Complete Works of Thomas Hardy (Illustrated) (696 page)

Barnet glanced towards the speaker.  The rays from a neighbouring lamp struck through the drizzle under Charlson’s umbrella, so as just to illumine his face against the shade behind, and show that his eye was turned up under the outer corner of its lid, whence it leered with impish jocoseness as he thrust his tongue into his cheek.

‘Come,’ said Barnet gravely, ‘we’ll have no more of that.’

‘No, no — of course not,’ Charlson hastily answered, seeing that his humour had carried him too far, as it had done many times before.  He was profuse in his apologies, but Barnet did not reply.  Of one thing he was certain — that scandal was a plant of quick root, and that he was bound to obey Lucy’s injunction for Lucy’s own sake.

CHAPTER III

He did so, to the letter; and though, as the crocus followed the snowdrop and the daffodil the crocus in Lucy’s garden, the harbour-road was a not unpleasant place to walk in, Barnet’s feet never trod its stones, much less approached her door.  He avoided a saunter that way as he would have avoided a dangerous dram, and took his airings a long distance northward, among severely square and brown ploughed fields, where no other townsman came.  Sometimes he went round by the lower lanes of the borough, where the rope-walks stretched in which his family formerly had share, and looked at the rope-makers walking backwards, overhung by apple-trees and bushes, and intruded on by cows and calves, as if trade had established itself there at considerable inconvenience to Nature.

One morning, when the sun was so warm as to raise a steam from the south-eastern slopes of those flanking hills that looked so lovely above the old roofs, but made every low-chimneyed house in the town as smoky as Tophet, Barnet glanced from the windows of the town-council room for lack of interest in what was proceeding within.  Several members of the corporation were present, but there was not much business doing, and in a few minutes Downe came leisurely across to him, saying that he seldom saw Barnet now.

Barnet owned that he was not often present.

Downe looked at the crimson curtain which hung down beside the panes, reflecting its hot hues into their faces, and then out of the window.  At that moment there passed along the street a tall commanding lady, in whom the solicitor recognized Barnet’s wife.  Barnet had done the same thing, and turned away.

‘It will be all right some day,’ said Downe, with cheering sympathy.

‘You have heard, then, of her last outbreak?’

Downe depressed his cheerfulness to its very reverse in a moment.  ‘No, I have not heard of anything serious,’ he said, with as long a face as one naturally round could be turned into at short notice.  ‘I only hear vague reports of such things.’

‘You may think it will be all right,’ said Barnet drily.  ‘But I have a different opinion . . . No, Downe, we must look the thing in the face.  Not poppy nor mandragora — however, how are your wife and children?’

Downe said that they were all well, thanks; they were out that morning somewhere; he was just looking to see if they were walking that way.  Ah, there they were, just coming down the street; and Downe pointed to the figures of two children with a nursemaid, and a lady walking behind them.

‘You will come out and speak to her?’ he asked.

‘Not this morning.  The fact is I don’t care to speak to anybody just now.’

‘You are too sensitive, Mr. Barnet.  At school I remember you used to get as red as a rose if anybody uttered a word that hurt your feelings.’

Barnet mused.  ‘Yes,’ he admitted, ‘there is a grain of truth in that.  It is because of that I often try to make peace at home.  Life would be tolerable then at any rate, even if not particularly bright.’

‘I have thought more than once of proposing a little plan to you,’ said Downe with some hesitation.  ‘I don’t know whether it will meet your views, but take it or leave it, as you choose.  In fact, it was my wife who suggested it: that she would be very glad to call on Mrs. Barnet and get into her confidence.  She seems to think that Mrs. Barnet is rather alone in the town, and without advisers.  Her impression is that your wife will listen to reason.  Emily has a wonderful way of winning the hearts of people of her own sex.’

‘And of the other sex too, I think.  She is a charming woman, and you were a lucky fellow to find her.’

‘Well, perhaps I was,’ simpered Downe, trying to wear an aspect of being the last man in the world to feel pride.  ‘However, she will be likely to find out what ruffles Mrs. Barnet.  Perhaps it is some misunderstanding, you know — something that she is too proud to ask you to explain, or some little thing in your conduct that irritates her because she does not fully comprehend you.  The truth is, Emily would have been more ready to make advances if she had been quite sure of her fitness for Mrs. Barnet’s society, who has of course been accustomed to London people of good position, which made Emily fearful of intruding.’

