by Thomas Hardy
She did not answer.
“I hope it didn’t go far between you and him, for your own sake.”
“Don’t insult me, Will.”
“Mind, I won’t have anymore of this sort of thing; do you hear?”
“Very well,” she said.
He drew her arm within his own, and conducted her out of the Cemetery. It was impossible to get back that night; and not wishing to be recognized in their present sorry condition he took her to a miserable little coffee-house close to the station, whence they departed early in the morning, traveling almost without speaking, under the sense that it was one of those dreary situations occurring in married life which words could not mend, and reaching their own door at noon.
The months passed, and neither of the twain ever ventured to start a conversation upon this episode. Ella seemed to be only too frequently in a sad and listless mood, which might almost have been called pining. The time was approaching when she would have to undergo the stress of childbirth for a fourth time, and that apparently not tend to raise her spirits.
“I don’t think I shall get over it this time!” she said one day.”Pooh! what childish foreboding! Why shouldn’t it be as well now as ever?”
She shook her head. “I feel almost sure I am going to die; and I should be glad, if it were not for Nelly, and Frank, and Tiny.”
“And me!”
“You’ll soon find somebody to fill my place,” she murmured, with a sad smile. “And you’ll have a perfect right to; I assure you of that.”
“Ell, you are not thinking still about that — poetical friend of yours?”
She neither admitted nor denied the charge. “I am not going to get over my illness this time,” she reiterated. “Something tells me I shan’t.”
This view of things was rather a bad beginning, as it usually is; and, in fact, six weeks later, in the month of May, she was lying in her room, pulseless and bloodless, with hardly strength enough left to follow up one feeble breath with another, the infant for whose unnecessary life she was slowly parting with her own being fat and well. Just before her death she spoke to Marchmill softly: —
“Will, I want to confess to you the entire circumstances of that — about you know what — that time we visited Solentsea. I can’t tell what possessed me — how I could forget you so, my husband! But I had got into a morbid state: I thought you had been unkind; that you had neglected me; that you weren’t up to my intellectual level, while he was, and far above it. I wanted a fuller appreciator, perhaps, rather than another lover — ”
She could get no further then for very exhaustion; and she went off in sudden collapse a few hours later, without having said anything more to her husband on the subject of her love for the poet. William Marchmill, in truth, like most husbands of several years’ standing, was little disturbed by retrospective jealousies, and had not shown the least anxiety to press her for confessions concerning a man dead and gone beyond any power of inconveniencing him more.
But when she had been buried a couple of years it chanced one day that, in turning over some forgotten papers that he wished to destroy before his second wife entered the house, he lighted on a lock of hair in an envelope, with the photograph of the deceased poet, a date being written on the back in his late wife’s hand. It was that of the time they spent at Solentsea.
Marchmill looked long and musingly at the hair and portrait, for something struck him. Fetching the little boy who had been the death of his mother, now a noisy toddler, he took him on his knee, held the lock of hair against the child’s head, and set up the photograph on the table behind, so that he could closely compare the features each countenance presented. By a known but inexplicable trick of Nature there were undoubtedly strong traces of resemblance to the man Ella had never seen; the dreamy and peculiar expression of the poet’s face sat, as the transmitted idea,, upon the child’s, and the hair was of the same hue.
“I’m damned if I didn’t think so!” murmured Marchmill. “Then she did play me false with that fellow at the lodgings! Let me see: the dates — the second week in August . . . the third week in May. . . . Yes . . . yes. . . . Get away, you poor little brat! You are nothing to me!”
1893
The Spectre of the Real
An end-of-the-century Narrative
(co-written with Florence Henniker)
I
A certain March night of this present “waning age” had settled down upon the woods and the park and the parapets of Ambrose Towers. The harsh stable-clock struck a quarter-to-ten. Thereupon a girl in light evening attire and wraps came through the entrance-hall, opened the front door and the small wrought-iron gate beyond it which led to the terrace, and stepped into the moonlight. Such a person, such a night, and such a place were unexceptionable materials for a scene in that poetical drama of two which the world has often beheld; which leads up to a contract that causes a slight sinking in the poetry, and a perceptible lack of interest in the play.
