The History of the
Hardcomes
'Yes,' [The Clerk
Began], 'Tony's was the very best wedding-randy that ever I was at; and I've
been at a good many, as you may suppose, having, as a Church officer, the privilege
to attend all christening, wedding, and funeral parties – such being our Wessex
custom.'
' 'Twas on a frosty
night in Christmas week, and among the folk invited were the said Hardcomes o'
Climmerston – Steve and James – first cousins, both of them small farmers, just
entering into business on their own account. With them came as a matter of
course their intended wives, two young women of the neighborhood, both very
pretty and sprightly maidens, and numbers of friends from Abbot's-Cernel and Weatherbury
and Mellstock and I don't know where – a regular houseful.'
'The kitchen was
cleared of furniture for dancing, and the old folk played at "Put"
and "All-fours" in the parlour, though at last they gave that up to
join in the dance. The top of the figure was by the large front window of the
room, and there were so many couples that the lower part of the figure reached
through the door at the back, and into the darkness of the out-house; in fact,
you couldn't see the end of the row at all, and 'twas never known exactly how
long that dance was, the lowest couples being lost among the faggots and
brushwood in the out-house.'
'When we had danced
a few hours, and the crowns of we taller men were swelling into lumps with
bumping the beams of the ceiling, the first fiddler laid down his fiddle-bow,
and said he should play no more, for he wished to dance. And in another hour
the second fiddler laid down his, and said he wanted to dance, too; so there
was only the third fiddler left, and he was a' old, veteran man, very weak in
the wrist. However, he managed to keep up a feeble tweedle-dee; but there being
no chair in the room, and his knees being as weak as his wrists, he was obliged
to sit upon as much of the little corner-table as projected beyond the corner-cupboard
fixed over it, which was not a very wide seat for a man advanced in years.'
'Among those who
danced most continually were the two engaged couples, as was natural to their
situation. Each pair was very well matched, and very unlike the other. James
Hardcome's intended was called Emily Darth, and both she and James were gentle,
nice-minded, in-door people, fond of a quiet life. Steve and his chosen, named
Olive Pawle, were different; they were of a more bustling nature, fond of
racketing about and seeing what was going on in the world. The two couples had
arranged to get married on the same day, and that not long thence; Tony's
wedding being a sort of stimulant, as is often the case; I've noticed it
professionally many times.'
'They danced with
such a will as only young people in that stage of courtship can dance; and it
happened that as the evening wore on James had for his partner Stephen's
plighted one, Olive, at the same time that Stephen was dancing with James's
Emily. It was noticed that in spite o' the exchange the young men seemed to
enjoy the dance no less than before. By-and-by they were treading another tune
in the same changed order as we had noticed earlier, and though at first each
one had held the other's mistress strictly at half-arm's length, lest there
should be shown any objection to too close quarters by the lady's proper man,
as time passed there was a little more closeness between 'em; and presently a
little more closeness still.'
'The later it got
the more did each of the two cousins dance with the wrong young girl, and the
tighter did he hold her to his side as he whirled her round; and, what was very
remarkable, neither seemed to mind what the other was doing. The party began to
draw towards its end, and I saw no more that night, being one of the first to
leave, on account of my morning's business. But I learnt the rest of it from
those that knew.'
'After finishing a
particularly warming dance with the changed partners, as I've mentioned, the
two young men looked at one another, and in a moment or two went out into the
porch together.'
"James,"
says Steve, "what were you thinking of when you were dancing with my
Olive?"
"Well,"
said James, "perhaps what you were thinking of when you were dancing with
my Emily."
"I was thinking,"
said Steve, with some hesitation, "that I wouldn't mind changing for good
and all!"
"It was what I
was feeling likewise," said James.
"I willingly
agree to it, if you think we could manage it."
"So do I. But
what would the girls say?"
" 'Tis my
belief," said Steve, "that they wouldn't particularly object. Your
Emily clung as close to me as if she already belonged to me, dear girl."
"And your
Olive to me, says James. "I could feel her heart beating like a
clock."
'Well, they agreed
to put it to the girls when they were all four walking home together. And they
did so. When they parted that night the exchange was decided on – all having
been done under the hot excitement of that evening's dancing. Thus it happened
that on the following Sunday morning, when the people were sitting in church
with mouths wide open to hear the names published as they had expected, there
was no small amazement to hear them coupled the wrong way, as it seemed. The
congregation whispered, and thought the parson had made a mistake, till they
discovered that his reading of the names was verily the true way. As they had
decided, so they were married, each one to the other's original property.'
