Wessex Tales 1896

Interlopers at the Knap

CHAPTER I

The north road from Casterbridge is tedious and lonely, especially

in winter-time.  Along a part of its course it connects with Long-

Ash Lane, a monotonous track without a village or hamlet for many

miles, and with very seldom a turning.  Unapprized wayfarers who are

too old, or too young, or in other respects too weak for the

distance to be traversed, but who, nevertheless, have to walk it,

say, as they look wistfully ahead, 'Once at the top of that hill,

and I must surely see the end of Long-Ash Lane!'  But they reach the

hilltop, and Long-Ash Lane stretches in front as mercilessly as

before.

Some few years ago a certain farmer was riding through this lane in

the gloom of a winter evening.  The farmer's friend, a dairyman, was

riding beside him.  A few paces in the rear rode the farmer's man.

All three were well horsed on strong, round-barrelled cobs; and to

be well horsed was to be in better spirits about Long-Ash Lane than

poor pedestrians could attain to during its passage.

But the farmer did not talk much to his friend as he rode along.

The enterprise which had brought him there filled his mind; for in

truth it was important.  Not altogether so important was it,

perhaps, when estimated by its value to society at large; but if the

true measure of a deed be proportionate to the space it occupies in

the heart of him who undertakes it, Farmer Charles Darton's business

to-night could hold its own with the business of kings.

He was a large farmer.  His turnover, as it is called, was probably

thirty thousand pounds a year.  He had a great many draught horses,

a great many milch cows, and of sheep a multitude.  This comfortable

position was, however, none of his own making.  It had been created

by his father, a man of a very different stamp from the present

representative of the line.

Darton, the father, had been a one-idea'd character, with a

buttoned-up pocket and a chink-like eye brimming with commercial

subtlety.  In Darton the son, this trade subtlety had become

transmuted into emotional, and the harshness had disappeared; he

would have been called a sad man but for his constant care not to

divide himself from lively friends by piping notes out of harmony

with theirs.  Contemplative, he allowed his mind to be a quiet

meeting-place for memories and hopes.  So that, naturally enough,

since succeeding to the agricultural calling, and up to his present

age of thirty-two, he had neither advanced nor receded as a

capitalist--a stationary result which did not agitate one of his

unambitious, unstrategic nature, since he had all that he desired.

The motive of his expedition tonight showed the same absence of

anxious regard for Number One.

The party rode on in the slow, safe trot proper to night-time and

bad roads, Farmer Darton's head jigging rather unromantically up and

down against the sky, and his motions being repeated with bolder

emphasis by his friend Japheth Johns; while those of the latter were

travestied in jerks still less softened by art in the person of the

lad who attended them.  A pair of whitish objects hung one on each

side of the latter, bumping against him at each step, and still

further spoiling the grace of his seat.  On close inspection they

might have been perceived to be open rush baskets--one containing a

turkey, and the other some bottles of wine.

'D'ye feel ye can meet your fate like a man, neighbour Darton?'

asked Johns, breaking a silence which had lasted while five-and-

twenty hedgerow trees had glided by.

Mr. Darton with a half-laugh murmured, 'Ay--call it my fate!

Hanging and wiving go by destiny.'  And then they were silent again.

The darkness thickened rapidly, at intervals shutting down on the

land in a perceptible flap, like the wave of a wing.  The customary

close of day was accelerated by a simultaneous blurring of the air.

With the fall of night had come a mist just damp enough to

incommode, but not sufficient to saturate them.  Countrymen as they

were--born, as may be said, with only an open door between them and

the four seasons--they regarded the mist but as an added

obscuration, and ignored its humid quality.

They were travelling in a direction that was enlivened by no modern

current of traffic, the place of Darton's pilgrimage being an old-

fashioned village--one of the Hintocks (several villages of that

name, with a distinctive prefix or affix, lying thereabout)--where

the people make the best cider and cider-wine in all Wessex, and

where the dunghills smell of pomace instead of stable refuse as

elsewhere.  The lane was sometimes so narrow that the brambles of

the hedge, which hung forward like anglers' rods over a stream,

scratched their hats and curry-combed their whiskers as they passed.

Yet this neglected lane had been a highway to Queen Elizabeth's

subjects and the cavalcades of the past.  Its day was over now, and

its history as a national artery done for ever.

'Why I have decided to marry her,' resumed Darton (in a measured

musical voice of confidence which revealed a good deal of his

composition), as he glanced round to see that the lad was not too

near, 'is not only that I like her, but that I can do no better,

even from a fairly practical point of view.  That I might ha' looked

higher is possibly true, though it is really all nonsense.  I have

had experience enough in looking above me.  "No more superior women

for me," said I--you know when.  Sally is a comely, independent,

simple character, with no make-up about her, who'll think me as much

a superior to her as I used to think--you know who I mean--was to

me.'

'Ay,' said Johns.  'However, I shouldn't call Sally Hall simple.

Primary, because no Sally is; secondary, because if some could be,

this one wouldn't.  'Tis a wrong denomination to apply to a woman,

Charles, and affects me, as your best man, like cold water.  'Tis

like recommending a stage play by saying there's neither murder,

villainy, nor harm of any sort in it, when that's what you've paid

your half-crown to see.'

'Well; may your opinion do you good.  Mine's a different one.'  And

turning the conversation from the philosophical to the practical,

Darton expressed a hope that the said Sally had received what he'd

sent on by the carrier that day.

