Complete Works of Thomas Hardy (Illustrated)

by Thomas Hardy

  Now, as Fancy listlessly noted these proceedings of the dame, she began to reconsider an old subject that lay uppermost in her heart. Since the interview between her father and Dick, the days had been melancholy days for her. Geoffrey’s firm opposition to the notion of Dick as a son-in-law was more than she had expected. She had frequently seen her lover since that time, it is true, and had loved him more for the opposition than she would have otherwise dreamt of doing — which was a happiness of a certain kind. Yet, though love is thus an end in itself, it must be believed to be the means to another end if it is to assume the rosy hues of an unalloyed pleasure. And such a belief Fancy and Dick were emphatically denied just now.

  Elizabeth Endorfield had a repute among women which was in its nature something between distinction and notoriety. It was founded on the following items of character. She was shrewd and penetrating; her house stood in a lonely place; she never went to church; she wore a red cloak; she always retained her bonnet indoors and she had a pointed chin. Thus far her attributes were distinctly Satanic; and those who looked no further called her, in plain terms, a witch. But she was not gaunt, nor ugly in the upper part of her face, nor particularly strange in manner; so that, when her more intimate acquaintances spoke of her the term was softened, and she became simply a Deep Body, who was as long-headed as she was high. It may be stated that Elizabeth belonged to a class of suspects who were gradually losing their mysterious characteristics under the administration of the young vicar; though, during the long reign of Mr. Grinham, the parish of Mellstock had proved extremely favourable to the growth of witches.

  While Fancy was revolving all this in her mind, and putting it to herself whether it was worth while to tell her troubles to Elizabeth, and ask her advice in getting out of them, the witch spoke.

  “You be down — proper down,” she said suddenly, dropping another potato into the bucket.

  Fancy took no notice.

  “About your young man.”

  Fancy reddened. Elizabeth seemed to be watching her thoughts. Really, one would almost think she must have the powers people ascribed to her.

  “Father not in the humour for’t, hey?” Another potato was finished and flung in. “Ah, I know about it. Little birds tell me things that people don’t dream of my knowing.”

  Fancy was desperate about Dick, and here was a chance — O, such a wicked chance — of getting help; and what was goodness beside love!

  “I wish you’d tell me how to put him in the humour for it?” she said.

  “That I could soon do,” said the witch quietly.

  “Really? O, do; anyhow — I don’t care — so that it is done! How could I do it, Mrs. Endorfield?”

  “Nothing so mighty wonderful in it.”

  “Well, but how?”

  “By witchery, of course!” said Elizabeth.

  “No!” said Fancy.

  “‘Tis, I assure ye. Didn’t you ever hear I was a witch?”

  “Well,” hesitated Fancy, “I have heard you called so.”

  “And you believed it?”

  “I can’t say that I did exactly believe it, for ‘tis very horrible and wicked; but, O, how I do wish it was possible for you to be one!”

  “So I am. And I’ll tell you how to bewitch your father to let you marry Dick Dewy.”

  “Will it hurt him, poor thing?”

  “Hurt who?”

  “Father.”

  “No; the charm is worked by common sense, and the spell can only be broke by your acting stupidly.”

  Fancy looked rather perplexed, and Elizabeth went on:

  “This fear of Lizz — whatever ‘tis —

  By great and small;

  She makes pretence to common sense,

  And that’s all.

  “You must do it like this.” The witch laid down her knife and potato, and then poured into Fancy’s ear a long and detailed list of directions, glancing up from the corner of her eye into Fancy’s face with an expression of sinister humour. Fancy’s face brightened, clouded, rose and sank, as the narrative proceeded. “There,” said Elizabeth at length, stooping for the knife and another potato, “do that, and you’ll have him by-long and by-late, my dear.”

  “And do it I will!” said Fancy.

  She then turned her attention to the external world once more. The rain continued as usual, but the wind had abated considerably during the discourse. Judging that it was now possible to keep an umbrella erect, she pulled her hood again over her bonnet, bade the witch good-bye, and went her way.

  CHAPTER IV:

  THE SPELL

  Mrs. Endorfield’s advice was duly followed.

