by Thomas Hardy
As a woman and a mother she could go no further, and Betty’s desperate attempt to infect herself the week before as a means of repelling him, together with the alarming possibility that, after all, she had not gone to her father but to her lover, was not revealed.
“Well, sighed the diplomatist, in a tone unexpectedly quiet, “such things have been known before. After all, she may prefer me to him someday, when she reflects how very differently I might have acted than I am going to act towards her. But I’ll say no more about that now. I can have abed at your house for to-night?”
“To-night, certainly. And you leave to-morrow morning early?” She spoke anxiously, for on no account did she wish him to make further discoveries. “My husband is so seriously ill,” she continued, that my absence and Betty’s on your arrival is naturally accounted for.”
He promised to leave early, and to write to her soon. “And when I think the time is ripe,” he said, “I’ll write to her. I may have something to tell her that will bring her to graciousness.”
It was about one o’clock in the morning when Mrs. Dornell reached Falls-Park. A double blow awaited her there. Betty had not arrived; her flight had been elsewhither; and her stricken mother divined with whom. She ascended to the bedside of her husband, where, to her concern, she found that the physician had given up all hope. The Squire was sinking, and his extreme weakness had almost changed his character, except in the particular that his old obstinacy sustained him in a refusal to see a clergyman. He shed tears at the least word, and sobbed at the sight of his wife. He asked for Betty, and it was with a heavy heart that Mrs. Dornell told him that the girl had not accompanied her.
“He is not keeping her away?”
“No, no. He is going back — he is not coming to her for some time.”
“Then what is detaining her — cruel, neglectful maid!”
“No, no, Thomas; she is — She could not come.”
“How’s that?”
Somehow the solemnity of these last moments of his gave him inquisitorial power, and the too cold wife could not conceal from him the flight which had taken place from King’s-Hintock that night.
To her amazement, the effect upon him was electrical. “What — Betty — a trump after all? Hurrah! She’s her father’s own maid! She’s game! She knew he was her father’s choice! She vowed that my man should win! Well done, Bet! — haw! haw! Hurrah!”
He had raised himself in bed by starts as he spoke, and now fell back exhausted. He never uttered another word, and died before the dawn. People said there had not been such an ungenteel death in a good county family for years.
Now I will go back to the time of Betty’s riding off on the pillion behind her lover. They left the park by an obscure gate the east, and presently found themselves in the lonely and solitary length of the old Roman road now called Long-Ash Lane.
By this time they were rather alarmed at their own performance, for they were both young and inexperienced. Hence they proceeded almost in silence till they came to a mean roadside inn which was not yet closed; when Betty, who had held on to him with much misgivings all this while, felt dreadfully unwell, and said she thought she would like to get down.
They accordingly dismounted from the jaded animal that had brought them, and were shown into a small dark parlor, where they stood side by side awkwardly, like the fugitives they were. A light was brought, and when they were left alone Betty threw off the cloak which had enveloped her. No sooner did young Phelipson see her face than he uttered an alarmed exclamation.
“Why, Lord, Lord, you are sickening for the small-pox!” he cried.
“O — I forgot!” faltered Betty. And then she informed him that, on hearing of her husband’s approach the week before, in a desperate attempt to keep him from her side she had tried to imbibe the infection — an act which, till this moment, she had supposed to have been ineffectual, imagining her feverishness to be the result of her excitement.
The effect of this discovery upon young Phelipson was overwhelming. Better-seasoned men than he would not have been proof against it, and he was only a little over her own age. “And you’ve been holding on to me!” he said. “And suppose you get worse, and we both have it, what shall we do? Won’t you be a fright in a month or two, poor, poor Betty!”
In his horror he attempted to laugh, but the laugh ended in a weakly giggle. She was more woman than girl by this time, and realised his feeling.
“What — in trying to keep off him, I keep off you?” she said, miserably. “Do you hate me because I am going to be ugly and ill?”