Johns wanted to know what that was.

'It is a dress,' said Darton.  'Not exactly a wedding-dress; though

she may use it as one if she likes.  It is rather serviceable than

showy--suitable for the winter weather.'

'Good,' said Johns.  'Serviceable is a wise word in a bridegroom.  I

commend ye, Charles.'

'For,' said Darton, 'why should a woman dress up like a rope-dancer

because she's going to do the most solemn deed of her life except

dying?'

'Faith, why?  But she will, because she will, I suppose,' said

Dairyman Johns.

'H'm,' said Darton.

The lane they followed had been nearly straight for several miles,

but it now took a turn, and winding uncertainly for some distance

forked into two.  By night country roads are apt to reveal ungainly

qualities which pass without observation during day; and though

Darton had travelled this way before, he had not done so frequently,

Sally having been wooed at the house of a relative near his own.  He

never remembered seeing at this spot a pair of alternative ways

looking so equally probable as these two did now.  Johns rode on a

few steps.

'Don't be out of heart, sonny,' he cried.  'Here's a handpost.

Enoch--come and climm this post, and tell us the way.'

The lad dismounted, and jumped into the hedge where the post stood

under a tree.

'Unstrap the baskets, or you'll smash up that wine!' cried Darton,

as the young man began spasmodically to climb the post, baskets and

all.

'Was there ever less head in a brainless world?' said Johns.  'Here,

simple Nocky, I'll do it.'  He leapt off, and with much puffing

climbed the post, striking a match when he reached the top, and

moving the light along the arm, the lad standing and gazing at the

spectacle.

'I have faced tantalization these twenty years with a temper as mild

as milk!' said Japheth; 'but such things as this don't come short of

devilry!'  And flinging the match away, he slipped down to the

ground.

'What's the matter?' asked Darton.

'Not a letter, sacred or heathen--not so much as would tell us the

way to the great fireplace--ever I should sin to say it!  Either the

moss and mildew have eat away the words, or we have arrived in a

land where the natyves have lost the art o' writing, and should ha'

brought our compass like Christopher Columbus.'

'Let us take the straightest road,' said Darton placidly; 'I shan't

be sorry to get there--'tis a tiresome ride.  I would have driven if

I had known.'

'Nor I neither, sir,' said Enoch.  'These straps plough my shoulder

like a zull.  If 'tis much further to your lady's home, Maister

Darton, I shall ask to be let carry half of these good things in my

innerds--hee, hee!'

'Don't you be such a reforming radical, Enoch,' said Johns sternly.

'Here, I'll take the turkey.'

This being done, they went forward by the right-hand lane, which

ascended a hill, the left winding away under a plantation.  The pit-

a-pat of their horses' hoofs lessened up the slope; and the ironical

directing-post stood in solitude as before, holding out its blank

arms to the raw breeze, which brought a snore from the wood as if

Skrymir the Giant were sleeping there.

CHAPTER II

Three miles to the left of the travellers, along the road they had

not followed, rose an old house with mullioned windows of Ham-hill

stone, and chimneys of lavish solidity.  It stood at the top of a

slope beside King's-Hintock village-street; and immediately in front

of it grew a large sycamore-tree, whose bared roots formed a

convenient staircase from the road below to the front door of the

dwelling.  Its situation gave the house what little distinctive name

it possessed, namely, 'The Knap.'  Some forty yards off a brook

dribbled past, which, for its size, made a great deal of noise.  At

the back was a dairy barton, accessible for vehicles and live-stock

by a side 'drong.'  Thus much only of the character of the homestead

could be divined out of doors at this shady evening-time.

But within there was plenty of light to see by, as plenty was

construed at Hintock.  Beside a Tudor fireplace, whose moulded four-

centred arch was nearly hidden by a figured blue-cloth blower, were

seated two women--mother and daughter--Mrs. Hall, and Sarah, or

Sally; for this was a part of the world where the latter

modification had not as yet been effaced as a vulgarity by the march

of intellect.  The owner of the name was the young woman by whose

means Mr. Darton proposed to put an end to his bachelor condition on

the approaching day.

The mother's bereavement had been so long ago as not to leave much

mark of its occurrence upon her now, either in face or clothes.  She

had resumed the mob-cap of her early married life, enlivening its

whiteness by a few rose-du-Barry ribbons.  Sally required no such

aids to pinkness.  Roseate good-nature lit up her gaze; her features

showed curves of decision and judgment; and she might have been

regarded without much mistake as a warm-hearted, quick-spirited,

handsome girl.

She did most of the talking, her mother listening with a half-absent

air, as she picked up fragments of red-hot wood ember with the

tongs, and piled them upon the brands.  But the number of speeches

that passed was very small in proportion to the meanings exchanged.

Long experience together often enabled them to see the course of

thought in each other's minds without a word being spoken.  Behind

them, in the centre of the room, the table was spread for supper,

certain whiffs of air laden with fat vapours, which ever and anon

entered from the kitchen, denoting its preparation there.

'The new gown he was going to send you stays about on the way like

himself,' Sally's mother was saying.

'Yes, not finished, I daresay,' cried Sally independently.  'Lord, I

shouldn't be amazed if it didn't come at all!  Young men make such

kind promises when they are near you, and forget 'em when they go

away.  But he doesn't intend it as a wedding-gown--he gives it to me

merely as a gown to wear when I like--a travelling-dress is what it

would be called by some.  Come rathe or come late it don't much

matter, as I have a dress of my own to fall back upon.  But what

time is it?'