'Well, the two
couples lived on for a year or two ordinarily enough, till the time came when
these young people began to grow a little less warm to their respective
spouses, as is the rule of married life; and the two cousins wondered more and
more in their hearts what had made 'em so mad at the last moment to marry
crosswise as they did, when they might have married straight, as was planned by
nature, and as they had fallen in love. 'Twas Tony's party that had done it,
plain enough, and they half wished they had never gone there. James, being a
quiet, fireside, perusing man, felt at times a wide gap between himself and
Olive, his wife, who loved riding and driving and out-door jaunts to a degree;
while Steve, who was always knocking about hither and thither, had a very
domestic wife, who worked samplers, and made hearth-rugs, scarcely ever wished
to cross the threshold, and only drove out with him to please him.'
'However, they said
very little about this mismating to any of their acquaintances, though
sometimes Steve would look at James's wife and sigh, and James would look at
Steve's wife and do the same. Indeed, at last the two men were frank enough
towards each other not to mind mentioning it quietly to themselves, in a
long-faced, sorry-smiling, whimsical sort of way, and would shake their heads
together over their foolishness in upsetting a well-considered choice on the
strength of an hour's fancy in the whirl and wildness of a dance. Still, they
were sensible and honest young fellows enough, and did their best to make shift
with their lot as they had arranged it, and not to repine at what could not now
be altered or mended.'
'So things remained
till one fine summer day they went for their yearly little outing together, as
they had made it their custom to do for a long while past. This year they chose
Budmouth-Regis as the place to spend their holiday in; and off they went in
their best clothes at nine o'clock in the morning.'
'When they had
reached Budmouth-Regis they walked two and two along the shore – their new
boots going squeakity-squash upon the clammy velvet sands. I can seem to see
'em now! Then they looked at the ships in the harbor; and then went up to the
Lookout; and then had dinner at an inn; and then again walked two and two,
squeakity-squash, upon the velvet sands. As evening drew on they sat on one of
the public seats upon the Esplanade, and listened to the band; and then they
said "What shall we do next?"'
"Of all
things," said Olive (Mrs. James Hardcome, that is), "I should like to
row in the bay! We could listen to the music from the water as well as from
here, and have the fun of rowing besides."
"The very
thing; so should I," says Stephen, his tastes being always like hers.
Here the clerk
turned to the curate.
'But you, sir, know
the rest of the strange particulars of that strange evening of their lives
better than anybody else, having had much of it from their own lips, which I
had not; and perhaps you'll oblige the gentleman?' 'Certainly, if it is wished,' said the curate. And he
took up the clerk's tale:
'Stephen's wife
hated the sea, except from land, and couldn't bear the thought of going into a
boat. James, too, disliked the water, and said that for his part he would much
sooner stay on and listen to the band in the seat they occupied, though he did
not wish to stand in his wife's way if she desired a row. The end of the
discussion was that James and his cousin's wife Emily agreed to remain where
they were sitting and enjoy the music, while they watched the other two hire a
boat just beneath, and take their water excursion of half an hour or so, till they
should choose to come back and join the sitters on the Esplanade, when they
would all start homeward together.'
'Nothing could have
pleased the other two restless ones better than this arrangement; and Emily and
James watched them go down to the boatman below and choose one of the little
yellow skiffs, and walk carefully out upon the little plank that was laid on
trestles to enable them to get alongside the craft. They saw Stephen hand Olive
in, and take his seat facing her; when they were settled they waved their hands
to the couple watching them, and then Stephen took the pair of sculls and
pulled off to the tune beat by the band, she steering through the other boats
skimming about, for the sea was as smooth as glass that evening, and
pleasure-seekers were rowing everywhere.'
"How pretty
they look moving on, don't they?" said Emily to James (as I've been
assured). "They both enjoy it equally. In everything their likings are the
same."
"That's
true," said James.
"They would have
made a handsome pair if they had married," said she.
"Yes,"
said he. " 'Tis a pity we should have parted 'em."
"Don't talk of
that, James," said she. "For better or for worse we decided to do as
we did, and there's an end of it."