  “I be proper sorry that your daughter isn’t so well as she might be,” said a Mellstock man to Geoffrey one morning.

  “But is there anything in it?” said Geoffrey uneasily, as he shifted his hat to the right. “I can’t understand the report. She didn’t complain to me a bit when I saw her.”

  “No appetite at all, they say.”

  Geoffrey crossed to Mellstock and called at the school that afternoon. Fancy welcomed him as usual, and asked him to stay and take tea with her.

  “I be’n’t much for tea, this time o’ day,” he said, but stayed.

  During the meal he watched her narrowly. And to his great consternation discovered the following unprecedented change in the healthy girl — that she cut herself only a diaphanous slice of bread-and-butter, and, laying it on her plate, passed the meal-time in breaking it into pieces, but eating no more than about one-tenth of the slice. Geoffrey hoped she would say something about Dick, and finish up by weeping, as she had done after the decision against him a few days subsequent to the interview in the garden. But nothing was said, and in due time Geoffrey departed again for Yalbury Wood.

  “‘Tis to be hoped poor Miss Fancy will be able to keep on her school,” said Geoffrey’s man Enoch to Geoffrey the following week, as they were shovelling up ant-hills in the wood.

  Geoffrey stuck in the shovel, swept seven or eight ants from his sleeve, and killed another that was prowling round his ear, then looked perpendicularly into the earth as usual, waiting for Enoch to say more. “Well, why shouldn’t she?” said the keeper at last.

  “The baker told me yesterday,” continued Enoch, shaking out another emmet that had run merrily up his thigh, “that the bread he’ve left at that there school-house this last month would starve any mouse in the three creations; that ‘twould so! And afterwards I had a pint o’ small down at Morrs’s, and there I heard more.”

  “What might that ha’ been?”

  “That she used to have a pound o’ the best rolled butter a week, regular as clockwork, from Dairyman Viney’s for herself, as well as just so much salted for the helping girl, and the ‘ooman she calls in; but now the same quantity d’last her three weeks, and then ‘tis thoughted she throws it away sour.”

  “Finish doing the emmets, and carry the bag home-along.” The keeper resumed his gun, tucked it under his arm, and went on without whistling to the dogs, who however followed, with a bearing meant to imply that they did not expect any such attentions when their master was reflecting.

  On Saturday morning a note came from Fancy. He was not to trouble about sending her the couple of rabbits, as was intended, because she feared she should not want them. Later in the day Geoffrey went to Casterbridge and called upon the butcher who served Fancy with fresh meat, which was put down to her father’s account.

  “I’ve called to pay up our little bill, Neighbour Haylock, and you can gie me the chiel’s account at the same time.”

  Mr. Haylock turned round three quarters of a circle in the midst of a heap of joints, altered the expression of his face from meat to money, went into a little office consisting only of a door and a window, looked very vigorously into a book which possessed length but no breadth; and then, seizing a piece of paper and scribbling thereupon, handed the bill.

  Probably it was the first time in the history of commercial transactions
that the quality of shortness in a butcher’s bill was a cause of tribulation to the debtor. “Why, this isn’t all she’ve had in a whole month!” said Geoffrey.

  “Every mossel,” said the butcher — ”(now, Dan, take that leg and shoulder to Mrs. White’s, and this eleven pound here to Mr. Martin’s) — you’ve been treating her to smaller joints lately, to my thinking, Mr. Day?”

  “Only two or three little scram rabbits this last week, as I am alive — I wish I had!”

  “Well, my wife said to me — (Dan! not too much, not too much on that tray at a time; better go twice) — my wife said to me as she posted up the books: she says, ‘Miss Day must have been affronted this summer during that hot muggy weather that spolit so much for us; for depend upon’t,’ she says, ‘she’ve been trying John Grimmett unknown to us: see her account else.’ ‘Tis little, of course, at the best of times, being only for one, but now ‘tis next kin to nothing.”

  “I’ll inquire,” said Geoffrey despondingly.

