his own wife's life had been preserved. A tremulous pathway ofbright 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 whomhe now took a more sensitive interest than at the time when he had beenfree to marry her. Nothing, so far as he was aware, had ever appeared inhis own conduct to show that such an interest existed. He had made it apoint of the utmost strictness to hinder that feeling from influencing inthe faintest degree his attitude towards his wife; and this was made allthe more easy for him by the small demand Mrs. Barnet made upon hisattentions, for which she ever evinced the greatest contempt; thusunwittingly giving him the satisfaction of knowing that their severanceowed nothing to jealousy, or, indeed, to any personal behaviour of his atall. Her concern was not with him or his feelings, as she frequentlytold him; but that she had, in a moment of weakness, thrown herself awayupon a common burgher when she might have aimed at, and possibly broughtdown, a peer of the realm. Her frequent depreciation of Barnet in theseterms had at times been so intense that he was sorely tempted toretaliate on her egotism by owning that he loved at the same low level onwhich he lived; but prudence had prevailed, for which he was nowthankful. 

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

'Mr. Barnet?' the rambler said, in timid surprise. The voice was thevoice of Lucy Savile. 

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

'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 somethingfor you, to give me an occupation, as an idle man? I am sure I ought tohelp 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 alittle change in my life--to go out as a teacher of freehand drawing andpractical perspective, of course I mean on a comparatively humble scale, because I have not been specially educated for that profession. But I amsure 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 todelicacy. I bear in mind how we stand. It is very unlikely that youwill succeed as teacher of the class you mention, so let me do somethingof a different kind for you. Say what you would like, and it shall bedone. '

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

'I wish I could go abroad, anywhere, everywhere with you, Lucy, and leavethis 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 quickseverity not free from anger. 'It simply makes it impossible for me tosee 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 myuncertainty will end in my leaving for India, I fear you never will. Ifever 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 indoubt 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 smallerand smaller along the damp belt of sea-sand between ebb and flood; andwhen she had vanished round the cliff into the harbour-road, he himselffollowed in the same direction. 

That her hopes from an advertisement should be the single thread whichheld Lucy Savile in England was too much for Barnet. On reaching thetown he went straight to the residence of Downe, now a widower with fourchildren. The young motherless brood had been sent to bed about aquarter of an hour earlier, and when Barnet entered he found Downesitting alone. It was the same room as that from which the family hadbeen looking out for Downe at the beginning of the year, when Downe hadslipped into the gutter and his wife had been so enviably tender towardshim. The old neatness had gone from the house; articles lay in placeswhich could show no reason for their presence, as if momentarilydeposited there some months ago, and forgotten ever since; there were noflowers; things were jumbled together on the furniture which should havebeen 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, andeven when he had worked himself up to tears, went on volubly, as if alistener were a luxury to be enjoyed whenever he could be caught. 

'She was a treasure beyond compare, Mr. Barnet! I shall never see suchanother. Nobody now to nurse me--nobody to console me in those dailytroubles, you know, Barnet, which make consolation so necessary to anature like mine. It would be unbecoming to repine, for her spirit'shome was elsewhere--the tender light in her eyes always showed it; but itis a long dreary time that I have before me, and nobody else can everfill the void left in my heart by her loss--nobody--nobody!' And Downewiped 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, couldnot help feeling that a tender reticence would have been a finer tributeto Mrs. Downe's really sterling virtues than such a second-class lamentas this. 

'I have something to show you, ' Downe resumed, producing from a drawer asheet 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 Iwant. '

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

'Yes, but it is not quite what I want. I want something morestriking--more like a tomb I have seen in St. Paul's Cathedral. Nothingless will do justice to my feelings, and how far short of them that willfall!'

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Downe promised to give the subject his consideration, and nothing morewas said about it just then. But when Barnet rose to go, which was nottill nearly bedtime, he reminded Downe of the suggestion and went up thestreet to his own solitary home with a sense of satisfaction at hispromising diplomacy in a charitable cause. 

CHAPTER VII

The walls of his new house were carried up nearly to their full height. By a curious though not infrequent reaction, Barnet's feelings about thatunnecessary structure had undergone a change; he took considerableinterest in its progress as a long-neglected thing, his wife before herdeparture having grown quite weary of it as a hobby. Moreover, it was anexcellent distraction for a man in the unhappy position of having to livein a provincial town with nothing to do. He was probably the first ofhis line who had ever passed a day without toil, and perhaps somethinglike an inherited instinct disqualifies such men for a life of pleasantinaction, such as lies in the power of those whose leisure is not apersonal accident, but a vast historical accretion which has become partof their natures. 

Thus Barnet got into a way of spending many of his leisure hours on thesite of the new building, and he might have been seen on most days atthis time trying the temper of the mortar by punching the joints with hisstick, looking at the grain of a floor-board, and meditating where itgrew, or picturing under what circumstances the last fire would bekindled in the at present sootless chimneys. One day when thus occupiedhe saw three children pass by in the company of a fair young woman, whosesudden appearance caused him to flush perceptibly. 

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

Casting an interested glance over the rising building and the busyworkmen, Lucy Savile and the little Downes passed by; and after that timeit became a regular though almost unconscious custom of Barnet to standin the half-completed house and look from the ungarnished windows at thegoverness 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 onone of these occasions, when he had been loitering on the first-floorlanding, near the hole left for the staircase, not yet erected, thatthere appeared above the edge of the floor a little hat, followed by alittle head. 

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

Lucy uttered a small exclamation: she was very sorry that she hadintruded; she had not the least idea that Mr. Barnet was there: thechildren 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 toshow in such a bare skeleton of a house, but he made the most of it, andexplained the different ornamental fittings that were soon to be fixedhere and there. Lucy made but few remarks in reply, though she seemedpleased with her visit, and stole away down the ladder, followed by hercompanions. 

After this the new residence became yet more of a hobby for Barnet. Downe's children did not forget their first visit, and when the windowswere glazed, and the handsome staircase spread its broad low steps intothe hall, they came again, prancing in unwearied succession through everyroom from ground-floor to attics, while Lucy stood waiting for them atthe 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. 'Itried to do so very much: but they are rather wilful, and we are directedto walk this way for the sea air. '

'Do let them make the house their regular playground, and you yours, 'said Barnet. 'There is no better place for children to romp and taketheir exercise in than an empty house, particularly in muddy or dampweather such as we shall get a good deal of now; and this place will notbe furnished for a long long time--perhaps never. I am not at alldecided about it. '

'O, but it must!' replied Lucy, looking round at the hall. 'The roomsare excellent, twice as high as ours; and the views from the windows areso 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 factI only come here and look on. My father's house would have been largeenough for me, but another person had a voice in the matter, and it wassettled that we should build. However, the place grows upon me; itsrecent associations are cheerful, and I am getting to like it fast. '

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

Barnet's life at this period was singularly lonely, and yet he washappier than he could have expected. His wife's estrangement andabsence, which promised to be permanent, left him free as a boy in hismovements, and the solitary walks that he took gave him ample opportunityfor chastened reflection on what might have been his lot if he had onlyshown wisdom enough to claim Lucy Savile when there was no bar betweentheir lives, and she was to be had for the asking. He would occasionallycall at the house of his friend Downe; but there was scarcely enough incommon between their two natures to make them more than friends of thatexcellent sort whose personal knowledge of each other's history andcharacter is always in excess of intimacy, whereby they are not so likelyto be severed by a clash of sentiment as in cases where intimacy springsup in excess of knowledge. Lucy was never visible at these times, beingeither engaged in the school-room, or in taking an airing out of doors;but, knowing that she was now comfortable, and had given up the, to him, depressing idea of going off to the other side of the globe, he was quitecontent. 

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

A smile gained strength upon her face as she approached, and it was quiteradiant when she came up, and said, without a trace of embarrassment, 'Ifind 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. Believeme, Mr. Barnet, I did not know it until yesterday, or I should havethanked you long and long ago!'

'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 andover, 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 callthe style Palladian, Mr. Barnet?'

'I--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, Ihad not thought much about the style: I had nothing to do with choosingit, I am sorry to say. '

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

The children came up with their hoops, and she went off with them downthe harbour-road as usual. Barnet had been glad to get those words ofthanks; he had been thinking for many months that he would like her toknow of his share in finding her a home such as it was; and what he couldnot do for himself, Downe had now kindly done for him. He returned tohis desolate house with a lighter tread; though in reason he hardly knewwhy his tread should be light. 

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

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

CHAPTER VIII

The winter and the spring had passed, and the house was complete. It wasa fine morning in the early part of June, and Barnet, though not in thehabit of rising early, had taken a long walk before breakfast; returningby way of the new building. A sufficiently exciting cause of hisrestlessness to-day might have been the intelligence which had reachedhim the night before, that Lucy Savile was going to India after all, andnotwithstanding the representations of her friends that such a journeywas unadvisable in many ways for an unpractised girl, unless some moredefinite advantage lay at the end of it than she could show to be thecase. Barnet's walk up the slope to the building betrayed that he was ina dissatisfied mood. He hardly saw that the dewy time of day lent anunusual freshness to the bushes and trees which had so recently put ontheir summer habit of heavy leafage, and made his newly-laid lawn look aswell established as an old manorial meadow. The house had been soadroitly placed between six tall elms which were growing on the sitebeforehand, 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 bepresent, and he walked from sunny window to sunny window of the emptyrooms, with a sense of seclusion which might have been very pleasant butfor the antecedent knowledge that his almost paternal care of Lucy Savilewas to be thrown away by her wilfulness. Footsteps echoed through anadjoining room; and bending his eyes in that direction, he perceived Mr. Jones, the architect. He had come to look over the building beforegiving the contractor his final certificate. They walked over the housetogether. Everything was finished except the papering: there were thelatest improvements of the period in bell-hanging, ventilating, smoke-jacks, fire-grates, and French windows. The business was soon ended, andJones, having directed Barnet's attention to a roll of wall-paperpatterns which lay on a bench for his choice, was leaving to keep anotherengagement, when Barnet said, 'Is the tomb finished yet for Mrs. Downe?'

'Well--yes: it is at last, ' said the architect, coming back and speakingas if he were in a mood to make a confidence. 'I have had no end oftrouble in the matter, and, to tell the truth, I am heartily glad it isover. '

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

'O no--he has not at all gone back to them--quite the reverse, ' Joneshastened to say. 'He has so reduced design after design, that the wholething has been nothing but waste labour for me; till in the end it hasbecome 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. "'

'Ah, well--his family is growing up, poor fellow, and his expenses aregetting serious. '

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

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

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

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

Barnet took the first letter--it had a black border, and bore the Londonpostmark. It was not in his wife's handwriting, or in that of any personhe knew; but conjecture soon ceased as he read the page, wherein he wasbriefly 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 ofthe doorway. Drawing a long palpitating breath, and with eyes downcast, he turned and climbed the stairs slowly, like a man who doubted theirstability. The fact of his wife having, as it were, died once already, and lived on again, had entirely dislodged the possibility of her actualdeath from his conjecture. He went to the landing, leant over thebalusters, and after a reverie, of whose duration he had but the faintestnotion, turned to the window and stretched his gaze to the cottagefurther down the road, which was visible from his landing, and from whichLucy still walked to the solicitor's house by a cross path. The faintwords that came from his moving lips were simply, 'At last!'

Then, almost involuntarily, Barnet fell down on his knees and murmuredsome incoherent words of thanksgiving. Surely his virtue in restoringhis wife to life had been rewarded! But, as if the impulse struckuneasily on his conscience, he quickly rose, brushed the dust from histrousers and set himself to think of his next movements. He could notstart for London for some hours; and as he had no preparations to makethat could not be made in half-an-hour, he mechanically descended andresumed his occupation of turning over the wall-papers. They had all gotbrighter for him, those papers. It was all changed--who would sit in therooms that they were to line? He went on to muse upon Lucy's conduct inso frequently coming to the house with the children; her occasional blushin speaking to him; her evident interest in him. What woman can in thelong run avoid being interested in a man whom she knows to be devoted toher? If human solicitation could ever effect anything, there should beno going to India for Lucy now. All the papers previously chosen seemedwrong in their shades, and he began from the beginning to choose again. 

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

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

He handed in the letter--no black-bordered one now, but apractical-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 ceremony, 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 tothe wall-papers, which he had been at such pains to select, hedeliberately tore them into halves and quarters, and threw them into theempty fireplace. Then he went out of the house; locked the door, andstood in the front awhile. Instead of returning into the town, he wentdown the harbour-road and thoughtfully lingered about by the sea, nearthe spot where the body of Downe's late wife had been found and broughtashore. 

Barnet was a man with a rich capacity for misery, and there is no doubtthat he exercised it to its fullest extent now. The events that had, asit were, dashed themselves together into one half-hour of this day showedthat curious refinement of cruelty in their arrangement which oftenproceeds from the bosom of the whimsical god at other times known asblind Circumstance. That his few minutes of hope, between the reading ofthe first and second letters, had carried him to extraordinary heights ofrapture was proved by the immensity of his suffering now. The sunblazing into his face would have shown a close watcher that a horizontalline, which he had never noticed before, but which was never to be gonethereafter, was somehow gradually forming itself in the smooth of hisforehead. His eyes, of a light hazel, had a curious look which can onlybe described by the word bruised; the sorrow that looked from them beinglargely 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 appeared to engage little of his attention. Nota soul in the town knew, as yet, of his wife's death; and he almost owedDowne the kindness of not publishing it till the day was over: theconjuncture, taken with that which had accompanied the death of Mrs. Downe, being so singular as to be quite sufficient to darken the pleasureof 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 wifelay, for some hours (there being at this date no railway within adistance of many miles), no great reason existed why he should leave thetown. 

Impulse in all its forms characterized Barnet, and when he heard thedistant clock strike the hour of ten his feet began to carry him up theharbour-road with the manner of a man who must do something to bringhimself to life. He passed Lucy Savile's old house, his own new one, andcame in view of the church. Now he gave a perceptible start, and hismechanical condition went away. Before the church-gate were a couple ofcarriages, and Barnet then could perceive that the marriage between Downeand Lucy was at that moment being solemnized within. A feeling ofsudden, proud self-confidence, an indocile wish to walk unmoved in spiteof grim environments, plainly possessed him, and when he reached thewicket-gate he turned in without apparent effort. Pacing up the pavedfootway he entered the church and stood for a while in the nave passage. A group of people was standing round the vestry door; Barnet advancedthrough these and stepped into the vestry. 

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

It seemed as if Barnet expected a half-guilty look upon Lucy's face; butno, save the natural flush and flurry engendered by the service justperformed, there was nothing whatever in her bearing which showed adisturbed mind: her gray-brown eyes carried in them now as at other timesthe well-known expression of common-sensed rectitude which never went sofar as to touch on hardness. She shook hands with him, and Downe saidwarmly, 'I wish you could have come sooner: I called on purpose to askyou. You'll drive back with us now?'

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

Then Lucy and her husband laughed, and Barnet laughed and retired; andthe quiet little party went gliding down the nave and towards the porch, Lucy's new silk dress sweeping with a smart rustle round thebase-mouldings of the ancient font, and Downe's little daughtersfollowing in a state of round-eyed interest in their position, and thatof Lucy, their teacher and friend. 

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

When the two flys had driven off and the spectators had vanished, Barnetfollowed to the door, and went out into the sun. He took no more troubleto preserve a spruce exterior; his step was unequal, hesitating, almostconvulsive; and the slight changes of colour which went on in his faceseemed refracted from some inward flame. In the churchyard he becamepale as a summer cloud, and finding it not easy to proceed he sat down onone 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 tofinish on the previous evening. Observing Barnet, he went up to him, andrecognizing him, said, 'Shall I help you home, sir?'

'O no, thank you, ' said Barnet, rousing himself and standing up. Thesexton returned to his grave, followed by Barnet, who, after watching himawhile, stepped into the grave, now nearly filled, and helped to tread inthe earth. 

The sexton apparently thought his conduct a little singular, but he madeno observation, and when the grave was full, Barnet suddenly stopped, looked far away, and with a decided step proceeded to the gate andvanished. The sexton rested on his shovel and looked after him for a fewmoments, and then began banking up the mound. 

In those short minutes of treading in the dead man Barnet had formed adesign, but what it was the inhabitants of that town did not for somelong time imagine. He went home, wrote several letters of business, called on his lawyer, an old man of the same place who had been the legaladviser of Barnet's father before him, and during the evening overhauleda large quantity of letters and other documents in his possession. Byeleven o'clock the heap of papers in and before Barnet's grate hadreached formidable dimensions, and he began to burn them. This, owing totheir quantity, it was not so easy to do as he had expected, and he satlong into the night to complete the task. 

The next morning Barnet departed for London, leaving a note for Downe toinform him of Mrs. Barnet's sudden death, and that he was gone to buryher; but when a thrice-sufficient time for that purpose had elapsed, hewas not seen again in his accustomed walks, or in his new house, or inhis old one. He was gone for good, nobody knew whither. It was soondiscovered that he had empowered his lawyer to dispose of all hisproperty, real and personal, in the borough, and pay in the proceeds tothe account of an unknown person at one of the large London banks. Theperson 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; andits purchaser was no other than Downe, now a thriving man in the borough, and one whose growing family and new wife required more roomyaccommodation than was afforded by the little house up the narrow sidestreet. Barnet's old habitation was bought by the trustees of theCongregational Baptist body in that town, who pulled down thetime-honoured dwelling and built a new chapel on its site. By the timethe last hour of that, to Barnet, eventful year had chimed, every vestigeof him had disappeared from the precincts of his native place, and thename became extinct in the borough of Port-Bredy, after having been aliving force therein for more than two hundred years. 

CHAPTER IX

Twenty-one years and six months do not pass without setting a mark evenupon durable stone and triple brass; upon humanity such a period worksnothing less than transformation. In Barnet's old birthplace vivaciousyoung children with bones like india-rubber had grown up to be stable menand women, men and women had dried in the skin, stiffened, withered, andsunk into decrepitude; while selections from every class had beenconsigned to the outlying cemetery. Of inorganic differences thegreatest was that a railway had invaded the town, tying it on to a mainline at a junction a dozen miles off. Barnet's house on theharbour-road, once so insistently new, had acquired a respectablemellowness, with ivy, Virginia creepers, lichens, damp patches, and evenconstitutional infirmities of its own like its elder fellows. Itsarchitecture, once so very improved and modern, had already become stalein style, without having reached the dignity of being old-fashioned. Trees about the harbour-road had increased in circumference ordisappeared under the saw; while the church had had such a tremendouspractical joke played upon it by some facetious restorer or other as tobe scarce recognizable by its dearest old friends. 

During this long interval George Barnet had never once been seen or heardof in the town of his fathers. 

It was the evening of a market-day, and some half-dozen middle-agedfarmers and dairymen were lounging round the bar of the Black-Bull Hotel, occasionally dropping a remark to each other, and less frequently to thetwo barmaids who stood within the pewter-topped counter in a perfunctoryattitude of attention, these latter sighing and making a privateobservation to one another at odd intervals, on more interestingexperiences than the present. 

'Days get shorter, ' said one of the dairymen, as he looked towards thestreet, and noticed that the lamp-lighter was passing by. 