She went to the family clock and opened the glass, for the hour was

not otherwise discernible by night, and indeed at all times was

rather a thing to be investigated than beheld, so much more wall

than window was there in the apartment.  'It is nearly eight,' said

she.

'Eight o'clock, and neither dress nor man,' said Mrs. Hall.

'Mother, if you think to tantalize me by talking like that, you are

much mistaken!  Let him be as late as he will--or stay away

altogether--I don't care,' said Sally.  But a tender, minute quaver

in the negation showed that there was something forced in that

statement.

Mrs. Hall perceived it, and drily observed that she was not so sure

about Sally not caring.  'But perhaps you don't care so much as I

do, after all,' she said.  'For I see what you don't, that it is a

good and flourishing match for you; a very honourable offer in Mr.

Darton.  And I think I see a kind husband in him.  So pray God

'twill go smooth, and wind up well.'

Sally would not listen to misgivings.  Of course it would go

smoothly, she asserted.  'How you are up and down, mother!' she went

on.  'At this moment, whatever hinders him, we are not so anxious to

see him as he is to be here, and his thought runs on before him, and

settles down upon us like the star in the east.  Hark!' she

exclaimed, with a breath of relief, her eyes sparkling.  'I heard

something.  Yes--here they are!'

The next moment her mother's slower ear also distinguished the

familiar reverberation occasioned by footsteps clambering up the

roots of the sycamore.

'Yes it sounds like them at last,' she said.  'Well, it is not so

very late after all, considering the distance.'

The footfall ceased, and they arose, expecting a knock.  They began

to think it might have been, after all, some neighbouring villager

under Bacchic influence, giving the centre of the road a wide berth,

when their doubts were dispelled by the new-comer's entry into the

passage.  The door of the room was gently opened, and there

appeared, not the pair of travellers with whom we have already made

acquaintance, but a pale-faced man in the garb of extreme poverty--

almost in rags.

'O, it's a tramp--gracious me!' said Sally, starting back.

His cheeks and eye-orbits were deep concaves--rather, it might be,

from natural weakness of constitution than irregular living, though

there were indications that he had led no careful life.  He gazed at

the two women fixedly for a moment:  then with an abashed,

humiliated demeanour, dropped his glance to the floor, and sank into

a chair without uttering a word.

Sally was in advance of her mother, who had remained standing by the

fire.  She now tried to discern the visitor across the candles.

'Why--mother,' said Sally faintly, turning back to Mrs. Hall.  'It

is Phil, from Australia!'

Mrs. Hall started, and grew pale, and a fit of coughing seized the

man with the ragged clothes.  'To come home like this!' she said.

'O, Philip--are you ill?'

'No, no, mother,' replied he impatiently, as soon as he could speak.

'But for God's sake how do you come here--and just now too?'

'Well, I am here,' said the man.  'How it is I hardly know.  I've

come home, mother, because I was driven to it.  Things were against

me out there, and went from bad to worse.'

'Then why didn't you let us know?--you've not writ a line for the

last two or three years.'

The son admitted sadly that he had not.  He said that he had hoped

and thought he might fetch up again, and be able to send good news.

Then he had been obliged to abandon that hope, and had finally come

home from sheer necessity--previously to making a new start.  'Yes,

things are very bad with me,' he repeated, perceiving their

commiserating glances at his clothes.

They brought him nearer the fire, took his hat from his thin hand,

which was so small and smooth as to show that his attempts to fetch

up again had not been in a manual direction.  His mother resumed her

inquiries, and dubiously asked if he had chosen to come that

particular night for any special reason.

For no reason, he told her.  His arrival had been quite at random.

Then Philip Hall looked round the room, and saw for the first time

that the table was laid somewhat luxuriously, and for a larger

number than themselves; and that an air of festivity pervaded their

dress.  He asked quickly what was going on.

'Sally is going to be married in a day or two,' replied the mother;

and she explained how Mr. Darton, Sally's intended husband, was

coming there that night with the groomsman, Mr. Johns, and other

details.  'We thought it must be their step when we heard you,' said

Mrs. Hall.

The needy wanderer looked again on the floor.  'I see--I see,' he

murmured.  'Why, indeed, should I have come to-night?  Such folk as

I are not wanted here at these times, naturally.  And I have no

business here--spoiling other people's happiness.'

'Phil,' said his mother, with a tear in her eye, but with a thinness

of lip and severity of manner which were presumably not more than

past events justified; 'since you speak like that to me, I'll speak

honestly to you.  For these three years you have taken no thought

for us.  You left home with a good supply of money, and strength and

education, and you ought to have made good use of it all.  But you

come back like a beggar; and that you come in a very awkward time

for us cannot be denied.  Your return to-night may do us much harm.

But mind--you are welcome to this home as long as it is mine.  I

don't wish to turn you adrift.  We will make the best of a bad job;

and I hope you are not seriously ill?'

'O no.  I have only this infernal cough.'

She looked at him anxiously.  'I think you had better go to bed at

once,' she said.

'Well--I shall be out of the way there,' said the son wearily.

'Having ruined myself, don't let me ruin you by being seen in these

togs, for Heaven's sake.  Who do you say Sally is going to be

married to--a Farmer Darton?'

