by Thomas Hardy
‘Betty Privett was as certain in her own mind that he did go out as she was of her own existence, and was little less certain that he did not return. She felt too disturbed to argue with him, and let the subject drop as though she must have been mistaken. When she was walking down Longpuddle street later in the day she met Jim Weedle’s daughter Nancy, and said, “Well, Nancy, you do look sleepy to-day!”
‘ “Yes, Mrs. Privett,” says Nancy. “Now don’t tell anybody, but I don’t mind letting you know what the reason o’t is. Last night, being OldMidsummer Eve, some of us went to church porch, and didn’t get home till near one.”
‘ “Did ye?” says Mrs. Privett. “Old Midsummer yesterday was it? Faith I didn’t think whe’r ‘twas Midsummer or Michaelmas; I’d too much work to do. “
‘ “Yes. And we were frightened enough, I can tell ‘ee, by what we saw.”
‘ “What did ye see?”
‘(You may not remember, sir, having gone off to foreign parts so young, that on Midsummer Night it is believed hereabout that the faint shapes of all the folk in the parish who are going to be at death’s door within the year can be seen entering the church. Those who get over their illness come out again after a while; those that are doomed to die do not return.)
‘ “What did you see?” asked William’s wife.
‘ “Well,” says Nancy, backwardly – “we needn’t tell what we saw, or who we saw.”
‘ “You saw my husband,” says Betty Privett, in a quiet way.
‘ “Well, since you put it so,” says Nancy, hanging fire, “we – thought we did see him; but it was darkish, and we was frightened, and of course it might not have been he.”
‘ “Nancy, you needn’t mind letting it out, though tis kept back in kindness. And he didn’t come out of church again: I know it as well as you.”
‘Nancy did not answer yes or no to that, and no more was said. But three days after, William Privett was mowing with John Chiles in Mr.Hardcome’s meadow, and in the heat of the day they sat down to eat their bit o’ nunch under a tree, and empty their flagon. Afterwards both of ‘em fell asleep as they sat. John Chiles was the first to wake, and as he looked towards his fellow-mower he saw one of those great white miller’s-souls as we call ‘em – that is to say, a miller-moth – come from William’s open mouth while he slept, and fly straight away. John thought it odd enough, as William had worked in a mill for several years when he was a boy. He then looked at the sun and found by the place o’t that they had slept a long while, and as William did not wake, John called to him and said it was high time to begin work again. He took no notice, and then John went up and shook him, and found he was dead.
‘Now on that very day old Philip Hookhorn was down at Longpuddle Spring dipping up a pitcher of water; and as he turned away, who should he see but William, looking very pale and odd. This surprised Philip Hookhorn very much, for years before that time William’s little son – his only child – had been drowned in that spring while at play there, and this had so preyed upon William’s mind that he’d never been seen near the spring afterwards, and had been known to go half a mile out of his way to avoid the place. On inquiry, it was found that William in body could not have stood by the spring, being in the mead two miles off ; and it also came out that the time at which he was seen at the spring was the very time when he died.’
‘A rather melancholy story,’ observed the emigrant, after a minute’s silence.
‘Yes, yes. Well, we must take ups and downs together,’ said the seedsman’s father.
‘You don’t know, Mr. Lackland, I suppose, what a rum start that was between Andrey Satchel and Jane Vallens and the pa’son and clerk o’ Scrimpton?’ said the master-thatcher, a man with a spark of subdued liveliness in his eye, who had hitherto kept his attention mainly upon small objects a long way ahead, as he sat in front of the van with his feet outside. ‘Theirs was a queerer experience of a pa’son and clerk than some folks get, and may cheer ‘ee up a little after this dampness that’s been flung over yer soul.’
The returned one replied that he knew nothing of the history, and should be happy to hear it, quite recollecting the personality of the man Satchel.
‘Ah no; this Andrey Satchel is the son of the Satchel that you knew; this one has not been married more than two or three years, and ‘twas at the time o’ the wedding that the accident happened that I could tell ‘ee of, or anybody else here, for that matter.’
‘No, no; you must tell it, neighbour, if anybody,’ said several; a request in which Mr. Lackland joined, adding that the Satchel family was one he had known well before leaving home.
