Changed Man And Other Tales — Story 2 The Waiting Supper, Chapters 5-8

CHAPTER V

A quarter of an hour brought her into the High Street, and for want of a more important errand she called at the harness-maker's for a dog-collar that she required.

It happened to be market-day, and Nicholas, having postponed the engagements which called him thither to keep the appointment with her in the Sallows, rushed off at the end of the afternoon to attend to them as well as he could.

Arriving thus in a great hurry on account of the lateness of the hour, he still retained the wild, amphibious appearance which had marked him when he came up from the meadows to her side--an exceptional condition of things which had scarcely ever before occurred.

When she crossed the pavement from the shop door, the shopman bowing and escorting her to the carriage, Nicholas chanced to be standing at the road-waggon office, talking to the master of the waggons.

There were a good many people about, and those near paused and looked at her transit, in the full stroke of the level October sun, which went under the brims of their hats, and pierced through their button-holes.

From the group she heard murmured the words: 'Mrs. Nicholas Long.'

The unexpected remark, not without distinct satire in its tone, took her so greatly by surprise that she was confounded.

Nicholas was by this time nearer, though coming against the sun he had not yet perceived her.

Influenced by her father's lecture, she felt angry with him for being there and causing this awkwardness.

Her notice of him was therefore slight, supercilious perhaps, slurred over; and her vexation at his presence showed distinctly in her face as she sat down in her seat.

Instead of catching his waiting eye, she positively turned her head away.

A moment after she was sorry she had treated him so; but he was gone.

Reaching home she found on her dressing-table a note from her father.

The statement was brief: I have considered and am of the same opinion.

You must marry him.

He can leave home at once and travel as proposed.

I have written to him to this effect.

I don't want any victuals, so don't wait dinner for me.

Nicholas was the wrong kind of man to be blind to his Christine's mortification, though he did not know its entire cause.

He had lately foreseen something of this sort as possible.

'It serves me right,' he thought, as he trotted homeward.

'It was absurd--wicked of me to lead her on so.

The sacrifice would have been too great--too cruel!'

And yet, though he thus took her part, he flushed with indignation every time he said to himself, 'She is ashamed of me!'

On the ridge which overlooked Froom-Everard he met a neighbour of his--a stock-dealer--in his gig, and they drew rein and exchanged a few words.

A

part of the dealer's conversation had much meaning for Nicholas.

'I've had occasion to call on Squire Everard,' the former said; 'but he couldn't see me on account of being quite knocked up at some bad news he has heard.'

Nicholas rode on past Froom-Everard to Elsenford Farm, pondering.

He had new and startling matter for thought as soon as he got there.

The Squire's note had arrived.

At first he could not credit its import; then he saw further, took in the tone of the letter, saw the writer's contempt behind the words, and understood that the letter was written as by a man hemmed into a corner.

Christine was defiantly--insultingly--hurled at his head.

He was accepted because he was so despised.

And yet with what respect he had treated her and hers!

Now he was reminded of what an agricultural friend had said years ago, seeing the eyes of Nicholas fixed on Christine as on an angel when she passed: 'Better a little fire to warm 'ee than a great one to burn 'ee.

No good can come of throwing your heart there.'

He went into the mead, sat down, and asked himself four questions: 1. How could she live near her acquaintance as his wife, even in his absence, without suffering martyrdom from the stings of their contempt?

2. Would not this entail total estrangement between Christine and her family also, and her own consequent misery?

3. Must not such isolation extinguish her affection for him?

4. Supposing that her father rigged them out as colonists and sent them off to America, was not the effect of such exile upon one of her gentle nurture likely to be as the last?

In short, whatever they should embark in together would be cruelty to her, and his death would be a relief.

It would, indeed, in one aspect be a relief to her now, if she were so ashamed of him as she had appeared to be that day.

Were he dead, this little episode with him would fade away like a dream.

Mr. Everard was a good-hearted man at bottom, but to take his enraged offer seriously was impossible.

Obviously it was hotly made in his first bitterness at what he had heard.