The farmers merely acknowledged by their countenances the propriety ofthis 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 onwhich they rested to scratch the smallest surface of her face with thesmallest of her fingers. She looked towards the door, and presentlyremarked, 'I think I hear the 'bus coming in from station. '

The eyes of the dairymen and farmers turned to the glass door dividingthe hall from the porch, and in a minute or two the omnibus drew upoutside. Then there was a lumbering down of luggage, and then a man cameinto the hall, followed by a porter with a portmanteau on his poll, whichhe deposited on a bench. 

The stranger was an elderly person, with curly ashen white hair, a deeply-creviced outer corner to each eyelid, and a countenance baked byinnumerable suns to the colour of terra-cotta, its hue and that of hishair contrasting like heat and cold respectively. He walked meditativelyand gently, like one who was fearful of disturbing his own mentalequilibrium. But whatever lay at the bottom of his breast had evidentlymade him so accustomed to its situation there that it caused him littlepractical 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, andasked to be accommodated for the night. As he waited he looked curiouslyround the hall, but said nothing. As soon as invited he disappeared upthe staircase, preceded by a chambermaid and candle, and followed by alad with his trunk. Not a soul had recognized him. 

A quarter of an hour later, when the farmers and dairymen had driven offto their homesteads in the country, he came downstairs, took a biscuitand one glass of wine, and walked out into the town, where the radiancefrom the shop-windows had grown so in volume of late years as to floodwith cheerfulness every standing cart, barrow, stall, and idler thatoccupied the wayside, whether shabby or genteel. His chief interest atpresent seemed to lie in the names painted over the shop-fronts and ondoor-ways, as far as they were visible; these now differed to an ominousextent from what they had been one-and-twenty years before. 

The traveller passed on till he came to the bookseller's, where he lookedin through the glass door. A fresh-faced young man was standing behindthe counter, otherwise the shop was empty. The gray-haired observerentered, asked for some periodical by way of paying for admission, andwith his elbow on the counter began to turn over the pages he had bought, though that he read nothing was obvious. 

At length he said, 'Is old Mr. Watkins still alive?' in a voice which hada 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 yearssince I last visited this town that I could hardly expect it should beotherwise. ' After a short silence he continued--'And is the firm ofBarnet, Browse, and Company still in existence?--they used to be largeflax-merchants and twine-spinners here?'

'The firm is still going on, sir, but they have dropped the name ofBarnet. I believe that was a sort of fancy name--at least, I never knewof any living Barnet. 'Tis now Browse and Co. '

'And does Andrew Jones still keep on as architect?'

'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 havenoticed that the paper in the stranger's hand increased its imperceptibletremor to a visible shake. That gray-haired gentleman noticed ithimself, and rested the paper on the counter. 'Is Mrs. Downe stillalive?' he asked, closing his lips firmly as soon as the words were outof 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 somegenerations. '

'She lives with her children, perhaps?'

'No; she has no children of her own. There were some Miss Downes; Ithink they were Mr. Downe's daughters by a former wife; but they aremarried and living in other parts of the town. Mrs. Downe lives alone. '

'Quite alone?'

'Yes, sir; quite alone. '

The newly-arrived gentleman went back to the hotel and dined; after whichhe made some change in his dress, shaved back his beard to the fashionthat had prevailed twenty years earlier, when he was young andinteresting, and once more emerging, bent his steps in the direction ofthe harbour-road. Just before getting to the point where the pavementceased and the houses isolated themselves, he overtook a shambling, stooping, unshaven man, who at first sight appeared like a professionaltramp, his shoulders having a perceptible greasiness as they passed underthe 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 wasnot ungrateful!' Here the stooping man laid one hand emphatically on thepalm of the other. 'I gave you a chance, Mr. George Barnet, which manymen would have thought full value received--the chance to marry yourLucy. As far as the world was concerned, your wife was a drowned woman, hey?'

'Heaven forbid all that, Charlson!'

'Well, well, 'twas a wrong way of showing gratitude, I suppose. And nowa drop of something to drink for old acquaintance' sake! And Mr. Barnet, she's again free--there's a chance now if you care for it--ha, ha!' Andthe speaker pushed his tongue into his hollow cheek and slanted his eyein the old fashion. 

'I know all, ' said Barnet quickly; and slipping a small present into thehands of the needy, saddening man, he stepped ahead and was soon in theoutskirts 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 sincethe erection of the building that one would scarcely have recognized thespot as that which had been a mere neglected slope till chosen as a sitefor a dwelling. He opened the swing-gate, closed it noiselessly, andgently moved into the semicircular drive, which remained exactly as ithad been marked out by Barnet on the morning when Lucy Savile ran in tothank him for procuring her the post of governess to Downe's children. But the growth of trees and bushes which revealed itself at every stepwas beyond all expectation; sun-proof and moon-proof bowers vaulted thewalks, and the walls of the house were uniformly bearded with creepingplants as high as the first-floor windows. 

After lingering for a few minutes in the dusk of the bending boughs, thevisitor rang the door-bell, and on the servant appearing, he announcedhimself as 'an old friend of Mrs. Downe's. '

The hall was lighted, but not brightly, the gas being turned low, as ifvisitors were rare. There was a stagnation in the dwelling; it seemed tobe waiting. Could it really be waiting for him? The partitions whichhad been probed by Barnet's walking-stick when the mortar was green, werenow quite brown with the antiquity of their varnish, and the ornamentalwoodwork of the staircase, which had glistened with a pale yellow newnesswhen first erected, was now of a rich wine-colour. During the servant'sabsence the following colloquy could be dimly heard through the nearlyclosed door of the drawing-room. 

'He didn't give his name?'

'He only said "an old friend, " ma'am. '

'What kind of gentleman is he?'

'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 oncebeen Lucy Savile. The round cheek of that formerly young lady had, ofcourse, alarmingly flattened its curve in her modern representative; apervasive grayness overspread her once dark brown hair, like morning rimeon heather. The parting down the middle was wide and jagged; once it hadbeen a thin white line, a narrow crevice between two high banks of shade. But there was still enough left to form a handsome knob behind, and somecurls beneath inwrought with a few hairs like silver wires were verybecoming. In her eyes the only modification was that their originallymild rectitude of expression had become a little more stringent thanheretofore. Yet she was still girlish--a girl who had been gratuitouslyweighted by destiny with a burden of five-and-forty years instead of herproper twenty. 

'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. 'I don'tknow why, but I always thought you would come back to your old townagain. '

She gave him her hand, and then they sat down. 'They said you weredead, ' continued Lucy, 'but I never thought so. We should have heard ofit 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 these roving years, incomparison with what I have seen in this quiet place!' Her face grewmore serious. 'You know my husband has been dead a long time? I am alonely old woman now, considering what I have been; though Mr. Downe'sdaughters--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 somysteriously?'

'Well, Lucy, I have kept myself a little in America, and a little inAustralia, a little in India, a little at the Cape, and so on; I have notstayed in any place for a long time, as it seems to me, and yet more thantwenty years have flown. But when people get to my age two years go likeone!--Your second question, why did I go away so mysteriously, is surelynot necessary. You guessed why, didn't you?'

'No, I never once guessed, ' she said simply; 'nor did Charles, nor didanybody as far as I know. '

'Well, indeed! Now think it over again, and then look at me, and say ifyou can't guess?'

She looked him in the face with an inquiring smile. 'Surely not becauseof 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 tomarry me. My wife died four-and-twenty hours before you went to churchwith Downe. The fixing of my journey at that particular moment wasbecause of her funeral; but once away I knew I should have no inducementto come back, and took my steps accordingly. '

Her face assumed an aspect of gentle reflection, and she looked up anddown his form with great interest in her eyes. 'I never thought of it!'she said. 'I knew, of course, that you had once implied some warmth offeeling towards me, but I concluded that it passed off. And I havealways been under the impression that your wife was alive at the time ofmy marriage. Was it not stupid of me!--But you will have some tea orsomething? 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 havesome tea with me, will you not?'

The travelled man assented quite readily, and tea was brought in. Theysat and chatted over the meal, regardless of the flying hour. 'Well, well!' said Barnet presently, as for the first time he leisurely surveyedthe room; 'how like it all is, and yet how different! Just where yourpiano stands was a board on a couple of trestles, bearing the patterns ofwall-papers, when I was last here. I was choosing them--standing in thisway, as it might be. Then my servant came in at the door, and handed mea note, so. It was from Downe, and announced that you were just going tobe married to him. I chose no more wall-papers--tore up all those I hadselected, and left the house. I never entered it again till now. '

'Ah, at last I understand it all, ' she murmured. 

They had both risen and gone to the fireplace. The mantel came almost ona level with her shoulder, which gently rested against it, and Barnetlaid 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 wroughteven greater surprise in him that it should be so. It was difficult tobelieve that she had been quite blind to the situation, and yet allreason and common sense went to prove that she was not acting. 

'You take me quite unawares by such a question!' she said, with a forcedlaugh of uneasiness. It was the first time she had shown anyembarrassment at all. 'Why, ' she added, 'I couldn't marry you for theworld. '

'Not after all this! Why not?'

'It is--I would--I really think I may say it--I would upon the wholerather marry you, Mr. Barnet, than any other man I have ever met, if Iever dreamed of marriage again. But I don't dream of it--it is quite outof 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 youraccount if on anybody's in existence. But you don't know in the leastwhat it is you are asking--such an impracticable thing--I won't sayridiculous, of course, because I see that you are really in earnest, andearnestness is never ridiculous to my mind. '

'Well, yes, ' said Barnet more slowly, dropping her hand, which he hadtaken at the moment of pleading, 'I am in earnest. The resolve, twomonths ago, at the Cape, to come back once more was, it is true, rathersudden, and as I see now, not well considered. But I am in earnest inasking. '

'And I in declining. With all good feeling and all kindness, let me saythat I am quite opposed to the idea of marrying a second time. '

'Well, no harm has been done, ' he answered, with the same subdued andtender 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 suppose. ' Hiseye fell on the clock as he spoke. 'Had you any notion that it was solate?' he asked. 'How absorbed I have been!'

She accompanied him to the hall, helped him to put on his overcoat, andlet him out of the house herself. 

'Good-night, ' said Barnet, on the doorstep, as the lamp shone in hisface. '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 diedaway upon the road, closed the door softly and returned to the room. Herethe modest widow long pondered his speeches, with eyes dropped to anunusually low level. Barnet's urbanity under the blow of her refusalgreatly impressed her. After having his long period of probationrendered useless by her decision, he had shown no anger, and hadphilosophically taken her words as if he deserved no better ones. It wasvery gentlemanly of him, certainly; it was more than gentlemanly; it washeroic and grand. The more she meditated, the more she questioned thevirtue of her conduct in checking him so peremptorily; and went to herbedroom in a mood of dissatisfaction. On looking in the glass she wasreminded that there was not so much remaining of her former beauty as tomake his frank declaration an impulsive natural homage to her cheeks andeyes; it must undoubtedly have arisen from an old staunch feeling of his, deserving tenderest consideration. She recalled to her mind with muchpleasure that he had told her he was staying at the Black-Bull Hotel; sothat if, after waiting a day or two, he should not, in his modesty, callagain, she might then send him a nice little note. To alter her viewsfor the present was far from her intention; but she would allow herselfto 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 everyknock, light youthful hues flew across her cheek; and she was abstractedin the presence of her other visitors. In the evening she walked aboutthe house, not knowing what to do with herself; the conditions ofexistence seemed totally different from those which ruled only four-and-twenty short hours ago. What had been at first a tantalizing elusivesentiment was getting acclimatized within her as a definite hope, and herperson was so informed by that emotion that she might almost have stoodas its emblematical representative by the time the clock struck ten. Inshort, an interest in Barnet precisely resembling that of her early youthled her present heart to belie her yesterday's words to him, and shelonged to see him again. 

The next day she walked out early, thinking she might meet him in thestreet. The growing beauty of her romance absorbed her, and she wentfrom the street to the fields, and from the fields to the shore, withoutany consciousness of distance, till reminded by her weariness that shecould go no further. He had nowhere appeared. In the evening she took astep which under the circumstances seemed justifiable; she wrote a noteto him at the hotel, inviting him to tea with her at six precisely, andsigning her note 'Lucy. '

In a quarter of an hour the messenger came back. Mr. Barnet had left thehotel early in the morning of the day before, but he had stated that hewould probably return in the course of the week. 

The note was sent back, to be given to him immediately 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 beenrestless, and had scarcely slept half-an-hour. 

On the Saturday, putting off all diffidence, Lucy went herself to theBlack-Bull, and questioned the staff closely. 

Mr. Barnet had cursorily remarked when leaving that he might return onthe Thursday or Friday, but they were directed not to reserve a room forhim 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

CHAPTER I

The north road from Casterbridge is tedious and lonely, especially inwinter-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 withvery seldom a turning. Unapprized wayfarers who are too old, or tooyoung, or in other respects too weak for the distance to be traversed, but who, nevertheless, have to walk it, say, as they look wistfullyahead, 'Once at the top of that hill, and I must surely see the end ofLong-Ash Lane!' But they reach the hilltop, and Long-Ash Lane stretchesin front as mercilessly as before. 

Some few years ago a certain farmer was riding through this lane in thegloom of a winter evening. The farmer's friend, a dairyman, was ridingbeside him. A few paces in the rear rode the farmer's man. All threewere well horsed on strong, round-barrelled cobs; and to be well horsedwas to be in better spirits about Long-Ash Lane than poor pedestrianscould attain to during its passage. 

But the farmer did not talk much to his friend as he rode along. Theenterprise which had brought him there filled his mind; for in truth itwas important. Not altogether so important was it, perhaps, whenestimated by its value to society at large; but if the true measure of adeed be proportionate to the space it occupies in the heart of him whoundertakes it, Farmer Charles Darton's business to-night could hold itsown with the business of kings. 

He was a large farmer. His turnover, as it is called, was probablythirty thousand pounds a year. He had a great many draught horses, agreat many milch cows, and of sheep a multitude. This comfortableposition was, however, none of his own making. It had been created byhis father, a man of a very different stamp from the presentrepresentative of the line. 

Darton, the father, had been a one-idea'd character, with a buttoned-uppocket and a chink-like eye brimming with commercial subtlety. In Dartonthe son, this trade subtlety had become transmuted into emotional, andthe harshness had disappeared; he would have been called a sad man butfor his constant care not to divide himself from lively friends by pipingnotes out of harmony with theirs. Contemplative, he allowed his mind tobe a quiet meeting-place for memories and hopes. So that, naturallyenough, since succeeding to the agricultural calling, and up to hispresent age of thirty-two, he had neither advanced nor receded as acapitalist--a stationary result which did not agitate one of hisunambitious, unstrategic nature, since he had all that he desired. Themotive of his expedition to-night showed the same absence of anxiousregard for Number One. 

The party rode on in the slow, safe trot proper to night-time and badroads, Farmer Darton's head jigging rather unromantically up and downagainst the sky, and his motions being repeated with bolder emphasis byhis friend Japheth Johns; while those of the latter were travestied injerks still less softened by art in the person of the lad who attendedthem. 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 ofhis seat. On close inspection they might have been perceived to be openrush baskets--one containing a turkey, and the other some bottles ofwine. 

'D'ye feel ye can meet your fate like a man, neighbour Darton?' askedJohns, breaking a silence which had lasted while five-and-twenty hedgerowtrees had glided by. 

Mr. Darton with a half-laugh murmured, 'Ay--call it my fate! Hanging andwiving go by destiny. ' And then they were silent again. 

The darkness thickened rapidly, at intervals shutting down on the land ina perceptible flap, like the wave of a wing. The customary close of daywas accelerated by a simultaneous blurring of the air. With the fall ofnight had come a mist just damp enough to incommode, but not sufficientto saturate them. Countrymen as they were--born, as may be said, withonly an open door between them and the four seasons--they regarded themist but as an added obscuration, and ignored its humid quality. 

They were travelling in a direction that was enlivened by no moderncurrent of traffic, the place of Darton's pilgrimage being anold-fashioned village--one of the Hintocks (several villages of thatname, with a distinctive prefix or affix, lying thereabout)--where thepeople make the best cider and cider-wine in all Wessex, and where thedunghills smell of pomace instead of stable refuse as elsewhere. Thelane was sometimes so narrow that the brambles of the hedge, which hungforward like anglers' rods over a stream, scratched their hats and curry-combed their whiskers as they passed. Yet this neglected lane had been ahighway to Queen Elizabeth's subjects and the cavalcades of the past. Itsday was over now, and its history as a national artery done for ever. 

'Why I have decided to marry her, ' resumed Darton (in a measured musicalvoice of confidence which revealed a good deal of his composition), as heglanced round to see that the lad was not too near, 'is not only that Ilike her, but that I can do no better, even from a fairly practical pointof view. That I might ha' looked higher is possibly true, though it isreally all nonsense. I have had experience enough in looking above me. "No more superior women for me, " said I--you know when. Sally is acomely, independent, simple character, with no make-up about her, who'llthink me as much a superior to her as I used to think--you know who Imean--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 onewouldn't. 'Tis a wrong denomination to apply to a woman, Charles, andaffects me, as your best man, like cold water. 'Tis like recommending astage play by saying there's neither murder, villainy, nor harm of anysort 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. ' Andturning the conversation from the philosophical to the practical, Dartonexpressed a hope that the said Sally had received what he'd sent on bythe carrier that day. 

Johns wanted to know what that was. 

'It is a dress, ' said Darton. 'Not exactly a wedding-dress; though shemay use it as one if she likes. It is rather serviceable thanshowy--suitable for the winter weather. '

'Good, ' said Johns. 'Serviceable is a wise word in a bridegroom. Icommend ye, Charles. '

'For, ' said Darton, 'why should a woman dress up like a rope-dancerbecause 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 DairymanJohns. 

'H'm, ' said Darton. 

The lane they followed had been nearly straight for several miles, but itnow took a turn, and winding uncertainly for some distance forked intotwo. By night country roads are apt to reveal ungainly qualities whichpass without observation during day; and though Darton had travelled thisway before, he had not done so frequently, Sally having been wooed at thehouse of a relative near his own. He never remembered seeing at thisspot a pair of alternative ways looking so equally probable as these twodid now. Johns rode on a few steps. 

'Don't be out of heart, sonny, ' he cried. 'Here's a handpost. Enoch--comeand climm this post, and tell us the way. '

The lad dismounted, and jumped into the hedge where the post stood undera tree. 

'Unstrap the baskets, or you'll smash up that wine!' cried Darton, as theyoung 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 climbedthe post, striking a match when he reached the top, and moving the lightalong the arm, the lad standing and gazing at the spectacle. 

'I have faced tantalization these twenty years with a temper as mild asmilk!' said Japheth; 'but such things as this don't come short ofdevilry!' 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 tothe great fireplace--ever I should sin to say it! Either the moss andmildew have eat away the words, or we have arrived in a land where thenatyves have lost the art o' writing, and should ha' brought our compasslike Christopher Columbus. '

'Let us take the straightest road, ' said Darton placidly; 'I shan't besorry to get there--'tis a tiresome ride. I would have driven if I hadknown. '

'Nor I neither, sir, ' said Enoch. 'These straps plough my shoulder likea zull. If 'tis much further to your lady's home, Maister Darton, Ishall 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 ascendeda hill, the left winding away under a plantation. The pit-a-pat of theirhorses' hoofs lessened up the slope; and the ironical directing-poststood in solitude as before, holding out its blank arms to the rawbreeze, which brought a snore from the wood as if Skrymir the Giant weresleeping there. 