‘I’ll just mention, as you be a stranger,’ whispered the carrier to Lackland, ‘that Christopher’s stories will bear pruning.’
The emigrant nodded.
‘Well, I can soon tell it,’ said the master-thatcher, schooling himself to a tone of actuality. ‘Though as it has more to do with the pa’son and clerk than with Andrey himself, it ought to be told by a better churchman than I.’
Tony Kytes, The Arch-Deceiver
I shall never forget Tony’s face. It was a little, round, firm, tight face, with a seam here and there left by the small-pox, but not enough to hurt his looks in a woman’s eye, though he’d had it badish when he was a boy. So very serious looking and unsmiling ‘a was, that young man, that it really seemed as if he couldn’t laugh at all without great pain to his conscience. He looked very hard at a small speck in your eye when talking to ‘ee. And there was no more sign of a whisker or beard on Tony Kytes’s face than on the palm of my hand. He used to sing “The Tailor’s Breeches” with a religious manner, as if it were a hymn:
“O the petticoats went off, and the breeches they went on”;
and all the rest of the scandalous stuff. He was quite the women’s favorite, and in return for their likings he loved ‘em in shoals.
But in course of time Tony got fixed down to one in particular, Milly Richards – a nice, light, small, tender little thing; and it was soon said that they were engaged to be married. One Saturday he had been to market to do business for his father, and was driving home the wagon in the afternoon. When he reached the foot of the hill, who should he see waiting for him at the top but Unity Sallet, a handsome girl, one of the young women he’d been very tender towards before he’d got engaged to Milly.
As soon as Tony came up to her she said, “My dear Tony, will you give me a lift home?”
“That I will, darling,” said Tony. “You don’t suppose I could refuse ‘ee?”
She smiled a smile, and up she hopped, and on drove Tony.
“Tony,” she says, in a sort of tender chide, “why did ye desert me for that other one? In what is she better than I? I should have made ‘ee a finer wife, and a more loving one, too. ‘Tisn’t girls that are so easily won at first that are the best. Think how long we’ve known each other – ever since we were children almost – now haven’t we, Tony?”
“Yes, that we have,” says Tony, a – struck with the truth o’t.
“And you’ve never seen anything in me to complain of, have ye, Tony? Now tell the truth to me.”
“I never have, upon my life,” says Tony.
“And – can you say I’m not pretty, Tony? Now look at me.
He let his eyes light upon her for a long while. “I really can’t,” says he. “In fact, I never knowed you was so pretty before!”
“Prettier than she?”
What Tony would have said to that nobody knows, for before he could speak, what should he see ahead, over the hedge past the turning, but afeather he knew well – the feather in Milly’s hat – she to whom he had been thinking of putting the question as to giving out the banns that very week.
“Unity,” says he, as mild as he could, “here’s Milly coming. Now I shall catch it mightily if she sees ‘ee riding here with me; and if you get down she’ll be turning the corner in a moment, and, seeing ‘ee in the road, she’ll know we’ve been coming on together.
Now, dearest Unity, will ye, to avoid all unpleasantness, which I know ye can’t bear any more than I, will ye lie down in the back part of the wagon, and let me cover you over with the tarpaulin till Milly has passed? It will all be done in a minute. Do! – and I’ll think over what we’ve said; and perhaps I shall put a loving question to you after all, instead of to Milly. ‘Tisn’t true that it is all settled between her and me.”
Well, Unity Sallet agreed, and lay down at the back end of the wagon, and Tony covered her over, so that the wagon seemed to be empty but for the loose tarpaulin; and then he drove on to meet Milly.
“My dear Tony!” cries Milly, looking up with a little pout at him as he came near. “How long you’ve been coming home! Just as if I didn’t live at Upper Longpuddle at all! And I’ve come to meet you as you asked me to do, and to ride back with you, and talk over our future home – since you asked me, and I promised. But I shouldn’t have come else, Mr. Tony!”
“Ay, my dear, I did ask ye – to be sure I did, now I think of it – but I had quite forgot it. To ride back with me, did you say, dear Milly?”
“Well, of course! What can I do else? Surely you don’t want me to walk, now I’ve come all this way?”