The least thing that he could do would be to go away and never trouble her more.

To travel and learn and come back in two years, as mapped out in their first sanguine scheme, required a staunch heart on her side, if the necessary expenditure of time and money were to be afterwards justified; and it were folly to calculate on that when he had seen to-day that her heart was failing her already.

To travel and disappear and not be heard of for many years would be a far more independent stroke, and it would leave her entirely unfettered.

Perhaps he might rival in this kind the accomplished Mr. Bellston, of whose journeyings he had heard so much.

He sat and sat, and the fog rose out of the river, enveloping him like a fleece; first his feet and knees, then his arms and body, and finally submerging his head.

When he had come to a decision he went up again into the homestead.

He would be independent, if he died for it, and he would free Christine.

Exile was the only course.

The first step was to inform his uncle of his determination.

Two days later Nicholas was on the same spot in the mead, at almost the same hour of eve.

But there was no fog now; a blusterous autumn wind had ousted the still, golden days and misty nights; and he was going, full of purpose, in the opposite direction.

When he had last entered the mead he was an inhabitant of the Froom valley; in forty-eight hours he had severed himself from that spot as completely as if he had never belonged to it.

All that appertained to him in the Froom valley now was circumscribed by the portmanteau in his hand.

In making his preparations for departure he had unconsciously held a faint, foolish hope that she would communicate with him and make up their estrangement in some soft womanly way.

But she had given no signal, and it was too evident to him that her latest mood had grown to be her fixed one, proving how well founded had been his impulse to set her free.

He entered the Sallows, found his way in the dark to the garden-door of the house, slipped under it a note to tell her of his departure, and explaining its true reason to be a consciousness of her growing feeling that he was an encumbrance and a humiliation.

Of the direction of his journey and of the date of his return he said nothing.

His course now took him into the high road, which he pursued for some miles in a north-easterly direction, still spinning the thread of sad inferences, and asking himself why he should ever return.

At daybreak he stood on the hill above Shottsford-Forum, and awaited a coach which passed about this time along that highway towards Melchester and London.

CHAPTER VI

Some fifteen years after the date of the foregoing incidents, a man who had dwelt in far countries, and viewed many cities, arrived at Roy-Town, a roadside hamlet on the old western turnpike road, not five miles from Froom-Everard, and put up at the Buck's Head, an isolated inn at that spot.

He was still barely of middle age, but it could be seen that a haze of grey was settling upon the locks of his hair, and that his face had lost colour and curve, as if by exposure to bleaching climates and strange atmospheres, or from ailments incidental thereto.

He seemed to observe little around him, by reason of the intrusion of his musings upon the scene.

In truth Nicholas Long was just now the creature of old hopes and fears consequent upon his arrival--this man who once had not cared if his name were blotted out from that district.

The evening light showed wistful lines which he could not smooth away by the worldling's gloss of nonchalance that he had learnt to fling over his face.

The Buck's Head was a somewhat unusual place for a man of this sort to choose as a house of sojourn in preference to some Casterbridge inn four miles further on.

Before he left home it had been a lively old tavern at which High-flyers, and Heralds, and Tally-hoes had changed horses on their stages up and down the country; but now the house was rather cavernous and chilly, the stable-roofs were hollow-backed, the landlord was asthmatic, and the traffic gone.

He arrived in the afternoon, and when he had sent back the fly and was having a nondescript meal, he put a question to the waiting-maid with a mien of indifference.

'Squire Everard, of Froom-Everard Manor, has been dead some years, I believe?'

She replied in the affirmative.

'And are any of the family left there still?'

'O no, bless you, sir!

They sold the place years ago--Squire Everard's son did--and went away.

I've never heard where they went to.

They came quite to nothing.'

'Never heard anything of the young lady--the Squire's daughter?'

'No. You see 'twas before I came to these parts.'

When the waitress left the room, Nicholas pushed aside his plate and gazed out of the window.

He was not going over into the Froom Valley altogether on Christine's account, but she had greatly animated his motive in coming that way.