CHAPTER II

Three miles to the left of the travellers, along the road they had notfollowed, rose an old house with mullioned windows of Ham-hill stone, andchimneys of lavish solidity. It stood at the top of a slope besideKing's-Hintock village-street; and immediately in front of it grew alarge sycamore-tree, whose bared roots formed a convenient staircase fromthe road below to the front door of the dwelling. Its situation gave thehouse what little distinctive name it possessed, namely, 'The Knap. ' Someforty yards off a brook dribbled past, which, for its size, made a greatdeal of noise. At the back was a dairy barton, accessible for vehiclesand live-stock by a side 'drong. ' Thus much only of the character of thehomestead could be divined out of doors at this shady evening-time. 

But within there was plenty of light to see by, as plenty was construedat Hintock. Beside a Tudor fireplace, whose moulded four-centred archwas nearly hidden by a figured blue-cloth blower, were seated twowomen--mother and daughter--Mrs. Hall, and Sarah, or Sally; for this wasa part of the world where the latter modification had not as yet beeneffaced as a vulgarity by the march of intellect. The owner of the namewas the young woman by whose means Mr. Darton proposed to put an end tohis bachelor condition on the approaching day. 

The mother's bereavement had been so long ago as not to leave much markof its occurrence upon her now, either in face or clothes. She hadresumed the mob-cap of her early married life, enlivening its whitenessby a few rose-du-Barry ribbons. Sally required no such aids to pinkness. Roseate good-nature lit up her gaze; her features showed curves ofdecision and judgment; and she might have been regarded without muchmistake as a warm-hearted, quick-spirited, handsome 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, andpiled them upon the brands. But the number of speeches that passed wasvery small in proportion to the meanings exchanged. Long experiencetogether often enabled them to see the course of thought in each other'sminds without a word being spoken. Behind them, in the centre of theroom, the table was spread for supper, certain whiffs of air laden withfat vapours, which ever and anon entered from the kitchen, denoting itspreparation there. 

'The new gown he was going to send you stays about on the way likehimself, ' Sally's mother was saying. 

'Yes, not finished, I daresay, ' cried Sally independently. 'Lord, Ishouldn't be amazed if it didn't come at all! Young men make such kindpromises when they are near you, and forget 'em when they go away. Buthe doesn't intend it as a wedding-gown--he gives it to me merely as agown to wear when I like--a travelling-dress is what it would be calledby some. Come rathe or come late it don't much matter, as I have a dressof my own to fall back upon. But what time is it?'

She went to the family clock and opened the glass, for the hour was nototherwise discernible by night, and indeed at all times was rather athing to be investigated than beheld, so much more wall than window wasthere 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 muchmistaken! Let him be as late as he will--or stay away altogether--Idon't care, ' said Sally. But a tender, minute quaver in the negationshowed that there was something forced in that statement. 

Mrs. Hall perceived it, and drily observed that she was not so sure aboutSally not caring. 'But perhaps you don't care so much as I do, afterall, ' she said. 'For I see what you don't, that it is a good andflourishing match for you; a very honourable offer in Mr. Darton. And Ithink I see a kind husband in him. So pray God 'twill go smooth, andwind 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 thismoment, whatever hinders him, we are not so anxious to see him as he isto be here, and his thought runs on before him, and settles down upon uslike the star in the east. Hark!' she exclaimed, with a breath ofrelief, her eyes sparkling. 'I heard something. Yes--here they are!'

The next moment her mother's slower ear also distinguished the familiarreverberation occasioned by footsteps clambering up the roots of thesycamore. 

'Yes it sounds like them at last, ' she said. 'Well, it is not so verylate after all, considering the distance. '

The footfall ceased, and they arose, expecting a knock. They began tothink it might have been, after all, some neighbouring villager underBacchic influence, giving the centre of the road a wide berth, when theirdoubts were dispelled by the new-comer's entry into the passage. Thedoor of the room was gently opened, and there appeared, not the pair oftravellers with whom we have already made acquaintance, but a pale-facedman 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, fromnatural weakness of constitution than irregular living, though there wereindications that he had led no careful life. He gazed at the two womenfixedly for a moment: then with an abashed, humiliated demeanour, droppedhis glance to the floor, and sank into a chair without uttering a word. 

Sally was in advance of her mother, who had remained standing by thefire. She now tried to discern the visitor across the candles. 

'Why--mother, ' said Sally faintly, turning back to Mrs. Hall. 'It isPhil, from Australia!'

Mrs. Hall started, and grew pale, and a fit of coughing seized the manwith 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 comehome, mother, because I was driven to it. Things were against me outthere, and went from bad to worse. '

'Then why didn't you let us know?--you've not writ a line for the lasttwo or three years. '

The son admitted sadly that he had not. He said that he had hoped andthought he might fetch up again, and be able to send good news. Then hehad been obliged to abandon that hope, and had finally come home fromsheer necessity--previously to making a new start. 'Yes, things are verybad with me, ' he repeated, perceiving their commiserating glances at hisclothes. 

They brought him nearer the fire, took his hat from his thin hand, whichwas so small and smooth as to show that his attempts to fetch up againhad not been in a manual direction. His mother resumed her inquiries, and dubiously asked if he had chosen to come that particular night forany special reason. 

For no reason, he told her. His arrival had been quite at random. ThenPhilip Hall looked round the room, and saw for the first time that thetable was laid somewhat luxuriously, and for a larger number thanthemselves; and that an air of festivity pervaded their dress. He askedquickly what was going on. 

'Sally is going to be married in a day or two, ' replied the mother; andshe explained how Mr. Darton, Sally's intended husband, was coming therethat night with the groomsman, Mr. Johns, and other details. 'We thoughtit must be their step when we heard you, ' said Mrs. Hall. 

The needy wanderer looked again on the floor. 'I see--I see, ' hemurmured. 'Why, indeed, should I have come to-night? Such folk as I arenot wanted here at these times, naturally. And I have no businesshere--spoiling other people's happiness. '

'Phil, ' said his mother, with a tear in her eye, but with a thinness oflip and severity of manner which were presumably not more than pastevents justified; 'since you speak like that to me, I'll speak honestlyto you. For these three years you have taken no thought for us. Youleft home with a good supply of money, and strength and education, andyou ought to have made good use of it all. But you come back like abeggar; 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 tothis home as long as it is mine. I don't wish to turn you adrift. Wewill 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. 'Havingruined myself, don't let me ruin you by being seen in these togs, forHeaven's sake. Who do you say Sally is going to be married to--a FarmerDarton?'

'Yes--a gentleman-farmer--quite a wealthy man. Far better in stationthan she could have expected. It is a good thing, altogether. '

'Well done, little Sal!' said her brother, brightening and looking up ather with a smile. 'I ought to have written; but perhaps I have thoughtof you all the more. But let me get out of sight. I would rather go andjump into the river than be seen here. But have you anything I candrink? I am confoundedly thirsty with my long tramp. '

'Yes, yes, we will bring something upstairs to you, ' said Sally, withgrief in her face. 

'Ay, that will do nicely. But, Sally and mother--' He stopped, and theywaited. 'Mother, I have not told you all, ' he resumed slowly, stilllooking 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, and Sally went and leantupon the bureau, listening for every sound, and sighing. Suddenly sheturned round, saying, 'Let them come, I don't care! Philip, tell theworst, 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--'

'O, Phil!'

'I have a wife as destitute as I. '

'A wife?' said his mother. 

'Unhappily!'

'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 areleft in Australia?'

'No. They are in England. '

'Well, I can only hope you've left them in a respectable 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 seenyou, 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 notwithout refinement, and was even more moved by such a collapse of genteelaims as this than a substantial dairyman's widow would in ordinary havebeen moved. 'Well, it must be borne, ' she said, in a low voice, with herhands tightly joined. 'A starving son, a starving wife, starvingchildren! Let it be. But why is this come to us now, to-day, to-night?Could no other misfortune happen to helpless women than this, which willquite upset my poor girl's chance of a happy life? Why have you done usthis wrong, Philip? What respectable man will come here, and marry open-eyed into a family of vagabonds?'

'Nonsense, mother!' said Sally vehemently, while her face flushed. 'Charley isn't the man to desert me. But if he should be, and won'tmarry me because Phil's come, let him go and marry elsewhere. I won't beashamed of my own flesh and blood for any man in England--not I!' Andthen Sally turned away and burst into tears. 

'Wait till you are twenty years older and you will tell a differenttale, ' replied her mother. 

The son stood up. 'Mother, ' he said bitterly, 'as I have come, so I willgo. All I ask of you is that you will allow me and mine to lie in yourstable 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 livedin a cottage hard by with her husband, who attended to the cows. )

Sally went to fetch a lantern from the back-kitchen, but her brothersaid, 'You won't want a light. I lit the lantern that was hangingthere. '

'What must we call your wife?' asked Mrs. Hall. 

'Helena, ' said Philip. 

With shawls over their heads they proceeded towards the back door. 

'One minute before you go, ' interrupted Philip. 'I--I haven't confessedall. '

'Then Heaven help us!' said Mrs. Hall, pushing to the door and claspingher hands in calm despair. 

'We passed through Evershead as we came, ' he continued, 'and I justlooked in at the "Sow-and-Acorn" to see if old Mike still kept on thereas usual. The carrier had come in from Sherton Abbas at that moment, andguessing that I was bound for this place--for I think he knew me--heasked me to bring on a dressmaker's parcel for Sally that was marked"immediate. " My wife had walked on with the children. 'Twas a flimsyparcel, and the paper was torn, and I found on looking at it that it wasa thick warm gown. I didn't wish you to see poor Helena in a shabbystate. I was ashamed that you should--'twas not what she was born to. Iuntied the parcel in the road, took it on to her where she was waiting inthe Lower Barn, and told her I had managed to get it for her, and thatshe was to ask no question. She, poor thing, must have supposed Iobtained 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 othergowns, I daresay. '

Sally looked at her mother, speechless. 

'You have others, I daresay!' repeated Phil, with a sick man'simpatience. '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 gentlevoice, 'You will not mind if I lend her another instead of that one, willyou?'

Philip's agitation at the confession had brought on another attack of thecough, which seemed to shake him to pieces. He was so obviously unfit tosit in a chair that they helped him upstairs at once; and having hastilygiven him a cordial and kindled the bedroom fire, they descended to fetchtheir unhappy new relations. 

CHAPTER III

It was with strange feelings that the girl and her mother, lately socheerful, 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 hadbegun to fall, and they trotted across the yard quickly. The stable-doorwas open; a light shone from it--from the lantern which always hungthere, and which Philip had lighted, as he said. Softly nearing thedoor, Mrs. Hall pronounced the name 'Helena!'

There was no answer for the moment. Looking in she was taken bysurprise. Two people appeared before her. For one, instead of thedrabbish woman she had expected, Mrs. Hall saw a pale, dark-eyed, ladylike creature, whose personality ruled her attire rather than wasruled by it. She was in a new and handsome gown, of course, and an oldbonnet. She was standing up, agitated; her hand was held by hercompanion--none else than Sally's affianced, Farmer Charles Darton, uponwhose fine figure the pale stranger's eyes were fixed, as his were fixedupon her. His other hand held the rein of his horse, which was standingsaddled as if just led in. 

At sight of Mrs. Hall they both turned, looking at her in a way neitherquite conscious nor unconscious, and without seeming to recollect thatwords were necessary as a solution to the scene. In another moment Sallyentered also, when Mr. Darton dropped his companion's hand, led the horseaside, and came to greet his betrothed and Mrs. Hall. 

'Ah!' he said, smiling--with something like forced composure--'this is aroundabout way of arriving, you will say, my dear Mrs. Hall. But we lostour way, which made us late. I saw a light here, and led in my horse atonce--my friend Johns and my man have gone back to the little inn withtheirs, not to crowd you too much. No sooner had I entered than I sawthat this lady had taken temporary shelter here--and found I wasintruding. '

'She is my daughter-in-law, ' said Mrs. Hall calmly. 'My son, too, is inthe 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 herwas broken by her perceiving the two little children seated on a heap ofhay. She suddenly went forward, spoke to them, and took one on her armand the other in her hand. 

'And two children?' said Mr. Darton, showing thus that he had not beenthere long enough as yet to understand 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 firstrencounter, seemed scarcely so much affected by it as to feel any one'spresence in addition to Mr. Darton's. However, arousing herself by aquick reflection, she threw a sudden critical glance of her sad eyes uponMrs. Hall; and, apparently finding her satisfactory, advanced to her in ameek initiative. Then Sally and the stranger spoke some friendly wordsto each other, and Sally went on with the children into the house. Mrs. Hall and Helena followed, and Mr. Darton followed these, looking atHelena's dress and outline, and listening to her voice like a man in adream. 

By the time the others reached the house Sally had already gone upstairswith the tired children. She rapped against the wall for Rebekah to comein 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'staller erection. When she came a bed was made up for the little ones, and some supper given to them. On descending the stairs after seeingthis done Sally went to the sitting-room. Young Mrs. Hall entered itjust in advance of her, having in the interim retired with her mother-in-law to take off her bonnet, and otherwise make herself presentable. Henceit was evident that no further communication could have passed betweenher and Mr. Darton since their brief interview in the stable. 

Mr. Japheth Johns now opportunely arrived, and broke up the restraint ofthe company, after a few orthodox meteorological commentaries had passedbetween him and Mrs. Hall by way of introduction. They at once sat downto supper, the present of wine and turkey not being produced forconsumption to-night, lest the premature display of those gifts shouldseem to throw doubt on Mrs. Hall's capacities as a provider. 

'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 yourtaste?--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 acider-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'tlie about a man like your hotter drinks. With care, one may live on it atwelvemonth without knocking down a neighbour, or getting a black eyefrom an old acquaintance. '

The general conversation thus begun was continued briskly, though it wasin the main restricted to Mrs. Hall and Japheth, who in truth requiredbut little help from anybody. There being slight call upon Sally'stongue, she had ample leisure to do what her heart most desired, namely, watch her intended husband and her sister-in-law with a view ofelucidating the strange momentary scene in which her mother and herselfhad surprised them in the stable. If that scene meant anything, itmeant, at least, that they had met before. That there had been no timefor explanations Sally could see, for their manner was still one ofsuppressed amazement at each other's presence there. Darton's eyes, too, fell continually on the gown worn by Helena as if this were an addedriddle to his perplexity; though to Sally it was the one feature in thecase which was no mystery. He seemed to feel that fate had impishlychanged his vis-a-vis in the lover's jig he was about to foot; that whilethe gown had been expected to enclose a Sally, a Helena's face looked outfrom the bodice; that some long-lost hand met his own from the sleeves. 

Sally could see that whatever Helena might know of Darton, she knewnothing of how the dress entered into his embarrassment. And at momentsthe young girl would have persuaded herself that Darton's looks at hersister-in-law were entirely the fruit of the clothes query. But surelyat other times a more extensive range of speculation and sentiment wasexpressed by her lover's eye than that which the changed dress wouldaccount for. 

Sally's independence made her one of the least jealous of women. Butthere was something in the relations of these two visitors which ought tobe explained. 

Japheth Johns continued to converse in his well-known style, interspersing his talk with some private reflections on the position ofDarton and Sally, which, though the sparkle in his eye showed them to behighly entertaining to himself, were apparently not quite communicable tothe company. At last he withdrew for the night, going off to theroadside inn half-a-mile back, whither Darton promised to follow him in afew minutes. 

Half-an-hour passed, and then Mr. Darton also rose to leave, Sally andher sister-in-law simultaneously wishing him good-night as they retiredupstairs 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 suggestedthat 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, sincehe could let himself out of the house, and would quite enjoy smoking apipe by the hearth alone. Mrs. Hall assented; and Darton was left byhimself. He spread his knees to the brands, lit up his tobacco as he hadsaid, 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 stillhe smoked on; but not like a man whose mind was at rest. In the longrun, however, despite his meditations, early hours afield and a long ridein the open air produced their natural result. He began to doze. 

How long he remained in this half-unconscious state he did not know. Hesuddenly opened his eyes. The back-brand had burnt itself in two, andceased to flame; the light which he had placed on the mantelpiece hadnearly gone out. But in spite of these deficiencies there was a light inthe apartment, and it came from elsewhere. Turning his head he sawPhilip Hall's wife standing at the entrance of the room with a bed-candlein one hand, a small brass tea-kettle in the other, and his gown, as itcertainly 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 blushflashed to her cheek. 'I thought every one had retired--I was coming tomake a little water boil; my husband seems to be worse. But perhaps thekitchen 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 kettlefrom her hand, but she did not allow him, and placed it on the fireherself. 

They stood some way apart, one on each side of the fireplace, waitingtill the water should boil, the candle on the mantel between them, andHelena with her eyes on the kettle. Darton was the first to break thesilence. 'Shall I call Sally?' he said. 

'O no, ' she quickly returned. 'We have given trouble enough already. Wehave no right here. But we are the sport of fate, and were obliged tocome. '

'No right here!' said he in surprise. 

'None. I can't explain it now, ' answered Helena. 'This kettle is veryslow. '

There was another pause; the proverbial dilatoriness of watched pots wasnever more clearly exemplified. 

Helena's face was of that sort which seems to ask for assistance withoutthe owner's knowledge--the very antipodes of Sally's, which wasself-reliance expressed. Darton's eyes travelled from the kettle toHelena's face, then back to the kettle, then to the face for rather alonger time. 'So I am not to know anything of the mystery that hasdistracted me all the evening?' he said. 'How is it that a woman, whorefused me because (as I supposed) my position was not good enough forher taste, is found to be the wife of a man who certainly seems to beworse off than I?'

'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 overflowings. He was kind to afault. 'I am sorry from my soul, ' he said, involuntarily approachingher. Helena withdrew a step or two, at which he became conscious of hismovement, and quickly took his former place. Here he stood withoutspeaking, 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 orpoverty I shall be glad to be of service, and as your relation bymarriage I shall have a right to be. Does your uncle know of yourdistress?'

'My uncle is dead. He left me without a farthing. And now we have twochildren 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 leastwhile you are so unsettled. You belong to another, so I cannot take careof you. '

'Yes you can, ' said a voice; and suddenly a third figure stood besidethem. 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 went on to him passionately. 'You can protect hernow as well as the children!' She turned then to her agitated sister-in-law. 'I heard something, ' said Sally (in a gentle murmur, differing muchfrom her previous passionate words), 'and I went into his room. It musthave been the moment you left. He went off so quickly, and weakly, andit was so unexpected, that I couldn't leave even to call you. '

Darton was just able to gather from the confused discourse which followedthat, during his sleep by the fire, this brother whom he had never seenhad become worse; and that during Helena's absence for water the end hadunexpectedly come. The two young women hastened upstairs, and he wasagain left alone. 

* * * * *

After standing there a short time he went to the front door and lookedout; till, softly closing it behind him, he advanced and stood under thelarge sycamore-tree. The stars were flickering coldly, and the dampnesswhich had just descended upon the earth in rain now sent up a chill fromit. Darton was in a strange position, and he felt it. The unexpectedappearance, in deep poverty, of Helena--a young lady, daughter of adeceased naval officer, who had been brought up by her uncle, asolicitor, and had refused Darton in marriage years ago--the passionate, almost angry demeanour of Sally at discovering them, the abruptannouncement that Helena was a widow; all this coming together was aconjuncture difficult to cope with in a moment, and made him questionwhether he ought to leave the house or offer assistance. But for Sally'smanner he would unhesitatingly have done the latter. 