'Yes--a gentleman-farmer--quite a wealthy man.  Far better in

station than she could have expected.  It is a good thing,

altogether.'

'Well done, little Sal!' said her brother, brightening and looking

up at her with a smile.  'I ought to have written; but perhaps I

have thought of you all the more.  But let me get out of sight.  I

would rather go and jump into the river than be seen here.  But have

you anything I can drink?  I am confoundedly thirsty with my long

tramp.'

'Yes, yes, we will bring something upstairs to you,' said Sally,

with grief in her face.

'Ay, that will do nicely.  But, Sally and mother--'  He stopped, and

they waited.  'Mother, I have not told you all,' he resumed slowly,

still looking on the floor between his knees.  'Sad as what you see

of me is, there's worse behind.'

His mother gazed upon him in grieved suspense, and Sally went and

leant upon the bureau, listening for every sound, and sighing.

Suddenly she turned round, saying, 'Let them come, I don't care!

Philip, tell the worst, and take your time.'

'Well, then,' said the unhappy Phil, 'I am not the only one in this

mess.  Would to Heaven I were!  But--'

'O, Phil!'

'I have a wife as destitute as I.'

'A wife?' said his mother.

'Unhappily!'

'A wife!  Yes, that is the way with sons!'

'And besides--' said he.

'Besides!  O, Philip, surely--'

'I have two little children.'

'Wife and children!' whispered Mrs. Hall, sinking down confounded.

'Poor little things!' said Sally involuntarily.

His mother turned again to him.  'I suppose these helpless beings

are left in Australia?'

'No.  They are in England.'

'Well, I can only hope you've left them in a respectable place.'

'I have not left them at all.  They are here--within a few yards of

us.  In short, they are in the stable.'

'Where?'

'In the stable.  I did not like to bring them indoors till I had

seen you, mother, and broken the bad news a bit to you.  They were

very tired, and are resting out there on some straw.'

Mrs. Hall's fortitude visibly broke down.  She had been brought up

not without refinement, and was even more moved by such a collapse

of genteel aims as this than a substantial dairyman's widow would in

ordinary have been moved.  'Well, it must be borne,' she said, in a

low voice, with her hands tightly joined.  'A starving son, a

starving wife, starving children!  Let it be.  But why is this come

to us now, to-day, to-night?  Could no other misfortune happen to

helpless women than this, which will quite upset my poor girl's

chance of a happy life?  Why have you done us this wrong, Philip?

What respectable man will come here, and marry open-eyed into a

family of vagabonds?'

'Nonsense, mother!' said Sally vehemently, while her face flushed.

'Charley isn't the man to desert me.  But if he should be, and won't

marry me because Phil's come, let him go and marry elsewhere.  I

won't be ashamed of my own flesh and blood for any man in England--

not I!'  And then Sally turned away and burst into tears.

'Wait till you are twenty years older and you will tell a different

tale,' replied her mother.

The son stood up.  'Mother,' he said bitterly, 'as I have come, so I

will go.  All I ask of you is that you will allow me and mine to lie

in your stable to-night.  I give you my word that we'll be gone by

break of day, and trouble you no further!'

Mrs. Hall, the mother, changed at that.  'O no,' she answered

hastily; 'never shall it be said that I sent any of my own family

from my door.  Bring 'em in, Philip, or take me out to them.'

'We will put 'em all into the large bedroom,' said Sally,

brightening, 'and make up a large fire.  Let's go and help them in,

and call Rebekah.'  (Rebekah was the woman who assisted at the dairy

and housework; she lived in a cottage hard by with her husband, who

attended to the cows.)

Sally went to fetch a lantern from the back-kitchen, but her brother

said, 'You won't want a light.  I lit the lantern that was hanging

there.'

'What must we call your wife?' asked Mrs. Hall.

'Helena,' said Philip.

With shawls over their heads they proceeded towards the back door.

'One minute before you go,' interrupted Philip.  'I--I haven't

confessed all.'

'Then Heaven help us!' said Mrs. Hall, pushing to the door and

clasping her hands in calm despair.

'We passed through Evershead as we came,' he continued, 'and I just

looked in at the "Sow-and-Acorn" to see if old Mike still kept on

there as usual.  The carrier had come in from Sherton Abbas at that

moment, and guessing that I was bound for this place--for I think he

knew me--he asked me to bring on a dressmaker's parcel for Sally

that was marked "immediate."  My wife had walked on with the

children.  'Twas a flimsy parcel, and the paper was torn, and I

found on looking at it that it was a thick warm gown.  I didn't wish

you to see poor Helena in a shabby state.  I was ashamed that you

should--'twas not what she was born to.  I untied the parcel in the

road, took it on to her where she was waiting in the Lower Barn, and

told her I had managed to get it for her, and that she was to ask no

question.  She, poor thing, must have supposed I obtained it on

trust, through having reached a place where I was known, for she put

it on gladly enough.  She has it on now.  Sally has other gowns, I

daresay.'

Sally looked at her mother, speechless.

'You have others, I daresay!' repeated Phil, with a sick man's

impatience.  'I thought to myself, "Better Sally cry than Helena

freeze."  Well, is the dress of great consequence?  'Twas nothing

very ornamental, as far as I could see.'