Barnet expressed his warmest thanks for the well-intentioned proposition.  There was reason in Mrs. Downe’s fear — that he owned.  ‘But do let her call,’ he said.  ‘There is no woman in England I would so soon trust on such an errand.  I am afraid there will not be any brilliant result; still I shall take it as the kindest and nicest thing if she will try it, and not be frightened at a repulse.’

When Barnet and Downe had parted, the former went to the Town Savings-Bank, of which he was a trustee, and endeavoured to forget his troubles in the contemplation of low sums of money, and figures in a network of red and blue lines.  He sat and watched the working-people making their deposits, to which at intervals he signed his name.  Before he left in the afternoon Downe put his head inside the door.

‘Emily has seen Mrs. Barnet,’ he said, in a low voice.  ‘She has got Mrs. Barnet’s promise to take her for a drive down to the shore to-morrow, if it is fine.  Good afternoon!’

Barnet shook Downe by the hand without speaking, and Downe went away.

CHAPTER IV

The next day was as fine as the arrangement could possibly require.  As the sun passed the meridian and declined westward, the tall shadows from the scaffold-poles of Barnet’s rising residence streaked the ground as far as to the middle of the highway.  Barnet himself was there inspecting the progress of the works for the first time during several weeks.  A building in an old-fashioned town five-and-thirty years ago did not, as in the modern fashion, rise from the sod like a booth at a fair.  The foundations and lower courses were put in and allowed to settle for many weeks before the superstructure was built up, and a whole summer of drying was hardly sufficient to do justice to the important issues involved.  Barnet stood within a window-niche which had as yet received no frame, and thence looked down a slope into the road.  The wheels of a chaise were heard, and then his handsome Xantippe, in the company of Mrs. Downe, drove past on their way to the shore.  They were driving slowly; there was a pleasing light in Mrs. Downe’s face, which seemed faintly to reflect itself upon the countenance of her companion — that
politesse du coeur
which was so natural to her having possibly begun already to work results.  But whatever the situation, Barnet resolved not to interfere, or do anything to hazard the promise of the day.  He might well afford to trust the issue to another when he could never direct it but to ill himself.  His wife’s clenched rein-hand in its lemon-coloured glove, her stiff erect figure, clad in velvet and lace, and her boldly-outlined face, passed on, exhibiting their owner as one fixed for ever above the level of her companion — socially by her early breeding, and materially by her higher cushion.

Barnet decided to allow them a proper time to themselves, and then stroll down to the shore and drive them home.  After lingering on at the house for another hour he started with this intention.  A few hundred yards below ‘Château Ringdale’ stood the cottage in which the late lieutenant’s daughter had her lodging.  Barnet had not been so far that way for a long time, and as he approached the forbidden ground a curious warmth passed into him, which led him to perceive that, unless he were careful, he might have to fight the battle with himself about Lucy over again.  A tenth of his present excuse would, however, have justified him in travelling by that road to-day.

He came opposite the dwelling, and turned his eyes for a momentary glance into the little garden that stretched from the palings to the door.  Lucy was in the enclosure; she was walking and stooping to gather some flowers, possibly for the purpose of painting them, for she moved about quickly, as if anxious to save time.  She did not see him; he might have passed unnoticed; but a sensation which was not in strict unison with his previous sentiments that day led him to pause in his walk and watch her.  She went nimbly round and round the beds of anemones, tulips, jonquils, polyanthuses, and other old-fashioned flowers, looking a very charming figure in her half-mourning bonnet, and with an incomplete nosegay in her left hand.  Raising herself to pull down a lilac blossom she observed him.

‘Mr. Barnet!’ she said, innocently smiling.  ‘Why, I have been thinking of you many times since Mrs. Barnet went by in the pony-carriage, and now here you are!’

‘Yes, Lucy,’ he said.

Then she seemed to recall particulars of their last meeting, and he believed that she flushed, though it might have been only the fancy of his own supersensitivenesss.

‘I am going to the harbour,’ he added.

‘Are you?’ Lucy remarked simply.  ‘A great many people begin to go there now the summer is drawing on.’

Her face had come more into his view as she spoke, and he noticed how much thinner and paler it was than when he had seen it last.  ‘Lucy, how weary you look! tell me, can I help you?’ he was going to cry out. — ’If I do,’ he thought, ‘it will be the ruin of us both!’  He merely said that the afternoon was fine, and went on his way.

