by Thomas Hardy
‘This was agreed to, and away Andrey’s relations went, nothing loath, and the clerk shut the church door and prepared to lock in the couple. The bride went up and whispered to him, with her eyes a-streaming still.
‘ “My dear good clerk,” she says, “if we bide here in the church, folk may see us through the windows, and find out what has happened; and ‘twould cause such a talk and scandal that I never should get over it: and perhaps, too, dear Andrey might try to get out and leave me! Will ye lock us up in the tower, my dear good clerk?” she says. I’ll tole him in there if you will.”
‘The clerk had no objection to do this to oblige the poor young woman, and they toled Andrey into the tower, and the clerk locked ‘em both up straightway, and then went home, to return at the end of the two hours.
‘Pa’son Toogood had not been long in his house after leaving the church when he saw a gentleman in pink and top– boots ride past his windows, and with a sudden flash of heat he called to mind that the hounds met that day just on the edge of his parish. The pa’son was one who dearly loved sport, and much he longed to be there.
‘In short, except o’ Sundays and at tide-times in the week, Pa’son Billy was the life o’ the Hunt. ‘Tis true that he was poor, and that he rode all of a heap, and that his black mare was rat-tailed and old, and his tops older, and all over of one colour, whitey-brown, and full o’ cracks. But he’d been in at the death of three thousand foxes. And – being a bachelor man – every time he went to bed in summer he used to open the bed at bottom and crawl up head foremost, to mind en of the coming winter and the good sport he’d have, and the foxes going to earth. And whenever there was a christening at the Squire’s, and he had dinner there afterwards, as he always did, he never failed to christen the chiel over again in a bottle of port wine.
‘Now the clerk was the parson’s groom and gardener and general manager, and had just got back to his work in the garden when he, too, saw the hunting man pass, and presently saw lots more of ‘em, noblemen andgentry, and then he saw the hounds, the huntsman, Jim Treadhedge, the whipper – in, and I don’t know who besides. The clerk loved going to cover as frantical as the pa’son, so much so that whenever he saw or heard the pack he could no more rule his feelings than if they were the winds of heaven. He might be bedding, or he might be sowing– all was forgot. So he throws down his spade and rushes in to the pa’son, who was by this time as frantical to go as he.
‘ “That there mare of yours, sir, do want exercise bad, very bad, this morning!” the clerk says, all of a tremble. “Don’t ye think I’d better trot her round the downs for an hour, sir?”
‘ “To be sure, she does want exercise badly. I’ll trot her round myself,” says the parson.
‘ “Oh – you’ll trot her yerself? Well, there’s the cob, sir. Really that cobis getting oncontrollable through biding in a stable so long! If you wouldn’t mind my putting on the saddle – “
‘ “Very well. Take him out, certainly,” says the pa’son, never caring what the clerk did so long as he himself could get off immediately. So, scrambling into his riding-boots and breeches as quick as he could, he rode off towards the meet, intending to be back in an hour. No sooner was he gone than the clerk mounted the cob, and was off after him. When the pa’son got to the meet he found a lot of friends, and was as jolly as he could be: the hounds found a’most as soon as they threw off, and there was great excitement. So, forgetting that he had meant to go back at once, away rides the pa’son with the rest o’ the hunt, all across the fallow ground that lies between Lippet Wood and Green’s Copse; and as he galloped he looked behind for a moment, and there was the clerk close to his heels.
‘ “Ha, ha, clerk – you here?” he says.
‘ “Yes, Sir, here be I,” says t’other.
‘ “Fine exercise for the horses!”
‘ “Ay, sir – hee, hee!” says the clerk.
‘So they went on and on, into Green’s Copse, then across to Higher Jirton; then on across this very turnpike – road to Waterston Ridge, then away towards Yalbury Wood: up hill and down dale, like the very wind, the clerk close to the pa’son, and the pa’son not far from the hounds. Never was there a finer run knowed with that pack than they had that day; and neither pa’son nor clerk thought one word about the unmarried couple locked up in the church tower waiting to get j’ined.
