Complete Works of Thomas Hardy (Illustrated) (841 page)

The boy again promised, inattentively this time, his mother not observing that he was cutting a notch with his pocket-knife in the beech-backed chair.

II

THE YOUNG WIFE

The road from Anglebury to Holmstoke is in general level; but there is one place where a sharp ascent breaks its monotony. Farmers homeward-bound from the former market-town, who trot all the rest of the way, walk their horses up this short incline.

The next evening, while the sun was yet bright, a handsome new gig, with a lemon-coloured body and red wheels, was spinning westward along the level highway at the heels of a powerful mare. The driver was a yeoman in the prime of life, cleanly shaven like an actor, his face being toned to that bluish-vermilion hue which so often graces a thriving farmer’s features when returning home after successful dealings in the town. Beside him sat a woman, many years his junior — almost, indeed, a girl. Her face, too, was fresh in colour, but it was of a totally different quality — soft and evanescent, like

the light under a heap of rose-petals.

Few people traveled this way, for it was not a turnpike-road; and the long white ribbon of gravel that stretched before them was empty, save of one small scarce-moving speck, which presently resolved itself into the figure of a boy, who was creeping on at a snail’s pace, and continually looking behind him — the heavy bundle he carried being some excuse for, if not the reason of, his dilatoriness. When the bouncing gig-party slowed at the bottom of the incline before mentioned, the pedestrian was only a few yards in front.

Supporting the large bundle by putting one hand on his hip, he turned and looked straight at the farmer’s wife as though he would read her through and through, pacing along abreast of the horse.

The low sun was full in her face, rendering every feature, shade, and — contour distinct, from the curve of her little nostril to the colour of her eyes. The farmer, though he seemed annoyed at the boy’s persistent presence, did not order him to get out of the way; and thus the lad preceded them, his hard gaze never leaving her, till they reached the top of the ascent, when the farmer trotted on with relief in his lineament — having taken no outward notice of the boy whatever.

“How that poor lad stared at me!” said the young wife.

“Yes, dear, I saw that he did.”

“He is one of the village, I suppose?”

“One of the neighbourhood. I think he lives with his mother a mile or two off.”

“He knows who we are, no doubt?”

“Oh yes. You must expect to be stared at just at first, my Pretty Gertrude.”

“I do — though I think the poor boy may have looked at us in the hope that we might relieve him of his heavy load, rather than from curiosity.”

“Oh no,” said her husband, off-handedly. “These country lads will carry a hundred-weight once they get it on their backs; besides, his pack had more size than weight in it. Now, then, another mile and I shall be able to show you our house in the distance — if it is not too dark before we get there.” The wheels spun round, and particles flew from their periphery as before, till a white house of ample dimensions revealed itself, with farm-buildings and ricks at the back.

Meanwhile the boy had quickened his pace, and turning up a by-lane some mile and a half short of the white farmstead, ascended toward the leaner pastures, and so on to the cottage of his mother.

She had reached home after her day’s milking at the outlying dairy, and was washing cabbage at the doorway in the declining light. “Hold up the net a moment” she said, without preface, as the boy came up.

He flung down his bundle, held the edge of the cabbage-net, and as she filled its meshes with the dripping leaves she went on: “Well, did you see her?”

“Yes; quite plain.”

“Is she lady-like?”

“Yes; and more. A lady complete.”

“Is she young?”

“Well, she’s growed up, and her ways are quite a woman’s.”

“Of course. What colour is her hair and face?”

“Her hair is lightish, and her face as comely as a live doll’s.”

“Her eyes, then, are not dark like mine?”

“No — of a bluish turn; and her mouth is very nice and red, and when she smiles her teeth show white.”

“Is she tall?” said the woman, sharply.

“I couldn’t see. She was sitting down.”

“Then do you go to Holmstoke Church tomorrow morning — he’s sure to be there. Go early and notice her walking in, and come home and tell me if she’s taller than I.”

“Very well, mother. But why don’t you go and see for yourself?”

“I go to see her! I wouldn’t look up at her if she were to pass my window this instant. She was with Mr. Lodge, of course? What did he say or do?”

“Just the same as usual.”