'No--no; not of consequence,' returned Sally sadly, adding in a

gentle voice, 'You will not mind if I lend her another instead of

that one, will you?'

Philip's agitation at the confession had brought on another attack

of the cough, which seemed to shake him to pieces.  He was so

obviously unfit to sit in a chair that they helped him upstairs at

once; and having hastily given him a cordial and kindled the bedroom

fire, they descended to fetch their unhappy new relations.

CHAPTER III

It was with strange feelings that the girl and her mother, lately so

cheerful, passed out of the back door into the open air of the

barton, laden with hay scents and the herby breath of cows.  A fine

sleet had begun to fall, and they trotted across the yard quickly.

The stable-door was open; a light shone from it--from the lantern

which always hung there, and which Philip had lighted, as he said.

Softly nearing the door, Mrs. Hall pronounced the name 'Helena!'

There was no answer for the moment.  Looking in she was taken by

surprise.  Two people appeared before her.  For one, instead of the

drabbish woman she had expected, Mrs. Hall saw a pale, dark-eyed,

ladylike creature, whose personality ruled her attire rather than

was ruled by it.  She was in a new and handsome gown, of course, and

an old bonnet.  She was standing up, agitated; her hand was held by

her companion--none else than Sally's affianced, Farmer Charles

Darton, upon whose fine figure the pale stranger's eyes were fixed,

as his were fixed upon her.  His other hand held the rein of his

horse, which was standing saddled as if just led in.

At sight of Mrs. Hall they both turned, looking at her in a way

neither quite conscious nor unconscious, and without seeming to

recollect that words were necessary as a solution to the scene.  In

another moment Sally entered also, when Mr. Darton dropped his

companion's hand, led the horse aside, and came to greet his

betrothed and Mrs. Hall.

'Ah!' he said, smiling--with something like forced composure--'this

is a roundabout way of arriving, you will say, my dear Mrs. Hall.

But we lost our way, which made us late.  I saw a light here, and

led in my horse at once--my friend Johns and my man have gone back

to the little inn with theirs, not to crowd you too much.  No sooner

had I entered than I saw that this lady had taken temporary shelter

here--and found I was intruding.'

'She is my daughter-in-law,' said Mrs. Hall calmly.  'My son, too,

is in the house, but he has gone to bed unwell.'

Sally had stood staring wonderingly at the scene until this moment,

hardly recognizing Darton's shake of the hand.  The spell that bound

her was broken by her perceiving the two little children seated on a

heap of hay.  She suddenly went forward, spoke to them, and took one

on her arm and the other in her hand.

'And two children?' said Mr. Darton, showing thus that he had not

been there long enough as yet to understand the situation.

'My grandchildren,' said Mrs. Hall, with as much affected ease as

before.

Philip Hall's wife, in spite of this interruption to her first

rencounter, seemed scarcely so much affected by it as to feel any

one's presence in addition to Mr. Darton's.  However, arousing

herself by a quick reflection, she threw a sudden critical glance of

her sad eyes upon Mrs. Hall; and, apparently finding her

satisfactory, advanced to her in a meek initiative.  Then Sally and

the stranger spoke some friendly words to each other, and Sally went

on with the children into the house.  Mrs. Hall and Helena followed,

and Mr. Darton followed these, looking at Helena's dress and

outline, and listening to her voice like a man in a dream.

By the time the others reached the house Sally had already gone

upstairs with the tired children.  She rapped against the wall for

Rebekah to come in and help to attend to them, Rebekah's house being

a little 'spit-and-dab' cabin leaning against the substantial stone-

work of Mrs. Hall's taller erection.  When she came a bed was made

up for the little ones, and some supper given to them.  On

descending the stairs after seeing this done Sally went to the

sitting-room.  Young Mrs. Hall entered it just in advance of her,

having in the interim retired with her mother-in-law to take off her

bonnet, and otherwise make herself presentable.  Hence it was

evident that no further communication could have passed between her

and Mr. Darton since their brief interview in the stable.

Mr. Japheth Johns now opportunely arrived, and broke up the

restraint of the company, after a few orthodox meteorological

commentaries had passed between him and Mrs. Hall by way of

introduction.  They at once sat down to supper, the present of wine

and turkey not being produced for consumption to-night, lest the

premature display of those gifts should seem to throw doubt on Mrs.

Hall's capacities as a provider.

'Drink hearty, Mr. Johns--drink hearty,' said that matron

magnanimously.  'Such as it is there's plenty of.  But perhaps

cider-wine is not to your taste?--though there's body in it.'

'Quite the contrairy, ma'am--quite the contrairy,' said the

dairyman.  'For though I inherit the malt-liquor principle from my

father, I am a cider-drinker on my mother's side.  She came from

these parts, you know.  And there's this to be said for't--'tis a

more peaceful liquor, and don't lie about a man like your hotter

drinks.  With care, one may live on it a twelvemonth without

knocking down a neighbour, or getting a black eye from an old

acquaintance.'

