Complete Works of Thomas Hardy (Illustrated) (738 page)

‘“I can hardly see the boat or them,” says James again; “and it is getting dark.”

‘The heedless pair afloat now formed a mere speck in the films of the coming night, which thickened apace, till it completely swallowed up their distant shapes.  They had disappeared while still following the same straight course away from the world of land-livers, as if they were intending to drop over the sea-edge into space, and never return to earth again.

‘The two on the shore continued to sit on, punctually abiding by their agreement to remain on the same spot till the others returned.  The Esplanade lamps were lit one by one, the bandsmen folded up their stands and departed, the yachts in the bay hung out their riding lights, and the little boats came back to shore one after another, their hirers walking on to the sands by the plank they had climbed to go afloat; but among these Stephen and Olive did not appear.

‘“What a time they are!” said Emily.  “I am getting quite chilly.  I did not expect to have to sit so long in the evening air.”

‘Thereupon James Hardcome said that he did not require his overcoat, and insisted on lending it to her.

‘He wrapped it round Emily’s shoulders.

‘“Thank you, James,” she said.  “How cold Olive must be in that thin jacket!”

‘He said he was thinking so too.  “Well, they are sure to be quite close at hand by this time, though we can’t see ‘em.  The boats are not all in yet.  Some of the rowers are fond of paddling along the shore to finish out their hour of hiring.”

‘“Shall we walk by the edge of the water,” said she, “to see if we can discover them?”

‘He assented, reminding her that they must not lose sight of the seat, lest the belated pair should return and miss them, and be vexed that they had not kept the appointment.

‘They walked a sentry beat up and down the sands immediately opposite the seat; and still the others did not come.  James Hardcome at last went to the boatman, thinking that after all his wife and cousin might have come in under shadow of the dusk without being perceived, and might have forgotten the appointment at the bench.

‘“All in?” asked James.

‘“All but one boat,” said the lessor.  “I can’t think where that couple is keeping to.  They might run foul of something or other in the dark.”

‘Again Stephen’s wife and Olive’s husband waited, with more and more anxiety.  But no little yellow boat returned.  Was it possible they could have landed further down the Esplanade?

‘“It may have been done to escape paying,” said the boat-owner.  “But they didn’t look like people who would do that.”

‘James Hardcome knew that he could found no hope on such a reason as that.  But now, remembering what had been casually discussed between Steve and himself about their wives from time to time, he admitted for the first time the possibility that their old tenderness had been revived by their face-to-face position more strongly than either had anticipated at starting — the excursion having been so obviously undertaken for the pleasure of the performance only, — and that they had landed at some steps he knew of further down toward the pier, to be longer alone together.

‘Still he disliked to harbour the thought, and would not mention its existence to his companion.  He merely said to her, “Let us walk further on.”

‘They did so, and lingered between the boat-stage and the pier till Stephen Hardcome’s wife was uneasy, and was obliged to accept James’s offered arm.  Thus the night advanced.  Emily was presently so worn out by fatigue that James felt it necessary to conduct her home; there was, too, a remote chance that the truants had landed in the harbour on the other side of the town, or elsewhere, and hastened home in some unexpected way, in the belief that their consorts would not have waited so long.

‘However, he left a direction in the town that a lookout should be kept, though this was arranged privately, the bare possibility of an elopement being enough to make him reticent; and, full of misgivings, the two remaining ones hastened to catch the last train out of Budmouth-Regis; and when they got to Casterbridge drove back to Upper Longpuddle.’

‘Along this very road as we do now,’ remarked the parish clerk.

‘To be sure — along this very road,’ said the curate.  ‘However, Stephen and Olive were not at their homes; neither had entered the village since leaving it in the morning.  Emily and James Hardcome went to their respective dwellings to snatch a hasty night’s rest, and at daylight the next morning they drove again to Casterbridge and entered the Budmouth train, the line being just opened.

‘Nothing had been heard of the couple there during this brief absence.  In the course of a few hours some young men testified to having seen such a man and woman rowing in a frail hired craft, the head of the boat kept straight to sea; they had sat looking in each other’s faces as if they were in a dream, with no consciousness of what they were doing, or whither they were steering.  It was not till late that day that more tidings reached James’s ears.  The boat had been found drifting bottom upward a long way from land.  In the evening the sea rose somewhat, and a cry spread through the town that two bodies were cast ashore in Lullstead Bay, several miles to the eastward.  They were brought to Budmouth, and inspection revealed them to be the missing pair.  It was said that they had been found tightly locked in each other’s arms, his lips upon hers, their features still wrapt in the same calm and dream-like repose which had been observed in their demeanour as they had glided along.