“Took no notice of you?”

“None.”

Next day the mother put a clean shirt on the boy and started him off for Holmstoke Church. He reached the ancient little pile, when the door was just being opened, and he was the first to enter.

Taking his seat by the front, he watched all the parishioners file in. The well-to-do Farmer Lodge came nearly last; and his young wife, who accompanied him, walked up the aisle with the shyness natural to a modest woman who had appeared thus for the first time. As all other eyes were fixed upon her, the youth’s stare was not noticed now.

When he reached home his mother said “Well?” before he had entered the room.

“She is not tall. She is rather short,” he replied.

“Ah!” said his mother, with satisfaction.

“But she’s very pretty — very. In fact, she’s lovely.” The youthful freshness of the yeoman’s wife had evidently made an impression even on the somewhat hard nature of the boy.

“That’s all I want to hear,” said his mother, quickly. “Now spread the tablecloth. The hare you caught is very tender; but mind that nobody catches you. You’ve never told me what sort of hands she had.”

“I have never seen ‘em. She never took off her gloves.”

“What did she wear this morning?”

“A white bonnet and a silver-coloured gown. It whewed and whistled so loud when it rubbed against the pews that the lady coloured up more than ever for very shame at the noise, and pulled it in to keep it from touching; but when she pushed into her seat it whewed more than ever. Mr. Lodge, he seemed pleased, and his waistcoat stuck out, and his great golden seals hung like a lord’s; but she seemed to wish her noisy gownd anywhere but on her.”

“Not she! However, that will do now.”

These descriptions of the newly-married couple were continued from time to time by the boy at his mother’s request, after any chance encounter he had had with them. But Rhoda Brook, though she might easily have seen young Mrs. Lodge for herself by walking a couple of miles, would never attempt an excursion toward the quarter where the farmhouse lay. Neither did she, at the daily milking in the dairyman’s yard on Lodge’s outlying second farm ever speak on the subject of the recent marriage. The dairyman, who rented the cows of Lodge, and knew perfectly the tall milkmaid’s history, with manly kindliness always kept the gossip in the cow-barton from annoying Rhoda. But the atmosphere thereabout was full of the subject during the first days of Mrs. Lodge’s arrival; and from her boy’s description and the casual words of the other milkers Rhoda Brook could raise a mental image of the unconscious Mrs. Lodge that was realistic as a photograph.

III

A VISION

One night, two or three weeks after the bridal return, when the boy was gone to bed, Rhoda sat a long time over the turf-ashes that she had raked out in front of her to extinguish them. She contemplated so intently the new wife, as presented to her in her mind’s eye over the embers, that she forgot the lapse of time. At last, wearied with her day’s work, she, too, retired.

But the figure which had occupied her so much during this and the previous days was not to be banished at night. For the first time Gertrude Lodge visited the supplanted woman in her dreams. Rhoda Brook dreamed — since her assertion that she really saw, before falling asleep, was not to be believed — that the young wife, in the pale silk dress and white bonnet, but with features shockingly distorted, and wrinkled as by age, was sitting upon her chest as she lay. The pressure of Mrs. Lodge’s person grew heavier; the blue eyes peered cruelly into her face; and then the figure thrust forward its left hand mockingly, so as to make the wedding-ring it wore glitter in Rhoda’s eyes. Maddened mentally, and nearly suffocated by pressure, the sleeper struggled; the incubus, still regarding her, withdrew to the foot of the bed, only, however, to come forward by degrees, resume her seat, and flash her left hand as before.

Gasping for breath, Rhoda, in a last desperate effort, swung out her right hand, seized the confronting specter by its obtrusive left arm, and whirled it backward to the floor, starting up herself, as she did so, with a low cry.

“Oh, merciful Heaven!” she cried, sitting on the edge of the bed in a cold sweat, “that was not a dream — she was here!”

She could feel her antagonist’s arm within her grasp even now — the very flesh and bone of it, as it seemed. She looked on the floor whither she had whirled the specter, but there was nothing to be seen.

Rhoda Brook slept no more that night, and when she went milking at the next dawn they noticed how pale and haggard she looked. The milk that she drew quivered into the pail; her hand had not calmed even yet, and still retained the feel of the arm. She came home to breakfast as wearily as if it had been supper-time.

