Complete Works of Thomas Hardy (Illustrated)

by Thomas Hardy

  ‘Famine — no!’ said Nat Chapman. ‘That only touches such as we, and the Lord only consarns himself with born gentlemen. It isn’t to be supposed that a strange fiery lantern like that would be lighted up for folks with ten or a dozen shillings a week and their gristing, and a load o’ thorn faggots when we can get ‘em. If ‘tis a token that he’s getting hot about the ways of anybody in this parish, ‘tis about my Lady Constantine’s, since she is the only one of a figure worth such a hint.’

  ‘As for her income, — that she’s now lost.’

  ‘Ah, well; I don’t take in all I hear.’

  Lady Constantine drew close to St. Cleeve’s side, and whispered, trembling, ‘Do you think they will wait long? Or can we get out?’

  Swithin felt the awkwardness of the situation. The men had placed the bench close to the door, which, owing to the stairs within, opened outwards; so that at the first push by the pair inside to release themselves the bench must have gone over, and sent the smokers sprawling on their faces. He whispered to her to ascend the column and wait till he came.

  ‘And have the dead man left her nothing? Hey? And have he carried his inheritance into’s grave? And will his skeleton lie warm on account o’t? Hee-hee!’ said Haymoss.

  ‘‘Tis all swallered up,’ observed Hezzy Biles. ‘His goings-on made her miserable till ‘a died, and if I were the woman I’d have my randys now. He ought to have bequeathed to her our young gent, Mr. St. Cleeve, as some sort of amends. I’d up and marry en, if I were she; since her downfall has brought ‘em quite near together, and made him as good as she in rank, as he was afore in bone and breeding.’

  ‘D’ye think she will?’ asked Sammy Blore. ‘Or is she meaning to enter upon a virgin life for the rest of her days?’

  ‘I don’t want to be unreverent to her ladyship; but I really don’t think she is meaning any such waste of a Christian carcase. I say she’s rather meaning to commit flat matrimony wi’ somebody or other, and one young gentleman in particular.’

  ‘But the young man himself?’

  ‘Planned, cut out, and finished for the delight of ‘ooman!’

  ‘Yet he must be willing.’

  ‘That would soon come. If they get up this tower ruling plannards together much longer, their plannards will soon rule them together, in my way o’ thinking. If she’ve a disposition towards the knot, she can soon teach him.’

  ‘True, true, and lawfully. What before mid ha’ been a wrong desire is now a holy wish!’

  The scales fell from Swithin St. Cleeve’s eyes as he heard the words of his neighbours. How suddenly the truth dawned upon him; how it bewildered him, till he scarcely knew where he was; how he recalled the full force of what he had only half apprehended at earlier times, particularly of that sweet kiss she had impressed on his lips when she supposed him dying, — these vivid realisations are difficult to tell in slow verbiage. He could remain there no longer, and with an electrified heart he retreated up the spiral.

  He found Lady Constantine half way to the top, standing by a loop-hole; and when she spoke he discovered that she was almost in tears. ‘Are they gone?’ she asked.

  ‘I fear they will not go yet,’ he replied, with a nervous fluctuation of manner that had never before appeared in his bearing towards her.

  ‘What shall I do?’ she asked. ‘I ought not to be here; nobody knows that I am out of the house. Oh, this is a mistake! I must go home somehow.’

  ‘Did you hear what they were saying?’

  ‘No,’ said she. ‘What is the matter? Surely you are disturbed? What did they say?’

  ‘It would be the exaggeration of frankness in me to tell you.’

  ‘Is it what a woman ought not to be made acquainted with?’

  ‘It is, in this case. It is so new and so indescribable an idea to me — that’ — he leant against the concave wall, quite tremulous with strange incipient sentiments.

  ‘What sort of an idea?’ she asked gently.

  ‘It is — an awakening. In thinking of the heaven above, I did not perceive — the — ’

  ‘Earth beneath?’

  ‘The better heaven beneath. Pray, dear Lady Constantine, give me your hand for a moment.’

  She seemed startled, and the hand was not given.

  ‘I am so anxious to get home,’ she repeated. ‘I did not mean to stay here more than five minutes!’

