by Thomas Hardy
The lover drew nearer; this, then, was her bedroom. He rested vigorously upon his stick, and straightening his back nearly to a perpendicular, turned up his amorous face.
She came to the window, paused, then opened it.
“Bess its deary-eary heart! it is going to speak to me!” said the old man, moistening his lips, resting still more desperately upon his stick, and straightening himself yet an inch taller. “She saw me then!”
Agatha, however, made no sign; she was bent on a far different purpose. In a box on her window-sill was a row of mignonette, which had been sadly neglected since her lover’s departure, and she began to water it, as if inspired by a sudden recollection of its condition. She poured from her water-jug slowly along the plants, and then, to her astonishment, discerned her elderly friend below.
“A rude old thing!” she murmured.
Directing the spout of the jug over the edge of the box, and looking in another direction that it might appear to be an accident, she allowed the stream to spatter down upon her admirer’s face, neck, and shoulders, causing him to beat a quick retreat. Then Agatha serenely closed the window, and drew down that blind also.
“Ah! she did not see me; it was evident she did not, and I was mistaken!” said the trembling farmer, hastily wiping his face, and mopping out the rills trickling down within his shirt-collar as far as he could get at them, which was by no means to their termination. “A pretty creature, and so innocent, too! Watering her flowers; how like a girl who is fond of flowers! I wish she had spoken, and I wish I was younger. Yes, I know what I’d do with the little mouse!” And the old gentleman tapped emotionally upon the ground with his stick.
V
“Agatha, I suppose you have heard the news from somebody else by this time?” said her Uncle Humphrey some two or three weeks later.
“I mean what Farmer Lovill has been talking to me about.”
“No, indeed” said Agatha.
“He wants to marry ye if you be willing.”
“O, I never!” said Agatha with dismay. “That old man!”
“Old? He’s hale and hearty; and what’s more, a man very well to do. He’ll make you a comfortable home, and dress ye up like a doll, and I’m sure ou’ll like that, or you baint a woman of woman born.”
“But it can’t be, uncle! other reasons — “
“What reasons?”
“Why, I’ve promised Oswald Winwood — years ago!”
“Promised Oswald Winwood years ago, have you?”
“Yes; surely you know it Uncle Humphrey. And we write to one another regularly.”
“Well, I can just call to mind that ye are always scribbling and getting letters from somewhere. Let me see — where is he now? I quite forget.”
“In India still. Is it possible that you don’t know about him, and what a great man he’s getting? There are paragraphs about him in our paper very often. The last was about some translation from Hindostani that he’d been making. And he’s coming home for me.”
“I very much question it. Lovill will marry you at once, he says.”
“Indeed, he will not.”
“Well, I don’t want to force you to do anything against your will, Agatha, but this is how the matter stands. You know I am a little behind in my dealings with Lovill — nothing serious, you know, if he gives me time — but I want to be free of him quite in order to go to Australia.”
“Australia!”
“Yes. There’s nothing to be done here. I don’t know what business is coming to — can’t think. But never mind that; this is the point: if you will marry Farmer Lovill, he offers to clear off the debt, and there will no longer be any delay about my own marriage; in short, away I can go. I mean to, and there’s an end on’t.”
“What, and leave me at home alone?”
“Yes, but a married woman, of course. You see the children are getting big now. John is twelve and Nathaniel ten, and the girls are growing fast, and when I am married again I shall hardly want you to keep house for me — in fact, I must reduce our family as much as possible. So that if you could bring your mind to think of Farmer Lovill as a husband, why, ‘twould be a great relief to me after having the trouble and expense of bringing you up. If I can in that way edge out of Lovill’s debt I shall have a nice bit of money in hand.”
“But Oswald will be richer even than Mr Lovill,” said Agatha, through her tears.
“Yes, yes. But Oswald is not here, nor is he likely to be. How silly you be.”
“But he will come, and soon, with his eleven hundred a year and all.
“I wish to Heaven he would. I’m sure he might have you.”
“Now, you promise that, uncle, don’t you?” she said, brightening. “If he comes with plenty of money before you want to leave, he shall marry me, and nobody else.”
“Ay, if he comes. But, Agatha, no nonsense. Just think of what I’ve been telling you. And at any rate be civil to Farmer Lovill. If this man Winwood were here and asked for ye, and married ye, that would be a very different thing. I do mind now that I saw something about him and his doings in the papers; but he’s a fine gentleman by this time, and won’t think of stooping to a girl like you. So you’d better take the one who is ready; old men’s darlings fare very well as the world goes. We shall be off in nine months, mind, that I’ve settled. And you must be a married woman afore that time, and wish us good-bye upon your husband’s arm.”
“That old arm couldn’t support me.”
“And if you don’t agree to have him, you’ll take a couple of hundred pounds out of my pocket; you’ll ruin my chances altogether — that’s the long and the short of it.”
Saying which the gloury man turned his back upon her, and his footsteps became drowned in the rumble of the mill.