Anyhow he would push on there now that he was so near, and not ask questions here where he was liable to be wrongly informed.

The fundamental inquiry he had not ventured to make--whether Christine had married before the family went away.

He had abstained because of an absurd dread of extinguishing hopeful surmise.

That the Everards had left their old home was bad enough intelligence for one day.

Rising from the table he put on his hat and went out, ascending towards the upland which divided this district from his native vale.

The first familiar feature that met his eye was a little spot on the distant sky--a clump of trees standing on a barrow which surmounted a yet more remote upland--a point where, in his childhood, he had believed people could stand and see America.

He reached the further verge of the plateau on which he had entered.

Ah, there was the valley--a greenish-grey stretch of colour--still looking placid and serene, as though it had not much missed him.

If Christine was no longer there, why should he pause over it this evening?

His uncle and aunt were dead, and to-morrow would be soon enough to inquire for remoter relatives.

Thus, disinclined to go further, he turned to retrace his way to the inn.

In the backward path he now perceived the figure of a woman, who had been walking at a distance behind him; and as she drew nearer he began to be startled.

Surely, despite the variations introduced into that figure by changing years, its ground-lines were those of Christine?

Nicholas had been sentimental enough to write to Christine immediately on landing at Southampton a day or two before this, addressing his letter at a venture to the old house, and merely telling her that he planned to reach the Roy-Town inn on the present afternoon.

The news of the scattering of the Everards had dissipated his hope of hearing of her; but here she was.

So they met--there, alone, on the open down by a pond, just as if the meeting had been carefully arranged.

She threw up her veil.

She was still beautiful, though the years had touched her; a little more matronly--much more homely.

Or was it only that he was much less homely now--a man of the world--the sense of homeliness being relative?

Her face had grown to be pre-eminently of the sort that would be called interesting.

Her habiliments were of a demure and sober cast, though she was one who had used to dress so airily and so gaily.

Years had laid on a few shadows too in this.

'I received your letter,' she said, when the momentary embarrassment of their first approach had passed.

'And I thought I would walk across the hills to-day, as it was fine.

I have just called at the inn, and they told me you were out.

I was now on my way homeward.'

He hardly listened to this, though he intently gazed at her.

'Christine,' he said, 'one word.

Are you free?'

'I--I am in a certain sense,' she replied, colouring.

The announcement had a magical effect.

The intervening time between past and present closed up for him, and moved by an impulse which he had combated for fifteen years, he seized her two hands and drew her towards him.

She started back, and became almost a mere acquaintance.

'I have to tell you,' she gasped, 'that I have--been married.'

Nicholas's rose-coloured dream was immediately toned down to a greyish tinge.

'I did not marry till many years after you had left,' she continued in the humble tones of one confessing to a crime.

'Oh Nic,' she cried reproachfully, 'how could you stay away so long?'

'Whom did you marry?'

'Mr. Bellston.'

'I--ought to have expected it.'

He was going to add, 'And is he dead?'

but he checked himself.

Her dress unmistakably suggested widowhood; and she had said she was free.

'I must now hasten home,' said she.

'I felt that, considering my shortcomings at our parting so many years ago, I owed you the initiative now.'

'There is some of your old generosity in that.

I'll walk with you, if I may.

Where are you living, Christine?'

'In the same house, but not on the old conditions.

I have part of it on lease; the farmer now tenanting the premises found the whole more than he wanted, and the owner allowed me to keep what rooms I chose.

I am poor now, you know, Nicholas, and almost friendless.

My brother sold the Froom-Everard estate when it came to him, and the person who bought it turned our home into a farmhouse.

Till my father's death my husband and I lived in the manor-house with him, so that I have never lived away from the spot.'

She was poor.

That, and the change of name, sufficiently accounted for the inn-servant's ignorance of her continued existence within the walls of her old home.

It was growing dusk, and he still walked with her.

A woman's head arose from the declivity before them, and as she drew nearer, Christine asked him to go back.