  He returned by way of Mellstock, and called upon Fancy, in fulfilment of a promise. It being Saturday, the children were enjoying a holiday, and on entering the residence Fancy was nowhere to be seen. Nan, the charwoman, was sweeping the kitchen.

  “Where’s my da’ter?” said the keeper.

  “Well, you see she was tired with the week’s teaching, and this morning she said, ‘Nan, I sha’n’t get up till the evening.’ You see, Mr. Day, if people don’t eat, they can’t work; and as she’ve gie’d up eating, she must gie up working.”

  “Have ye carried up any dinner to her?”

  “No; she don’t want any. There, we all know that such things don’t come without good reason — not that I wish to say anything about a broken heart, or anything of the kind.”

  Geoffrey’s own heart felt inconveniently large just then. He went to the staircase and ascended to his daughter’s door.

  “Fancy!”

  “Come in, father.”

  To see a person in bed from any cause whatever, on a fine afternoon, is depressing enough; and here was his only child Fancy, not only in bed, but looking very pale. Geoffrey was visibly disturbed.

  “Fancy, I didn’t expect to see thee here, chiel,” he said. “What’s the matter?”

  “I’m not well, father.”

  “How’s that?”

  “Because I think of things.”

  “What things can you have to think o’ so mortal much?”

  “You know, father.”

  “You think I’ve been cruel to thee in saying that that penniless Dick o’ thine sha’n’t marry thee, I suppose?”

  No answer.

  “Well, you know, Fancy, I do it for the best, and he isn’t good enough for thee. You know that well enough.” Here he again looked at her as she lay. “Well, Fancy, I can’t let my only chiel die; and if you can’t live without en, you must ha’ en, I suppose.”

  “O, I don’t want him like that; all against your will, and everything so disobedient!” sighed the invalid.

  “No, no, ‘tisn’t against my will. My wish is, now I d’see how ‘tis hurten thee to live without en, that he shall marry thee as soon as we’ve considered a little. That’s my wish flat and plain, Fancy. There, never cry, my little maid! You ought to ha’ cried afore; no need o’ crying now ‘tis all over. Well, howsoever, try to step over and see me and mother-law to-morrow, and ha’ a bit of dinner wi’ us.”

  “And — Dick too?”

  “Ay, Dick too, ‘far’s I know.”

  “And when do you think you’ll have considered, father, and he may marry me?” she coaxed.

  “Well, there, say next Midsummer; that’s not a day too long to wait.”

  On leaving the school Geoffrey went to the tranter’s. Old William opened the door.

  “Is your grandson Dick in ‘ithin, William?”

  “No, not just now, Mr. Day. Though he’ve been at home a good deal lately.”

  “O, how’s that?”

  “What wi’ one thing, and what wi’ t’other, he’s all in a mope, as might be said. Don’t seem the feller he used to. Ay, ‘a will sit studding and thinking as if ‘a were going to turn chapel-member, and then do nothing but traypse and wamble about. Used to be such a chatty boy, too, Dick did; and now ‘a don’t speak at all. But won’t ye step inside? Reuben will be home soon, ‘a b’lieve.”

  “No, thank you, I can’t stay now. Will ye just ask Dick if he’ll do me the kindness to step over to Yalbury to-morrow with my da’ter Fancy, if she’s well enough? I don’t like her to come by herself, now she’s not so terrible topping in health.”

  “So I’ve heard. Ay, sure, I’ll tell him without fail.”

  CHAPTER V:

  AFTER GAINING HER POINT

  The visit to Geoffrey passed off as delightfully as a visit might have been expected to pass off when it was the first day of smooth experience in a hitherto obstructed love-course. And then came a series of several happy days, of the same undisturbed serenity. Dick could court her when he chose; stay away when he chose, — which was never; walk with her by winding streams and waterfalls and autumn scenery till dews and twilight sent them home. And thus they drew near the day of the Harvest Thanksgiving, which was also the time chosen for opening the organ in Mellstock Church.