‘ “These hosses of yours, Sir, will be much improved by this!” says the clerk as he rode along, just a neck behind the pa’son. “ ‘Twas a happy thought of your reverent mind to bring ‘em out to-day. Why, it may be frosty and slippery in a day or two, and then the poor things mid not be able to leave the stable for weeks.” ‘
“They may not, they may not, it is true. A merciful man is merciful to his beast,” says the pa’son.
‘ “Hee, hee!” says the clerk, glancing sly into the pa’son’s eye.
‘ “Ha, ha!” says the pa’son, a-glancing back into the clerk’s.
“Halloo!” he shouts, as he sees the fox break cover at that moment. ‘ “Halloo!” cries the clerk. “There he goes! Why, dammy, there’s two foxes – “
‘ “Hush, clerk, hush! Don’t let me hear that word again! Remember our calling.”
‘ “True, sir, true. But really, good sport do carry away a man so, that he’s apt to forget his high persuasion!” And the next minute the corner o fthe clerk’s eye shot again into the corner of the pa’son’s, and the pa’son’s back again to the clerk’s. “Hee, hee!” said the clerk.
‘ “Ha, ha! “ said Pa’son Toogood.
‘ “Ah, sir,” says the clerk again, “this is better than crying Amen to your Ever-and-ever on a winter’s morning!”
‘ “Yes, indeed, clerk! To everything there’s a season,” says Pa’son Toogood, quite pat, for he was a learned Christian man when he liked, and had chapter and ve’se at his tongue’s end, as a pa’son should.
‘At last, late in the day, the hunting came to an end by the fox running into a’ old woman’s cottage, under her table, and up the clock-case. The pa’son and clerk were among the first in at the death, their faces a-staring in at the old woman’s winder, and the clock striking as he’d never been heard to strik’ before. Then came the question of finding their way home.
‘Neither the pa’son nor the clerk knowed how they were going to do this, for their beasts were well– nigh tired down to the ground. But they started back – along as well as they could, though they were so done up that they could only drag along at a’ amble, and not much of that at a time.
‘ “We shall never, never get there!” groaned Mr. Toogood, quite bowed down.
‘ “Never!” groans the clerk. “ ‘Tis a judgment upon us for our iniquities!”
‘ “I fear it is,” murmurs the pa’son.
‘Well, ‘twas quite dark afore they entered pa’sonage gate, having crept into the parish as quiet if they’d stole a hammer, little wishing their congregation to know what they’d been up to all day long. And as they were so dog-tired, and so anxious about the horses, never once did they think of the unmarried couple. As soon as ever the horses had been stabled and fed, and the pa’son and clerk had had a bit and a sup theirselves, they went to bed.
‘Next morning when Pa’son Toogood was at breakfast, thinking of the glorious sport he’d had the day before, the clerk came in a hurry to the door and asked to see him.
‘ “It has just come into my mind, sir, that we’ve forgot all about the couple that we was to have married yesterday!”
‘The half-chawed victuals dropped from the pa’son’s mouth as if he’d been shot. “Bless my soul,” says he, so we have! How very awkward!”
‘ “It is, sir; very. Perhaps we’ve ruined the ‘ooman!”
‘ “Ah – to be sure – I remember! She ought to have been married before.”
‘ “If anything has happened to her up in that there tower, and no doctor or nuss – “
(‘Ah – poor thing!’ sighed the women.)
�
� “– ‘twill be a quarter – sessions matter for us, not to speak of the disgrace to the Church!”
‘ “Good God, clerk, don’t drive me wild!” says the pa’son. “ Why the hell didn’t I marry ‘em, drunk or sober!” (Pa’sons used to cuss in them days like plain honest men.) “Have you been to the church to see what happened to them, or inquired in the village?”
‘ “Not I, sir! It only came into my head a moment ago, and I always like to be second to you in church matters. You could have knocked me down with a sparrow’s feather when I thought o’t, sir; I assure ‘ee you could!”
‘Well, the pa’son jumped up from his breakfast, and together they went off to the church.