VI
Nothing so definite was said to her again on the matter for sometime. The old yeoman hovered round her, but, knowing the result of the interview between Agatha and her uncle, he forbore to endanger his suit by precipitancy. But one afternoon he could not avoid saying, “Aggie, when may I speak to you upon a serious subject?”
“Next week,” she replied, instantly.
He had not been prepared for such a ready answer, and it startled him almost as much as it pleased him. Had he known the cause of it his emotions might have been different. Agatha, with all the womanly strategy she was capable of, had written post-haste to Oswald after the conversation with her uncle, and told him of the dilemma. At the end of the present week his answer, if he replied with his customary punctuality, would be sure to come. Fortified with his letter she thought she could meet the old man. Oswald she did not doubt.
Nor had she any reason to. The letter came prompt to the day. It was short, tender, and to the point. Events had shaped themselves so fortunately that he was able to say he would return and marry her before the time named for the family’s departure for Queensland.
She danced about for joy. But there was a postscript to the effect that she might as well keep this promise a secret for the present, if she conveniently could, that his intention might not become a public talk in Cloton. Agatha knew that he was a rising and aristocratic young man, and saw at once how proper this was.
So she met Mr Lovill with a simple flat refusal, at which her uncle was extremely angry, and her disclosure to him afterward of the arrival of the letter went but a little way in pacifying him. Farmer Lovill would put in upon him for the debt, he said, unless she could manage to please him for a short time.
“I don’t want to please him,” said Agatha.
“It is wrong to encourage him if I don’t mean it.”
“Will you behave toward him as the Parson advises you?”
The Parson! That was a new idea, and, from her uncle, unexpected.
“I will agree to what Mr Davids advises about my mere daily behaviour before Oswald comes, but nothing more,” she said. “That is, I will if you know for certain that he’s a good man, who fears God and keeps the commandments.”
“Uncle, you always jest when I am serious.”
“Well, well! at any rate his advice on a matter of this sort is good.”
“How is it you think of referring me to him?” she asked, in perplexity; “you so often speak slightingly of him.”
“Oh — well,” said Humphrey, with a faintly perceptible desire to parry the question, “I have spoken roughly about him once now and then; but perhaps I was wrong. Will ye go?”
“Yes, I don’t mind,” she said, languidly.
When she reached the Vicar’s study Agatha began her story with reserve, and said nothing about the correspondence with Oswald; yet an intense longing to find a friend and confidant led her to indulge in more feeling than she had intended and as a finale she wept. The genial incumbent, however, remained quite cool, the secret being that his heart was involved a little in another direction — one, perhaps, not quite in harmony with Agatha’s interests — of which more anon.
“So the difficulty is,” he said to her, “how to behave in this trying time of waiting for Mr Winwood, that you may please parties all round and give offence to none.”
“Yes, Sir, that’s it,” sobbed Agatha, wondering how he could have realised her position so readily. “And uncle wants to go to Australia.
“One thing is certain,” said the Vicar; “you must not hurt the feelings of Mr Lovill. Wonderfully sensitive man — a man I respect much as a godly doer.”
“Do you, Sir?”
“I do. His earnestness is remarkable.”
“Yes, in courting.”
“The cue is: treat Mr Lovill gently — gently as a babe! Love opposed, especially an old man’s, gets all the stronger. It is your policy to give him seeming encouragement, and so let his feelings expend themselves and die away.”
“How am I to? To advise is so easy.”
“Not by acting untruthfully, of course. You say your lover is sure to come back before your uncle leaves England,”
“I know he will.”
“Then pacify old Mr Lovill in this way: Tell him you’ll marry him when your uncle wants to go, if Winwood doesn’t come for you before that time. That will quite content Mr Lovill, for he doesn’t in the least expect Oswald to return, and you’ll see that his persecution will cease at once.”
“Yes; I’ll agree to it,” said Agatha promptly.
Mr Davids had refrained from adding that neither did he expect Oswald to come, and hence his advice. Agatha on her part too refrained from stating the good reasons she had for the contrary expectation, and hence her assent. Without the last letter perhaps even her faith would hardly have been bold enough to allow this palpable driving of her into a corner.
“It would be as well to write Mr Lovill a little note, saying you agree to what I have advised,” said the Parson evasively.
“I don’t like writing.”
“There’s no harm. ‘If Mr Winwood doesn’t come I’ll marry you,’ &c. Poor Mr Lovill will be content, thinking Oswald will not come; you will be content, knowing he will come; your uncle will be content being indifferent which of two rich men has you and relieves him of his difficulties. Then, if it’s the will of Providence, you’ll be left in peace. Here’s a pen and ink; you can do it at once.”
Thus tempted, Agatha wrote the note with a trembling hand. It really did seem upon the whole a nicely strategic thing to do in her present environed situation. Mr Davids took the note with the air of a man who did not wish to take it in the least, and placed it on the mantle-piece.
“I’ll send it down to him by one of the children,” said Aggy, looking wistfully at her note with a little feeling that she should like to have it back again.
“Oh, no, it is not necessary,” said her pleasant adviser. He had rung the bell; the servant now came, and the note was sent off in a trice.