  It chanced that Dick on that very day was called away from Mellstock. A young acquaintance had died of consumption at Charmley, a neighbouring village, on the previous Monday, and Dick, in fulfilment of a long-standing promise, was to assist in carrying him to the grave. When on Tuesday, Dick went towards the school to acquaint Fancy with the fact, it is difficult to say whether his own disappointment at being denied the sight of her triumphant début as organist, was greater than his vexation that his pet should on this great occasion be deprived of the pleasure of his presence. However, the intelligence was communicated. She bore it as she best could, not without many expressions of regret, and convictions that her performance would be nothing to her now.

  Just before eleven o’clock on Sunday he set out upon his sad errand. The funeral was to be immediately after the morning service, and as there were four good miles to walk, driving being inconvenient, it became necessary to start comparatively early. Half an hour later would certainly have answered his purpose quite as well, yet at the last moment nothing would content his ardent mind but that he must go a mile out of his way in the direction of the school, in the hope of getting a glimpse of his Love as she started for church.

  Striking, therefore, into the lane towards the school, instead of across the ewelease direct to Charmley, he arrived opposite her door as his goddess emerged.

  If ever a woman looked a divinity, Fancy Day appeared one that morning as she floated down those school steps, in the form of a nebulous collection of colours inclining to blue. With an audacity unparalleled in the whole history of village-school-mistresses at this date — partly owing, no doubt, to papa’s respectable accumulation of cash, which rendered her profession not altogether one of necessity — she had actually donned a hat and feather, and lowered her hitherto plainly looped-up hair, which now fell about her shoulders in a profusion of curls. Poor Dick was astonished: he had never seen her look so distractingly beautiful before, save on Christmas-eve, when her hair was in the same luxuriant condition of freedom. But his first burst of delighted surprise was followed by less comfortable feelings, as soon as his brain recovered its power to think.

  Fancy had blushed; — was it with confusion? She had also involuntarily pressed back her curls. She had not expected him.

  “Fancy, you didn’t know me for a moment in my funeral clothes, did you?”

  “Good-morning, Dick — no, really, I didn’t know you for an instant in such a sad suit.”

  He looked again at the gay tresses and hat. “You’ve never dressed so charming before, dearest.”

  “I like to hear you praise me in that way, Dick,” she said, smiling archly. “It is meat and drink to a woman. Do I look nice really?”

&
nbsp; “Fie! you know it. Did you remember, — I mean didn’t you remember about my going away to-day?”

  “Well, yes, I did, Dick; but, you know, I wanted to look well; — forgive me.”

  “Yes, darling; yes, of course, — there’s nothing to forgive. No, I was only thinking that when we talked on Tuesday and Wednesday and Thursday and Friday about my absence to-day, and I was so sorry for it, you said, Fancy, so were you sorry, and almost cried, and said it would be no pleasure to you to be the attraction of the church to-day, since I could not be there.”

  “My dear one, neither will it be so much pleasure to me . . . But I do take a little delight in my life, I suppose,” she pouted.

  “Apart from mine?”

  She looked at him with perplexed eyes. “I know you are vexed with me, Dick, and it is because the first Sunday I have curls and a hat and feather since I have been here happens to be the very day you are away and won’t be with me. Yes, say it is, for that is it! And you think that all this week I ought to have remembered you wouldn’t be here to-day, and not have cared to be better dressed than usual. Yes, you do, Dick, and it is rather unkind!”

  “No, no,” said Dick earnestly and simply, “I didn’t think so badly of you as that. I only thought that — if you had been going away, I shouldn’t have tried new attractions for the eyes of other people. But then of course you and I are different, naturally.”

  “Well, perhaps we are.”

  “Whatever will the vicar say, Fancy?”

  “I don’t fear what he says in the least!” she answered proudly. “But he won’t say anything of the sort you think. No, no.”

  “He can hardly have conscience to, indeed.”

  “Now come, you say, Dick, that you quite forgive me, for I must go,” she said with sudden gaiety, and skipped backwards into the porch. “Come here, sir; — say you forgive me, and then you shall kiss me; — you never have yet when I have worn curls, you know. Yes, just where you want to so much, — yes, you may!”

  Dick followed her into the inner corner, where he was probably not slow in availing himself of the privilege offered.