  ‘I fear I am much to blame for this accident,’ he said. ‘I ought not to have intruded here. But don’t grieve! I will arrange for your escape, somehow. Be good enough to follow me down.’

  They redescended, and, whispering to Lady Constantine to remain a few stairs behind, he began to rattle and unlock the door.

  The men precipitately removed their bench, and Swithin stepped out, the light of the summer night being still enough to enable them to distinguish him.

  ‘Well, Hezekiah, and Samuel, and Nat, how are you?’ he said boldly.

  ‘Well, sir, ‘tis much as before wi’ me,’ replied Nat. ‘One hour a week wi’ God A’mighty and the rest with the devil, as a chap may say. And really, now yer poor father’s gone, I’d as lief that that Sunday hour should pass like the rest; for Pa’son Tarkenham do tease a feller’s conscience that much, that church is no hollerday at all to the limbs, as it was in yer reverent father’s time! But we’ve been waiting here, Mr. San Cleeve, supposing ye had not come.’

  ‘I have been staying at the top, and fastened the door not to be disturbed. Now I am sorry to disappoint you, but I have another engagement this evening, so that it would be inconvenient to admit you. To-morrow evening, or any evening but this, I will show you the comet and any stars you like.’

  They readily agreed to come the next night, and prepared to depart. But what with the flagon, and the pipes, and the final observations, getting away was a matter of time. Meanwhile a cloud, which nobody had noticed, arose from the north overhead, and large drops of rain began to fall so rapidly that the conclave entered the hut till it should be over. St. Cleeve strolled off under the firs.

  The next moment there was a rustling through the trees at another point, and a man and woman appeared. The woman took shelter under a tree, and the man, bearing wraps and umbrellas, came forward.

  ‘My lady’s man and maid,’ said Sammy.

  ‘Is her ladyship here?’ asked the man.

  ‘No. I reckon her ladyship keeps more kissable company,’ replied Nat Chapman.

  ‘Pack o’ stuff!’ said Blore.

  ‘Not here? Well, to be sure! We can’t find her anywhere in the wide house! I’ve been sent to look for her with these overclothes and umbrella. I’ve suffered horse-flesh traipsing up and down, and can’t find her nowhere. Lord, Lord, where can she be, and two months’ wages owing to me!’

  ‘Why so anxious, Anthony Green, as I think yer name is shaped? You be not a married man?’ said Hezzy.

  ‘‘Tis what they call me, neighbours, whether or no.’

  ‘But surely you was a bachelor chap by late, afore her ladyship got rid of the regular servants and took ye?’

  ‘I were; but that’s past!’

  ‘And how came ye to bow yer head to ‘t, Anthony? ‘Tis what you never was inclined to. You was by no means a doting man in my time.’

  ‘Well, had I been left to my own free choice, ‘tis as like as not I should ha’ shunned forming such kindred, being at that time a poor day man, or weekly, at my highest luck in hiring. But ‘tis wearing work to hold out against the custom of the country, and the woman wanting ye to stand by her and save her from unborn shame; so, since common usage would have it, I let myself be carried away by opinion, and took her. Though she’s never once thanked me for covering her confusion, that’s true! But, ‘tis the way of the lost when safe, and I don’t complain. Here she is, just behind, under the tree, if you’d like to see her? — a very nice homespun woman to look at, too, for all her few weather-stains. . . . Well, well, where can my lady be? And I the trusty jineral man — ’tis more than my place is wort
h to lose her! Come forward, Christiana, and talk nicely to the work-folk.’

  While the woman was talking the rain increased so much that they all retreated further into the hut. St. Cleeve, who had impatiently stood a little way off, now saw his opportunity, and, putting in his head, said, ‘The rain beats in; you had better shut the door. I must ascend and close up the dome.’

  Slamming the door upon them without ceremony he quickly went to Lady Constantine in the column, and telling her they could now pass the villagers unseen he gave her his arm. Thus he conducted her across the front of the hut into the shadows of the firs.

  ‘I will run to the house and harness your little carriage myself,’ he said tenderly. ‘I will then take you home in it.’