‘Neither James nor Emily questioned the original motives of the unfortunate man and woman in putting to sea.  They were both above suspicion as to intention.  Whatever their mutual feelings might have led them on to, underhand behaviour was foreign to the nature of either.  Conjecture pictured that they might have fallen into tender reverie while gazing each into a pair of eyes that had formerly flashed for him and her alone, and, unwilling to avow what their mutual sentiments were, they had continued thus, oblivious of time and space, till darkness suddenly overtook them far from land.  But nothing was truly known.  It had been their destiny to die thus.  The two halves, intended by Nature to make the perfect whole, had failed in that result during their lives, though “in their death they were not divided.”  Their bodies were brought home, and buried on one day.  I remember that, on looking round the churchyard while reading the service, I observed nearly all the parish at their funeral.’

‘It was so, sir,’ said the clerk.

‘The remaining two,’ continued the curate (whose voice had grown husky while relating the lovers’ sad fate), ‘were a more thoughtful and far-seeing, though less romantic, couple than the first.  They were now mutually bereft of a companion, and found themselves by this accident in a position to fulfil their destiny according to Nature’s plan and their own original and calmly-formed intention.  James Hardcome took Emily to wife in the course of a year and a half; and the marriage proved in every respect a happy one.  I solemnized the service, Hardcome having told me, when he came to give notice of the proposed wedding, the story of his first wife’s loss almost word for word as I have told it to you.’

‘And are they living in Longpuddle still?’ asked the new-comer.

‘O no, sir,’ interposed the clerk.  ‘James has been dead these dozen years, and his mis’ess about six or seven.  They had no children.  William Privett used to be their odd man till he died.’

‘Ah — William Privett!  He dead too? — dear me!’ said the other.  ‘All passed away!’

‘Yes, sir.  William was much older than I.  He’d ha’ been over eighty if he had lived till now.’

‘There was something very strange about William’s death — very strange indeed!’ sighed a melancholy man in the back of the van.  It was the seedsman’s father, who had hitherto kept silence.

‘And what might that have been?’ asked Mr. Lackland.

THE SUPERSTITIOUS MAN’S STORY

‘William, as you may know, was a curious, silent man; you could feel when he came near ‘ee; and if he was in the house or anywhere behind your back without your seeing him, there seemed to be something clammy in the air, as if a cellar door was opened close by your elbow.  Well, one Sunday, at a time that William was in very good health to all appearance, the bell that was ringing for church went very heavy all of a sudden; the sexton, who told me o’t, said he’d not known the bell go so heavy in his hand for years — it was just as if the gudgeons wanted oiling.  That was on the Sunday, as I say.  During the week after, it chanced that William’s wife was staying up late one night to finish her ironing, she doing the washing for Mr. and Mrs. Hardcome.  Her husband had finished his supper and gone to bed as usual some hour or two before.  While she ironed she heard him coming down stairs; he stopped to put on his boots at the stair-foot, where he always left them, and then came on into the living-room where she was ironing, passing through it towards the door, this being the only way from the staircase to the outside of the house.  No word was said on either side, William not being a man given to much speaking, and his wife being occupied with her work.  He went out and closed the door behind him.  As her husband had now and then gone out in this way at night before when unwell, or unable to sleep for want of a pipe, she took no particular notice, and continued at her ironing.  This she finished shortly after, and as he had not come in she waited awhile for him, putting away the irons and things, and preparing the table for his breakfast in the morning.  Still he did not return, but supposing him not far off, and wanting to get to bed herself, tired as she was, she left the door unbarred and went to the stairs, after writing on the back of the door with chalk:
Mind and do the door
(because he was a forgetful man).

‘To her great surprise, and I might say alarm, on reaching the foot of the stairs his boots were standing there as they always stood when he had gone to rest; going up to their chamber she found him in bed sleeping as sound as a rock.  How he could have got back again without her seeing or hearing him was beyond her comprehension.  It could only have been by passing behind her very quietly while she was bumping with the iron.  But this notion did not satisfy her: it was surely impossible that she should not have seen him come in through a room so small.  She could not unravel the mystery, and felt very queer and uncomfortable about it.  However, she would not disturb him to question him then, and went to bed herself.

‘He rose and left for his work very early the next morning, before she was awake, and she waited his return to breakfast with much anxiety for an explanation, for thinking over the matter by daylight made it seem only the more startling.  When he came in to the meal he said, before she could put her question, “What’s the meaning of them words chalked on the door?”

‘She told him, and asked him about his going out the night before.  William declared that he had never left the bedroom after entering it, having in fact undressed, lain down, and fallen asleep directly, never once waking till the clock struck five, and he rose up to go to his labour.

‘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 Old Midsummer 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 coming down to the spring on the other side 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.’