She moved so quietly that the alert birds resting in the great cedar tree never stirred. Gliding across its funereal shadow over a smooth plush of turf, as far as to the Grand Walk whose pebbles shone like the floor-stones of the Apocalyptic City, she paused and looked back at the old brick walls — red in the daytime, sable now — at the shrouded mullions, the silhouette of the tower; though listening rather than seeing seemed her object incoming to the pause. The clammy wings of a bat brushed past her face, startling her and making her shiver a little. The stamping of one or two horses in their stalls surprised her by its distinctness and isolation. The servants’ offices were on the other side of the house, and the lady who, with the exception of the girl on the terrace, was its only occupant, was resting on a sofa behind one of the curtained windows. So Rosalys went on her way unseen, trod the margin of the lake, and plunged into the distant shrubberies.
The clock had reached ten. As the last strokes of the hour rang out a young man scrambled down the sunk-fence bordering the pleasure-ground, leapt the iron railing within, and joined the girl who stood awaiting him. In the half-light he could not see how her full under-lip trembled, or the fire of joy that kindled in her eyes. But perhaps he guessed, from daylight experiences, since he passed his arm round her shoulders with assurance, and kissed her ready mouth many times. Her head still resting against his arm they walked towards a bench, the rough outlines of which were touched at one end only by the moon-rays. At the dark end the pair sat down.
“I cannot come again” said the girl.
“Oh?” he vaguely returned. “This is new. What has happened? I thought you said your mother supposed you to be working at your Harmony, and would never imagine our meeting here?” The voice sounded just a trifle hard for a lover’s.
“No, she would not. And I still detest deceiving her. I would do it for no one but you, Jim. But what I meant was this: I feel that it can all lead to nothing. Mother is not a bit more worldly than most people, but she naturally does not want her only child to marry a man who has nothing but the pay of an officer in the Line to live upon. At her death (you know she has only a life-interest here), I should have to go away unless my uncle, who succeeds, chose to take me to stay with him. I have no fortune of my own beyond a mere pittance. Two hundred a year.”
Jim’s reply was something like a sneer at the absent lady:
“You may as well add to the practical objection the sentimental one; that she wouldn’t allow you to change your fine old crusted name for mine, which is merely the older one of the little freeholder turned out of this spot by your ancestor when he came.”
“Dear, dear Jim, don’t say those horrid things! As if I had ever even thought of that for a moment!”
He shook her hand off impatiently, and walked out into the moonlight. Certainly as far as physical outline went he might have been the direct product of a line of Paladins or hereditary Crusaders. He was tall, straight of limb, with an aquiline nose, and a mouth fitfully scornful. Rosalys sat almost motionless, watching him
. There was no mistaking the ardour of her feelings; her power over him seemed to be lessened by his consciousness of his influence upon the lower and weaker side of her nature. It gratified him as a man to feel it; and though she was beautiful enough to satisfy the senses of the critical, there was perhaps something of contempt inwoven with his love. His victory had been too easy, too complete.
“Dear Jim, you are not going to be vexed? It really isn’t my fault that I can’t come out here again! Mother will be downstairs to-morrow, and then she might take it into her head to look at any time into the schoolroom and see how the Harmony gets on.”
“And you are going off to London soon?” said Jim, still speaking gloomily.
“I am afraid so. But couldn’t you come there too? I know your leave is not up for a great many weeks?”
He was silent for longer than she had ever known him at these times. Rosalys left her seat on the bench and threw her arms impulsively round him.
“I can’t go away unless you will come to London when we do, Jim!”
“I will; but on one condition.”
“What condition? You frighten me!”
“That you will marry me when I do join you there.”