  ‘No; please don’t leave me alone under these dismal trees!’ Neither would she hear of his getting her any wraps; and, opening her little sunshade to keep the rain out of her face, she walked with him across the insulating field, after which the trees of the park afforded her a sufficient shelter to reach home without much damage.

  Swithin was too greatly affected by what he had overheard to speak much to her on the way, and protected her as if she had been a shorn lamb. After a farewell which had more meaning than sound in it, he hastened back to Rings-Hill Speer. The work-folk were still in the hut, and, by dint of friendly converse and a sip at the flagon, had so cheered Mr. and Mrs. Anthony Green that they neither thought nor cared what had become of Lady Constantine.

  St. Cleeve’s sudden sense of new relations with that sweet patroness had taken away in one half-hour his natural ingenuousness. Henceforth he could act a part.

  ‘I have made all secure at the top,’ he said, putting his head into the hut. ‘I am now going home. When the rain stops, lock this door and bring the key to my house.’

  CHAPTER XIV

  The laboured resistance which Lady Constantine’s judgment had offered to her rebellious affection ere she learnt that she was a widow, now passed into a bashfulness that rendered her almost as unstable of mood as before. But she was one of that mettle — fervid, cordial, and spontaneous — who had not the heart to spoil a passion; and her affairs having gone to rack and ruin by no fault of her own she was left to a painfully narrowed existence which lent even something of rationality to her attachment. Thus it was that her tender and unambitious soul found comfort in her reverses.

  As for St. Cleeve, the tardiness of his awakening was the natural result of inexperience combined with devotion to a hobby. But, like a spring bud hard in bursting, the delay was compensated by after speed. At once breathlessly recognizing in this fellow-watcher of the skies a woman who loved him, in addition to the patroness and friend, he truly translated the nearly forgotten kiss she had given him in her moment of despair.

  Lady Constantine, in being eight or nine years his senior, was an object even better calculated to nourish a youth’s first passion than a girl of his own age, superiority of experience and ripeness of emotion exercising the same peculiar fascination over him as over other young men in their first ventures in this kind.

  The alchemy which thus transmuted an abstracted astronomer into an eager lover — and, must it be said, spoilt a promising young physicist to produce a common-place inamorato — may be almost described as working its change in one short night. Next morning he was so fascinated with the novel sensation that he wanted to rush off at once to Lady Constantine, and say, ‘I love you true!’ in the intensest tones of his mental condition, to register his assertion in her heart before any of those accidents which ‘creep in ‘twixt vows, and change decrees of kings,’ should occur to hinder him. But his embarrassment at standing in a new position towards her would not allow him to present himself at her door in any such hurry. He waited on, as helplessly as a girl, for a chance of encountering her.

  But though she had tacitly agreed to see him on any reasonable occasion, Lady Constantine did not put herself in his way. She even kept herself out of his way. Now that for the first time he had learnt to feel a strong impatience for their meeting, her shyness for the first time led her to delay it. But given two people living in one parish, who long from the depths of their hearts to be in each other’s company, what resolves of modesty, policy, pride, or apprehension will keep them for any length of time apart?

  One afternoon he was watching the sun from his tower, half echoing the Greek astronomer’s wish that he might be set close to that luminary for the wonder of beholding it in all its glory, under the slight penalty of being consumed the next instant. He glanced over the high-road between the field and the park (which sublunary features now too often distracted his attention from his telescope), and saw her passing along that way.

  She was seated in the donkey-carriage that had now taken the place of her landau, the white animal looking no larger than a cat at that distance. The buttoned boy, who represented both coachman and footman, walked alongside the animal’s head at a solemn pace; the dog stalked at the distance of a yard behind the vehicle, without indulging in a single gambol; and the whole turn-out resembled in dignity a dwarfed state procession.

  Here was an opportunity but for two obstructions: the boy, who might be curious; and the dog, who might bark and attract the attention of any labourers or servants near. Yet the risk was to be run, and, knowing that she would soon turn up a certain shady lane at right angles to the road she had followed, he ran hastily down the staircase, crossed the barley (which now covered the field) by the path not more than a foot wide that he had trodden for himself, and got into the lane at the other end. By slowly walking along in the direction of the turnpike-road he soon had the satisfaction of seeing her coming. To his surprise he also had the satisfaction of perceiving that neither boy nor dog was in her company.