“O — no, no!” he said, soothingly. “But I — I am thinking if it is quite right for us to do this. You see, dear Betty, if you was not married it would be different. You are not in honour married to him we’ve often said; still you are his by law, and you can’t be mine while he’s alive. And with this terrible sickness coming on, perhaps you had better let me take you back, and — climb in at the window again.”
“Is this your love?” said Betty, reproachfully. “Oh, if you was sickening for the plague itself, and going to be as ugly as the Ooser in the church-vestry, I wouldn’t — ”
“No, no, you mistake, upon my soul!”
But Betty, with a swollen heart, had rewrapped herself and gone out of the door. The horse was still standing there. She mounted by the help of the upping-stock, and when he had followed her she said: “Do not come near me, Charley; but please lead the horse, so that if you’ve not caught anything already you’ll not catch it going back. After all, what keeps off you may keep off him. Now onward.”
He did not resist her command, and back they went by the way they had come, Betty shedding bitter tears at the retribution she had already brought upon herself; for though she had reproached Phelipson, she was stanch enough not to blame him in her secret for showing that his love was only skin-deep. The horse was stopped in the plantation, and they walked silently to the lawn, reaching the bushes wherein the ladder still lay.
“Will you put it up for me?” she asked, mournfully.
He re-erected the ladder without a word; but when she approached to ascend he said, “Goodbye, Betty!”
“Good-bye!” said she, and involuntarily turned her face towards his. He hung back from imprinting the expected kiss, at which Betty started as if she had received a poignant wound. She moved away so suddenly that he hardly had time to follow her up the ladder to prevent her falling.
“Tell your mother to get the doctor at once!” he said, anxiously.
She stepped in without looking behind; he descended, withdrew the ladder, and went away.
Alone in her chamber, Betty flung herself upon her face on the bed and burst into shaking sobs. Yet she would not admit to herself that her lover’s conduct was unreasonable — only that her rash act of the previous week had been wrong. No one had heard her enter and she was too worn out in body and mind to think or care about medical aid. In an hour or so she felt yet more unwell, positively ill; and nobody coming to her at the usual bedtime, she looked towards the door. Marks of the lock having been forced were visible, and this made her chary of summoning a servant. She opened the door cautiously and sallied forth down-stairs.
In the dining-parlour, as it was called, the now sick and sorry Betty was startled to see, at that late hour, not her mother, but a man sitting, calmly finishing his supper. There was no servant in the room. He turned, and she recognized her husband.
“Where’s my mamma?” she demanded, without preface.
“Gone to your father’s. Is that — ” He stopped, aghast.
“Yes, sir. This spotted object is your wife! I’ve done it because I don’t want you to come near me!”
He was sixteen years her senior; old enough to be compassionate. “My poor child, you must get to bed directly! Don’t be afraid of me — I’ll carry you up-stairs and send for a doctor instantly.”
“Ah, you don’t know what I am!” she cried. “I had a lover once; but now he’s gone! ‘Twasn’t I who deserted him
; he has deserted me. Because I am ill he wouldn’t kiss me, though I wanted him to!”
“Wouldn’t he? Then he was a very poor, slack-twisted sort of fellow. Betty, I’ve never kissed you since you stood beside me as my little wife, twelve-years-and-a-half old! May I kiss you now?”
Though Betty by no means desired his kisses, she had enough of the spirit of Cunigonde, in Schiller’s ballad, to test his daring. “If you have courage to venture, yes Sir,” said she. “But you may die for it, mind!”
He came up to her and imprinted a deliberate kiss full upon her mouth, saying, “May many others follow.”
She shook her head, and hastily withdrew, though secretly pleased at his hardihood. The excitement had supported her for the few minutes she had passed in his presence, and she could hardly drag herself back to her room. Her husband summoned the servants and, sending them to her assistance, went off himself for a doctor.