The general conversation thus begun was continued briskly, though it

was in the main restricted to Mrs. Hall and Japheth, who in truth

required but little help from anybody.  There being slight call upon

Sally's tongue, she had ample leisure to do what her heart most

desired, namely, watch her intended husband and her sister-in-law

with a view of elucidating the strange momentary scene in which her

mother and herself had surprised them in the stable.  If that scene

meant anything, it meant, at least, that they had met before.  That

there had been no time for explanations Sally could see, for their

manner was still one of suppressed amazement at each other's

presence there.  Darton's eyes, too, fell continually on the gown

worn by Helena as if this were an added riddle to his perplexity;

though to Sally it was the one feature in the case which was no

mystery.  He seemed to feel that fate had impishly changed his vis-

a-vis in the lover's jig he was about to foot; that while the gown

had been expected to enclose a Sally, a Helena's face looked out

from the bodice; that some long-lost hand met his own from the

sleeves.

Sally could see that whatever Helena might know of Darton, she knew

nothing of how the dress entered into his embarrassment.  And at

moments the young girl would have persuaded herself that Darton's

looks at her sister-in-law were entirely the fruit of the clothes

query.  But surely at other times a more extensive range of

speculation and sentiment was expressed by her lover's eye than that

which the changed dress would account for.

Sally's independence made her one of the least jealous of women.

But there was something in the relations of these two visitors which

ought to be explained.

Japheth Johns continued to converse in his well-known style,

interspersing his talk with some private reflections on the position

of Darton and Sally, which, though the sparkle in his eye showed

them to be highly entertaining to himself, were apparently not quite

communicable to the company.  At last he withdrew for the night,

going off to the roadside inn half-a-mile back, whither Darton

promised to follow him in a few minutes.

Half-an-hour passed, and then Mr. Darton also rose to leave, Sally

and her sister-in-law simultaneously wishing him good-night as they

retired upstairs to their rooms.  But on his arriving at the front

door with Mrs. Hall a sharp shower of rain began to come down, when

the widow suggested that he should return to the fire-side till the

storm ceased.

Darton accepted her proposal, but insisted that, as it was getting

late, and she was obviously tired, she should not sit up on his

account, since he could let himself out of the house, and would

quite enjoy smoking a pipe by the hearth alone.  Mrs. Hall assented;

and Darton was left by himself.  He spread his knees to the brands,

lit up his tobacco as he had said, and sat gazing into the fire, and

at the notches of the chimney-crook which hung above.

An occasional drop of rain rolled down the chimney with a hiss, and

still he smoked on; but not like a man whose mind was at rest.  In

the long run, however, despite his meditations, early hours afield

and a long ride in the open air produced their natural result.  He

began to doze.

How long he remained in this half-unconscious state he did not know.

He suddenly opened his eyes.  The back-brand had burnt itself in

two, and ceased to flame; the light which he had placed on the

mantelpiece had nearly gone out.  But in spite of these deficiencies

there was a light in the apartment, and it came from elsewhere.

Turning his head he saw Philip Hall's wife standing at the entrance

of the room with a bed-candle in one hand, a small brass tea-kettle

in the other, and HIS gown, as it certainly seemed, still upon her.

'Helena!' said Darton, starting up.

Her countenance expressed dismay, and her first words were an

apology.  'I--did not know you were here, Mr. Darton,' she said,

while a blush flashed to her cheek.  'I thought every one had

retired--I was coming to make a little water boil; my husband seems

to be worse.  But perhaps the kitchen fire can be lighted up again.'

'Don't go on my account.  By all means put it on here as you

intended,' said Darton.  'Allow me to help you.'  He went forward to

take the kettle from her hand, but she did not allow him, and placed

it on the fire herself.

They stood some way apart, one on each side of the fireplace,

waiting till the water should boil, the candle on the mantel between

them, and Helena with her eyes on the kettle.  Darton was the first

to break the silence.  'Shall I call Sally?' he said.

'O no,' she quickly returned.  'We have given trouble enough

already.  We have no right here.  But we are the sport of fate, and

were obliged to come.'

'No right here!' said he in surprise.

'None.  I can't explain it now,' answered Helena.  'This kettle is

very slow.'

There was another pause; the proverbial dilatoriness of watched pots

was never more clearly exemplified.

Helena's face was of that sort which seems to ask for assistance

without the owner's knowledge--the very antipodes of Sally's, which

was self-reliance expressed.  Darton's eyes travelled from the

kettle to Helena's face, then back to the kettle, then to the face

for rather a longer time.  'So I am not to know anything of the

mystery that has distracted me all the evening?' he said.  'How is

it that a woman, who refused me because (as I supposed) my position

was not good enough for her taste, is found to be the wife of a man

who certainly seems to be worse off than I?'

'He had the prior claim,' said she.

'What! you knew him at that time?'

'Yes, yes!  Please say no more,' she implored.

'Whatever my errors, I have paid for them during the last five

years!'

The heart of Darton was subject to sudden overflowings.  He was kind

to a fault.  'I am sorry from my soul,' he said, involuntarily

approaching her.  Helena withdrew a step or two, at which he became

conscious of his movement, and quickly took his former place.  Here

he stood without speaking, and the little kettle began to sing.

'Well, you might have been my wife if you had chosen,' he said at

last.  'But that's all past and gone.  However, if you are in any

trouble or poverty I shall be glad to be of service, and as your

relation by marriage I shall have a right to be.  Does your uncle

know of your distress?'

'My uncle is dead.  He left me without a farthing.  And now we have

two children to maintain.'

'What, left you nothing?  How could he be so cruel as that?'

'I disgraced myself in his eyes.'

'Now,' said Darton earnestly, 'let me take care of the children, at

least while you are so unsettled.  YOU belong to another, so I

cannot take care of you.'