'This is the wife of the farmer who shares the house,' she said.

'She is accustomed to come out and meet me whenever I walk far and am benighted.

I am obliged to walk everywhere now.'

The farmer's wife, seeing that Christine was not alone, paused in her advance, and Nicholas said, 'Dear Christine, if you are obliged to do these things, I am not, and what wealth I can command you may command likewise.

They say rolling stones gather no moss; but they gather dross sometimes.

I was one of the pioneers to the gold-fields, you know, and made a sufficient fortune there for my wants.

What is more, I kept it.

When I had done this I was coming home, but hearing of my uncle's death I changed my plan, travelled, speculated, and increased my fortune.

Now, before we part: you remember you stood with me at the altar once, and therefore I speak with less preparation than I should otherwise use.

Before we part then I ask, shall another again intrude between us?

Or shall we complete the union we began?'

She trembled--just as she had done at that very minute of standing with him in the church, to which he had recalled her mind.

'I will not enter into that now, dear Nicholas,' she replied.

'There will be more to talk of and consider first--more to explain, which it would have spoiled this meeting to have entered into now.'

'Yes, yes; but--' 'Further than the brief answer I first gave, Nic, don't press me to-night.

I still have the old affection for you, or I should not have sought you.

Let that suffice for the moment.'

'Very well, dear one.

And when shall I call to see you?'

'I will write and fix an hour.

I will tell you everything of my history then.'

And thus they parted, Nicholas feeling that he had not come here fruitlessly.

When she and her companion were out of sight he retraced his steps to Roy-Town, where he made himself as comfortable as he could in the deserted old inn of his boyhood's days.

He missed her companionship this evening more than he had done at any time during the whole fifteen years; and it was as though instead of separation there had been constant communion with her throughout that period.

The tones of her voice had stirred his heart in a nook which had lain stagnant ever since he last heard them.

They recalled the woman to whom he had once lifted his eyes as to a goddess.

Her announcement that she had been another's came as a little shock to him, and he did not now lift his eyes to her in precisely the same way as he had lifted them at first.

But he forgave her for marrying Bellston; what could he expect after fifteen years?

He slept at Roy-Town that night, and in the morning there was a short note from her, repeating more emphatically her statement of the previous evening--that she wished to inform him clearly of her circumstances, and to calmly consider with him the position in which she was placed.

Would he call upon her on Sunday afternoon, when she was sure to be alone?

'Nic,' she wrote on, 'what a cosmopolite you are!

I expected to find my old yeoman still; but I was quite awed in the presence of such a citizen of the world.

Did I seem rusty and unpractised?

Ah--you seemed so once to me!'

Tender playful words; the old Christine was in them.

She said Sunday afternoon, and it was now only Saturday morning.

He wished she had said to-day; that short revival of her image had vitalized to sudden heat feelings that had almost been stilled.

Whatever she might have to explain as to her position--and it was awkwardly narrowed, no doubt--he could not give her up.

Miss Everard or Mrs. Bellston, what mattered it?

--she was the same Christine.

He did not go outside the inn all Saturday.

He had no wish to see or do anything but to await the coming interview.

So he smoked, and read the local newspaper of the previous week, and stowed himself in the chimney- corner.

In the evening he felt that he could remain indoors no longer, and the moon being near the full, he started from the inn on foot in the same direction as that of yesterday, with the view of contemplating the old village and its precincts, and hovering round her house under the cloak of night.

With a stout stick in his hand he climbed over the five miles of upland in a comparatively short space of time.

Nicholas had seen many strange lands and trodden many strange ways since he last walked that path, but as he trudged he seemed wonderfully like his old self, and had not the slightest difficulty in finding the way.

In descending to the meads the streams perplexed him a little, some of the old foot-bridges having been removed; but he ultimately got across the larger water-courses, and pushed on to the village, avoiding her residence for the moment, lest she should encounter him, and think he had not respected the time of her appointment.