'They sat on after
that without speaking, side by side, and the band played as before; the people
strolled up and down, and Stephen and Olive shrank smaller and smaller as they
shot straight out to sea. The two on shore used to relate how they saw Stephen
stop rowing a moment, and take off his coat to get at his work better; but
James's wife sat quite still in the stern, holding the tiller-ropes by which
she steered the boat. When they had got very small indeed she turned her head
to shore.'
"She is waving
her handkerchief to us," said Stephen's wife, who thereupon pulled out her
own, and waved it as a return signal.
'The boat's course
had been a little awry while Mrs. James neglected her steering to wave her
handkerchief to her husband and Mrs. Stephen; but now the light skiff went
straight onward again, and they could soon see nothing more of the two figures
it contained than Olive's light mantle and Stephen's white shirt-sleeves
behind.'
The two on the
shore talked on. "'Twas very curious our changing partners at Tony Kytes's
wedding," Emily declared. "Tony was of a fickle nature by all
account, and it really seemed as if his character had infected us that night.
Which of you two was it that first proposed not to marry as we were
engaged?"
"H'm – I can't
remember at this moment," says James. "We talked it over, you know,
and no sooner said than done."
" 'Twas the
dancing," said she. "People get quite crazy sometimes in a
dance."
"They
do," he owned.
"James – do
you think they care for one another still?" asks Mrs. Stephen.
James Hardcome
mused and admitted that perhaps a little tender feeling might flicker up in
their hearts for a moment now and then. "Still, nothing of any
account," he said.
"I sometimes
think that Olive is in Steve's mind a good deal," murmurs Mrs. Stephen;
"particularly when she pleases his fancy by riding past our window at a
gallop on one of the draught-horses. . . . I never could do anything of that
sort, I could never get over my fear of a horse."
"And I am no
horseman, though I pretend to be on her account," murmured James Hardcome.
"But isn't it almost time for them to turn and sweep round to the shore,
as the other boating folk have done? I wonder what Olive means by steering away
straight to the horizon like that? She has hardly swerved from a direct line
seaward since they started."
"No doubt they
are talking, and don't think of where they are going," suggests Stephen's
wife.
"Perhaps
so," said James. "I didn't know Steve could row like that."
"O yes,"
says she. "He often comes here on business, and generally has a pull round
the bay."
"I can hardly
see the boat or them," says James again; "and it is getting
dark."
'The heedless pair
afloat now formed a mere speck in the films of the coming night, which
thickened apace, till it completely swallowed up their distant shapes. They had
disappeared while still following the same straight course away from the world
of land-livers, as if they were intending to drop over the sea-edge into space,
and never return to earth again.'
'The two on the
shore continued to sit on, punctually abiding by their agreement to remain on
the same spot till the others returned. The Esplanade lamps were lit one by
one, the bandsmen folded up their stands and departed, the yachts in the bay
hung out their riding lights, and the little boats came back to shore one after
another, their hirers walking on to the sands by the plank they had climbed to
go afloat; but among these Stephen and Olive did not appear.'
"What a time
they are!" said Emily. "I am getting quite chilly. I did not expect
to have to sit so long in the evening air."
'Thereupon James
Hardcome said that he did not require his overcoat, and insisted on lending it
to her.'
'He wrapped it
round Emily's shoulders.'
"Thank you,
James," she said. "How cold Olive must be in that thin jacket!"
He said he was
thinking so too. "Well, they are sure to be quite close at hand by this
time, though we can't see 'em. The boats are not all in yet. Some of the rowers
are fond of paddling along the shore to finish out their hour of hiring."
"Shall we walk
by the edge of the water," said she, "to see if we can discover
them?"
'He assented,
reminding her that they must not lose sight of the seat, lest the belated pair
should return and miss them, and be vexed that they had not kept the
appointment.'
'They walked a
sentry beat up and down the sands immediately opposite the seat; and still the
others did not come. James Hardcome at last went to the boatman, thinking that after
all his wife and cousin might have come in under shadow of the dusk without
being perceived, and might have forgotten the appointment at the bench.'
"All in?"
asked James.
"All but one
boat," said the lessor. "I can't think where that couple is keeping
to. They might run foul of something or other in the dark."
'Again Stephen's
wife and Olive's husband waited, with more and more anxiety. But no little
yellow boat returned. Was it possible they could have landed further down the
Esplanade?'
"It may have
been done to escape paying," said the boat-owner. "But they didn't
look like people who would that."