He was still standing under the tree when the door in front of himopened, and Mrs. Hall came out. She went round to the garden-gate at theside without seeing him. Darton followed her, intending to speak. 

Pausing outside, as if in thought, she proceeded to a spot where the suncame earliest in spring-time, and where the north wind never blew; it waswhere 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 attheir hives whenever a death occurred in the household, under the beliefthat if this were not done the bees themselves would pine away and perishduring the ensuing year. As soon as an interior buzzing responded to hertap at the first hive Mrs. Hall went on to the second, and thus passeddown 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 justperceiving him. 'We have called Rebekah and her husband, and they willdo everything necessary. ' She told him in a few words the particulars ofher son's arrival, broken in health--indeed, at death's very door, thoughthey did not suspect it--and suggested, as the result of a conversationbetween her and her daughter, that the wedding should be postponed. 

'Yes, of course, ' said Darton. 'I think now to go straight to the innand tell Johns what has happened. ' It was not till after he had shakenhands with her that he turned hesitatingly and added, 'Will you tell themother of his children that, as they are now left fatherless, I shall beglad to take the eldest of them, if it would be any convenience to herand to you?'

Mrs. Hall promised that her son's widow should he told of the offer, andthey parted. He retired down the rooty slope and disappeared in thedirection of the inn, where he informed Johns of the circumstances. Meanwhile Mrs. Hall had entered the house, Sally was downstairs in thesitting-room alone, and her mother explained to her that Darton hadreadily assented to the postponement. 

'No doubt he has, ' said Sally, with sad emphasis. 'It is not put off fora week, or a month, or a year. I shall never marry him, and she will!'

CHAPTER IV

Time passed, and the household on the Knap became again serene under thecomposing influences of daily routine. A desultory, very desultorycorrespondence, dragged on between Sally Hall and Darton, who, not quiteknowing how to take her petulant words on the night of her brother'sdeath, had continued passive thus long. Helena and her children remainedat the dairy-house, almost of necessity, and Darton therefore deemed itadvisable 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 thankedhim for his kind offer about her children, which her mother-in-law hadduly communicated, and stated that she would be glad to accept it asregarded the eldest, the boy. Helena had, in truth, good need to do so, for her uncle had left her penniless, and all application to somerelatives in the north had failed. There was, besides, as she said, nogood school near Hintock to which she could send the child. 

On a fine summer day the boy came. He was accompanied half-way by Sallyand his mother--to the 'White Horse, ' at Chalk Newton--where he washanded over to Darton's bailiff in a shining spring-cart, who met themthere. 

He was entered as a day-scholar at a popular school at Casterbridge, three or four miles from Darton's, having first been taught by Darton toride a forest-pony, on which he cantered to and from the aforesaid fountof knowledge, and (as Darton hoped) brought away a promising headful ofthe same at each diurnal expedition. The thoughtful taciturnity intowhich Darton had latterly fallen was quite dissipated by the presence ofthis boy. 

When the Christmas holidays came it was arranged that he should spendthem with his mother. The journey was, for some reason or other, performed in two stages, as at his coming, except that Darton in persontook the place of the bailiff, and that the boy and himself rode onhorseback. 

Reaching the renowned 'White Horse, ' Darton inquired if Miss and youngMrs. Hall were there to meet little Philip (as they had agreed to be). Hewas 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 theselong-severed persons were converging. But nothing was broached about itfor some time yet. Sally Hall had, in fact, imparted the first decisivemotion to events by refusing to accompany Helena. She soon gave them asecond 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 opportunity. 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. '

Thus set in train, the transfer of Darton's heart back to its originalquarters proceeded by mere lapse of time. In the following July, Dartonwent to his friend Japheth to ask him at last to fulfil the bridal officewhich had been in abeyance since the previous January twelvemonths. 

'With all my heart, man o' constancy!' said Dairyman Johns warmly. 'I'velost most of my genteel fair complexion haymaking this hot weather, 'tistrue, but I'll do your business as well as them that look better. Therebe scents and good hair-oil in the world yet, thank God, and they'll takeoff the roughest o' my edge. I'll compliment her. "Better late thannever, 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 ofreproachful dismay. 'Not Sally?' he said. 'Why not Sally? I can'tbelieve 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 tolet her go!'

'But I suppose I can marry where I like, ' said Darton. 

'H'm, ' replied the dairyman, lifting his eyebrows expressively. 'Thisdon't become you, Charles--it really do not. If I had done such a thingyou would have sworn I was a curst no'thern fool to be drawn off thescent by such a red-herring doll-oll-oll. '

Farmer Darton responded in such sharp terms to this laconic opinion thatthe two friends finally parted in a way they had never parted before. Johns was to be no groomsman to Darton after all. He had flatlydeclined. Darton went off sorry, and even unhappy, particularly asJapheth was about to leave that side of the county, so that the wordswhich had divided them were not likely to be explained away or softeneddown. 

A short time after the interview Darton was united to Helena at a simplematter-of fact wedding; and she and her little girl joined the boy whohad already grown to look on Darton's house as home. 

For some months the farmer experienced an unprecedented happiness andsatisfaction. There had been a flaw in his life, and it was as neatlymended as was humanly possible. But after a season the stream of eventsfollowed less clearly, and there were shades in his reveries. Helena wasa fragile woman, of little staying power, physically or morally, andsince the time that he had originally known her--eight or ten yearsbefore--she had been severely tried. She had loved herself out, inshort, and was now occasionally given to moping. Sometimes she spokeregretfully of the gentilities of her early life, and instead ofcomparing her present state with her condition as the wife of the unluckyHall, she mused rather on what it had been before she took the firstfatal step of clandestinely marrying him. She did not care to pleasesuch people as those with whom she was thrown as a thriving farmer'swife. She allowed the pretty trifles of agricultural domesticity toglide by her as sorry details, and had it not been for the childrenDarton's house would have seemed but little brighter than it had beenbefore. 

This led to occasional unpleasantness, until Darton sometimes declared tohimself that such endeavours as his to rectify early deviations of theheart by harking back to the old point mostly failed of success. 'PerhapsJohns 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 atthe risk of a capsize. ' But he kept these unmelodious thoughts tohimself, and was outwardly considerate and kind. 

This somewhat barren tract of his life had extended to less than a yearand a half when his ponderings were cut short by the loss of the womanthey concerned. When she was in her grave he thought better of her thanwhen she had been alive; the farm was a worse place without her than withher, after all. No woman short of divine could have gone through such anexperience as hers with her first husband without becoming a littlesoured. Her stagnant sympathies, her sometimes unreasonable manner, hadcovered 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 easyas possible to this touching object became at once his care. 

As this child learnt to walk and talk Darton learnt to see feasibility ina scheme which pleased him. Revolving the experiment which he hadhitherto made upon life, he fancied he had gained wisdom from hismistakes and caution from his miscarriages. 

What the scheme was needs no penetration to discover. Once more he hadopportunity to recast and rectify his ill-wrought situations by returningto Sally Hall, who still lived quietly on under her mother's roof atHintock. Helena had been a woman to lend pathos and refinement to ahome; Sally was the woman to brighten it. She would not, as Helena did, despise the rural simplicities of a farmer's fireside. Moreover, she hada pre-eminent qualification for Darton's household; no other woman couldmake so desirable a mother to her brother's two children and Darton's oneas Sally--while Darton, now that Helena had gone, was a more promisinghusband for Sally than he had ever been when liable to reminders from anuncured sentimental wound. 

Darton was not a man to act rapidly, and the working out of hisreparative designs might have been delayed for some time. But there camea winter evening precisely like the one which had darkened over thatformer ride to Hintock, and he asked himself why he should postponelonger, when the very landscape called for a repetition of that attempt. 

He told his man to saddle the mare, booted and spurred himself with ayounger horseman's nicety, kissed the two youngest children, and rodeoff. To make the journey a complete parallel to the first, he would fainhave had his old acquaintance Japheth Johns with him. But Johns, alas!was missing. His removal to the other side of the county had leftunrepaired the breach which had arisen between him and Darton; and thoughDarton had forgiven him a hundred times, as Johns had probably forgivenDarton, the effort of reunion in present circumstances was one not likelyto be made. 

He screwed himself up to as cheerful a pitch as he could without hisformer crony, and became content with his own thoughts as he rode, instead of the words of a companion. The sun went down; the boughsappeared scratched in like an etching against the sky; old crooked menwith 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 hadbeen on the occasion when Johns climbed the directing-post. Darton madeno mistake this time. 'Nor shall I be able to mistake, thank Heaven, when I arrive, ' he murmured. It gave him peculiar satisfaction to thinkthat the proposed marriage, like his first, was of the nature of settingin order things long awry, and not a momentary freak of fancy. 

Nothing hindered the smoothness of his journey, which seemed not half itsformer length. Though dark, it was only between five and six o'clockwhen the bulky chimneys of Mrs. Hall's residence appeared in view behindthe 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 innmirror, called for something to drink, and smoothed out the incipientwrinkles of care, he walked on to the Knap with a quick step. 

CHAPTER V

That evening Sally was making 'pinners' for the milkers, who were nowincreased by two, for her mother and herself no longer joined in milkingthe cows themselves. But upon the whole there was little change in thehousehold economy, and not much in its appearance, beyond such minorparticulars as that the crack over the window, which had been a hundredyears coming, was a trifle wider; that the beams were a shade blacker;that the influence of modernism had supplanted the open chimney corner bya 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 capswere not fashionable; and that Sally's face had naturally assumed a morewomanly and experienced cast. 

Mrs. Hall was actually lifting coals with the tongs, as she had used todo. 

'Five years ago this very night, if I am not mistaken--' she said, layingon an ember. 

'Not this very night--though 'twas one night this week, ' said the correctSally. 

'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, ' shepresently said, 'if you had managed well Mr. Darton would have had you, Helena or none. '

'Don't be sentimental about that, mother, ' begged Sally. 'I didn't careto 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 thatwas, ' she added with decision; 'and I don't think I would if he were toask 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 atthis time o' day. And as we've quite enough to live on if we give up thedairy 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 thedoor, and in a moment there entered Rebekah, looking as though a ghosthad arrived. The fact was that that accomplished skimmer and churner(now a resident in the house) had overheard the desultory observationsbetween mother and daughter, and on opening the door to Mr. Dartonthought the coincidence must have a grisly meaning in it. Mrs. Hallwelcomed the farmer with warm surprise, as did Sally, and for a momentthey 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 theawkward consciousness that he had been a stranger for four years. 

Mrs. Hall soon saw what he had come for, and left the principals togetherwhile she went to prepare him a late tea, smiling at Sally's recent hastyassertions of indifference, when she saw how civil Sally was. When teawas ready she joined them. She fancied that Darton did not look soconfident as when he had arrived; but Sally was quite light-hearted, andthe meal passed pleasantly. 

About seven he took his leave of them. Mrs. Hall went as far as the doorto light him down the slope. On the doorstep he said frankly--'I came toask your daughter to marry me; chose the night and everything, with aneye 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, 'I--I suppose there'snobody 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 thisassurance the not very satisfactory visit came to an end. Dartondescended the roots of the sycamore, the light was withdrawn, and thedoor closed. At the bottom of the slope he nearly ran against a manabout to ascend. 

'Can a jack-o'-lent believe his few senses on such a dark night, or can'the?' exclaimed one whose utterance Darton recognized in a moment, despiteits unexpectedness. 'I dare not swear he can, though I fain would!' Thespeaker was Johns. 

Darton said he was glad of this opportunity, bad as it was, of putting anend to the silence of years, and asked the dairyman what he wastravelling that way for. 

Japheth showed the old jovial confidence in a moment. 'I'm going to seeyour--relations--as they always seem to me, ' he said--'Mrs. Hall andSally. Well, Charles, the fact is I find the natural barbarousness ofman is much increased by a bachelor life, and, as your leavings werealways good enough for me, I'm trying civilization here. ' He noddedtowards the house. 

'Not with Sally--to marry her?' said Darton, feeling something like arill of ice water between his shoulders. 

'Yes, by the help of Providence and my personal charms. And I think Ishall get her. I am this road every week--my present dairy is only fourmiles off, you know, and I see her through the window. 'Tis rather oddthat 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 malletand get her answer this very night as I planned. '

A few more remarks, and Darton, wishing his friend joy of Sally in aslightly hollow tone of jocularity, bade him good-bye. Johns promised towrite particulars, and ascended, and was lost in the shade of the houseand tree. A rectangle of light appeared when Johns was admitted, and allwas dark again. 

'Happy Japheth!' said Darton. 'This then is the explanation!'

He determined to return home that night. In a quarter of an hour hepassed out of the village, and the next day went about his swede-liftingand storing as if nothing had occurred. 

He waited and waited to hear from Johns whether the wedding-day wasfixed: but no letter came. He learnt not a single particular till, meeting Johns one day at a horse-auction, Darton exclaimedgenially--rather more genially than he felt--'When is the joyful day tobe?'

To his great surprise a reciprocity of gladness was not conspicuous inJohns. '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, 'Tryagain--'tis coyness. '

'O no, ' said Johns decisively. 'There's been none of that. We talked itover dozens of times in the most fair and square way. She tells meplainly, I don't suit her. 'Twould be simply annoying her to ask heragain. Ah, Charles, you threw a prize away when you let her slip fiveyears ago. '

'I did--I did, ' said Darton. 

He returned from that auction with a new set of feelings in play. He hadcertainly made a surprising mistake in thinking Johns his successfulrival. 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 anywoman 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 wasjust a possibility of sarcasm in it--'nice long speeches onmangold-wurzel' had a suspicious sound. However, sarcasm or none, therewas the answer, and he had to be content. 

He proceeded to seek relief in a business which at this time engrossedmuch of his attention--that of clearing up a curious mistake just currentin the county, that he had been nearly ruined by the recent failure of alocal bank. A farmer named Darton had lost heavily, and the similarityof name had probably led to the error. Belief in it was so persistentthat it demanded several days of letter-writing to set matters straight, and persuade the world that he was as solvent as ever he had been in hislife. He had hardly concluded this worrying task when, to his delight, another letter arrived in the handwriting of Sally. 

Darton 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. 'Thenthat 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 toogenerously towards Sally to condemn her in this. What did he want in awife? he asked himself. Love and integrity. What next? Worldly wisdom. And was there really more than worldly wisdom in her refusal to go aboarda sinking ship? She now knew it was otherwise. 'Begad, ' he said, 'I'lltry her again. '

The fact was he had so set his heart upon Sally, and Sally alone, thatnothing was to be allowed to baulk him; and his reasoning was purelyformal. 

Anniversaries having been unpropitious, he waited on till a bright daylate 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 herode through Long-Ash Lane it was scarce recognizable as the track of histwo winter journeys. No mistake could be made now, even with his eyesshut. The cuckoo's note was at its best, between April tentativeness andmidsummer decrepitude, and the reptiles in the sun behaved as winninglyas kittens on a hearth. Though afternoon, and about the same time as onthe 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. Hesaw Sally in the garden, and was set vibrating. He had first intended togo 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 andride 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 theslope, where riders seldom came. In a few seconds he was in the gardenwith Sally. 

Five--ay, three minutes--did the business at the back of that row ofbees. Though spring had come, and heavenly blue consecrated the scene, Darton succeeded not. 'No, ' said Sally firmly. 'I will never, nevermarry 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 wenton to declare all sorts of things that he would do for her. He woulddrive her to see her mother every week--take her to London--settle somuch money upon her--Heaven knows what he did not promise, suggest, andtempt her with. But it availed nothing. She interposed with a stoutnegative, which closed the course of his argument like an iron gateacross a highway. Darton paused. 

'Then, ' said he simply, 'you hadn't heard of my supposed failure when youdeclined last time?'

'I had not, ' she said. 'But if I had 'twould have been all the same. '

'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?'

'No, ' she slowly answered. 'I don't altogether despise you. I don'tthink you quite such a hero as I once did--that's all. The truth is, Iam happy enough as I am; and I don't mean to marry at all. Now, may Iask a favour, sir?' She spoke with an ineffable charm, which, wheneverhe thought of it, made him curse his loss of her as long as he lived. 

'To any extent. '

'Please do not put this question to me any more. Friends as long as youlike, but lovers and married never. '

'I 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 onlytoo plain. 

When his step-children had grown up, and were placed out in life, allcommunication between Darton and the Hall family ceased. It was only bychance that, years after, he learnt that Sally, notwithstanding thesolicitations her attractions drew down upon her, had refused severaloffers of marriage, and steadily adhered to her purpose of leading asingle life

May 1884. 

THE DISTRACTED PREACHER

CHAPTER I--HOW HIS COLD WAS CURED

Something delayed the arrival of the Wesleyan minister, and a young mancame temporarily in his stead. It was on the thirteenth of January 183-that Mr. Stockdale, the young man in question, made his humble entry intothe village, unknown, and almost unseen. But when those of theinhabitants who styled themselves of his connection became acquaintedwith him, they were rather pleased with the substitute than otherwise, though he had scarcely as yet acquired ballast of character sufficient tosteady the consciences of the hundred-and-forty Methodists of pure bloodwho, at this time, lived in Nether-Moynton, and to give in additionsupplementary support to the mixed race which went to church in themorning and chapel in the evening, or when there was a tea--as many as ahundred-and-ten people more, all told, and including the parish-clerk inthe winter-time, when it was too dark for the vicar to observe who passedup the street at seven o'clock--which, to be just to him, he was neveranxious to do. 

It was owing to this overlapping of creeds that the celebrated population-puzzle arose among the denser gentry of the district aroundNether-Moynton: how could it be that a parish containing fifteen score ofstrong full-grown Episcopalians, and nearly thirteen score ofwell-matured Dissenters, numbered barely two-and-twenty score adults inall?

The young man being personally interesting, those with whom he came incontact were content to waive for a while the graver question of hissufficiency. It is said that at this time of his life his eyes wereaffectionate, 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 wonupon his female hearers as soon as they saw and heard him, and causedthem to say, 'Why didn't we know of this before he came, that we mighthave gied him a warmer welcome!'

The fact was that, knowing him to be only provisionally selected, andexpecting nothing remarkable in his person or doctrine, they and the restof his flock in Nether-Moynton had felt almost as indifferent about hisadvent as if they had been the soundest church-going parishioners in thecountry, and he their true and appointed parson. Thus when Stockdale setfoot in the place nobody had secured a lodging for him, and though hisjourney had given him a bad cold in the head, he was forced to attend tothat business himself. On inquiry he learnt that the only possibleaccommodation 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 whoMrs. Newberry might be. 

The boy said that she was a widow-woman, who had got no husband, becausehe was dead. Mr. Newberry, 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. Asregarded Mrs. Newberry's serious side, Stockdale gathered that she wasone of the trimmers who went to church and chapel both. 

'I'll go there, ' said Stockdale, feeling that, in the absence of purelysectarian 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 andask first if she can find room for me. I have to see one or two personson 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. Newberrywould have no objection to accommodate him, whereupon Stockdale called atthe 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 samenight, since there was no inn in the place, and he wished to househimself as soon as possible; the village being a local centre from whichhe was to radiate at once to the different small chapels in theneighbourhood. He forthwith sent his luggage to Mrs. Newberry's from thecarrier's, where he had taken shelter, and in the evening walked up tohis temporary home. 

