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! And now I suppose it is
ruined.'
Assisted by Mrs. Wake, she lifted the clock. Every inch of glass
was, of course, shattered, but very little harm besides appeared to
be done. They propped it up temporarily, though it would not go
again.
Christine had soon recovered her composure, but she saw that Mrs.
Wake was gloomy. 'What does it mean, Mrs. Wake?' she said. 'Is it
ominous?'
'It is a sign of a violent death in the family.'
'Don't talk of it. I don't believe such things; and don't mention it
to Mr. Long when he comes. HE'S not in the family yet, you know.'
'O no, it cannot refer to him,' said Mrs. Wake musingly.
'Some remote cousin, perhaps,' observed Christine, no less willing to
humour her than to get rid of a shapeless dread which the incident
had caused in her own mind. 'And--supper is almost ready, Mrs.
Wake?'
'In three-quarters of an hour.'
Mrs. Wake left the room, and Christine sat on. Though it still
wanted fifteen minutes to the hour at which Nicholas had promised to
be there, she began to grow impatient. After the accustomed ticking
the dead silence was oppressive. But she had not to wait so long as
she had expected; steps were heard approaching the door, and there
was a knock.
Christine was already there to open it. The entrance had no lamp,
but it was not particularly dark out of doors. She could see the
outline of a man, and cried cheerfully, 'You are early; it is very
good of you.'
'I beg pardon. It is not Mr. Bellston himself--only a messenger with
his bag and great-coat. But he will be here soon.'
The voice was not the voice of Nicholas, and the intelligence was
strange. 'I--I don't understand. Mr. Bellston?' she faintly
replied.
'Yes, ma'am. A gentleman--a stranger to me--gave me these things at
Casterbridge station to bring on here, and told me to say that Mr.
Bellston had arrived there, and is detained for half-an-hour, but
will be here in the course of the evening.'
She sank into a chair. The porter put a small battered portmanteau
on the floor, the coat on a chair, and looking into the room at the
spread table said, 'If you are disappointed, ma'am, that your husband
(as I s'pose he is) is not come, I can assure you he'll soon be here.
He's stopped to get a shave, to my thinking, seeing he wanted it.
What he said was that I could tell you he had heard the news in
Ireland, and would have come sooner, his hand being forced; but was
hindered crossing by the weather, having took passage in a sailing
vessel. What news he meant he didn't say.'
'Ah, yes,' she faltered. It was plain that the man knew nothing of
her intended re-marriage.
Mechanically rising and giving him a shilling, she answered to his
'good-night,' and he withdrew, the beat of his footsteps lessening in
the distance. She was alone; but in what a solitude.
Christine stood in the middle of the hall, just as the man had left
her, in the gloomy silence of the stopped clock within the adjoining
room, till she aroused herself, and turning to the portmanteau and
great-coat brought them to the light of the candles, and examined
them. The portmanteau bore painted upon it the initials 'J. B.' in
white letters--the well-known initials of her husband.
She examined the great-coat. In the breast-pocket was an empty
spirit flask, which she firmly fancied she recognized as the one she
had filled many times for him when he was living at home with her.
She turned desultorily hither and thither, until she heard another
tread without, and there came a second knocking at the door. She did
not respond to it; and Nicholas--for it was he--thinking that he was
not heard by reason of a concentration on to-morrow's proceedings,
opened the door softly, and came on to the door of her room, which
stood unclosed, just as it had been left by the Casterbridge porter.
Nicholas uttered a blithe greeting, cast his eye round the parlour,
which with its tall candles, blazing fire, snow-white cloth, and
prettily-spread table, formed a cheerful spectacle enough for a man
who had been walking in the dark for an hour.
'My bride--almost, at last!' he cried, encircling her with his arms.
Instead of responding, her figure became limp, frigid, heavy; her
head fell back, and he found that she had fainted.
It was natural, he thought. She had had many little worrying matters
to attend to, and but slight assistance. He ought to have seen more
effectually to her affairs; the closeness of the event had over-
excited her. Nicholas kissed her unconscious face--more than once,
little thinking what news it was that had changed its aspect. Loth
to call Mrs. Wake, he carried Christine to a couch and laid her down.
This had the effect of reviving her. Nicholas bent and whispered in
her ear, 'Lie quiet, dearest, no hurry; and dream, dream, dream of
happy days. It is only I. You will soon be better.' He held her by
the hand.
'No, no, no!' she said, with a stare. 'O, how can this be?'
Nicholas was alarmed and perplexed, but the disclosure was not long
delayed. When she had sat up, and by degrees made the stunning event
known to him, he stood as if transfixed.
'Ah--is it so?' said he. Then, becoming quite meek, 'And why was he
so cruel as to--delay his return till now?'
She dutifully recited the explanation her husband had given her
through the messenger; but her mechanical manner of telling it showed
how much she doubted its truth. It was too unlikely that his arrival
at such a dramatic moment should not be a contrived surprise, quite
of a piece with his previous dealings towards her.