“Oh no, no! I was thinking you might be going on to town to meet your mother. I saw her there – and she looked as if she might be expecting ‘ee.”
“Oh no; she’s just home. She came across the fields, and so got back before you.”
“Ah! I didn’t know that,” says Tony. And there was no help for it but to take her up beside him.
They talked on very pleasantly, and looked at the trees and beasts and birds and insects, and at the plowmen at work in the fields, till presently who should they see looking out of the upper window of a house that stood beside the road they were following but Hannah Jolliver, another young beauty of the place at that time, and the very first woman that Tony had fallen in love with – before Milly and before Unity, in fact the one that he had almost arranged to marry instead of Milly. She was a much more dashing girl than Milly Richards, though he’d not thought much of her of late. The house Hannah was looking from was her aunt’s.
“My dear Milly – my coming wife, as I may call ‘ee,” says Tony in his modest way, and not so loud that Unity could overhear “I see a young woman looking out of window who I think may accost me. The fact is, Milly, she had a notion that I was wishing to marry her, and since she’s discovered I’ve promised another, and prettier than she, I’m rather afeared of her temper if she sees us together. Now, Milly, would you do me a favour – my coming wife, as I may say?”
“Certainly, dearest Tony,” says she.
“Then would ye creep under the tarpaulin just here in the front of the wagon, and hide there out of sight till we’ve passed the house? She hasn’t seen us yet. You see, we ought to live in peace and good – will since ‘tis almost Christmas, and ‘twill prevent angry passions rising, which we always should do.”
“I don’t mind, to oblige you, Tony,” Milly said; and though she didn’t care much about doing it, she crept under, and crouched down just behind the seat, Unity being snug at the other end. So they drove on till they got near the road-side cottage. Hannah had soon seen him coming, and waited at the window, looking down upon him. She tossed her head a little disdainful and smiled off-hand.
“Well, aren’t you going to be civil enough to ask me to ride home with you?” she says, seeing that he was for driving past with a nod and a smile.
“Ah, to be sure! What was I thinking of?” said Tony, in a flutter. “But you seem as if you was staying at your aunt’s?”
“No, I am not,” she said. “Don’t you see I have my bonnet and jacket on? I have only called to see her on my way home. How can you be so stupid, Tony?”
“In that case – ah – of course you must come along wi’ me,” says Tony, feeling a dim sort of sweat rising up inside his clothes. And he reined in the horse, and waited till she’d come down-stairs, and then helped her up beside him. He drove on again, his face as long as a face that was a round one by nature well could be.
Hannah looked round sideways into his eyes. “This is nice, isn’t it, Tony?” she says. “I like riding with you.”
Tony looked back into her eyes. “And I with you,” he said after awhile. In short, having considered her, he warmed up, and the more he looked at her the more he liked her, till he couldn’t for the life of him think why he had ever said a word about marriage to Milly or Unity while Hannah Jolliver was in question. So they sat a little closer and closer, their feet upon the foot-board and their shoulders touching, and Tony thought over and over again how handsome Hannah was. He spoke tenderer and tenderer, and called her “dear Hannah” in a whisper at last.
“You’ve settled it with Milly by this time, I suppose,” said she.
“N – no, not exactly.”
“What? How low you talk, Tony.”
“Yes – I’ve a kind of hoarseness. I said, not exactly.”
“I suppose you mean to?”
“Well, as to that –” His eyes rested on her face, and hers on his. He wondered how he could have been such a fool as not to follow up Hannah. “My sweet Hannah!” he bursts out, taking her hand, not being really able to help it, and forgetting Milly and Unity and all the world besides. “Settled it? I don’t think I have!”
“Hark!” says Hannah.
“What?” says Tony, letting go her hand.
“Surely I heard a sort of little screaming squeak under that tar-cloth? Why, you’ve been carrying corn, and there’s mice in this wagon, I declare!” She began to haul up the tails of her gown.
“Oh no; ‘tis the axle,” said Tony, in an assuring way. “It do go like that sometimes in dry weather.”