As he now lived there, Stockdale felt it unnecessary to knock at thedoor; and entering quietly he had the pleasure of hearing footstepsscudding away like mice into the back quarters. He advanced to theparlour, as the front room was called, though its stone floor wasscarcely disguised by the carpet, which only over-laid the trodden areas, leaving sandy deserts under the bulging mouldings of the table-legs, playing with brass furniture. But the room looked snug and cheerful. Thefirelight shone out brightly, trembling on the knobs and handles, andlurking in great strength on the under surface of the chimney-piece. Adeep arm-chair, covered with horsehair, and studded with a countlessthrong of brass nails, was pulled up on one side of the fireplace. Thetea-things were on the table, the teapot cover was open, and a littlehand-bell had been laid at that precise point towards which a personseated in the great chair might be expected instinctively to stretch hishand. 

Stockdale sat down, not objecting to his experience of the room thus far, and began his residence by tinkling the bell. A little girl crept in atthe summons, and made tea for him. Her name, she said, was MartherSarer, and she lived out there, nodding towards the road and villagegenerally. Before Stockdale had got far with his meal, a tap sounded onthe door behind him, and on his telling the inquirer to come in, a rustleof garments caused him to turn his head. He saw before him a fine andextremely well-made young woman, with dark hair, a wide, sensible, beautiful forehead, eyes that warmed him before he knew it, and a mouththat was in itself a picture to all appreciative souls. 

'Can I get you anything else for tea?' she said, coming forward a step ortwo, an expression of liveliness on her features, and her hand waving thedoor by its edge. 

'Nothing, thank you, ' said Stockdale, thinking less of what he repliedthan of what might be her relation to the household. 

'You are quite sure?' said the young woman, apparently aware that he hadnot 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 LizzySimpkins. '

'O, I beg your pardon, Mrs. Newberry. ' And before he had occasion to saymore she left the room. 

Stockdale remained in some doubt till Martha Sarah came to clear thetable. 'Whose house is this, my little woman, ' said he. 

'Mrs. Lizzy Newberry's, sir. '

'Then Mrs. Newberry is not the old lady I saw this afternoon?'

'No. That's Mrs. Newberry's mother. It was Mrs. Newberry who comed into 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 cameagain. 'I have come myself, Mr. Stockdale, ' she said. The ministerstood up in acknowledgment of the honour. 'I am afraid little Marthermight not make you understand. What will you have for supper?--there'scold rabbit, and there's a ham uncut. '

Stockdale said he could get on nicely with those viands, and supper waslaid. He had no more than cut a slice when tap-tap came to the dooragain. The minister had already learnt that this particular rhythm intaps denoted the fingers of his enkindling landlady, and the doomed youngfellow buried his first mouthful under a look of receptive blandness. 

'We have a chicken in the house, Mr. Stockdale--I quite forgot to mentionit 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 saythat he did not want the chicken, unless she brought it up herself; butwhen 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 threeminutes the chicken appeared, but, to his great surprise, only in thehands of Martha Sarah. Stockdale was disappointed, which perhaps it wasintended 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 notappearing when expected. It happened that the cold in the head fromwhich the young man suffered had increased with the approach of night, and before she had spoken he was seized with a violent fit of sneezingwhich 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. 

'And I've a good mind'--she added archly, looking at the cheerless glassof 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 itthan that cold stuff. '

'Well, ' said Stockdale, looking down at the glass, 'as there is no innhere, and nothing better to be got in the village, of course it will do. '

To this she replied, 'There is something better, not far off, though notin 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 wasabout to speak. 'Don't ask what it is; wait, and you shall see. '

Lizzy went away, and Stockdale waited in a pleasant mood. Presently shereturned with her bonnet and cloak on, saying, 'I am so sorry, but youmust help me to get it. Mother has gone to bed. Will you wrap yourselfup, and come this way, and please bring that cup with you?'

Stockdale, a lonely young fellow, who had for weeks felt a great cravingfor somebody on whom to throw away superfluous interest, and eventenderness, was not sorry to join her; and followed his guide through theback door, across the garden, to the bottom, where the boundary was awall. This wall was low, and beyond it Stockdale discerned in the nightshades several grey headstones, and the outlines of the church roof andtower. 

'It is easy to get up this way, ' she said, stepping upon a bank whichabutted on the wall; then putting her foot on the top of the stonework, and descending a spring inside, where the ground was much higher, as isthe manner of graveyards to be. Stockdale did the same, and followed herin 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 theminister had not noticed that she carried at all. The light showed themto be close to the singing-gallery stairs, under which lay a heap oflumber of all sorts, but consisting mostly of decayed framework, pews, panels, and pieces of flooring, that from time to time had been removedfrom their original fixings in the body of the edifice and replaced bynew. 

'Perhaps you will drag some of those boards aside?' she said, holding thelantern over her head to light him better. 'Or will you take the lanternwhile I move them?'

'I can manage it, ' said the young man, and acting as she ordered, heuncovered, to his surprise, a row of little barrels bound with woodhoops, 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 wonderedwhat he would say. 

'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 ofhighly respectable parents, and brought up with a single eye to theministry; and the sight suggested nothing beyond the fact that sucharticles were there. 

'You are quite right, they are barrels, ' she said, in an emphatic tone ofcandour that was not without a touch of irony. 

Stockdale looked at her with an eye of sudden misgiving. 'Not smugglers'liquor?' he said. 

'Yes, ' said she. 'They are tubs of spirit that have accidentally comeover in the dark from France. '

In Nether-Moynton and its vicinity at this date people always smiled atthe sort of sin called in the outside world illicit trading; and theselittle kegs of gin and brandy were as well known to the inhabitants asturnips. So that Stockdale's innocent ignorance, and his look of alarmwhen he guessed the sinister mystery, seemed to strike Lizzy first asludicrous, and then as very awkward for the good impression that shewished to produce upon him. 

'Smuggling is carried on here by some of the people, ' she said in agentle, apologetic voice. 'It has been their practice for generations, and they think it no harm. Now, will you roll out one of the tubs?'

'What to do with it?' said the minister. 

'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, itis all right about our taking it. I may have what I like; the owner ofthe tubs says so. I ought to have had some in the house, and then Ishouldn't ha' been put to this trouble; but I drink none myself, and so Ioften forget to keep it indoors. '

'You are allowed to help yourself, I suppose, that you may not informwhere their hiding-place is?'

'Well, no; not that particularly; but I may take any if I want it. Sohelp yourself. '

'I will, to oblige you, since you have a right to it, ' murmured theminister; and though he was not quite satisfied with his part in theperformance, he rolled one of the 'tubs' out from the corner into themiddle of the tower floor. 'How do you wish me to get it out--with agimlet, I suppose?'

'No, I'll show you, ' said his interesting companion; and she held up withher other hand a shoemaker's awl and a hammer. 'You must never do thesethings with a gimlet, because the wood-dust gets in; and when the buyerspour 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 oneof 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 squeezethe heads; and I'll hold the cup. '

Stockdale obeyed; and the pressure taking effect upon the tub, whichseemed, to be thin, the spirit spirted out in a stream. When the cup wasfull he ceased pressing, and the flow immediately stopped. 'Now we mustfill up the keg with water, ' said Lizzy, 'or it will cluck like fortyhens 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 havebeen kind to me at their expense. '

'I see, ' said Stockdale doubtfully. 'I much question the honesty of thisproceeding. '

By her direction he held the tub with the hole upwards, and while he wentthrough the process of alternately pressing and ceasing to press, sheproduced a bottle of water, from which she took mouthfuls, conveying eachto the keg by putting her pretty lips to the hole, where it was sucked inat each recovery of the cask from pressure. When it was again full heplugged the hole, knocked the hoop down to its place, and buried the tubin the lumber as before. 

'Aren't the smugglers afraid that you will tell?' he asked, as theyrecrossed 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 Stockdaleemphatically. 'You must, of course, as an honest person, sometimes feelthat it is your duty to inform--really you must. '

'Well, I have never particularly felt it as a duty; and, besides, myfirst husband--' She stopped, and there was some confusion in her voice. Stockdale was so honest and unsophisticated that he did not at oncediscern why she paused: but at last he did perceive that the words were aslip, and that no woman would have uttered 'first husband' by accidentunless she had thought pretty frequently of a second. He felt for herconfusion, and allowed her time to recover and proceed. 'My husband, 'she said, in a self-corrected tone, 'used to know of their doings, and sodid my father, and kept the secret. I cannot inform, in fact, againstanybody. '

'I see the hardness of it, ' he continued, like a man who looked far intothe moral of things. 'And it is very cruel that you should be tossed andtantalized between your memories and your conscience. I do hope, Mrs. Newberry, that you will soon see your way out of this unpleasantposition. '

'Well, I don't just now, ' she murmured. 

By this time they had passed over the wall and entered the house, whereshe brought him a glass and hot water, and left him to his ownreflections. He looked after her vanishing form, asking himself whetherhe, as a respectable man, and a minister, and a shining light, eventhough as yet only of the halfpenny-candle sort, were quite justified indoing this thing. A sneeze settled the question; and he found that whenthe fiery liquor was lowered by the addition of twice or thrice thequantity of water, it was one of the prettiest cures for a cold in thehead that he had ever known, particularly at this chilly time of theyear. 

Stockdale sat in the deep chair about twenty minutes sipping andmeditating, till he at length took warmer views of things, and longed forthe morrow, when he would see Mrs. Newberry again. He then felt that, though chronologically at a short distance, it would in an emotionalsense be very long before to-morrow came, and walked restlessly round theroom. His eye was attracted by a framed and glazed sampler in which arunning ornament of fir-trees and peacocks surrounded the followingpretty 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 11 years. 

''Tis hers, ' he said to himself. 'Heavens, how I like that name!'

Before he had done thinking that no other name from Abigail to Zenobiawould have suited his young landlady so well, tap-tap came again upon thedoor; and the minister started as her face appeared yet another time, looking so disinterested that the most ingenious would have refrainedfrom asserting that she had come to affect his feelings by her seductiveeyes. 

'Would you like a fire in your room, Mr. Stockdale, on account of yourcold?'

The minister, being still a little pricked in the conscience forcountenancing her in watering the spirits, saw here a way toself-chastisement. 'No, I thank you, ' he said firmly; 'it is notnecessary. I have never been used to one in my life, and it would begiving way to luxury too far. '

'Then I won't insist, ' she said, and disconcerted him by vanishinginstantly. 

Wondering if she was vexed by his refusal, he wished that he had chosento have a fire, even though it should have scorched him out of bed andendangered his self-discipline for a dozen days. However, he consoledhimself 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 apoetical view of the term lodger; and that he would certainly see her onthe morrow. 

The morrow came, and Stockdale rose early, his cold quite gone. He hadnever 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 thepremises, he re-entered the door of his dwelling. Breakfast passed, andMartha Sarah attended, but nobody came voluntarily as on the night beforeto inquire if there were other wants which he had not mentioned, andwhich she would attempt to gratify. He was disappointed, 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 wereat 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 delightful tub-broaching in theneighbouring church tower, which proceeding he resolved to render moremoral by steadfastly insisting that no water should be introduced to fillup, though the tub should cluck like all the hens in Christendom. Butnothing could disguise the fact that it was a queer business; and hiscountenance fell when he thought how much more his mind was interested inthat matter than in his serious duties. 

However, compunction vanished with the decline of day. Night came, andhis tea and supper; but no Lizzy Newberry, and no sweet temptations. Atlast the minister could bear it no longer, and said to his quaint littleattendant, 'Where is Mrs. Newberry to-day?' judiciously handing a pennyas he spoke. 

'She's busy, ' said Martha. 

'Anything serious happened?' he asked, handing another penny, andrevealing yet additional pennies in the background. 

'O no--nothing at all!' said she, with breathless confidence. 'Nothingever happens to her. She's only biding upstairs in bed because 'tis herway sometimes. '

Being a young man of some honour, he would not question further, andassuming that Lizzy must have a bad headache, or other slight ailment, inspite of what the girl had said, he went to bed dissatisfied, not evensetting eyes on old Mrs. Simpkins. 'I said last night that I should seeher to-morrow, ' he reflected; 'but that was not to be!'

Next day he had better fortune, or worse, meeting her at the foot of thestairs in the morning, and being favoured by a visit or two from herduring the day--once for the purpose of making kindly inquiries about hiscomfort, as on the first evening, and at another time to place a bunch ofwinter-violets on his table, with a promise to renew them when theydrooped. On these occasions there was something in her smile whichshowed how conscious she was of the effect she produced, though it mustbe said that it was rather a humorous than a designing consciousness, andsavoured more of pride than of vanity. 

As for Stockdale, he clearly perceived that he possessed unlimitedcapacity for backsliding, and wished that tutelary saints were not deniedto Dissenters. He set a watch upon his tongue and eyes for the space ofone hour and a half, after which he found it was useless to strugglefurther, and gave himself up to the situation. 'The other minister willbe here in a month, ' he said to himself when sitting over the fire. 'ThenI 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 ofprobation are finished, I shall have a furnished house to live in, with avarnished 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 whichtime things proceeded much as such matters have done ever since thebeginning of history. He saw the object of attachment several times oneday, did not see her at all the next, met her when he least expected todo so, missed her when hints and signs as to where she should be at agiven hour almost amounted to an appointment. This mild coquetry wasperhaps fair enough under the circumstances of their being so closelylodged, and Stockdale put up with it as philosophically as he was able. Being in her own house, she could, after vexing him or disappointing himof her presence, easily win him back by suddenly surrounding him withthose little attentions which her position as his landlady put it in herpower to bestow. When he had waited indoors half the day to see her, andon finding that she would not be seen, had gone off in a huff to thedreariest and dampest walk he could discover, she would restoreequilibrium in the evening with 'Mr. Stockdale, I have fancied you mustfeel draught o' nights from your bedroom window, and so I have beenputting up thicker curtains this afternoon while you were out;' or, 'Inoticed that you sneezed twice again this morning, Mr. Stockdale. Dependupon it that cold is hanging about you yet; I am sure it is--I havethought of it continually; and you must let me make a posset for you. '

Sometimes in coming home he found his sitting-room rearranged, chairsplaced where the table had stood, and the table ornamented with the fewfresh flowers and leaves that could be obtained at this season, so as toadd a novelty to the room. At times she would be standing on a chairoutside the house, trying to nail up a branch of the monthly rose whichthe winter wind had blown down; and of course he stepped forward toassist her, when their hands got mixed in passing the shreds and nails. Thus they became friends again after a disagreement. She would utter onthese occasions some pretty and deprecatory remark on the necessity ofher troubling him anew; and he would straightway say that he would do ahundred times as much for her if she should so require. 

CHAPTER II--HOW HE SAW TWO OTHER MEN

Matters being in this advancing state, Stockdale was rather surprised onecloudy evening, while sitting in his room, at hearing her speak in lowtones of expostulation to some one at the door. It was nearly dark, butthe shutters were not yet closed, nor the candles lighted; and Stockdalewas tempted to stretch his head towards the window. He saw outside thedoor a young man in clothes of a whitish colour, and upon reflectionjudged their wearer to be the well-built and rather handsome miller wholived below. The miller's voice was alternately low and firm, andsometimes it reached the level of positive entreaty; but what the wordswere Stockdale could in no way hear. 

Before the colloquy had ended, the minister's attention was attracted bya second incident. Opposite Lizzy's home grew a clump of laurels, forming a thick and permanent shade. One of the laurel boughs nowquivered against the light background of sky, and in a moment the head ofa man peered out, and remained still. He seemed to be also muchinterested in the conversation at the door, and was plainly lingeringthere to watch and listen. Had Stockdale stood in any other relation toLizzy than that of a lover, he might have gone out and investigated themeaning of this: but being as yet but an unprivileged ally, he didnothing more than stand up and show himself against the firelight, whereupon the listener disappeared, and Lizzy and the miller spoke inlower tones. 

Stockdale was made so uneasy by the circumstance, that as soon as themiller was gone, he said, 'Mrs. Newberry, are you aware that you werewatched 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 you. '

She showed more concern than the trifling event seemed to demand, and headded, 'Perhaps you were talking of things you did not wish to beoverheard?'

'I was talking only on business, ' she said. 

'Lizzy, be frank!' said the young man. 'If it was only on business, whyshould 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 toamuse an eavesdropper. '

'Ah yes, ' she said, smiling in spite of her preoccupation. 'Well, mycousin 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 beenspeaking of it, with all my heart. It would have been much less seriousfor me. '

'O Mrs. Newberry!'

'It would. Not that I should ha' chimed in with him, of course. I wishit for other reasons. I am glad, Mr. Stockdale, that you have told me ofthat listener. It is a timely warning, and I must see my cousin again. '

'But don't go away till I have spoken, ' said the minister. 'I'll outwith 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 allowedher 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 cancome back to marry you. '

'Because I am thinking--thinking of something else, ' she said withembarrassment. 'It all comes upon me at once, and I must settle onething at a time. '

'At any rate, dear Lizzy, you can assure me that the miller shall not beallowed to speak to you except on business? You have never directlyencouraged him?'

She parried the question by saying, 'You see, he and his party have beenin the habit of leaving things on my premises sometimes, and as I havenot 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 getyour good name into danger by his smuggling tricks. Promise me that thenext time he wants to leave his tubs here you will let me roll them intothe street?'

She shook her head. 'I would not venture to offend the neighbours somuch as that, ' said she, 'or do anything that would be so likely to putpoor Owlett into the hands of the excisemen. '

Stockdale sighed, and said that he thought hers a mistaken generositywhen it extended to assisting those who cheated the king of his dues. 'Atany rate, you will let me make him keep his distance as your lover, andtell him flatly that you are not for him?'

'Please not, at present, ' she said. 'I don't wish to offend my oldneighbours. 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 answeredearnestly. 'A reasonable man will be satisfied with that. '

'Well, so I am, ' said Stockdale, his countenance clearing. 

CHAPTER III--THE MYSTERIOUS GREATCOAT

Stockdale now began to notice more particularly a feature in the life ofhis fair landlady, which he had casually observed but scarcely everthought of before. It was that she was markedly irregular in her hoursof rising. For a week or two she would be tolerably punctual, reachingthe ground-floor within a few minutes of half-past seven. Then suddenlyshe would not be visible till twelve at noon, perhaps for three or fourdays in succession; and twice he had certain proof that she did not leaveher room till half-past three in the afternoon. The second time thatthis extreme lateness came under his notice was on a day when he hadparticularly wished to consult with her about his future movements; andhe concluded, as he always had done, that she had a cold, headache, orother ailment, unless she had kept herself invisible to avoid meeting andtalking to him, which he could hardly believe. The former suppositionwas disproved, however, by her innocently saying, some days later, whenthey were speaking on a question of health, that she had never had amoment's heaviness, headache, or illness of any kind since the previousJanuary twelvemonth. 

'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 theimpossibility 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 tokeep your room through the best part of the day. '

'O, as for that--it means nothing, ' she murmured, with a look which somemight have called cold, and which was the worst look that he liked to seeupon her. 'It is pure sleepiness, Mr. Stockdale. '

'Never!'