The quick breath that heaved in Rosalys ebbed silently; and she leant on the rustic bench with one hand, a trembling being apparent in her garments.
“You really — mean it, Jim darling?”
He swore that he did; that life was quite unendurable to him as he then experienced it. When she was once his wife nothing could come between them; but of course the marriage need not be known for a time — indeed must not. He could not take her abroad. The climate of Burmah would be too trying for her; and, besides, they really would not have enough to live upon.
“Couldn’t we get on as other people do?” said Rosalys, trying not to cry at these arguments. “I am so tired of concealment, and I don’t like to marry privately! It seems to me, much as I love being with you, that there is a sort of — well — vulgarity in our clandestine meetings, as we now enjoy them. Therefore how should I ever have strength enough to hide the fact of my being your wife, to face my mother day after day with the shadow of this secret between us?”
For all answer Jim kissed her, and stroked her silky brown curls.
“I suppose I shall end in agreeing with you — I always do!” she said, her mouth quivering. “Though I can be very dogged and obstinate too, Jim! Do you know that all my governesses have said I was the most stubborn child they ever came across? But then, in that case, my temper must be really aroused. You have never seen me as I am when angry. Perhaps, Jim, you would get to hate me?” She looked at him wistfully with her wet eyes.
“I shall never cease to love you desperately, as I do now!” declared the young man. “How lovely you look, little Rosalys, with that one moonbeam making your forehead like pure white marble. But time is passing. You must go back, my darling, I’m afraid. And you won’t fail me in London? I shall make all the plans. Good-bye — good-bye!”
One clinging, intermittent kiss; and then from the shadow in which he stood Jim watched her light figure past the lake, and hurrying along in the shelter of the yew hedges towards the great house, asleep under the reaching deeps of sky, and the vacant gaze of the round white moon.
II
When clouds are iron-grey above the prim drab houses, and a hard east wind blows flakes of dust, stable-straws, scraps of soiled newspaper, and sharp pieces of grit into the eyes of foot-passengers, a less inviting and romantic dwelling-spot than Eaton Place can hardly be experienced.
But the Prince’s daughter of the Canticles, emerging from her palace to see the vine flourish and the pomegranates bud forth with her Beloved, could not have looked more unconscious of grime than Rosalys Ambrose as she came down the steps of one of the tall houses in the aforesaid highly respectable place of residences. Her cheeks were hotly pink, her eyes shining, her lips parted. Having once made up her mind, “Qualms of prudence, pride and pelf” had died within her passionate little heart. After to-day she would belong absolutely to Jim, be his alone, through all the eternities, as it seemed; and of what account was anything else in the world? The entirely physical character of his affection for her, and perhaps of hers for him, was an unconjectured element herein which might not render less transitory the most transitory of sweet things. Thus hopefully she stepped out of the commonplace home that would, in one sense, be hers no more.
The raw wind whistled up the street, and deepened the colour in her face. She was plainly dressed in grey, and wore a rather thick veil, natural to the dusty day: it could not however conceal the sparkle of her eyes: veils, even thick ones, happily, never do. Hailing a hansom she told the driver to take her to the corner of the Embankment.
In the midst of her pre-occupation she noticed as the cab turned the corner out of Eaton Place that the bony chestnut-horse went lame. Rosalys was superstitious as well as tender-hearted, and she deemed that some stroke of ill-luck might befall her if she drove to be married behind a suffering animal. She alighted and paid off the man, and in her excitement gave him three times his fare. Hurrying forward on foot she heard her name called, and received a cordial greeting from a tall man with grey whiskers, in whom she recognized Mr Durrant, Jim’s father. It occurred to her for a second that he might have discovered the plot and have lain in wait to prevent it. However, he spoke in his usual half-respectful, half-friendly tones, not noticing herfrightened face. Mr Durrant was a busy man. Besides holding several very important land-agencies in the county where Rosalys lived, he had business in the city to transact at times. He explained to Miss Ambrose that some urgent affairs he was supervising for a client of his, Lord Parkhurst, had now brought him up to London for a few weeks.