The next morning Reynard waited at the court till he had learned from the medical man that Betty’s attack promised to be a very light one, or, as it was expressed, “very fine”; and in taking his leave sent up a note to her:
“Now I must be gone. I promised your mother I would not see you yet, and she may be angered if she finds me here. Promise to see me as soon as you are well?”
He was of all men then living one of the best able to cope with such an untimely situation as this. A contriving, sagacious, gentle-mannered man, a philosopher who saw that the only constant attribute of life is change, he held that, as long as she lives, there is nothing finite in the most impassioned attitude a woman may take up. In twelve months his girl-wife’s recent infatuation might be as distasteful to her mind as it was now to his own. In a few years her very flesh would change — so said the scientific; her spirit, so much more ephemeral, was capable of changing in one. Betty was his, and it became a mere question of means how to effect that change.
During the day Mrs. Dornell, having closed her husband’s eyes, returned to the Court. She was truly relieved to find Betty there, even though on a bed of sickness. The disease ran its course, and in due time Betty became convalescent, without having suffered deeply for her rashness, one little speck beneath her ear, and one beneath her chin, being all the marks she retained.
The Squire’s body was not brought back to King’s-Hintock. Where he was born, and where he had lived before wedding his Sue, there he had wished to be buried. No sooner had she lost him than Mrs. Dornell, like certain other wives, though she had never shown any great affection for him while he lived awoke suddenly to his many virtues, and zealously embraced his opinion about delaying Betty’s union with her husband, which she had formerly combated strenuously. “Poor man, how right he was, and how wrong was I!” Eighteen was certainly the lowest age at which Mr. Reynard should claim her child — nay, it was too low! Far too low!
So desirous was she of honouring her lamented husband’s sentiments in this respect, that she wrote to her son-in-law suggesting that, partly on account of Betty’s sorrow for her father’s loss, and out of consideration for his known wishes for delay, Betty should not be taken from her till her nineteenth birthday.
However much or little Stephen Reynard might have been to blame in his marriage, the patient man now almost deserved to be pitied. First Betty’s skittishness; now her mother’s remorseful volte-face: it was enough to exasperate anybody; and he wrote to the widow in a tone which led to a little coolness between those hitherto firm friends. However, knowing that he had a wife not to claim but to win, and that young Phelipson had been packed off to sea by his parents, Stephen was complaisant to a degree, returning to London, and holding quite aloof from Betty and her mother, who remained for the present in the country. In town he had a mild visitation of the distemper he had taken from Betty, and in writing to her he took care not to dwell upon its mildness. It was now that Betty began to pity him for what she had inflicted upon him by the kiss, and her correspondence acquired a distinct flavor of kindness thenceforward.
Owing to his rebuffs, Reynard had grown to be truly in love with Betty in his mild, placid, durable way — in that way which, perhaps, upon the whole, tends most generally to the woman’s comfort under the institution of marriage, if not particularly to her ecstasy. Mrs. Dornell’s exaggeration of her husband’s wish for delay in their living together was inconvenient, but he would not openly infringe it. He wrote tenderly to Betty, and soon announced that he had a little surprise in store for her. The secret was that the King had been graciously pleased to inform him privately, through a relation, that His Majesty was about to offer him a Barony. Would she like the title to be Ivell? Moreover, he had reasons for knowing that in a few years the dignity would be raised to that of an Earl, for which creation he thought the title of Wessex would be eminently suitable, considering the position of much of their property. As Lady Ivell, therefore, and future Countess of Wessex, he should beg leave to offer his heart a third time.
He did not add, as he might have added, how greatly the consideration of the enormous estates at King’s-Hintock and elsewhere which Betty would inherit, and her children after her, had conduced to this desirable honour.
Whether the impending titles had really any effect upon Betty’s regard for him I cannot state, for she was one of those close characters who never let their minds be known upon anything. That such honour was absolutely unexpected by her from such a quarter is, however, certain; and she could not deny that Stephen had shown her kindness, forbearance, even magnanimity; had forgiven her for an errant passion which he might with some reason have denounced, notwithstanding her cruel position as a child entrapped into marriage ere able to understand its bearings.