'It is, I tell you. When I stay in my room till half-past three in theafternoon, you may always be sure that I slept soundly till three, or Ishouldn't have stayed there. '

'It is dreadful, ' said Stockdale, thinking of the disastrous effects ofsuch indulgence upon the household of a minister, should it become ahabit of everyday occurrence. 

'But then, ' she said, divining his good and prescient thoughts, 'it onlyhappens when I stay awake all night. I don't go to sleep till five orsix in the morning sometimes. '

'Ah, that's another matter, ' said Stockdale. 'Sleeplessness to such analarming 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. ' Andshe went away without further remark. 

Stockdale might have waited a long time to know the real cause of hersleeplessness, had it not happened that one dark night he was sitting inhis bedroom jotting down notes for a sermon, which occupied himperfunctorily for a considerable time after the other members of thehousehold had retired. He did not get to bed till one o'clock. Beforehe had fallen asleep he heard a knocking at the front door, first rathertimidly performed, and then louder. Nobody answered it, and the personknocked again. As the house still remained undisturbed, Stockdale gotout of bed, went to his window, which overlooked the door, and openingit, asked who was there. 

A young woman's voice replied that Susan Wallis was there, and that shehad come to ask if Mrs. Newberry could give her some mustard to make aplaster with, as her father was taken very ill on the chest. 

The minister, having neither bell nor servant, was compelled to act inperson. 'I will call Mrs. Newberry, ' he said. Partly dressing himself;he went along the passage and tapped at Lizzy's door. She did notanswer, and, thinking of her erratic habits in the matter of sleep, hethumped the door persistently, when he discovered, by its moving ajarunder his knocking, that it had only been gently pushed to. As there wasnow a sufficient entry for the voice, he knocked no longer, but said infirm tones, 'Mrs. Newberry, you are wanted. '

The room was quite silent; not a breathing, not a rustle, came from anypart of it. Stockdale now sent a positive shout through the open spaceof the door: 'Mrs. Newberry!'--still no answer, or movement of any kindwithin. Then he heard sounds from the opposite room, that of Lizzy'smother, as if she had been aroused by his uproar though Lizzy had not, and was dressing herself hastily. Stockdale softly closed the youngerwoman's door and went on to the other, which was opened by Mrs. Simpkinsbefore he could reach it. She was in her ordinary clothes, and had alight in her hand. 

'What's the person calling about?' she said in alarm. 

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 shewants as well as my daughter. ' And she came out of the room and wentdownstairs. 

Stockdale retired towards his own apartment, saying, however, to Mrs. Simpkins from the landing, as if on second thoughts, 'I suppose there isnothing the matter with Mrs. Newberry, that I could not wake her?'

'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, andcame out again almost instantly. 'There is nothing at all the matterwith 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'smother open the front door, admit the girl, and then the murmureddiscourse of both as they went to the store-cupboard for the medicamentrequired. The girl departed, the door was fastened, Mrs. Simpkins cameupstairs, and the house was again in silence. Still the minister did notfall asleep. He could not get rid of a singular suspicion, which was allthe more harassing in being, if true, the most unaccountable thing withinhis experience. That Lizzy Newberry was in her bedroom when he made sucha clamour at the door he could not possibly convince himself;notwithstanding that he had heard her come upstairs at the usual time, gointo her chamber, and shut herself up in the usual way. Yet all reasonwas so much against her being elsewhere, that he was constrained to goback again to the unlikely theory of a heavy sleep, though he had heardneither breath nor movement during a shouting and knocking loud enough torouse the Seven Sleepers. 

Before coming to any positive conclusion he fell asleep himself, and didnot 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 theweather was fine; but as this was by no means unusual, he took no noticeof it. At breakfast-time he knew that she was not far off by hearing herin the kitchen, and though he saw nothing of her person, that backapartment being rigorously closed against his eyes, she seemed to betalking, ordering, and bustling about among the pots and skimmers in soordinary a manner, that there was no reason for his wasting more time infruitless surmise. 

The minister suffered from these distractions, and his extemporizedsermons were not improved thereby. Already he often said Romans forCorinthians in the pulpit, and gave out hymns in strange cramped metres, that hitherto had always been skipped, because the congregation could notraise a tune to fit them. He fully resolved that as soon as his fewweeks of stay approached their end he would cut the matter short, andcommit himself by proposing a definite engagement, repenting at leisureif necessary. 

With this end in view, he suggested to her on the evening after hermysterious sleep that they should take a walk together just before dark, the latter part of the proposition being introduced that they mightreturn home unseen. She consented to go; and away they went over astile, to a shrouded footpath suited for the occasion. But, in spite ofattempts on both sides, they were unable to infuse much spirit into theramble. She looked rather paler than usual, and sometimes turned herhead away. 

'Lizzy, ' said Stockdale reproachfully, when they had walked in silence along distance. 

'Yes, ' said she. 

'You yawned--much my company is to you!' He put it in that way, but hewas really wondering whether her yawn could possibly have more to do withphysical weariness from the night before than mental weariness of thatpresent moment. Lizzy apologized, and owned that she was rather tired, which gave him an opening for a direct question on the point; but hismodesty would not allow him to put it to her; and he uncomfortablyresolved to wait. 

The month of February passed with alternations of mud and frost, rain andsleet, east winds and north-westerly gales. The hollow places in theploughed fields showed themselves as pools of water, which had settledthere 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 beforesunset each evening, and sang hopefully on the large elm-tree which stoodnearest to Mrs. Newberry's house. Cold blasts and brittle earth hadgiven place to an oozing dampness more unpleasant in itself than frost;but it suggested coming spring, and its unpleasantness was of a bearablekind. 

Stockdale had been going to bring about a practical understanding withLizzy at least half-a-dozen times; but, what with the mystery of herapparent absence on the night of the neighbour's call, and her curiousway of lying in bed at unaccountable times, he felt a check within himwhenever he wanted to speak out. Thus they still lived on asindefinitely affianced lovers, each of whom hardly acknowledged theother's claim to the name of chosen one. Stockdale persuaded himselfthat his hesitation was owing to the postponement of the ordainedminister's arrival, and the consequent delay in his own departure, whichdid away with all necessity for haste in his courtship; but perhaps itwas only that his discretion was reasserting itself, and telling him thathe had better get clearer ideas of Lizzy before arranging for the grandcontract of his life with her. She, on her part, always seemed ready tobe urged further on that question than he had hitherto attempted to go;but she was none the less independent, and to a degree which would havekept from flagging the passion of a far more mutable man. 

On the evening of the first of March he went casually into his bedroomabout 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, hewent and examined them as well as he could in the twilight, and foundthat they did not belong to him. He paused for a moment to consider howthey might have got there. He was the only man living in the house; andyet these were not his garments, unless he had made a mistake. No, theywere not his. He called up Martha Sarah. 

'How did these things come in my room?' he said, flinging theobjectionable articles to the floor. 

Martha said that Mrs. Newberry had given them to her to brush, and thatshe had brought them up there thinking they must be Mr. Stockdale's, asthere was no other gentleman a-lodging there. 

'Of course you did, ' said Stockdale. 'Now take them down to yourmis'ess, and say they are some clothes I have found here and know nothingabout. '

As the door was left open he heard the conversation downstairs. 'Howstupid!' said Mrs. Newberry, in a tone of confusion. 'Why, MartherSarer, 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 mistressseverely; and she came upstairs with the garments on her arm, quicklypassed Stockdale's room, and threw them forcibly into a closet at the endof a passage. With this the incident ended, and the house was silentagain. 

There would have been nothing remarkable in finding such clothes in awidow's house had they been clean; or moth-eaten, or creased, or mouldyfrom long lying by; but that they should be splashed with recent mudbothered Stockdale a good deal. When a young pastor is in the aspenstage of attachment, and open to agitation at the merest trifles, areally 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 herselfbrushing 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 hisroom. It was densely splashed up to the hollow of the back withneighbouring Nether-Moynton mud, to judge by its colour, the spots beingdistinctly visible to him in the sunlight. The previous day or twohaving been wet, the inference was irresistible that the wearer had quiterecently been walking some considerable distance about the lanes andfields. Stockdale opened the window and looked out, and Mrs. Newberryturned her head. Her face became slowly red; she never had lookedprettier, or more incomprehensible, he waved his hand affectionately, andsaid good-morning; she answered with embarrassment, having ceased heroccupation on the instant that she saw him, and rolled up the coat half-cleaned. 

Stockdale shut the window. Some simple explanation of her proceeding wasdoubtless within the bounds of possibility; but he himself could notthink of one; and he wished that she had placed the matter beyondconjecture by voluntarily saying something about it there and then. 

But, though Lizzy had not offered an explanation at the moment, thesubject was brought forward by her at the next time of their meeting. Shewas chatting to him concerning some other event, and remarked that ithappened about the time when she was dusting some old clothes that hadbelonged to her poor husband. 

'You keep them clean out of respect to his memory?' said Stockdaletentatively. 

'I air and dust them sometimes, ' she said, with the most charminginnocence in the world. 

'Do dead men come out of their graves and walk in mud?' murmured theminister, in a cold sweat at the deception that she was practising. 

'What did you say?' asked Lizzy. 

'Nothing, nothing, ' said he mournfully. 'Mere words--a phrase that willdo for my sermon next Sunday. ' It was too plain that Lizzy was unawarethat he had seen actual pedestrian splashes upon the skirts of the tell-tale overcoat, and that she imagined him to believe it had come directfrom some chest or drawer. 

The aspect of the case was now considerably darker. Stockdale was somuch depressed by it that he did not challenge her explanation, orthreaten to go off as a missionary to benighted islanders, or reproachher in any way whatever. He simply parted from her when she had donetalking, and lived on in perplexity, till by degrees his natural mannerbecame sad and constrained. 

CHAPTER IV--AT THE TIME OF THE NEW MOON

The following Thursday was changeable, damp, and gloomy; and the nightthreatened to be windy and unpleasant. Stockdale had gone away toKnollsea in the morning, to be present at some commemoration servicethere, and on his return he was met by the attractive Lizzy in thepassage. Whether influenced by the tide of cheerfulness which hadattended him that day, or by the drive through the open air, or whetherfrom a natural disposition to let bygones alone, he allowed himself to befascinated into forgetfulness of the greatcoat incident, and upon thewhole passed a pleasant evening; not so much in her society as withinsound 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 leftthe room he remained standing by the dying embers awhile, thinking longof one thing and another; and was only aroused by the flickering of hiscandle in the socket as it suddenly declined and went out. Knowing thatthere were a tinder-box, matches, and another candle in his bedroom, hefelt his way upstairs without a light. On reaching his chamber he laidhis hand on every possible ledge and corner for the tinderbox, but for along time in vain. Discovering it at length, Stockdale produced a spark, and was kindling the brimstone, when he fancied that he heard a movementin the passage. He blew harder at the lint, the match flared up, andlooking by aid of the blue light through the door, which had beenstanding open all this time, he was surprised to see a male figurevanishing round the top of the staircase with the evident intention ofescaping unobserved. The personage wore the clothes which Lizzy had beenbrushing, and something in the outline and gait suggested to the ministerthat the wearer was Lizzy herself. 

But he was not sure of this; and, greatly excited, Stockdale determinedto investigate the mystery, and to adopt his own way for doing it. Heblew out the match without lighting the candle, went into the passage, and proceeded on tiptoe towards Lizzy's room. A faint grey square oflight in the direction of the chamber-window as he approached told himthat 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, yetnone the less surprised, the minister crept down the stairs, softly puton his boots, overcoat, and hat, and tried the front door. It wasfastened as usual: he went to the back door, found this unlocked, andemerged into the garden. The night was mild and moonless, and rain hadlately been falling, though for the present it had ceased. There was asudden dropping from the trees and bushes every now and then, as eachpassing wind shook their boughs. Among these sounds Stockdale heard thefaint fall of feet upon the road outside, and he guessed from the stepthat it was Lizzy's. He followed the sound, and, helped by thecircumstance of the wind blowing from the direction in which thepedestrian moved, he got nearly close to her, and kept there, withoutrisk of being overheard. While he thus followed her up the street orlane, as it might indifferently be called, there being more hedge thanhouses on either side, a figure came forward to her from one of thecottage doors. Lizzy stopped; the minister stepped upon the grass andstopped also. 

'Is that Mrs. Newberry?' said the man who had come out, whose voiceStockdale recognized as that of one of the most devout members of hiscongregation. 

'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 ourventure. '

'And d'ye tell o't! I dreamed there might be. '

'Yes, ' she said hurriedly; 'and you must go at once round to where thechaps are waiting, and tell them they will not be wanted till to-morrownight at the same time. I go to burn the lugger off. '

'I will, ' he said; and instantly went off through a gate, Lizzycontinuing her way. 

On she tripped at a quickening pace till the lane turned into theturnpike-road, which she crossed, and got into the track for Ringsworth. Here she ascended the hill without the least hesitation, passed thelonely hamlet of Holworth, and went down the vale on the other side. Stockdale had never taken any extensive walks in this direction, but hewas aware that if she persisted in her course much longer she would drawnear to the coast, which was here between two and three miles distantfrom Nether-Moynton; and as it had been about a quarter-past eleveno'clock when they set out, her intention seemed to be to reach the shoreabout midnight. 

Lizzy soon ascended a small mound, which Stockdale at the same timeadroitly skirted on the left; and a dull monotonous roar burst upon hisear. The hillock was about fifty yards from the top of the cliffs, andby day it apparently commanded a full view of the bay. There was lightenough in the sky to show her disguised figure against it when shereached the top, where she paused, and afterwards sat down. Stockdale, not wishing on any account to alarm her at this moment, yet desirous ofbeing 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 hedid 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 notknow; but, fearing that Lizzy was in danger, he was about to run forwardand warn her that she might be seen, when she crept to the shelter of alittle bush which maintained a precarious existence in that exposed spot;and her form was absorbed in its dark and stunted outline as if she hadbecome part of it. She had evidently heard the men as well as he. Theypassed near him, talking in loud and careless tones, which could be heardabove the uninterrupted washings of the sea, and which suggested thatthey were not engaged in any business at their own risk. This proved tobe the fact: some of their words floated across to him, and caused him toforget at once the coldness of his situation. 

'What's the vessel?'

'A lugger, about fifty tons. '

'From Cherbourg, I suppose?'

'Yes, 'a b'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 farmerand such like, but the names I don't know. '

The voices died away, and the heads and shoulders of the men diminishedtowards 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 toits 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 ofher!'

His perturbation was interrupted by the sudden bursting out of a brightand increasing light from the spot where Lizzy was in hiding. A fewseconds later, and before it had reached the height of a blaze, he heardher rush past him down the hollow like a stone from a sling, in thedirection of home. The light now flared high and wide, and showed itsposition clearly. She had kindled a bough of furze and stuck it into thebush under which she had been crouching; the wind fanned the flame, whichcrackled fiercely, and threatened to consume the bush as well as thebough. Stockdale paused just long enough to notice thus much, and thenfollowed rapidly the route taken by the young woman. His intention wasto overtake her, and reveal himself as a friend; but run as he would hecould see nothing of her. Thus he flew across the open country aboutHolworth, twisting his legs and ankles in unexpected fissures anddescents, till, on coming to the gate between the downs and the road, hewas forced to pause to get breath. There was no audible movement eitherin 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 exciseparty, 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 thehouse 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 thedoor behind him, and waited silently in the passage. In about tenminutes 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. Ihave 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 notalarmed. 'And a nice game I've found you out in to-night. You are inman's clothes, and I am ashamed of you!'

Lizzy could hardly find a voice to answer this unexpected reproach. 

'I am only partly in man's clothes, ' she faltered, shrinking back to thewall. '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 acloak blows about so, and you can't use your arms. I have got my owndress under just the same--it is only tucked in! Will you go awayupstairs and let me pass? I didn't want you to see me at such a time asthis!'

'But I have a right to see you! How do you think there can be anythingbetween us now?' Lizzy was silent. 'You are a smuggler, ' he continuedsadly. 

'I have only a share in the run, ' she said. 

'That makes no difference. Whatever did you engage in such a trade asthat 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 . . . Youhave regularly upset me, Lizzy. '

'I am sorry for that, ' Lizzy meekly replied. 

'Well now, ' said he more tenderly, 'no harm is done as yet. Won't youfor the sake of me give up this blamable and dangerous practicealtogether?'

'I must do my best to save this run, ' said she, getting rather husky inthe throat. 'I don't want to give you up--you know that; but I don'twant to lose my venture. I don't know what to do now! Why I have keptit so secret from you is that I was afraid you would be angry if youknew. '

'I should think so! I suppose if I had married you without finding thisout you'd have gone on with it just the same?'

'I don't know. I did not think so far ahead. I only went to-night toburn the folks off, because we found that the excisemen knew where thetubs were to be landed. '

'It is a pretty mess to be in altogether, is this, ' said the distractedyoung minister. 'Well, what will you do now?'

Lizzy slowly murmured the particulars of their plan, the chief of whichwere that they meant to try their luck at some other point of the shorethe next night; that three landing-places were always agreed upon beforethe run was attempted, with the understanding that, if the vessel was'burnt off' from the first point, which was Ringsworth, as it had been byher to-night, the crew should attempt to make the second, which wasLulstead Cove, on the second night; and if there, too, danger threatened, they should on the third night try the third place, which was behind aheadland further west. 

'Suppose the officers hinder them landing there too?' he said, hisattention to this interesting programme displacing for a moment hisconcern at her share in it. 

'Then we shan't try anywhere else all this dark--that's what we call thetime between moon and moon--and perhaps they'll string the tubs to astray-line, and sink 'em a little-ways from shore, and take the 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--alongthe bottom till it catch hold of the stray-line. '

The minister stood thinking; and there was no sound within doors but thetick of the clock on the stairs, and the quick breathing of Lizzy, partlyfrom her walk and partly from agitation, as she stood close to the wall, not in such complete darkness but that he could discern against itswhitewashed surface the greatcoat and broad hat which covered her. 

'Lizzy, all this is very wrong, ' he said. 'Don't you remember the lessonof 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 inNether-Moynton lives by it, and life would be so dull if it wasn't forthat, that I should not care to live at all. '

'I am nothing to live for, of course, ' he replied bitterly. 'You wouldnot think it worth while to give up this wild business and live for mealone?'

'I 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, looking thoughtfully down, she gradually moved and moved away, going into the adjoining room, andclosing the door between them. She remained there in the dark till hewas tired of waiting, and had gone up to his own chamber. 

Poor Stockdale was dreadfully depressed all the next day by thediscoveries of the night before. Lizzy was unmistakably a fascinatingyoung woman, but as a minister's wife she was hardly to be contemplated. 'If I had only stuck to father's little grocery business, instead ofgoing in for the ministry, she would have suited me beautifully!' he saidsadly, until he remembered that in that case he would never have comefrom his distant home to Nether-Moynton, and never have known her. 

The estrangement between them was not complete, but it was sufficient tokeep them out of each other's company. Once during the day he met her inthe garden-path, and said, turning a reproachful eye upon her, 'Do youpromise, Lizzy?' But she did not reply. The evening drew on, and heknew well enough that Lizzy would repeat her excursion at night--her half-offended manner had shown that she had not the slightest intention ofaltering her plans at present. He did not wish to repeat his own shareof the adventure; but, act as he would, his uneasiness on her accountincreased with the decline of day. Supposing that an accident shouldbefall her, he would never forgive himself for not being there to help, much as he disliked the idea of seeming to countenance such unlawfulescapades. 

