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