When Agatha got into the open air again her confidence returned, and it was with a mischievous sense of enjoyment that she considered how she was duping her persecutors by keeping secret Oswald’s intention of a speedy return. If they only knew what a firm foundation she had for her belief in what they all deemed but an improbable contingency, what a life they would lead her; how the old man would worry her uncle for payment, and what general confusion there would be. Mr Davids’ advice was very shrewd, she thought, and she was glad she had called upon him.
Old Lovill came that very afternoon. He was delighted, and danced a few bars of a hornpipe in entering the room. So lively was the antique boy that Agatha was rather alarmed at her own temerity when she considered what was the basis of his gaiety; wishing she could get from him some such writing as he had got from her, that the words of her promise might not in any way be tampered with, or the conditions ignored.
“I only accept you conditionally, mind,” she anxiously said. “That is distinctly understood.”
“Yes, yes,” said the yeoman. “I am not so young as I was, little dear, and beggars musn’t be choosers. With my ra-ta-ta — say, dear, shall it be the first of November?”
“It will really never be.”
“But if he doesn’t come, it shall be the first of November?”
She slightly nodded her head.
“Clk! — l think she likes me!” said the old man aside to Aggy’s uncle, which aside was distinctly heard by Aggy.
One of the younger children was in the room, drawing idly on a slate. Agatha at this moment took the slate from the child, and scribbled something on it.
“Now you must please me by just writing your name here,” she saidin a voice of playful indifference.
“What is it?” said Lovill, looking over and reading. “‘If Oswald Winwood comes to marry Agatha Pollin before November, I agree to give her up to him without objection.’ Well, that is cool for a young lady under six feet, upon my word — hee-hee!” He passed the slate to the miller, who read the writing and passed it back again.
“Sign — just in courtesy,” she coaxed.
“I don’t see why — “
“I do it to test your faith in me; and now I find you have none. Don’t you think I should have rubbed it out instantly? Ah, perhaps I can be obstinate too!”
He wrote his name then. “Now I have done it, and shown my faith,” he said, and at once raised his fingers as if to rub it out again. But with hands that moved like lightning she snatched up the slate, flew up stairs, locked it in her box, and came down again.
“Souls of men — that’s sharp practice,” said the old gentleman.
“Oh, it is only a whim — a mere memorandum,” said she. “You had my promise, but I had not yours.”
“Ise wants my slate,” cried the child.
“I’ll buy you a new one, dear,” said Agatha, and soothed her.
When she had left the room old Lovill spoke to her uncle somewhat uneasily of the event, which, childish as it had been, discomposed him for the moment.
“Oh, that’s nothing,” said Miller Pollin assuringly; “only play — only play. She’s a mere child in nater, even now, and she did it only to tease ye. Why, she overheard your whisper that you thought she liked ye, and that was her playful way of punishing ye for your confidence. You’ll have to put up with these worries, farmer. Considering the difference in your ages, she is sure to play pranks. You’ll get to like ‘em in time.”
“Ay, ay, faith, so I shall! I was always a Turk for sprees! — eh, Pollin? hee-hee!” And the suitor was merry again.
VII
Her life was certainly much pleasanter now. The old man treated her well, and was almost silent on the subject nearest his heart. She was obliged to be very stealthy in receiving letters from Oswald, and on this account was bound to meet the postman, let the weather be what it would. These transactions were easily kept secret from people out of the house, but it was a most diffi
cult task to hide her movements from her uncle. And one day brought utter failure.
“How’s this — out already, Agatha?” he said, meeting her in the lane at dawn on a foggy morning. She was actually reading a letter just received, and there was no disguising the truth.
“I’ve been for a letter from Oswald.”
“Well, but that won’t do. Since he don’t come for ye, ye must think no more about him.”
“But he’s coming in six weeks. He tells me all about it in this very letter.”
“What — really to marry you?” said her uncle incredulously.
“Yes, certainly.”
“But I hear that he’s wonderfully well off.”
“Of course he is; that’s why he’s coming. He’ll agree in a moment to be your surety for the debt to Mr Lovill.”
“Has he said so?”
“Not yet; but he will.”
“I’ll believe it when I see him and he tells me so. It is very odd, if he means so much, that he hev never wrote a line to me.”
“We thought — you would force me to have the other at once if he wrote to you,” she murmured.
“Not I, if he comes rich. But it is rather a cock-and-bull story, and since he didn’t make up his mind before now, I can’t say I be much in his favour. Agatha, you had better not say a word to Mr Lovill about these letters; it will make things deuced unpleasant if he hears of such goings on. You are to reckon yourself bound by your word. Oswald won’t hold water, I’m afeard. But I’ll be fair. If he do come, proves his income, marries ye willy-nilly, I’ll let it be, and the old man and I must do as we can. But barring that — you keep your promise to the letter.”
“That’s what it will be, uncle. Oswald will come.”
“Write you must not. Lovill will smell it out, and he’ll be sharper than you will like. ‘Tis not to be supposed that you are to send love-letters to one man as if nothing was going to happen between ye and another man. The first of November is drawing nearer every day. And be sure and keep this a secret from Lovill for your own sake.