Complete Works of Thomas Hardy (Illustrated) (834 page)

‘Yes; it has been a long time.’

‘And I an untamed, uncultivated man, who has never seen London, and knows nothing about society at all.’

‘Not uncultivated, dear Nicholas.  Untravelled, socially unpractised, if you will,’ she said, smiling.  Well, I did sigh; but not because I regret being your promised one. What I do sometimes regret is that the scheme, which my meetings with you are but apart of, has not been carried out completely.  You said, Nicholas, that if I consented to swear to keep faith with you, you would away and travel, and see nations, and peoples, and cities, and take a professor with you, and study books and art, simultaneously with your study of men and manners; and then come back at the end of two years, when I should find that my father would by no means be indisposed to accept you as a son-in-law.  You said your reason for wishing to get my promise before starting was that your mind would then be more at rest when you were far away, and so could give itself more completely to knowledge than if you went as my unaccepted lover only, fuming with anxiety as to how I should be when you came back.  I saw how reasonable that was; and solemnly swore myself to you in consequence.  But instead of going to see the world you stay on and on here to see me.’

‘And you don’t want me to see you?’

‘Yes — no — it is not that.  It is that I have latterly felt frightened at what I am doing when not in your actual presence.  It seems so wicked not to tell my father that I have a lover close at hand, within touch and view of both of us; whereas if you were absent my conduct would not seem quite so treacherous.  The realities would not stare at one so. You would be a pleasant dream to me, which I should be free to indulge in without reproach of my conscience; I should live in hopeful expectation of your returning fully qualified to boldly claim me of my father.  There, I have been terribly frank, I know.’

He in his turn had lapsed into gloomy breathings now.  ‘I did plan it as you state,’ he answered.  ‘I did mean to go away the moment I had your promise.  But, dear Christine, I did not foresee two or three things.  I did not know what a lot of pain it would cost to tear myself from you.  And I did not know that my stingy uncle — heaven forgive me calling him so! — would so flatly refuse to advance me money for my purpose — the scheme of travelling with a first-rate tutor costing a formidable sum o’ money.  You have no idea what it would cost!’

‘But I have said that I’ll find the money.’

‘Ah, there,’ he returned, ‘you have hit a sore place.  To speak truly, dear, I would rather stay unpolished a hundred years than take your money.’

‘But why?  Men continually use the money of the women they marry.’

‘Yes; but not till afterwards.  No man would like to touch your money at present, and I should feel very mean if I were to do so in present circumstances.  That brings me to what I was going to propose.  But no — upon the whole I will not propose it now.’

‘Ah!  I would guarantee expenses, and you won’t let me!  The money is my personal possession: it comes to me from my late grandfather, and not from my father at all.’

He laughed forcedly and pressed her hand.  ‘There are more reasons why I cannot tear myself away,’ he added.  ‘What would become of my uncle’s farming?  Six hundred acres in this parish, and five hundred in the next — a constant traipsing from one farm to the other; he can’t be in two places at once.  Still, that might be got over if it were not for the other matters.  Besides, dear, I still should be a little uneasy, even though I have your promise, lest somebody should snap you up away from me.’

‘Ah, you should have thought of that before.  Otherwise I have committed myself for nothing.’

‘I should have thought of it,’ he answered gravely.  But I did not.  There lies my fault, I admit it freely.  Ah, if you would only commit yourself a little more, I might at least get over that difficulty!  But I won’t ask you.  You have no idea how much you are to me still; you could not argue so coolly if you had.  What property belongs to you I hate the very sound of; it is you I care for.  I wish you hadn’t a farthing in the world but what I could earn for you!’

‘I don’t altogether wish that,’ she murmured.

‘I wish it, because it would have made what I was going to propose much easier to do than it is now.  Indeed I will not propose it, although I came on purpose, after what you have said in your frankness.’

‘Nonsense, Nic.  Come, tell me.  How can you be so touchy? ‘

‘Look at this then, Christine dear.’ He drew from his breast-pocket a sheet of paper and unfolded it, when it was observable that a seal dangled from the bottom.