‘ “It is not at all likely that they are there now, “says Mr. Toogood, as they went; “and indeed I hope they are not. They be pretty sure to have escaped and gone home.”
However, they opened the church-hatch, entered the churchyard, and looking up at the tower there they seed a little small white face at the belfry-winder, and a little small hand waving. ‘Twas the bride.
‘ “God my life, clerk,” says Mr. Toogood, “I don’t know how to face ‘em!” And he sank down upon a tombstone. “How I wish I hadn’t been so cussed particular!”
‘ “Yes – ‘twas a pity we didn’t finish it when we’d begun,” the clerk said. “Still, since the feelings of your holy priest craft wouldn’t let ye, the couple must put up with it.”
‘ “True, clerk, true! Does she look as if anything premature had took place?”
‘ “I can’t see her no lower down than her arm-pits, sir.”
‘ “Well – how do her face look?”
‘ “It do look mighty white!”
‘ “Well, we must know the worst! Dear me, how the small of my back do ache from that ride yesterday! . . . But to more godly business!”
‘They went on into the church, and unlocked the tower stairs, and immediately poor Jane and Andrey busted out like starved mice from a cupboard, Andrey limp and sober enough now, and his bride pale and cold, but otherwise as usual.
‘ “What,” says the pa’son, with a great breath of relief, “you haven’ t been here ever since?”
‘ “Yes, we have, sir!” says the bride, sinking down upon a seat in her weakness. “Not a morsel, wet or dry, have we had since! It was impossible to get out without help, and here we’ve stayed!”
‘ “But why didn’t you shout, good souls?” said the pa’son.
‘ “She wouldn’t let me,” says Andrey.
‘ “Because we were so ashamed at what had led to it,” sobs Jane. “We felt that if it were noised abroad it would cling to us all our lives! Once or twice Andrey had a good mind to toll the bell, but then he said: “No; I’ll starve first. I won’t bring disgrace on my name and yours, my dear.” And so we waited and waited, and walked round and round; but never did you come till now!”
‘ “To my regret!” says the parson. “Now, then, we will soon get it over.”
‘ “I – I should like some victuals,” said Andrey; “ ‘twould gie me courage to do it, if it is only a crust o’ bread and a’ onion; for I am that leery that I can feel my stomach rubbing against my backbone.”
‘ “I think we had better get it done,” said the bride, a bit anxious in manner; “ since we are all here convenient, too!”
‘Andrey gave way about the victuals, and the clerk called in a second witness who wouldn’t be likely to gossip about it, and soon the knot wastied, and the bride looked smiling and calm forthwith, and Andrey limper than ever.
‘ “Now,” said Pa’son Toogood, “you two must come to my house, and have a good lining put to your insides before you go a step further.”
‘They were very glad of the offer, and went out of the churchyard by one path while the pa’son and clerk went out by the other, and so did not attract notice, it being still early. They entered the rectory as if they’d just come back from their trip to Port Bredy; and then they knocked in the victuals and drink till they could hold no more.
‘It was a long while before the story of what they had gone through was known, but it was talked of in time, and they themselves laugh over it now; though what Jane got for her pains was no great bargain after all. ‘Tis true she saved her name.’
‘Was that the same Andrey who went to the squire’s house as one of the Christmas fiddlers?’ asked the seedsman.
‘No, no,’ replied Mr. Profitt, the schoolmaster. ‘It was his father did that. Ay, it was all owing to his being such a man for eating and drinking. ‘Finding that he had the ear of the audience, the schoolmaster continued without delay: –
The History of the Hardcomes
‘Yes,’ [The Clerk Began], ‘Tony’s was the very best wedding-randy that ever I was at; and I’ve been at a good many, as you may suppose, having, as a Church officer, the privilege to attend all christening, wedding, and funeral parties – such being our Wessex custom.’