Her mother, in her grief and remorse for the loveless life she had led with her rough, though open-hearted, husband, made now a creed of his merest whim; and continued to insist that, out of respect to his known desire, her son-in-law should not reside with Betty till the girl’s father had been dead a year at least, at which time the girl would still be under nineteen. Letters must suffice for Stephen till then.
“It is rather long for him to wait,” Betty hesitatingly said one day.
“What!” said her mother. “From you? not to respect your dear father — .”
“Of course it is quite proper,” said Betty, hastily. “I don’t gainsay it. I was but thinking that — that — .”
In the long, slow months of the stipulated interval, her mother tended and trained Betty carefully for her duties. Fully awake now to the many virtues of her dear departed one, she, among other acts of pious devotion to his memory, rebuilt the church of King’s-Hintock village, and established valuable charities in all the villages of that name, as far as to Little-Hintock, several miles eastward.
In superintending these works, particularly that of the church-building ,her daughter Betty was her constant companion, and the incidents of their execution were doubtless not without a soothing effect upon the young creature’s heart. She had sprung from girl to a woman by a sudden bound, and few would have recognized in the thoughtful face of Betty now the same person who, the year before, had seemed to have absolutely no idea whatever of responsibility, moral or other. Time passed thus till the Squire had been nearly a year in his vault; and Mrs. Dornell was duly asked by letter by the patient Reynard if she were willing for him to come soon. He did not wish to take Betty away if her mother’s sense of loneliness would be too great, but would willingly live at King’s-Hintock a while with them.
Before the widow had replied to this communication, she one day happened to observe Betty walking on the south terrace in the full sunlight, without hat or mantle, and was struck by her child’s figure. Mrs. Dornell called her in, and said, suddenly: “Have you seen your husband since the time of your poor father’s death?”
“Well — yes, mamma,” says Betty, colouring.
“What — against my wishes and those of your dear father! I am shocked at your disobedience!”
“But my father said eighteen
, ma’am, and you made it much longer — .”
“Why, of course — out of consideration for you! When have ye seen him?”
“Well, stammered Betty, “in the course of his letters to me he said that I belonged to him, and if nobody knew that we met it would make no difference. And that I need not hurt your feelings by telling you.”
“Well?”
“So I went to Casterbridge that time you went to London about five months ago — .”
“And met him there? When did you come back?”
“Dear mamma, it grew very late, and he said it was safer not to go back till next day, as the roads were bad; and as you were away from home — .”
“I don’t want to hear any more! This is your respect for your father’s memory,” groaned the widow. “When did you meet him again?”
“Oh — not for more than a fortnight.”
“A fortnight! How many times have ye seen him altogether?”
“I’m sure, mamma, I’ve not seen him altogether a dozen times.”
“A dozen! And eighteen and a half years old barely!”
“Twice we met by accident,” pleaded Betty. “Once at Abbott’s-Cernal, and another time at the Red Lion, Melchester.”
“Oh, thou deceitful girl!” cried Mrs. Dornell. “An accident took you to Red Lion while I was staying at the White Hart! I remember — you came in at twelve o’clock at night, and said you’d been to see the cathedral by the light o’ the moon!”
“My ever-honoured mamma, so I had! I only went to the Red Lion with him afterwards.”
“Oh Betty, Betty! That my child should have deceived me even in my widowed days!”
“But, my dearest mamma, you made me marry him!” says Betty, with spirit, “and, of course, I’ve to obey him more than you now!”
Mrs. Dornell sighed. “All I have to say is, that you’d better get your husband to join you as soon as possible,” she remarked. “To go on playing the maiden like this — I’m ashamed to see you!”
She wrote instantly to Stephen Reynard: “I wash my hands of the whole matter as between you two; though I should advise you to openly join each other as soon as you can — if you wish to avoid scandal.”