‘What is it?’ She held the paper sideways, so that what there was of window-light fell on its surface.  ‘I can only read the Old English letters — why — our names!  Surely it is not a marriage-licence?’

‘It is.’

She trembled.  ‘O Nic! how could you do this — and without telling me!’

‘Why should I have thought I must tell you?  You had not spoken “frankly” then as you have now.  We have been all to each other more than these two years, and I thought I would propose that we marry privately, and that I then leave you on the instant. I would have taken my travelling-bag to church, and you would have gone home alone. I should not have started on my adventures in the brilliant manner of our original plan, but should have roughed it a little at first; my great gain would have been that the absolute possession of you would have enabled me to work with spirit and purpose, such as nothing else could do.  But I dare not ask you now — so frank as you have been.’

She did not answer.  The document he had produced gave such unexpected substantiality to the venture with which she had so long toyed as a vague dream merely, that she was, in truth, frightened a little.  I — don’t know about it!’ she said.

‘Perhaps not.  Ah, my little lady, you are wearying of me!’

‘No, Nic,’ responded she, creeping closer.  ‘I am not.  Upon my word, and truth, and honour, I am not, Nic.’

‘A mere tiller of the soil, as I should be called,’ he continued, without heeding her. ‘And you — well, a daughter of one of the — I won’t say oldest families, because that’s absurd, all families are the same age — of the longest chronicled families about here, whose name is actually the name of the place.’

‘That’s not much, I am sorry to say!  My poor brother — but I won’t speak of that.  . . . Well,’ she murmured mischievously, after a pause, ‘you certainly would not need to be uneasy if I were to do this that you want me to do.  You would have me safe enough in your trap then; I couldn’t get away!’

‘That’s just it!’ he said vehemently.  ‘It is a trap — you feel it so, and that though you wouldn’t be able to get away from me you might particularly wish to!  Ah, if I had asked you two years ago you would have agreed instantly.  But I thought I was bound to wait for the proposal to come from you as the superior!’

‘Now you are angry, and take seriously what I meant purely in fun.  You don’t know me even yet!  To show you that you have not been mistaken in me, I do propose to carry out this licence.  I’ll marry you, dear Nicholas, tomorrow morning.’

‘Ah, Christine!  I am afraid I have stung you on to this, so that I cannot —  — ’

‘No, no, no!’ she hastily rejoined; and there was something in her tone which suggested that she had been put upon her mettle and would not flinch.  ‘Take me whilst I am in the humour.  What church is the licence for?’

‘That I’ve not looked to see — why our parish church here, of course.  Ah, then we cannot use it!  We dare not be married here.’

‘We do dare,’ said she.  ‘And we will too, if you’ll be there.’

‘If  I’ll be there!’

They speedily came to an agreement that he should be in the church-porch at ten minutes to eight on the following morning, awaiting her; and that, immediately after the conclusion of the service which would make them one, Nicholas should set out on his long-deferred educational tour, towards the cost of which she was resolving to bring a substantial subscription with her to church.  Then, slipping from him, she went indoors by the way she had come, and Nicholas bent his steps homewards.

II

Instead of leaving the spot by the gate, he flung himself over the fence, and pursued a direction towards the river under the trees.  And it was now, in his lonely progress, that he showed for the first time outwardly that he was not altogether unworthy of her.  He wore long water-boots reaching above his knees, and, instead of making a circuit to find a bridge by which he might cross the Froom — the river aforesaid — he made straight for the point whence proceeded the low roar that was at this hour the only evidence of the stream’s existence.  He speedily stood on the verge of the waterfall which caused the noise, and stepping into the water at the top of the fall, waded through with the sure tread of one who knew every inch of his footing, even though the canopy of trees rendered the darkness almost absolute, and a false step would have precipitated him into the pool beneath.  Soon reaching the boundary of the grounds, he continued in the same direct line to traverse the alluvial valley, full of brooks and tributaries to the main stream — in former times quite impassable, and impassable in winter now.  Sometimes he would cross a deep gully on a plank not wider than the hand; at another time he ploughed his way through beds of spear-grass, where at a few feet to the right or left he might have been sucked down into a morass.  At last he reached firm land on the other side of this watery tract, and came to his house on the rise behind — Elsenford — an ordinary farmstead, from the back of which rose indistinct breathings, belchings, and snortings, the rattle of halters, and other familiar features of an agriculturist’s home.