As he went a sudden blast of air came over the hill as if in contradiction to his words, and spoilt the previous quiet of the scene.  The wind had already shifted violently, and now smelt of the sea.

The harbour-road soon began to justify its name.  A gap appeared in the rampart of hills which shut out the sea, and on the left of the opening rose a vertical cliff, coloured a burning orange by the sunlight, the companion cliff on the right being livid in shade.  Between these cliffs, like the Libyan bay which sheltered the shipwrecked Trojans, was a little haven, seemingly a beginning made by Nature herself of a perfect harbour, which appealed to the passer-by as only requiring a little human industry to finish it and make it famous, the ground on each side as far back as the daisied slopes that bounded the interior valley being a mere layer of blown sand.  But the Port-Bredy burgesses a mile inland had, in the course of ten centuries, responded many times to that mute appeal, with the result that the tides had invariably choked up their works with sand and shingle as soon as completed.  There were but few houses here: a rough pier, a few boats, some stores, an inn, a residence or two, a ketch unloading in the harbour, were the chief features of the settlement.  On the open ground by the shore stood his wife’s pony-carriage, empty, the boy in attendance holding the horse.

When Barnet drew nearer, he saw an indigo-coloured spot moving swiftly along beneath the radiant base of the eastern cliff, which proved to be a man in a jersey, running with all his might.  He held up his hand to Barnet, as it seemed, and they approached each other.  The man was local, but a stranger to him.

‘What is it, my man?’ said Barnet.

‘A terrible calamity!’ the boatman hastily explained.  Two ladies had been capsized in a boat — they were Mrs. Downe and Mrs. Barnet of the old town; they had driven down there that afternoon — they had alighted, and it was so fine, that, after walking about a little while, they had been tempted to go out for a short sail round the cliff.  Just as they were putting in to the shore, the wind shifted with a sudden gust, the boat listed over, and it was thought they were both drowned.  How it could have happened was beyond his mind to fathom, for John Green knew how to sail a boat as well as any man there.

‘Which is the way to the place?’ said Barnet.

It was just round the cliff.

‘Run to the carriage and tell the boy to bring it to the place as soon as you can.  Then go to the Harbour Inn and tell them to ride to town for a doctor.  Have they been got out of the water?’

‘One lady has.’

‘Which?’

‘Mrs. Barnet.  Mrs. Downe, it is feared, has fleeted out to sea.’

Barnet ran on to that part of the shore which the cliff had hitherto obscured from his view, and there discerned, a long way ahead, a group of fishermen standing.  As soon as he came up one or two recognized him, and, not liking to meet his eye, turned aside with misgiving.  He went amidst them and saw a small sailing-boat lying draggled at the water’s edge; and, on the sloping shingle beside it, a soaked and sandy woman’s form in the velvet dress and yellow gloves of his wife.

CHAPTER V

All had been done that could be done.  Mrs. Barnet was in her own house under medical hands, but the result was still uncertain.  Barnet had acted as if devotion to his wife were the dominant passion of his existence.  There had been much to decide — whether to attempt restoration of the apparently lifeless body as it lay on the shore — whether to carry her to the Harbour Inn — whether to drive with her at once to his own house.  The first course, with no skilled help or appliances near at hand, had seemed hopeless.  The second course would have occupied nearly as much time as a drive to the town, owing to the intervening ridges of shingle, and the necessity of crossing the harbour by boat to get to the house, added to which much time must have elapsed before a doctor could have arrived down there.  By bringing her home in the carriage some precious moments had slipped by; but she had been laid in her own bed in seven minutes, a doctor called to her side, and every possible restorative brought to bear upon her.

At what a tearing pace he had driven up that road, through the yellow evening sunlight, the shadows flapping irksomely into his eyes as each wayside object rushed past between him and the west!  Tired workmen with their baskets at their backs had turned on their homeward journey to wonder at his speed.  Halfway between the shore and Port-Bredy town he had met Charlson, who had been the first surgeon to hear of the accident.  He was accompanied by his assistant in a gig.  Barnet had sent on the latter to the coast in case that Downe’s poor wife should by that time have been reclaimed from the waves, and had brought Charlson back with him to the house.