“Perhaps it was. . . . Well, now, to be quite honest, dear Tony, do you like her better than me? Because – because, although I’ve held off so independent, I’ll own at last that I do like ‘ee, Tony, to tell the truth; and I wouldn’t say no if you asked me – you know what.”
Tony was so won over by this pretty offering mood of a girl who had been quite the reverse (Hannah had a backward way with her at times, if you can mind) that he just glanced behind, and then whispered very soft, “I haven’t quite promised her, and I think I can get out of it, and ask you that question you speak of.”
“Throw over Milly? – all to marry me! How delightful!” broke out Hannah, quite loud, clapping her hands.
At this there was a real squeak – an angry, spiteful squeak, and afterwards a long moan, as if something had broke its heart, and a movement of the wagon cloth.
“Something’s there!” said Hannah, starting up.
“It’s nothing, really,” says Tony, in a soothing voice, and praying inwardly for a way out of this. “I wouldn’t tell ‘ee at first, because I wouldn’t frighten ‘ee. But, Hannah, I’ve really a couple of ferrets in a bag under there, for rabbiting, and they quarrel sometimes. I don’t wish it knowed, as ‘twould be called poaching. Oh, they can’t get out, bless ye! – you are quite safe. And – and – what a fine day it is, isn’t it, Hannah, for this time of year? Be you going to market next Saturday? How is your aunt now?” And so on,says Tony, to keep her from talking any more about love in Milly’s hearing.
But he found his work cut out for him, and wondering again how he should get out of this ticklish business, he looked about for a chance. Nearing home he saw his father in a field not far off, holding up his hand as if he wished to speak to Tony.
“Would you mind taking the reins a moment, Hannah,” he said, much relieved, while I go and find out what father wants?”
She consented, and away he hastened into the field only too glad to get breathing-time. He found that his father was looking at him with rather a stern eye.
“Come, come, Tony,” says old Mr. Kytes, as soon as his son was alongside him, “this won’t do, you know.”
“What?” says Tony.
“Why, if you mean to marry Milly Richards, do i
t, and there’s an end o’t. But don’t go driving about the country with Jolliver’s daughter and making a scandal. I won’t have such things done.”
“I only asked her – that is, she asked me – to ride home.”
“She? Why, now, if it had been Milly, ‘twould have been quite proper; but you and Hannah Jolliver going about by yourselves –”
“Milly’s there, too, father.”
“Milly? Where?”
“Under the tarpaulin! Yes; the truth is, father, I’ve got rather into a nunny-watch, I’m afeard! Unity Sallet is there, too – yes, under the other end of the tarpaulin. All three are in that wagon, and what to do with ‘em I know no more than the dead. The best plan is, as I’m thinking, to speak out loud and plain to one of ‘em before the rest, and that will settle it; not but what ‘twill cause ‘em to kick up a bit of a miff, for certain. Now, which would you marry, father, if you was in my place?”
“Whichever of ‘em did not ask to ride with thee.”
“That was Milly, I’m bound to say, as she only mounted by my invitation. But Milly–”
“Then stick to Milly, she’s the best. . . . But look at that!”
His father pointed towards the wagon. “She can’t hold that horse in. You shouldn’t have left the reins in her hands. Run on and take the horse’s head, or there’ll be some accident to them maids!”
Tony’s horse, in fact, in spite of Hannah’s tugging at the reins, had started on his way at a brisk walking pace, being very anxious to get back to the stable, for he had had a long day out. Without another word, Tony rushed away from his father to overtake the horse.
Now, of all things that could have happened to wean him from Milly, there was nothing so powerful as his father’s recommending her. No; it could not be Milly, after all. Hannah must be the one, since he could not marry all three. This he thought while running after the wagon. But queer things were happening inside it.
It was, of course, Milly who had screamed under the tarpaulin, being obliged to let off her bitter rage and shame in that way at what Tony was saying, and never daring to show, for very pride and dread o’ being laughed at, that she was in hiding. She became more and more restless, and in twisting herself about, what did she see but another woman’s foot and white stocking close to her head. It quite frightened her, not knowing that Unity Sallet was in the wagon likewise. But after the fright was over she determined to get to the bottom of all this, and she crept and crept along the bed of the wagon, under the cloth, like a snake, when lo and behold she came face to face with Unity.