'Yes you can,' said a voice; and suddenly a third figure stood

beside them.  It was Sally.  'You can, since you seem to wish to?'

she repeated.  'She no longer belongs to another . . . My poor

brother is dead!'

Her face was red, her eyes sparkled, and all the woman came to the

front.  'I have heard it!' she went on to him passionately.  'You

can protect her now as well as the children!'  She turned then to

her agitated sister-in-law.  'I heard something,' said Sally (in a

gentle murmur, differing much from her previous passionate words),

'and I went into his room.  It must have been the moment you left.

He went off so quickly, and weakly, and it was so unexpected, that I

couldn't leave even to call you.'

Darton was just able to gather from the confused discourse which

followed that, during his sleep by the fire, this brother whom he

had never seen had become worse; and that during Helena's absence

for water the end had unexpectedly come.  The two young women

hastened upstairs, and he was again left alone.

After standing there a short time he went to the front door and

looked out; till, softly closing it behind him, he advanced and

stood under the large sycamore-tree.  The stars were flickering

coldly, and the dampness which had just descended upon the earth in

rain now sent up a chill from it.  Darton was in a strange position,

and he felt it.  The unexpected appearance, in deep poverty, of

Helena--a young lady, daughter of a deceased naval officer, who had

been brought up by her uncle, a solicitor, and had refused Darton in

marriage years ago--the passionate, almost angry demeanour of Sally

at discovering them, the abrupt announcement that Helena was a

widow; all this coming together was a conjuncture difficult to cope

with in a moment, and made him question whether he ought to leave

the house or offer assistance.  But for Sally's manner he would

unhesitatingly have done the latter.

He was still standing under the tree when the door in front of him

opened, and Mrs. Hall came out.  She went round to the garden-gate

at the side without seeing him.  Darton followed her, intending to

speak.

Pausing outside, as if in thought, she proceeded to a spot where the

sun came earliest in spring-time, and where the north wind never

blew; it was where the row of beehives stood under the wall.

Discerning her object, he waited till she had accomplished it.

It was the universal custom thereabout to wake the bees by tapping

at their hives whenever a death occurred in the household, under the

belief that if this were not done the bees themselves would pine

away and perish during the ensuing year.  As soon as an interior

buzzing responded to her tap at the first hive Mrs. Hall went on to

the second, and thus passed down the row.  As soon as she came back

he met her.

'What can I do in this trouble, Mrs. Hall?' he said.

'O--nothing, thank you, nothing,' she said in a tearful voice, now

just perceiving him.  'We have called Rebekah and her husband, and

they will do everything necessary.'  She told him in a few words the

particulars of her son's arrival, broken in health--indeed, at

death's very door, though they did not suspect it--and suggested, as

the result of a conversation between her and her daughter, that the

wedding should be postponed.

'Yes, of course,' said Darton.  'I think now to go straight to the

inn and tell Johns what has happened.'  It was not till after he had

shaken hands with her that he turned hesitatingly and added, 'Will

you tell the mother of his children that, as they are now left

fatherless, I shall be glad to take the eldest of them, if it would

be any convenience to her and to you?'

Mrs. Hall promised that her son's widow should he told of the offer,

and they parted.  He retired down the rooty slope and disappeared in

the direction of the inn, where he informed Johns of the

circumstances.  Meanwhile Mrs. Hall had entered the house, Sally was

downstairs in the sitting-room alone, and her mother explained to

her that Darton had readily assented to the postponement.

'No doubt he has,' said Sally, with sad emphasis.  'It is not put

off for a week, or a month, or a year.  I shall never marry him, and

she will!'

CHAPTER IV

Time passed, and the household on the Knap became again serene under

the composing influences of daily routine.  A desultory, very

desultory correspondence, dragged on between Sally Hall and Darton,

who, not quite knowing how to take her petulant words on the night

of her brother's death, had continued passive thus long.  Helena and

her children remained at the dairy-house, almost of necessity, and

Darton therefore deemed it advisable to stay away.

One day, seven months later on, when Mr. Darton was as usual at his

farm, twenty miles from Hintock, a note reached him from Helena.

She thanked him for his kind offer about her children, which her

mother-in-law had duly communicated, and stated that she would be

glad to accept it as regarded the eldest, the boy.  Helena had, in

truth, good need to do so, for her uncle had left her penniless, and

all application to some relatives in the north had failed.  There

was, besides, as she said, no good school near Hintock to which she

could send the child.

On a fine summer day the boy came.  He was accompanied half-way by

Sally and his mother--to the 'White Horse,' at Chalk Newton--where

he was handed over to Darton's bailiff in a shining spring-cart, who

met them there.

He was entered as a day-scholar at a popular school at Casterbridge,

three or four miles from Darton's, having first been taught by

Darton to ride a forest-pony, on which he cantered to and from the

aforesaid fount of knowledge, and (as Darton hoped) brought away a

promising headful of the same at each diurnal expedition.  The

thoughtful taciturnity into which Darton had latterly fallen was

quite dissipated by the presence of this boy.

When the Christmas holidays came it was arranged that he should

spend them with his mother.  The journey was, for some reason or

other, performed in two stages, as at his coming, except that Darton

in person took the place of the bailiff, and that the boy and

himself rode on horseback.