He found his way to the churchyard, and first ascertained where lay the two relations he had left alive at his departure; then he observed the gravestones of other inhabitants with whom he had been well acquainted, till by degrees he seemed to be in the society of all the elder Froom- Everard population, as he had known the place.

Side by side as they had lived in his day here were they now.

They had moved house in mass.

But no tomb of Mr. Bellston was visible, though, as he had lived at the manor-house, it would have been natural to find it here.

In truth Nicholas was more anxious to discover that than anything, being curious to know how long he had been dead.

Seeing from the glimmer of a light in the church that somebody was there cleaning for Sunday he entered, and looked round upon the walls as well as he could.

But there was no monument to her husband, though one had been erected to the Squire.

Nicholas addressed the young man who was sweeping.

'I don't see any monument or tomb to the late Mr. Bellston?'

'O no, sir; you won't see that,' said the young man drily.

'Why, pray?'

'Because he's not buried here.

He's not Christian-buried anywhere, as far as we know.

In short, perhaps he's not buried at all; and between ourselves, perhaps he's alive.'

Nicholas sank an inch shorter.

'Ah,' he answered.

'Then you don't know the peculiar circumstances, sir?'

'I am a stranger here--as to late years.'

'Mr. Bellston was a traveller--an explorer--it was his calling; you may have heard his name as such?'

'I remember.'

Nicholas recalled the fact that this very bent of Mr. Bellston's was the incentive to his own roaming.

'Well, when he married he came and lived here with his wife and his wife's father, and said he would travel no more.

But after a time he got weary of biding quiet here, and weary of her--he was not a good husband to the young lady by any means--and he betook himself again to his old trick of roving--with her money.

Away he went, quite out of the realm of human foot, into the bowels of Asia, and never was heard of more.

He was murdered, it is said, but nobody knows; though as that was nine years ago he's dead enough in principle, if not in corporation.

His widow lives quite humble, for between her husband and her brother she's left in very lean pasturage.'

Nicholas went back to the Buck's Head without hovering round her dwelling.

This then was the explanation which she had wanted to make.

Not dead, but missing.

How could he have expected that the first fair promise of happiness held out to him would remain untarnished?

She had said that she was free; and legally she was free, no doubt.

Moreover, from her tone and manner he felt himself justified in concluding that she would be willing to run the risk of a union with him, in the improbability of her husband's existence.

Even if that husband lived, his return was not a likely event, to judge from his character.

A man who could spend her money on his own personal adventures would not be anxious to disturb her poverty after such a lapse of time.

Well, the prospect was not so unclouded as it had seemed.

But could he, even now, give up Christine?

CHAPTER VII

Two months more brought the year nearly to a close, and found Nicholas Long tenant of a spacious house in the market-town nearest to Froom-Everard.

A man of means, genial character, and a bachelor, he was an object of great interest to his neighbours, and to his neighbours' wives and daughters.

But he took little note of this, and had made it his business to go twice a week, no matter what the weather, to the now farmhouse at Froom-Everard, a wing of which had been retained as the refuge of Christine.

He always walked, to give no trouble in putting up a horse to a housekeeper whose staff was limited.

The two had put their heads together on the situation, had gone to a solicitor, had balanced possibilities, and had resolved to make the plunge of matrimony.

'Nothing venture, nothing have,' Christine had said, with some of her old audacity.

With almost gratuitous honesty they had let their intentions be widely known.

Christine, it is true, had rather shrunk from publicity at first;

but Nicholas argued that their boldness in this respect would have good results.

With his friends he held that there was not the slightest probability of her being other than a widow, and a challenge to the missing man now, followed by no response, would stultify any unpleasant remarks which might be thrown at her after their union.

To this end a paragraph was inserted in the Wessex papers, announcing that their marriage was proposed to be celebrated on such and such a day in December.

His periodic walks along the south side of the valley to visit her were among the happiest experiences of his life.

The yellow leaves falling around him in the foreground, the well-watered meads on the left hand, and the woman he loved awaiting him at the back of the scene, promised a future of much serenity, as far as human judgment could foresee.