“Lord Parkhurst is away?” she asked, to say something. “I hear of him sometimes through his uncle Colonel Lacy.”
“Yes. A thorough sailor. Mostly afloat,” Mr Durrant replied. “Well — we’re rather out of the way in Porchester Terrace; otherwise, my wife would be so pleased if you would come to tea. Miss Ambrose? My son Jim, lazy young beggar, is up here now, too — going to plays and parties. Well, well, it’s natural he should like to amuse himself before he leaves for Burmah, poor boy. Are you looking for a hansom? Yes? Hi!” And he waved his stick.
“Thank you so much” said Miss Ambrose. “And I will tell to Mamma where you and Mrs Durrant are staying.”
She was surprised at her own composure. Her unconscious father-in-law elect helped her into the cab, took off his hat, and walked rapidly away. Rosalys felt her heart stand still when she drew up at the place of meeting. She saw Jim, very blooming and very well-dressed, awaiting her, outwardly calm, at any rate. He jumped into her vehicle and they drove on city-wards.
“You are only ten minutes late, dearest,” he said. “Do you know, I was half afraid you might have failed me at the last moment?”
“You don’t believe it, Jim!”
“Well, I sometimes think I ought not to expect you to keep engagements with me so honestly as you do. Good, brave, little Rosalys!”
They moved on through the press of struggling omnibuses, gigantic vans, covered carts, and foot-passengers who darted at imminent risk of their lives amid the medley of wheels, horses, and shouting drivers. The noise jarred Rosalys’ head, and she began to be feverishly anxious.
The church stood in the neighbourhood of a great meat-market, and the pavement was crowded by men in blue linen blouses, their clothes sprinkled with crimson stains. The young girl gave a shiver of disgust.
“How revolting it must be to have a butcher for a husband! They can’t have hearts like other men. . . . What a gloomy part of London this is to be married in, Jim!”
“Ah — yes! Everything looks gloomy with the east wind blowing. Now, here we are! jump out, little woman!”
He handed money to the driver, who went off with the most cursory thoughts of the part that he had played in this little excursion of a palpitating pair into the unknown
.
“Jimmy darling; oughtn’t you, or one of us, to have lived here for fifteen days?” she said as they entered the fine old Norman porch, to which she was quite blind in her pre-occupation.
Durrant laughed. “I have declared that I did,” he answered coolly. “I hope, in the circumstances, that it’s a forgivable lie. Cheer up, Rosalys; don’t all of a sudden look so solemn!”
There were tears in her eyes. The gravity of the step she was about to take had begun to frighten her.
They had some time to wait before the clergyman condescended to come out of the vestry and perform the ceremony which was to unite her to Jim. Two or three other couples were also in the church on the same errand: a haggard woman in a tawdry white bonnet, hanging on to the arm of a short crimson-faced man, who had evidently been replenishing his inside with gin to nerve himself to the required pitch for the ordeal: a girl with a coarse, hard face, accompanied by a slender youth in shabby black: a tall man, of refined aspect, in very poor clothes, whose hollow cough shook his thin shoulders and chest, and told his bride that her happiness, such as it was, would probably last but the briefest space.
Rosalys glanced absently at the beautiful building, with its Norman apse and transverse arches of horse-shoe form, and the massive curves and cushion-capitals that supported the tower-end; the whole impression left by the church being one of singular harmony, loveliness, and above all, repose — which struck even her by its great contrast with her experiences just then. As the clergyman emerged from the vestry a shaft of sunlight smote the altar, touched the quaint tomb where the founder of the building lay in his dreamless sleep, and quivered on the darned clothes of the consumptive bridegroom.
Jim and Rosalys moved forward, and then the light shone for a moment, too, upon his yellow hair and handsome face. To the woman who loved him it seemed that “From the crown of his head even to the sole of his foot there was no blemish in him.”