CHAPTER V--HOW THEY WENT TO LULSTEAD COVE

As he had expected, she left the house at the same hour at night, thistime passing his door without stealth, as if she knew very well that hewould be watching, and were resolved to brave his displeasure. He wasquite ready, opened the door quickly, and reached the back door almost assoon 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 tohis 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 atsome distance apart, scarcely a word passing between them. The eveningwas rather less favourable to smuggling enterprise than the last hadbeen, the wind being lower, and the sky somewhat clear towards the north. 

'It is rather lighter, ' said Stockdale. 

''Tis, unfortunately, ' said she. 'But it is only from those few starsover there. The moon was new to-day at four o'clock, and I expectedclouds. I hope we shall be able to do it this dark, for when we have tosink 'em for long it makes the stuff taste bleachy, and folks don't likeit so well. '

Her course was different from that of the preceding night, branching offto the left over Lord's Barrow as soon as they had got out of the laneand crossed the highway. By the time they reached Chaldon Down, Stockdale, who had been in perplexed thought as to what he should say toher, decided that he would not attempt expostulation now, while she wasexcited by the adventure, but wait till it was over, and endeavour tokeep her from such practices in future. It occurred to him once ortwice, as they rambled on, that should they be surprised by theexcisemen, his situation would be more awkward than hers, for it would bedifficult to prove his true motive in coming to the spot; but the riskwas a slight consideration beside his wish to be with her. 

They now arrived at a ravine which lay on the outskirts of Chaldon, avillage two miles on their way towards the point of the shore theysought. Lizzy broke the silence this time: 'I have to wait here to meetthe carriers. I don't know if they have come yet. As I told you, we goto 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 orthree dozen heads broke the line of the slope, and a company of them atonce descended from the bushes where they had been lying in wait. Thesecarriers were men whom Lizzy and other proprietors regularly employed tobring the tubs from the boat to a hiding-place inland. They were allyoung fellows of Nether-Moynton, Chaldon, and the neighbourhood, quietand inoffensive persons, who simply engaged to carry the cargo for Lizzyand her cousin Owlett, as they would have engaged in any other labour forwhich they were fairly well paid. 

At a word from her they closed in together. 'You had better take itnow, ' she said to them; and handed to each a packet. It contained sixshillings, their remuneration for the night's undertaking, which was paidbeforehand without reference to success or failure; but, besides this, they had the privilege of selling as agents when the run was successfullymade. As soon as it was done, she said to them, 'The place is the oldone near Lulstead Cove;' the men till that moment not having been toldwhither they were bound, for obvious reasons. 'Owlett will meet youthere, ' added Lizzy. 'I shall follow behind, to see that we are notwatched. '

The carriers went on, and Stockdale and Mrs. Newberry followed at adistance 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 tome 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 morechurch-inclined, because they supply the pa'son with all the spirits herequires, 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 andsurefooted, and able to carry a heavy load a long way without beingtired. '

Stockdale sighed as she enumerated each particular, for it proved how farinvolved in the business a woman must be who was so well acquainted withits conditions and needs. And yet he felt more tenderly towards her atthis moment than he had felt all the foregoing day. Perhaps it was thather experienced manner and hold indifference stirred his admiration inspite of himself. 

'Take my arm, Lizzy, ' he murmured. 

'I don't want it, ' she said. 'Besides, we may never be to each otheragain 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 littlehesitation as if it had been day, avoiding the cart-way, and leaving thevillage of East Chaldon on the left, so as to reach the crest of the hillat a lonely trackless place not far from the ancient earthwork calledRound Pound. An hour's brisk walking brought them within sound of thesea, not many hundred yards from Lulstead Cove. Here they paused, andLizzy and Stockdale came up with them, when they went on together to theverge of the cliff. One of the men now produced an iron bar, which hedrove firmly into the soil a yard from the edge, and attached to it arope that he had uncoiled from his body. They all began to descend, partly stepping, partly sliding down the incline, as the rope slippedthrough their hands. 

'You will not go to the bottom, Lizzy?' said Stockdale 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 nextthing audible to the two at the top was the dip of heavy oars, and thedashing of waves against a boat's bow. In a moment the keel gentlytouched the shingle, and Stockdale heard the footsteps of the thirty-sixcarriers 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, oreven their waists, dry from the brine: but it was impossible to see whatthey were doing, and in a few minutes the shingle was trampled again. Theiron bar sustaining the rope, on which Stockdale's hand rested, began toswerve a little, and the carriers one by one appeared climbing up thesloping cliff; dripping audibly as they came, and sustaining themselvesby the guide-rope. Each man on reaching the top was seen to be carryinga pair of tubs, one on his back and one on his chest, the two being slungtogether by cords passing round the chine hoops, and resting on thecarrier's shoulders. Some of the stronger men carried three by puttingan extra one on the top behind, but the customary load was a pair, thesebeing quite weighty enough to give their bearer the sensation of havingchest 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 shoretill we be safe off. ' Then, without waiting for the rest, the foremostmen plunged across the down; and, when the last had ascended, Lizzypulled up the rope, wound it round her arm, wriggled the bar from thesod, and turned to follow the carriers. 

'You are very anxious about Owlett's safety, ' said the minister. 

'Was there ever such a man!' said Lizzy. 'Why, isn't he my cousin?'

'Yes. Well, it is a bad night's work, ' said Stockdale heavily. 'ButI'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 towardsthe downs; and the moan of the sea was heard no more. 

'Is this what you meant the other day when you spoke of having businesswith 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 andpursuits were so akin as Lizzy's and Owlett's, and where risks wereshared, as with them, in every undertaking, there would be a peculiarappropriateness in her answering Owlett's standing question on matrimonyin the affirmative. This did not soothe Stockdale, its tendency beingrather to stimulate in him an effort to make the pair as inappropriate aspossible, and win her away from this nocturnal crew to correctness ofconduct and a minister's parlour in some far-removed inland county. 

They had been walking near enough to the file of carriers for Stockdaleto perceive that, when they got into the road to the village, they splitup into two companies of unequal size, each of which made off in adirection of its own. One company, the smaller of the two, went towardsthe church, and by the time that Lizzy and Stockdale reached their ownhouse these men had scaled the churchyard wall, and were proceedingnoiselessly over the grass within. 

'I see that Owlett has arranged for one batch to be put in the churchagain, ' observed Lizzy. 'Do you remember my taking you there the firstnight you came?'

'Yes, of course, ' said Stockdale. 'No wonder you had permission tobroach the tubs--they were his, I suppose?'

'No, they were not--they were mine; I had permission from myself. Theday after that they went 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 timebefore 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, ' saidOwlett. 'The place is watched. We must sling the apple-tree in theorchet if there's time. We can't put any more under the church lumberthan I have sent on there, and my mixen hev already more in en than issafe. '

'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 doanything had better get indoors and not be zeed. '

While Owlett thus conversed, in a tone so full of contraband anxiety andso free from lover's jealousy, the men who followed him had beendescending one by one from the hedge; and it unfortunately happened thatwhen the hindmost took his leap, the cord slipped which sustained histubs: the result was that both the kegs fell into the road, one of thembeing stove in by the blow. 

''Od drown it all!' said Owlett, rushing back. 

'It is worth a good deal, I suppose?' said Stockdale. 

'O no--about two guineas and half to us now, ' said Lizzy excitedly. 'Itisn't that--it is the smell! It is so blazing strong before it has beenlowered by water, that it smells dreadfully when spilt in the road likethat! I do hope Latimer won't pass by till it is gone off. '

Owlett and one or two others picked up the burst tub and began to scrapeand trample over the spot, to disperse the liquor as much as possible;and then they all entered the gate of Owlett's orchard, which adjoinedLizzy's garden on the right. Stockdale did not care to follow them, forseveral on recognizing him had looked wonderingly at his presence, thoughthey said nothing. Lizzy left his side and went to the bottom of thegarden, looking over the hedge into the orchard, where the men could bedimly seen bustling about, and apparently hiding the tubs. All was donenoiselessly, and without a light; and when it was over they dispersed indifferent directions, those who had taken their cargoes to the churchhaving already gone off to their homes. 

Lizzy returned to the garden-gate, over which Stockdale was stillabstractedly leaning. 'It is all finished: I am going indoors now, ' shesaid 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' hoofsbroke upon the ear, and it seemed to come from the point where the trackacross 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 bettergo indoors. '

They entered the house, and Lizzy bolted the door. 'Please don't get alight, Mr. Stockdale, ' she said. 

'Of course I will not, ' said he. 

'I thought you might be on the side of the king, ' said Lizzy, withfaintest sarcasm. 

'I am, ' said Stockdale. 'But, Lizzy Newberry, I love you, and you knowit perfectly well; and you ought to know, if you do not, what I havesuffered in my conscience on your account these last few days!'

'I guess very well, ' she said hurriedly. 'Yet I don't see why. Ah, youare better than I!'

The trotting of the horses seemed to have again died away, and the pairof listeners touched each other's fingers in the cold 'Good-night' ofthose whom something seriously divided. They were on the landing, butbefore they had taken three steps apart, the tramp of the horsemensuddenly revived, almost close to the house. Lizzy turned to thestaircase window, opened the casement about an inch, and put her faceclose to the aperture. 'Yes, one of 'em is Latimer, ' she whispered. 'Healways rides a white horse. One would think it was the last colour for aman 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 hishorse, and said something to his companion which neither Stockdale norLizzy could hear. Its drift was, however, soon made evident, for theother man stopped also; and sharply turning the horses' heads theycautiously retraced their steps. When they were again opposite Mrs. Newberry's garden, Latimer dismounted, and the man on the dark horse didthe same. 

Lizzy and Stockdale, intently listening and observing the proceedings, naturally put their heads as close as possible to the slit formed by theslightly opened casement; and thus it occurred that at last their cheekscame positively into contact. They went on listening, as if they did notknow of the singular incident which had happened to their faces, and thepressure of each to each rather increased than lessened with the lapse oftime. 

They could hear the excisemen sniffing the air like hounds as they pacedslowly along. When they reached the spot where the tub had burst, bothstopped on the instant. 

'Ay, ay, 'tis quite strong here, ' said the second officer. 'Shall weknock at the door?'

'Well, no, ' said Latimer. 'Maybe this is only a trick to put us off thescent. They wouldn't kick up this stink anywhere near theirhiding-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 wrongway. 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 theyhave storages about here, but we can do nothing by this owl's light. Wewill look round the parish and see if everybody is in bed, John; and ifall is quiet, we will do as I say. '

They went on, and the two inside the window could hear them passingleisurely through the whole village, the street of which curved round atthe bottom and entered the turnpike road at another junction. This waythe 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 diverther attention from their own tender incident by the casement, which hewished to be passed over as a thing rather dreamt of than done. 'O, nothing, ' she replied, with as much coolness as she could command underher disappointment at his manner. 'We often have such storms as this. You would not be frightened if you knew what fools they are. Fancyriding o' horseback through the place: of course they will hear and seenobody while they make that noise; but they are always afraid to get off, in case some of our fellows should burst out upon 'em, and tie them up tothe 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 hereyes; and that not because of the alertness of the riding-officers. 

CHAPTER VI--THE GREAT SEARCH AT NETHER-MOYNTON

Stockdale was so excited by the events of the evening, and the dilemmathat 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 asthe grey light began to touch ever so faintly the whiter objects in hisbedroom he arose, dressed himself, and went downstairs into the road. 

The village was already astir. Several of the carriers had heard thewell-known tramp of Latimer's horse while they were undressing in thedark that night, and had already communicated with each other and Owletton the subject. The only doubt seemed to be about the safety of thosetubs which had been left under the church gallery-stairs, and after ashort discussion at the corner of the mill, it was agreed that theseshould be removed before it got lighter, and hidden in the middle of adouble hedge bordering the adjoining field. However, before anythingcould be carried into effect, the footsteps of many men were heard comingdown the lane from the highway. 

'Damn it, here they be, ' said Owlett, who, having already drawn the hatchand started his mill for the day, stood stolidly at the mill-door coveredwith flour, as if the interest of his whole soul was bound up in theshaking walls around him. 

The two or three with whom he had been talking dispersed to their usualwork, and when the excise officers, and the formidable body of men theyhad hired, reached the village cross, between the mill and Mrs. Newberry's house, the village wore the natural aspect of a placebeginning 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. Wehave got the day before us, and 'tis hard if we can't light upon 'em andget 'em to Budmouth Custom-house before night. First we will try thefuel-houses, and then we'll work our way into the chimmers, and then tothe ricks and stables, and so creep round. You have nothing but yournoses to guide ye, mind, so use 'em to-day if you never did in your livesbefore. '

Then the search began. Owlett, during the early part, watched from hismill-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, rodeabout with one eye on his fields and the other on Latimer and hismyrmidons, prepared to put them off the scent if he should be asked aquestion. Stockdale, who was no smuggler at all, felt more anxiety thanthe worst of them, and went about his studies with a heavy heart, comingfrequently to the door to ask Lizzy some question or other on theconsequences 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 hardto say who put any tubs there if they should be found. '

There was never such a tremendous sniffing known as that which took placein Nether-Moynton parish and its vicinity this day. All was donemethodically, and mostly on hands and knees. At different hours of theday they had different plans. From daybreak to breakfast-time theofficers used their sense of smell in a direct and straightforward manneronly, pausing nowhere but at such places as the tubs might be supposed tobe secreted in at that very moment, pending their removal on thefollowing night. Among the places tested and examined were

Hollow trees Cupboards CulvertsPotato-graves Clock-cases HedgerowsFuel-houses Chimney-flues Faggot-ricksBedrooms Rainwater-butts HaystacksApple-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 besupposed to have come in contact with the tubs in their removal from theshore, such garments being usually tainted with the spirit, owing to itsoozing between the staves. They now sniffed at -

Smock-frocks Smiths' and shoemakers' apronsOld shirts and waistcoats Knee-naps and hedging-glovesCoats and hats TarpaulinsBreeches and leggings Market-cloaksWomen's shawls and gowns Scarecrows

And as soon as the mid-day meal was over, they pushed their search intoplaces where the spirits might have been thrown away in alarm:-

Horse-ponds Mixens Sinks in yardsStable-drains Wet ditches Road-scrapings, andCinder-heaps Cesspools Back-door gutters. 

But still these indefatigable excisemen discovered nothing more than theoriginal tell-tale smell in the road opposite Lizzy's house, which evenyet had not passed off. 

'I'll tell ye what it is, men, ' said Latimer, about three o'clock in theafternoon, '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 whichhad passed into each one's nostril had rendered it nearly as insensibleas a flue. However, after a moment's hesitation, they prepared to startanew, except three, whose power of smell had quite succumbed under theexcessive wear and tear of the day. 

By this time not a male villager was to be seen in the parish. Owlettwas not at his mill, the farmers were not in their fields, the parson wasnot in his garden, the smith had left his forge, and the wheelwright'sshop was silent. 

'Where the divil are the folk gone?' said Latimer, waking up to the factof their absence, and looking round. 'I'll have 'em up for this! Whydon't they come and help us? There's not a man about the place but theMethodist parson, and he's an old woman. I demand assistance in theking's name!'

'We must find the jineral public afore we can demand that, ' said hislieutenant. 

'Well, well, we shall do better without 'em, ' said Latimer, who changedhis moods at a moment's notice. 'But there's great cause of suspicion inthis silence and this keeping out of sight, and I'll bear it in mind. Nowwe 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 hehad been leaning, was rather alarmed, and thought it a mistake of thevillagers to keep so completely out of the way. He himself, like theexcisemen, had been wondering for the last half-hour what could havebecome of them. Some labourers were of necessity engaged in distantfields, but the master-workmen should have been at home; though one andall, after just showing themselves at their shops, had apparently goneoff 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. 'Ihave been listening to the officers, and they are going to search theorchard over again, and then every nook in the church. '

Lizzy looked alarmed for the first time. 'Will you go and tell ourfolk?' she said. 'They ought to be let know. ' Seeing his consciencestruggling 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 wallat the same time that the preventive-men were ascending the road to theorchard. Stockdale could do no less than follow her. By the time thatshe reached the tower entrance he was at her side, and they enteredtogether. 

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, andthence ascending by a ladder to a square trap-door in the floor of thebell-loft, above which a permanent ladder was fixed, passing through thebells to a hole in the roof. When Lizzy and Stockdale reached thegallery and looked up, nothing but the trap-door and the five holes forthe 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 thismoment through a knot-hole in that trap-door. '

And as she spoke the trap opened, and the dark line of the ladder wasseen descending against the white-washed wall. When it touched thebottom Lizzy dragged it to its place, and said, 'If you'll go up, I'llfollow. '

The young man ascended, and presently found himself among consecratedbells for the first time in his life, nonconformity having been in theStockdale blood for some generations. He eyed them uneasily, and lookedround 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. 

'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 easyascent, leading towards the hole through which the pale sky appeared, andinto the open air. Owlett remained behind for a moment, to pull up thelower ladder. 

'Keep down your heads, ' said a voice, as soon as they set foot on theflat. 

Stockdale here beheld all the missing parishioners, lying on theirstomachs on the tower roof, except a few who, elevated on their hands andknees, were peeping through the embrasures of the parapet. Stockdale didthe same, and saw the village lying like a map below him, over whichmoved the figures of the excisemen, each foreshortened to a crablikeobject, the crown of his hat forming a circular disc in the centre ofhim. Some of the men had turned their heads when the young preacher'sfigure 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'sonshould see him a trespassing here in his tower, 'twould be none thebetter for we, seeing how 'a do hate chapel-members. He'd never buy atub 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 goingon--where all good folks ought to be, and this young man likewise. '

'Well, he has brought some news, ' said Lizzy. 'They are going to searchthe orchet and church; can we do anything if they should find?'

'Yes, ' said her cousin Owlett. 'That's what we've been talking o', andwe have settled our line. Well, 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 andthither, were pausing in the middle, where a tree smaller than the restwas growing. They drew closer, and bent lower than ever upon the ground. 

'O, my tubs!' said Lizzy faintly, as she peered through the parapet atthem. 

'They have got 'em, 'a b'lieve, ' said Owlett. 

The interest in the movements of the officers was so keen that not asingle eye was looking in any other direction; but at that moment a shoutfrom the church beneath them attracted the attention of the smugglers, asit did also of the party in the orchard, who sprang to their feet andwent towards the churchyard wall. At the same time those of theGovernment men who had entered the church unperceived by the smugglerscried aloud, 'Here be some of 'em at last. '

The smugglers remained in a blank silence, uncertain whether 'some of'em' meant tubs or men; but again peeping cautiously over the edge of thetower they learnt that tubs were the things descried; and soon thesefated articles were brought one by one into the middle of the churchyardfrom 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 excisemen had, in fact, begun to pile up thetubs on a large stone slab which was fixed there; and when all werebrought out from the tower, two or three of the men were left standing bythem, the rest of the party again proceeding to the orchard. 