  They both blushed as they approached, she from sex, he from inexperience. One thing she seemed to see in a moment, that in the interval of her absence St. Cleeve had become a man; and as he greeted her with this new and maturer light in his eyes she could not hide her embarrassment, or meet their fire.

  ‘I have just sent my page across to the column with your book on Cometary Nuclei,’ she said softly; ‘that you might not have to come to the house for it. I did not know I should meet you here.’

  ‘Didn’t you wish me to come to the house for it?’

  ‘I did not, frankly. You know why, do you not?’

  ‘Yes, I know. Well, my longing is at rest. I have met you again. But are you unwell, that you drive out in this chair?’

  ‘No; I walked out this morning, and am a little tired.’

  ‘I have been looking for you night and day. Why do you turn your face aside? You used not to be so.’ Her hand rested on the side of the chair, and he took it. ‘Do you know that since we last met, I have been thinking of you — daring to think of you — as I never thought of you before?’

  ‘Yes, I know it.’

  ‘How did you know?’

  ‘I saw it in your face when you came up.’

  ‘Well, I suppose I ought not to think of you so. And yet, had I not learned to, I should never fully have felt how gentle and sweet you are. Only think of my loss if I had lived and died without seeing more in you than in astronomy! But I shall never leave off doing so now. When you talk I shall love your understanding; when you are silent I shall love your face. But how shall I know that you care to be so much to me?’

  Her manner was disturbed as she recognized the impending self-surrender, which she knew not how to resist, and was not altogether at ease in welcoming.

  ‘O, Lady Constantine,’ he continued, bending over her, ‘give me some proof more than mere seeming and inference, which are all I have at present, that you don’t think this I tell you of presumption in me! I have been unable to do anything since I last saw you for pondering uncertainly on this. Some proof, or little sign, that we are one in heart!’

  A blush settled again on her face; and half in effort, half in spontaneity, she put her finger on her cheek. He almost devotionally kissed t
he spot.

  ‘Does that suffice?’ she asked, scarcely giving her words voice.

  ‘Yes; I am convinced.’

  ‘Then that must be the end. Let me drive on; the boy will be back again soon.’ She spoke hastily, and looked askance to hide the heat of her cheek.

  ‘No; the tower door is open, and he will go to the top, and waste his time in looking through the telescope.’

  ‘Then you should rush back, for he will do some damage.’

  ‘No; he may do what he likes, tinker and spoil the instrument, destroy my papers, — anything, so that he will stay there and leave us alone.’

  She glanced up with a species of pained pleasure.

  ‘You never used to feel like that!’ she said, and there was keen self-reproach in her voice. ‘You were once so devoted to your science that the thought of an intruder into your temple would have driven you wild. Now you don’t care; and who is to blame? Ah, not you, not you!’

  The animal ambled on with her, and he, leaning on the side of the little vehicle, kept her company.

  ‘Well, don’t let us think of that,’ he said. ‘I offer myself and all my energies, frankly and entirely, to you, my dear, dear lady, whose I shall be always! But my words in telling you this will only injure my meaning instead of emphasize it. In expressing, even to myself, my thoughts of you, I find that I fall into phrases which, as a critic, I should hitherto have heartily despised for their commonness. What’s the use of saying, for instance, as I have just said, that I give myself entirely to you, and shall be yours always, — that you have my devotion, my highest homage? Those words have been used so frequently in a flippant manner that honest use of them is not distinguishable from the unreal.’ He turned to her, and added, smiling, ‘Your eyes are to be my stars for the future.’

  ‘Yes, I know it, — I know it, and all you would say! I dreaded even while I hoped for this, my dear young friend,’ she replied, her eyes being full of tears. ‘I am injuring you; who knows that I am not ruining your future, — I who ought to know better? Nothing can come of this, nothing must, — and I am only wasting your time. Why have I drawn you off from a grand celestial study to study poor lonely me? Say you will never despise me, when you get older, for this episode in our lives. But you will, — I know you will! All men do, when they have been attracted in their unsuspecting youth, as I have attracted you. I ought to have kept my resolve.’