'James Hardcome
knew that he could found no hope on such a reason as that. But now, remembering
what had been casually discussed between Steve and himself about their wives
from time to time, he admitted for the first time the possibility that their
old tenderness had been revived by their face-to-face position more strongly
than either had anticipated at starting – the excursion having been so obviously
undertaken for the pleasure of performance only – and that they had landed at
some steps he knew of further down toward the pier, to be longer alone
together.'
'Still he disliked
to harbour the thought, and would not mention its existence to his companion.
He merely said to her, "Let us walk further on."'
'They did so, and
lingered between the boat-stage and pier till Stephen Hardcome's wife was
uneasy, and was obliged to accept James's offered arm. Thus the night advanced.
Emily was presently so worn out by fatigue that James felt it necessary to
conduct her home; there was, too, a remote chance that the truants had landed
in the harbour on the other side of the town, or elsewhere, and hastened home
in some unexpected way, the belief that their consorts would not have waited so
long.'
'However, he left a
direction in the town that a lookout should be kept, though this was arranged
privately, the bare possibility of an elopement being enough to make him
reticent; and, full of misgivings, the two remaining ones hastened to catch the
last train out of Budmouth-Regis; and when they got to Casterbridge drove back
to Upper Longpuddle.'
'Along this very
road as we do now,' remarked the parish clerk.
'To be sure – along
this very road,' said the curate. 'However, Stephen and Olive were not at their
homes; neither had entered the village since leaving it in the morning. Emily
and James Hardcome went to their respective dwellings to snatch a hasty night's
rest, and at daylight the next morning they drove again to Casterbridge and
entered the Budmouth train, the line being just opened.'
'Nothing had been
heard of the couple there during this brief absence. In the course of a few
hours some young men testified to having seen such a man and woman rowing in a
frail hired craft, the head of the boat kept straight to sea; they had sat
looking in each other's faces as if they were in a dream, with no consciousness
of what they were doing, or whither they were steering. It was not till late
that day that more tidings reached James's ears. The boat had been found
drifting bottom upward a long way from land. In the evening the sea rose
somewhat, and a cry spread through the town that two bodies were cast ashore in
Lullwind Bay, several miles to the eastward. They were brought to Budmouth, and
inspection revealed them to be the missing pair. It was said that they had been
found tightly locked in other's arms, his lips upon hers, their features still
wrapt in the same calm and dream-like repose which had been observed in their
demeanour as they had glided along.'
'Neither James nor
Emily questioned the original motives of the unfortunate man and woman in
putting to sea. They were both above suspicion as to intention. Whatever their
mutual feelings might have led them on to, underhand behavior at starting was
foreign to the nature of either. Conjecture pictured that they might have
fallen into tender reverie while gazing each into a pair of eyes that had
formerly flashed for him and her alone, and, unwilling to avow what their
mutual sentiments were, they had done no more than continue thus, oblivious of
time and space, till darkness suddenly overtook them far from land. But nothing
was truly known. It had been their destiny to die thus. The two halves,
intended by Nature to make the perfect whole, had failed in that result during
their lives, though "in their death they were not divided." Their
bodies were brought home, and buried on one day. I remember that, on looking
round the churchyard while reading the service, I observed nearly all the
parish at their funeral.'
'It was so, sir,'
said the clerk.
'The remaining
two,' continued the curate (whose voice had grown husky while relating the
lovers' sad fate), 'were a more thoughtful and far-seeing, though less
romantic, couple than the first. They were now mutually bereft of a companion,
and found themselves by this accident in a position to fulfil their destiny
according to Nature's plan and their own original and calmly-formed intention.
James Hardcome took Emily to wife in the course of a year and a half; and the
marriage proved in every respect a happy one. I solemnized the service,
Hardcome having told me, when he came to give notice of the proposed wedding,
the story of his first wife's loss almost word for word as I have told it to
you.'
'And are they
living in Longpuddle still?' asked the new-comer.
'O no, sir,'
interposed the clerk. 'James has been dead these dozen years, and his mis'ess
about six or seven. They had no children. William Privett used to be their odd
man till he died'
'Ah – William
Privett! He dead too? – dear me!' said the other. 'All passed away!'
'Yes, sir. William
was much older than I. He'd ha' been over eighty if he had lived till now.'
'There was
something very strange about William's death – very strange indeed!' sighed a
melancholy man in the back of the van. It was the seedsman's father, who had
hitherto kept silence.
'And what might
have been?' asked Mr. Lackland.
Go on to next story "The Superstitious Man's Story"