‘ ‘Twas on a frosty night in Christmas week, and among the folk invited were the said Hardcomes o’ Climmerston – Steve and James – first cousins, both of them small farmers, just entering into business on their own account. With them came as a matter of course their intended wives, two young women of the neighbourhood, both very pretty and sprightly maidens, and numbers of friends from Abbot’s-Cernel and Weatherbury and Mellstock and I don’t know where – a regular houseful.’
‘The kitchen was cleared of furniture for dancing, and the old folk played at “Put” and “All-fours” in the parlour, though at last they gave that up to join in the dance. The top of the figure was by the large front window of the room, and there were so many couples that the lower part of the figure reached through the door at the back, and into the darkness of the out-house; in fact, you couldn’t see the end of the row at all, and ‘twas never known exactly how long that dance was, the lowest couples being lost among the faggots and brushwood in the out-house.’
‘When we had danced a few hours, and the crowns of we taller men were swelling into lumps with bumping the beams of the ceiling, the first fiddler laid down his fiddle-bow, and said he should play no more, for he wished to dance. And in another hour the second fiddler laid down his, and said he wanted to dance, too; so there was only the third fiddler left, and he was a’ old, veteran man, very weak in the wrist. However, he managed to keep up a feeble tweedle-dee; but there being no chair in the room, and his knees being as weak as his wrists, he was obliged to sit upon as much of the little corner-table as projected beyond the corner-cupboard fixed over it, which was not a very wide seat for a man advanced in years.’
‘Among those who danced most continually were the two engaged couples, as was natural to their situation. Each pair was very well matched, and very unlike the other. James Hardcome’s intended was called Emily Darth, and both she and James were gentle, nice-minded, in-door people, fond of a quiet life. Steve and his chosen, named Olive Pawle, were different; they were of a more bustling nature, fond of racketing about and seeing what was going on in the world. The two couples had arranged to get married on the same day, and that not long thence; Tony’s wedding being a sort of stimulant, as is often the case; I’ve noticed it professionally many times.’
‘They danced with such a will as only young people in that stage of courtship can dance; and it happened that as the evening wore on James had for his partner Stephen’s plighted one, Olive, at the same time that Stephen was dancing with James’s Emily. It was noticed that in spite o’ the exchange the young men seemed to enjoy the dance no less than before. By-and-by they were treading another tune in the same changed order as we had noticed earlier, and though at first each one had held the other’s mistress strictly at half-arm’s length, lest there should be shown any objection to too close quarters by the lady’s proper man, as time passed there was a little more closeness between ‘em; and presently a little more closeness still.’
‘The later it got the more did each of the two cousins dance with the wrong young gir
l, and the tighter did he hold her to his side as he whirled her round; and, what was very remarkable, neither seemed to mind what the other was doing. The party began to draw towards its end, and I saw no more that night, being one of the first to leave, on account of my morning’s business. But I learnt the rest of it from those that knew.’
‘After finishing a particularly warming dance with the changed partners, as I’ve mentioned, the two young men looked at one another, and in a moment or two went out into the porch together.’
“James,” says Steve, “what were you thinking of when you were dancing with my Olive?”
“Well,” said James, “perhaps what you were thinking of when you were dancing with my Emily.”
“I was thinking,” said Steve, with some hesitation, “that I wouldn’t mind changing for good and all!”
“It was what I was feeling likewise,” said James.
“I willingly agree to it, if you think we could manage it.”
“So do I. But what would the girls say?”
“ ‘Tis my belief,” said Steve, “that they wouldn’t particularly object. Your Emily clung as close to me as if she already belonged to me, dear girl.”
“And your Olive to me, says James. “I could feel her heart beating like a clock.”
‘Well, they agreed to put it to the girls when they were all four walking home together. And they did so. When they parted that night the exchange was decided on – all having been done under the hot excitement of that evening’s dancing. Thus it happened that on the following Sunday morning, when the people were sitting in church with mouths wide open to hear the names published as they had expected, there was no small amazement to hear them coupled the wrong way, as it seemed. The congregation whispered, and thought the parson had made a mistake, till they discovered that his reading of the names was verily the true way. As they had decided, so they were married, each one to the other’s original property.’