'But perhaps it may be true--and he may have become kind now--not as
he used to be,' she faltered. 'Yes, perhaps, Nicholas, he is an
altered man--we'll hope he is. I suppose I ought not to have
listened to my legal advisers, and assumed his death so surely!
Anyhow, I am roughly received back into--the right way!'
Nicholas burst out bitterly: 'O what too, too honest fools we were!-
-to so court daylight upon our intention by putting that announcement
in the papers! Why could we not have married privately, and gone
away, so that he would never have known what had become of you, even
if he had returned? Christine, he has done it to . . . But I'll say
no more. Of course we--might fly now.'
'No, no; we might not,' said she hastily.
'Very well. But this is hard to bear! "When I looked for good then
evil came unto me, and when I waited for light there came darkness."
So once said a sorely tried man in the land of Uz, and so say I now!
. . . I wonder if he is almost here at this moment?'
She told him she supposed Bellston was approaching by the path across
the fields, having sent on his great-coat, which he would not want
walking.
'And is this meal laid for him, or for me?'
'It was laid for you.'
'And it will be eaten by him?'
'Yes.'
'Christine, are you SURE that he is come, or have you been sleeping
over the fire and dreaming it?'
She pointed anew to the portmanteau with the initials 'J. B.,' and to
the coat beside it.
'Well, good-bye--good-bye! Curse that parson for not marrying us
fifteen years ago!'
It is unnecessary to dwell further upon that parting. There are
scenes wherein the words spoken do not even approximate to the level
of the mental communion between the actors. Suffice it to say that
part they did, and quickly; and Nicholas, more dead than alive, went
out of the house homewards.
Why had he ever come back? During his absence he had not cared for
Christine as he cared now. If he had been younger he might have felt
tempted to descend into the meads instead of keeping along their
edge. The Froom was down there, and he knew of quiet pools in that
stream to which death would come easily. But he was too old to put
an end to himself for such a reason as love; and another thought,
too, kept him from seriously contemplating any desperate act. His
affection for her was strongly protective, and in the event of her
requiring a friend's support in future troubles there was none but
himself left in the world to afford it. So he walked on.
Meanwhile Christine had resigned herself to circumstances. A resolve
to continue worthy of her history and of her family lent her heroism
and dignity. She called Mrs. Wake, and explained to that worthy
woman as much of what had occurred as she deemed necessary. Mrs.
Wake was too amazed to reply; she retreated slowly, her lips parted;
till at the door she said with a dry mouth, 'And the beautiful
supper, ma'am?'
'Serve it when he comes.'
'When Mr. Bellston--yes, ma'am, I will.' She still stood gazing, as
if she could hardly take in the order.
'That will do, Mrs. Wake. I am much obliged to you for all your
kindness.' And Christine was left alone again, and then she wept.
She sat down and waited. That awful silence of the stopped clock
began anew, but she did not mind it now. She was listening for a
footfall in a state of mental tensity which almost took away from her
the power of motion. It seemed to her that the natural interval for
her husband's journey thither must have expired; but she was not
sure, and waited on.
Mrs. Wake again came in. 'You have not rung for supper--'
'He is not yet come, Mrs. Wake. If you want to go to bed, bring in
the supper and set it on the table. It will be nearly as good cold.
Leave the door unbarred.'
Mrs. Wake did as was suggested, made up the fire, and went away.
Shortly afterwards Christine heard her retire to her chamber. But
Christine still sat on, and still her husband postponed his entry.
She aroused herself once or twice to freshen the fire, but was
ignorant how the night was going. Her watch was upstairs and she did
not make the effort to go up to consult it. In her seat she
continued; and still the supper waited, and still he did not come.
At length she was so nearly persuaded that the arrival of his things
must have been a dream after all, that she again went over to them,
felt them, and examined them. His they unquestionably were; and
their forwarding by the porter had been quite natural. She sighed
and sat down again.
Presently she fell into a doze, and when she again became conscious
she found that the four candles had burnt into their sockets and gone
out. The fire still emitted a feeble shine. Christine did not take
the trouble to get more candles, but stirred the fire and sat on.
After a long period she heard a creaking of the chamber floor and
stairs at the other end of the house, and knew that the farmer's
family were getting up. By-and-by Mrs. Wake entered the room, candle
in hand, bouncing open the door in her morning manner, obviously
without any expectation of finding a person there.
'Lord-a-mercy! What, sitting here again, ma'am?'
'Yes, I am sitting here still.'
'You've been there ever since last night?'
'Yes.'
'Then--'
'He's not come.'
'Well, he won't come at this time o' morning,' said the farmer's
wife. 'Do 'ee get on to bed, ma'am. You must be shrammed to death!'
It occurred to Christine now that possibly her husband had thought
better of obtruding himself upon her company within an hour of
revealing his existence to her, and had decided to pay a more formal
visit next day. She therefore adopted Mrs. Wake's suggestion and
retired.