While Nicholas Long was packing his bag in an upper room of this dwelling, Miss Christine Everard sat at a desk in her own chamber at Froom-Everard manor-house, looking with pale fixed countenance at the candles.

‘I ought — I must now! ‘ she whispered to herself.  I should not have begun it if I had not meant to carry it through!  It runs in the blood of us, I suppose.’ She alluded to a fact unknown to her lover, the clandestine marriage of an aunt under circumstances somewhat similar to the present.  In a few minutes she had penned the following note: —

October 13, 183-

DEAR MR.  BEALAND — Can you make it convenient to yourself to meet me at the Church to-morrow morning at eight?  I name the early hour because it would suit me better than later on in the day.  You will find me in the chancel, if you can come.  An answer yes or no by the bearer of this will be sufficient.       CHRISTINE EVERARD.

She sent the note to the rector immediately, waiting at a small side-door of the house till she heard the servant’s footsteps returning along the lane, when she went round and met him in the passage.  The rector had taken the trouble to write a line, and answered that he would meet her with pleasure.

A dripping fog which ushered in the next morning was highly favourable to the scheme of the pair.  At that time of the century Froom-Everard House had not been altered and enlarged; the public lane passed close under its walls; and there was a door opening directly from one of the old parlours — the south parlour, as it was called — into the lane which led to the village.  Christine came out this way, and after following the lane for a short distance entered upon a path within a belt of plantation, by which the church could be reached privately.  She even avoided the churchyard gate, walking along to a place where the turf without the low wall rose into a mound, enabling her to mount upon the coping and spring down inside.  She crossed the wet graves, and so glided round to the door.  He was there, with his bag in his hand.  He kissed her with a sort of surprise, as if he had expected that at the last moment her heart would fail her.

Though it had not failed her, there was, nevertheless, no great ardour in Christine’s bearing — merely the momentum of an antecedent impulse.  They went up the aisle together, the bottle-green glass of the old lead quarries admitting but little light at that hour, and under such an atmosphere.  They stood by the altar-rail in silence, Christine’s skirt visibly quivering at each beat of her heart.

Presently a quick step ground upon the gravel, and Mr. Bealand came round by the front.  He was a quiet bachelor, courteous towards Christine, and not at first recognizing in Nicholas a neighbouring yeoman (for he lived aloofly in the next parish), advanced to her without revealing any surprise at her unusual request.  But in truth he was surprised, the keen interest taken by many country young women at the present day in church decoration festivals being then unknown.

‘Good morning,’ he said; and repeated the same words to Nicholas more mechanically.

‘Good morning,’ she replied gravely.  ‘Mr. Bealand, I have a serious reason for asking you to meet me — us, I may say.  We wish you to marry us.’

The rector’s gaze hardened to fixity, rather between than upon either of them, and he neither moved nor replied for some time.

‘Ah!’ he said at last.

‘And we are quite ready.’

‘I had no idea —  — ’

‘It has been kept rather private,’ she said calmly.

‘Where are your witnesses?’

They are outside in the meadow, sir.  I can call them in a moment,’ said Nicholas.’Oh — I see it is — Mr. Nicholas Long’ said Mr. Bealand, and turning again to Christine, ‘Does your father know of this?’

‘Is it necessary that I should answer that question, Mr. Bealand?’

‘I am afraid it is — highly necessary.’

Christine began to look concerned.

‘Where is the licence?’ the rector asked ‘since there have been no banns.’

Nicholas produced it, Mr. Bealand read it, an operation which occupied him several minutes — or at least he made it appear so; till Christine said impatiently,  ‘We are quite ready, Mr. Bealand.  Will you proceed?  Mr. Long has to take a journey of a great many miles today.’

‘And you?’

‘No.  I remain.’

Mr. Bealand assumed firmness.  ‘There is something wrong in this,’ he said.  ‘I cannot marry you without your father’s presence.’