“What was that noise in your chimmer, mother, last night?” said her son. “You fell off the bed, surely?”

“Did you hear anything fall? At what time?”

“Just when the clock struck two.”

She could not explain, and when the meal was done went silently about her household work, the boy assisting her, for he hated going afield on the farms, and she indulged his reluctance. Between eleven and twelve the garden gate clicked, and she lifted her eyes to the window. At the bottom of the garden, within the gate, stood the woman of her vision, Rhoda seemed transfixed.

“Ah, she said she would come!” exclaimed the boy, also observing her.

“Said so — when? How does she know us?”

“I have seen and spoken to her. I talked to her yesterday.”

“I told you,” said the mother, flushing indignantly, “never to speak to anybody in that house, or go near the place.”

“I did not speak to her till she spoke to me. And I did not go near the place. I met her in the road.”

“What did you tell her?”

“Nothing. She said: ‘Are you the poor boy who had to bring the heavy load from market? And she looked at my boots, and said they would not keep my feet dry if it came on wet, because they were so cracked. I told her I lived with my mother, and we had enough to do to keep ourselves, and that’s how it was; and she said then: ‘I’ll come and bring you some better boots, and see your mother.’ She gives away things to other folks in the meads besides us.”

Mrs. Lodge was by this time close to the door not in her silk, as Rhoda had seen her in the bedchamber, but in a morning hat, and gown of common light material, which became her better than silk. On her arm she carried a basket.

The impression remaining from the night’s experience was still strong. Rhoda Brook had almost expected to see the wrinkles, the scorn, and the cruelty on her visitor’s face. She would have escaped an interview had escape been possible. There was, however, no back door to the cottage, and in an instant the boy had lifted the latch to Mrs. Lodge’s gentle knock.

“I see I have come to the right house.” said she, glancing at the lad, and smiling. “But I was not sure till you opened the door.”

The figure and action were those of the phantom; but her voice was so indescribably sweet, her glance so winning, her smile so tender, so unlike that of Rhoda’s midnight visitant, that the latter could hardly believe the evidence of her senses.

She was truly glad that she had not hidden away in sheer aversion, as she had been inclined to do. In her basket Mrs. Lodge brought the pair of boots that she had promised to the boy, and other useful articles.

At these proofs of a kindly feeling toward her and hers, Rhoda’s heart reproached her bitterly. This innocent young thing should have her blessing and not her curse.

When she left them, a light seemed gone from the dwelling. Two days later she came again to know if the boots fitted; and less than a fortnight after that paid Rhoda another call. On this occasion the boy was absent.

“I walk a good deal,” said Mrs. Lodge, “and your house is the nearest outside our own parish. I hope you are well. You don’t look quite well.”

Rhoda said she was well enough; and indeed, though the paler of the two, there was more of the strength that endures in her well-defined features and large frame than in the soft-cheeked young woman before her. The conversation became quite confidential as regarded their powers and weaknesses; and when Mrs. Lodge was leaving, Rhoda said: “I hope you will find this air agree with you, ma’am, and not suffer from the damp of the water-meads.”

The younger one replied that there was not much doubt of it, her general health being usually good. “Though, now you remind me,” she added, “I have one little ailment which puzzles me. It is nothing serious, but I cannot make it out.”

She uncovered her left hand and arm; and their outline confronted Rhoda’s gaze as the exact original of the limb she had beheld and seized in her dream. Upon the pink round surface of the arm were faint marks of an unhealthy colour, as if produced by a rough grasp. Rhoda’s eyes became riveted on the discolourations; she fancied that she discerned in them the shape of her own four fingers.

“How did it happen?” she said, mechanically.

“I cannot tell,” replied Mrs. Lodge, shaking her head. “One night when l was sound asleep, dreaming I was away in some strange place, a pain suddenly shot into my arm there, and was so keen as to awaken me. I must have struck it in the daytime, I suppose, though I don’t remember doing so.” She added, laughing: “I tell my dear husband that it looks just as if he had flown into a rage and struck me there. Oh, I dare say it will soon disappear.”