On arriving, he would sit with her in the 'parlour' of the wing she retained, her general sitting-room, where the only relics of her early surroundings were an old clock from the other end of the house, and her own piano.

Before it was quite dark they would stand, hand in hand, looking out of the window across the flat turf to the dark clump of trees which hid further view from their eyes.

'Do you wish you were still mistress here, dear?'

he once said.

'Not at all,' said she cheerfully.

'I have a good enough room, and a good enough fire, and a good enough friend.

Besides, my latter days as mistress of the house were not happy ones, and they spoilt the place for me.

It was a punishment for my faithlessness.

Nic, you do forgive me?

Really you do?'

The twenty-third of December, the eve of the wedding-day, had arrived at last in the train of such uneventful ones as these.

Nicholas had arranged to visit her that day a little later than usual, and see that everything was ready with her for the morrow's event and her removal to his house; for he had begun to look after her domestic affairs, and to lighten as much as possible the duties of her housekeeping.

He was to come to an early supper, which she had arranged to take the place of a wedding-breakfast next day--the latter not being feasible in her present situation.

An hour or so after dark the wife of the farmer who lived in the other part of the house entered Christine's parlour to lay the cloth.

'What with getting the ham skinned, and the black-puddings hotted up,' she said, 'it will take me all my time before he's here, if I begin this minute.'

'I'll lay the table myself,' said Christine, jumping up.

'Do you attend to the cooking.'

'Thank you, ma'am.

And perhaps 'tis no matter, seeing that it is the last night you'll have to do such work.

I knew this sort of life wouldn't last long for 'ee, being born to better things.'

'It has lasted rather long, Mrs. Wake.

And if he had not found me out it would have lasted all my days.'

'But he did find you out.'

'He did.

And I'll lay the cloth immediately.'

Mrs. Wake went back to the kitchen, and Christine began to bustle about.

She greatly enjoyed preparing this table for Nicholas and herself with her own hands.

She took artistic pleasure in adjusting each article to its position, as if half an inch error were a point of high importance.

Finally she placed the two candles where they were to stand, and sat down by the fire.

Mrs. Wake re-entered and regarded the effect.

'Why not have another candle or two, ma'am?'

she said.

''Twould make it livelier.

Say four.'

'Very well,' said Christine, and four candles were lighted.

'Really,' she added, surveying them, 'I have been now so long accustomed to little economies that they look quite extravagant.'

'Ah, you'll soon think nothing of forty in his grand new house!

Shall I bring in supper directly he comes, ma'am?'

'No, not for half an hour; and, Mrs. Wake, you and Betsy are busy in the kitchen, I know; so when he knocks don't disturb yourselves; I can let him in.'

She was again left alone, and, as it still wanted some time to Nicholas's appointment, she stood by the fire, looking at herself in the glass over the mantel.

Reflectively raising a lock of her hair just above her temple she uncovered a small scar.

That scar had a history.

The terrible temper of her late husband--those sudden moods of irascibility which had made even his friendly excitements look like anger--had once caused him to set that mark upon her with the bezel of a ring he wore.

He declared that the whole thing was an accident.

She was a woman, and kept her own opinion.

Christine then turned her back to the glass and scanned the table and the candles, shining one at each corner like types of the four Evangelists, and thought they looked too assuming--too confident.

She glanced up at the clock, which stood also in this room, there not being space enough for it in the passage.

It was nearly seven, and she expected Nicholas at half-past.

She liked the company of this venerable article in her lonely life: its tickings and whizzings were a sort of conversation.

It now began to strike the hour.

At the end something grated slightly.

Then, without any warning, the clock slowly inclined forward and fell at full length upon the floor.

The crash brought the farmer's wife rushing into the room.

Christine had well-nigh sprung out of her shoes.

Mrs. Wake's enquiry what had happened was answered by the evidence of her own eyes.

'How did it occur?'

she said.

'I cannot say; it was not firmly fixed, I suppose.

Dear me, how sorry I am!

My dear father's hall-clock!