Reaching the renowned 'White Horse,' Darton inquired if Miss and

young Mrs. Hall were there to meet little Philip (as they had agreed

to be).  He was answered by the appearance of Helena alone at the

door.

'At the last moment Sally would not come,' she faltered.

That meeting practically settled the point towards which these long-

severed persons were converging.  But nothing was broached about it

for some time yet.  Sally Hall had, in fact, imparted the first

decisive motion to events by refusing to accompany Helena.  She soon

gave them a second move by writing the following note

'[Private.]

'DEAR CHARLES,--Living here so long and intimately with Helena, I

have naturally learnt her history, especially that of it which

refers to you.  I am sure she would accept you as a husband at the

proper time, and I think you ought to give her the opportunity.  You

inquire in an old note if I am sorry that I showed temper (which it

WASN'T) that night when I heard you talking to her.  No, Charles, I

am not sorry at all for what I said then.--Yours sincerely, SALLY

HALL.'

Thus set in train, the transfer of Darton's heart back to its

original quarters proceeded by mere lapse of time.  In the following

July, Darton went to his friend Japheth to ask him at last to fulfil

the bridal office which had been in abeyance since the previous

January twelvemonths.

'With all my heart, man o' constancy!' said Dairyman Johns warmly.

'I've lost most of my genteel fair complexion haymaking this hot

weather, 'tis true, but I'll do your business as well as them that

look better.  There be scents and good hair-oil in the world yet,

thank God, and they'll take off the roughest o' my edge.  I'll

compliment her.  "Better late than never, Sally Hall," I'll say.'

'It is not Sally,' said Darton hurriedly.  'It is young Mrs. Hall.'

Japheth's face, as soon as he really comprehended, became a picture

of reproachful dismay.  'Not Sally?' he said.  'Why not Sally?  I

can't believe it!  Young Mrs. Hall!  Well, well--where's your

wisdom?'

Darton shortly explained particulars; but Johns would not be

reconciled.  'She was a woman worth having if ever woman was,' he

cried.  'And now to let her go!'

'But I suppose I can marry where I like,' said Darton.

'H'm,' replied the dairyman, lifting his eyebrows expressively.

'This don't become you, Charles--it really do not.  If I had done

such a thing you would have sworn I was a curst no'thern fool to be

drawn off the scent by such a red-herring doll-oll-oll.'

Farmer Darton responded in such sharp terms to this laconic opinion

that the two friends finally parted in a way they had never parted

before.  Johns was to be no groomsman to Darton after all.  He had

flatly declined.  Darton went off sorry, and even unhappy,

particularly as Japheth was about to leave that side of the county,

so that the words which had divided them were not likely to be

explained away or softened down.

A short time after the interview Darton was united to Helena at a

simple matter-of fact wedding; and she and her little girl joined

the boy who had already grown to look on Darton's house as home.

For some months the farmer experienced an unprecedented happiness

and satisfaction.  There had been a flaw in his life, and it was as

neatly mended as was humanly possible.  But after a season the

stream of events followed less clearly, and there were shades in his

reveries.  Helena was a fragile woman, of little staying power,

physically or morally, and since the time that he had originally

known her--eight or ten years before--she had been severely tried.

She had loved herself out, in short, and was now occasionally given

to moping.  Sometimes she spoke regretfully of the gentilities of

her early life, and instead of comparing her present state with her

condition as the wife of the unlucky Hall, she mused rather on what

it had been before she took the first fatal step of clandestinely

marrying him.  She did not care to please such people as those with

whom she was thrown as a thriving farmer's wife.  She allowed the

pretty trifles of agricultural domesticity to glide by her as sorry

details, and had it not been for the children Darton's house would

have seemed but little brighter than it had been before.

This led to occasional unpleasantness, until Darton sometimes

declared to himself that such endeavours as his to rectify early

deviations of the heart by harking back to the old point mostly

failed of success.  'Perhaps Johns was right,' he would say.  'I

should have gone on with Sally.  Better go with the tide and make

the best of its course than stem it at the risk of a capsize.'  But

he kept these unmelodious thoughts to himself, and was outwardly

considerate and kind.

This somewhat barren tract of his life had extended to less than a

year and a half when his ponderings were cut short by the loss of

the woman they concerned.  When she was in her grave he thought

better of her than when she had been alive; the farm was a worse

place without her than with her, after all.  No woman short of

divine could have gone through such an experience as hers with her

first husband without becoming a little soured.  Her stagnant

sympathies, her sometimes unreasonable manner, had covered a heart

frank and well meaning, and originally hopeful and warm.  She left

him a tiny red infant in white wrappings.  To make life as easy as

possible to this touching object became at once his care.

As this child learnt to walk and talk Darton learnt to see

feasibility in a scheme which pleased him.  Revolving the experiment

which he had hitherto made upon life, he fancied he had gained

wisdom from his mistakes and caution from his miscarriages.

What the scheme was needs no penetration to discover.  Once more he

had opportunity to recast and rectify his ill-wrought situations by

returning to Sally Hall, who still lived quietly on under her

mother's roof at Hintock.  Helena had been a woman to lend pathos

and refinement to a home; Sally was the woman to brighten it.  She

would not, as Helena did, despise the rural simplicities of a

farmer's fireside.  Moreover, she had a pre-eminent qualification

for Darton's household; no other woman could make so desirable a

mother to her brother's two children and Darton's one as Sally--

while Darton, now that Helena had gone, was a mor