The interest of the smugglers in the next manoeuvres of their enemiesbecame painfully intense. Only about thirty tubs had been secreted inthe lumber of the tower, but seventy were hidden in the orchard, makingup all that they had brought ashore as yet, the remainder of the cargohaving been tied to a sinker and dropped overboard for another night'soperations. The excisemen, having re-entered the orchard, acted as ifthey were positive that here lay hidden the rest of the tubs, which theywere determined to find before nightfall. They spread themselves outround the field, and advancing on all fours as before, went anew roundevery apple-tree in the enclosure. The young tree in the middle againled them to pause, and at length the whole company gathered there in away which signified that a second chain of reasoning had led to the sameresults as the first. 

When they had examined the sod hereabouts for some minutes, one of themen rose, ran to a disused porch of the church where tools were kept, andreturned with the sexton's pickaxe and shovel, with which they set towork. 

'Are they really buried there?' said the minister, for the grass was sogreen and uninjured that it was difficult to believe it had beendisturbed. The smugglers were too interested to reply, and presentlythey saw, to their chagrin, the officers stand several on each side ofthe tree; and, stooping and applying their hands to the soil, they bodilylifted the tree and the turf around it. The apple-tree now showed itselfto be growing in a shallow box, with handles for lifting at each of thefour sides. Under the site of the tree a square hole was revealed, andan exciseman went and looked down. 

'It is all up now, ' said Owlett quietly. 'And now all of ye get downbefore they notice we are here; and be ready for our next move. I hadbetter bide here till dark, or they may take me on suspicion, as 'tis onmy 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 knownothing at all. The chaps will do the rest. '

The ladder was replaced, and all but Owlett descended, the men passingoff one by one at the back of the church, and vanishing on theirrespective 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 themhad widened yet another degree. 

'I am not going home, ' she said. 'I have a little thing to do before Igo in. Martha Sarah will get your tea. '

'O, I don't mean on that account, ' said Stockdale. 'What can you have todo further in this unhallowed affair?'

'Only a little, ' she said. 

'What is that? I'll go with you. '

'No, I shall go by myself. Will you please go indoors? I shall be therein less than an hour. '

'You are not going to run any danger, Lizzy?' said the young man, histenderness reasserting itself. 

'None whatever--worth mentioning, ' answered she, and went down towardsthe Cross. 

Stockdale entered the garden gate, and stood behind it looking on. Theexcisemen were still busy in the orchard, and at last he was tempted toenter, and watch their proceedings. When he came closer he found thatthe secret cellar, of whose existence he had been totally unaware, wasformed by timbers placed across from side to side about a foot under theground, and grassed over. 

The excisemen looked up at Stockdale's fair and downy countenance, andevidently thinking him above suspicion, went on with their work again. Assoon 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 waswholly dismantled and shapeless, the apple-tree lying with its roots highto the air. But the hole which had in its time held so much contrabandmerchandize was never completely filled up, either then or afterwards, adepression in the greensward marking the spot to this day. 

CHAPTER VII--THE WALK TO WARM'ELL CROSS AND AFTERWARDS

As the goods had all to be carried to Budmouth that night, theexcisemen's next object was to find horses and carts for the journey, andthey went about the village for that purpose. Latimer strode hither andthither with a lump of chalk in his hand, marking broad-arrows sovigorously on every vehicle and set of harness that he came across, thatit 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 forGovernment purposes. Stockdale, who had had enough of the scene, turnedindoors thoughtful and depressed. Lizzy was already there, having comein at the back, though she had not yet taken off her bonnet. She lookedtired, and her mood was not much brighter than his own. They had butlittle to say to each other; and the minister went away and attempted toread; but at this he could not succeed, and he shook the little bell fortea. 

Lizzy herself brought in the tray, the girl having run off into thevillage during the afternoon, too full of excitement at the proceedingsto remember her state of life. However, almost before the sad lovers hadsaid anything to each other, Martha came in in a steaming state. 

'O, there's such a stoor, Mrs. Newberry and Mr. Stockdale! The king'sexcisemen can't get the carts ready nohow at all! They pulled ThomasBallam'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 therewas 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 atthe dairyman's cart, and he's got none neither! They have gone now tothe blacksmith's to get some made, but he's nowhere to be found!'

Stockdale looked at Lizzy, who blushed very slightly, and went out of theroom, followed by Martha Sarah. But before they had got through thepassage there was a rap at the front door, and Stockdale recognizedLatimer's voice addressing Mrs. Newberry, who had turned back. 

'For God's sake, Mrs. Newberry, have you seen Hardman the blacksmith upthis way? If we could get hold of him, we'd e'en a'most drag him by thehair of his head to his anvil, where he ought to be. '

'He's an idle man, Mr. Latimer, ' said Lizzy archly. 'What do you wanthim for?'

'Why, there isn't a horse in the place that has got more than three shoeson, and some have only two. The waggon-wheels be without strakes, andthere's no linch-pins to the carts. What with that, and the bother aboutevery set of harness being out of order, we shan't be off beforenightfall--upon my soul we shan't. 'Tis a rough lot, Mrs. Newberry, thatyou'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'tdeserve to be whipped. '

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 hewent on in this direction, and Hardman, hearing the exciseman's steps, found curiosity too strong for prudence. He peeped out from the bush atthe very moment that Latimer's glance was on it. There was nothing leftfor him to do but to come forward with unconcern. 

'I've been looking for you for the last hour!' said Latimer with a glarein his eye. 

'Sorry to hear that, ' said Hardman. 'I've been out for a stroll, to lookfor more hid tubs, to deliver 'em up to Gover'ment. '

'O yes, Hardman, we know it, ' said Latimer, with withering sarcasm. 'Weknow that you'll deliver 'em up to Gover'ment. We know that all theparish is helping us, and have been all day! Now you please walk alongwith 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 thesmithy the ring of a hammer not very briskly swung. However, the cartsand horses were got into some sort of travelling condition, but it wasnot until after the clock had struck six, when the muddy roads wereglistening under the horizontal light of the fading day. The smuggledtubs were soon packed into the vehicles, and Latimer, with three of hisassistants, drove slowly out of the village in the direction of the portof Budmouth, some considerable number of miles distant, the otherexcisemen being left to watch for the remainder of the cargo, which theyknew to have been sunk somewhere between Ringsworth and Lulstead Cove, and to unearth Owlett, the only person clearly implicated by thediscovery of the cave. 

Women and children stood at the doors as the carts, each chalked with theGovernment pitchfork, passed in the increasing twilight; and as theystood they looked at the confiscated property with a melancholyexpression that told only too plainly the relation which they bore to thetrade. 

'Well, Lizzy, ' said Stockdale, when the crackle of the wheels had nearlydied away. 'This is a fit finish to your adventure. I am truly thankfulthat 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 ifwaiting for him to say something more. 

'You don't offer to come with me, ' she added at last. 'I suppose that'sbecause you hate me after all this?'

'Can you say it, Lizzy, when you know I only want to save you from suchpractices? Come with you of course I will, if it is only to take care ofyou. But why will you go out again?'

'Because I cannot rest indoors. Something is happening, and I must knowwhat. Now, come!' And they went into the dusk together. 

When they reached the turnpike-road she turned to the right, and he soonperceived that they were following the direction of the excisemen andtheir load. He had given her his arm, and every now and then shesuddenly pulled it back, to signify that he was to halt a moment andlisten. They had walked rather quickly along the first quarter of amile, and on the second or third time of standing still she said, 'I hearthem 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. '

'Ah, ' said he, a light breaking upon him. 'Something desperate is to beattempted!--and now I remember there was not a man about the village whenwe left. '

'Hark!' she murmured. The noise of the cartwheels had stopped, and givenplace to another sort of sound. 

''Tis a scuffle!' said Stockdale. 'There'll be murder! Lizzy, let go myarm; I am going on. On my conscience, I must not stay here and donothing!'

'There'll be no murder, and not even a broken head, ' she said. 'Our menare thirty to four of them: no harm will be done at all. '

'Then there is an attack!' exclaimed Stockdale; 'and you knew it was tobe. Why should you side with men who break the laws like this?'

'Why should you side with men who take from country traders what theyhave 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 thirtyshillings for every one of the tubs before they were put on board atCherbourg, and if a king who is nothing to us sends his people to stealour property, we have a right to steal it back again. '

Stockdale did not stop to argue the matter, but went quickly in thedirection of the noise, Lizzy keeping at his side. 'Don't you interfere, will you, dear Richard?' she said anxiously, as they drew near. 'Don'tlet 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 gotmuch further the noise of the cartwheels began again; and Stockdale soonfound that they were coming towards him. In another minute the threecarts came up, and Stockdale and Lizzy stood in the ditch to let thempass. 

Instead of being conducted by four men, as had happened when they wentout of the village, the horses and carts were now accompanied by a bodyof from twenty to thirty, all of whom, as Stockdale perceived to hisastonishment, had blackened faces. Among them walked six or eight hugefemale figures, whom, from their wide strides, Stockdale guessed to bemen in disguise. As soon as the party discerned Lizzy and her companionfour or five fell back, and when the carts had passed, came close to thepair. 

'There is no walking up this way for the present, ' said one of the gauntwomen, 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 asOwlett's. 

'Why not?' said Stockdale. 'This is the public highway. '

'Now look here, youngster, ' said Owlett. 'O, 'tis the Methodistparson!--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 comrades. Stockdale and Lizzyalso turned back. 'I wish all this hadn't been forced upon us, ' she saidregretfully. 'But if those excisemen had got off with the tubs, half thepeople 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, 'Idon't think I can go back like this. Those four poor excisemen may bemurdered for all I know. '

'Murdered!' said Lizzy impatiently. 'We don't do murder here. '

'Well, I shall go as far as Warm'ell Cross to see, ' said Stockdaledecisively; and, without wishing her safe home or anything else, theminister turned back. Lizzy stood looking at him till his form wasabsorbed in the shades; and then, with sadness, she went in the directionof Nether-Moynton. 

The road was lonely, and after nightfall at this time of the year therewas often not a passer for hours. Stockdale pursued his way withouthearing a sound beyond that of his own footsteps; and in due time hepassed beneath the trees of the plantation which surrounded the Warm'ellCross-road. Before he had reached the point of intersection he heardvoices from the thicket. 

'Hoi-hoi-hoi! Help, help!'

The voices were not at all feeble or despairing, but they wereunmistakably anxious. Stockdale had no weapon, and before plunging intothe 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'sthe matter--where are you?'

'Here, ' answered the voices; and, pushing through the brambles in thatdirection, he came near the objects of his search. 

'Why don't you come forward?' said Stockdale. 

'We be tied to the trees!'

'Who are you?'

'Poor Will Latimer the exciseman!' said one plaintively. 'Just come andcut these cords, there's a good man. We were afraid nobody would pass byto-night. '

Stockdale soon loosened them, upon which they stretched their limbs andstood at their ease. 

'The rascals!' said Latimer, getting now into a rage, though he hadseemed quite meek when Stockdale first came up. ''Tis the same set offellows. I know they were Moynton chaps to a man. '

'But we can't swear to 'em, ' said another. 'Not one of 'em spoke. '

'What are you going to do?' said Stockdale. 

'I'd fain go back to Moynton, and have at 'em again!' said Latimer. 

'So would we!' said his comrades. 

'Fight till we die!' said Latimer. 

'We will, we will!' said his men. 

'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? Andproof is a hard thing. '

'So it is, ' said the rest. 

'And therefore we won't do nothing at all, ' said Latimer, with completedispassionateness. 'For my part, I'd sooner be them than we. Theclitches of my arms are burning like fire from the cords those twostrapping women tied round 'em. My opinion is, now I have had time tothink o't, that you may serve your Gover'ment at too high a price. Forthese 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, thankingStockdale 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 painfulkind. As soon as he got into the house, and before entering his ownrooms, he advanced to the door of the little back parlour in which Lizzyusually sat with her mother. He found her there alone. Stockdale wentforward, and, like a man in a dream, looked down upon the table thatstood between him and the young woman, who had her bonnet and cloak stillon. As he did not speak, she looked up from her chair at him, withmisgiving 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 straightin here. '

'If your men can manage to get off with those tubs, it will be a greatprofit to you, I suppose?'

'A share will be mine, a share my cousin Owlett's, a share to each of thetwo farmers, and a share divided amongst the men who helped us. '

'And you still think, ' he went on slowly, 'that you will not give thisbusiness up?'

Lizzy rose, and put her hand upon his shoulder. 'Don't ask that, ' shewhispered. 'You don't know what you are asking. I must tell you, thoughI meant not to do it. What I make by that trade is all I have to keep mymother and myself with. '

He was astonished. 'I did not dream of such a thing, ' he said. 'I wouldrather have swept the streets, had I been you. What is money comparedwith a clear conscience?'

'My conscience is clear. I know my mother, but the king I have neverseen. His dues are nothing to me. But it is a great deal to me that mymother 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 itby myself. I would rather not answer now. '

She reserved her answer till the next day, and came into his room with asolemn face. 'I cannot do what you wished!' she said passionately. 'Itis too much to ask. My whole life ha' been passed in this way. ' Herwords and manner showed that before entering she had been struggling withherself 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 myprofession a mockery. You know how I love you, and what I would do foryou; but this one thing I cannot do. '

'But why should you belong to that profession?' she burst out. 'I havegot this large house; why can't you marry me, and live here with us, andnot be a Methodist preacher any more? I assure you, Richard, it is noharm, and I wish you could only see it as I do! We only carry it on inwinter: in summer it is never done at all. It stirs up one's dull lifeat this time o' the year, and gives excitement, which I have got so usedto now that I should hardly know how to do 'ithout it. At nights, whenthe wind blows, instead of being dull and stupid, and not noticingwhether it do blow or not, your mind is afield, even if you are notafield yourself; and you are wondering how the chaps are getting on; andyou walk up and down the room, and look out o' window, and then you goout yourself, and know your way about as well by night as by day, andhave hairbreadth escapes from old Latimer and his fellows, who are toostupid 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 todrop it before it is worse. '

She shook her head. 'No, I must go on as I have begun. I was born toit. It is in my blood, and I can't be cured. O, Richard, you cannotthink what a hard thing you have asked, and how sharp you try me when youput me between this and my love for 'ee!'

Stockdale was leaning with his elbow on the mantelpiece, his hands overhis eyes. 'We ought never to have met, Lizzy, ' he said. 'It was an illday for us! I little thought there was anything so hopeless andimpossible in our engagement as this. Well, it is too late now to regretconsequences in this way. I have had the happiness of seeing you andknowing you at least. '

'You dissent from Church, and I dissent from State, ' she said. 'And Idon't see why we are not well matched. '

He smiled sadly, while Lizzy remained looking down, her eyes beginning tooverflow. 

That was an unhappy evening for both of them, and the days that followedwere unhappy days. Both she and he went mechanically about theiremployments, and his depression was marked in the village by more thanone of his denomination with whom he came in contact. But Lizzy, whopassed her days indoors, was unsuspected of being the cause: for it wasgenerally understood that a quiet engagement to marry existed between herand her cousin Owlett, and had existed for some time. 

Thus uncertainly the week passed on; till one morning Stockdale said toher: '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 betterfor us both that I should not stay after what has happened. In fact, Icouldn't stay here, and look on you from day to day, without becomingweak and faltering in my course. I have just heard of an arrangement bywhich the other minister can arrive here in about a week; and let me goelsewhere. '

That he had all this time continued so firmly fixed in his resolutioncame upon her as a grievous surprise. 'You never loved me!' she saidbitterly. 

'I might say the same, ' he returned; 'but I will not. Grant me onefavour. Come and hear my last sermon on the day before I go. '

Lizzy, who was a church-goer on Sunday mornings, frequently attendedStockdale's chapel in the evening with the rest of the double-minded; andshe promised. 

It became known that Stockdale was going to leave, and a good many peopleoutside his own sect were sorry to hear it. The intervening days flewrapidly away, and on the evening of the Sunday which preceded the morningof his departure Lizzy sat in the chapel to hear him for the last time. The little building was full to overflowing, and he took up the subjectwhich all had expected, that of the contraband trade so extensivelypractised among them. His hearers, in laying his words to their ownhearts, did not perceive that they were most particularly directedagainst Lizzy, till the sermon waxed warm, and Stockdale nearly brokedown with emotion. In truth his own earnestness, and her sad eyeslooking up at him, were too much for the young man's equanimity. Hehardly knew how he ended. He saw Lizzy, as through a mist, turn and goaway with the rest of the congregation; and shortly afterwards followedher home. 

She invited him to supper, and they sat down alone, her mother having, aswas usual with her on Sunday nights, gone to bed early. 

'We will part friends, won't we?' said Lizzy, with forced gaiety, andnever 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, andthe indifferent conversation could no longer be continued, he arose andtook her hand. 'Lizzy, ' he said, 'do you say we must part--do you?'

'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 returnedhis kiss. 'I shall go early, ' he said hurriedly. 'I shall not see youagain. '

And he did leave early. He fancied, when stepping forth into the greymorning light, to mount the van which was to carry him away, that he sawa face between the parted curtains of Lizzy's window, but the light wasfaint, and the panes glistened with wet; so he could not be sure. Stockdale mounted the vehicle, and was gone; and on the following Sundaythe new minister preached in the chapel of the Moynton Wesleyans. 

One day, two years after the parting, Stockdale, now settled in a midlandtown, came into Nether-Moynton by carrier in the original way. Joggingalong in the van that afternoon he had put questions to the driver, andthe answers that he received interested the minister deeply. The resultof them was that he went without the least hesitation to the door of hisformer lodging. It was about six o'clock in the evening, and the sametime of year as when he had left; now, too, the ground was damp andglistening, the west was bright, and Lizzy's snowdrops were raising theirheads in the border under the wall. 

Lizzy must have caught sight of him from the window, for by the time thathe reached the door she was there holding it open: and then, as if shehad not sufficiently considered her act of coming out, she drew herselfback, saying with some constraint, 'Mr. Stockdale!'

'You knew it was, ' said Stockdale, taking her hand. 'I wrote to say Ishould call. '

'Yes, but you did not say when, ' she answered. 

'I did not. I was not quite sure when my business would lead me to theseparts. '

'You only came because business brought you near?'

'Well, that is the fact; but I have often thought I should like to comeon purpose to see you . . . But what's all this that has happened? Itold 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. Theofficers have blood-money for taking a man dead or alive, and the tradeis 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, whenthey tried to take him. It is a perfect miracle that he lived throughit; and it is a wonder that I was not killed. I was shot in the hand. Itwas not by aim; the shot was really meant for my cousin; but I wasbehind, looking on as usual, and the bullet came to me. It bledterribly, 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 themeads to Kingsbere, and hid him in a barn, dressing his wound as well asthey could, till he was so far recovered as to be able to get about. Hehad gied up his mill for some time; and at last he got to Bristol, andtook 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 amvery poor now, and my mother has been dead these twelve months . . . Butwon't you come in, Mr. Stockdale?'

Stockdale went in; and it is to be supposed that they came to anunderstanding; for a fortnight later there was a sale of Lizzy'sfurniture, 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 forhimself in his native county, where she studied her duties as aminister's wife with praiseworthy assiduity. It is said that in afteryears she wrote an excellent tract called Render unto Caesar; or, TheRepentant Villagers, in which her own experience was anonymously used asthe introductory story. Stockdale got it printed, after making somecorrections, and putting in a few powerful sentences of his own; and manyhundreds of copies were distributed by the couple in the course of theirmarried life. 

April 1879.