Complete Works of Thomas Hardy (Illustrated), page 327
‘O no, — please not, Swithin!’ she exclaimed piteously.
‘Very well,’ he answered. ‘On no consideration will I do so without your consent.’ And no more was said on the matter.
The morning was passed in applying wet rag and other remedies to the purple line on Viviette’s cheek; and in the afternoon they set up the equatorial under the replaced dome, to have it in order for night observations.
The evening was clear, dry, and remarkably cold by comparison with the daytime weather. After a frugal supper they replenished the stove with charcoal from the homestead, which they also burnt during the day, — an idea of Viviette’s, that the smoke from a wood fire might not be seen more frequently than was consistent with the occasional occupation of the cabin by Swithin, as heretofore.
At eight o’clock she insisted upon his ascending the tower for observations, in strict pursuance of the idea on which their marriage had been based, namely, that of restoring regularity to his studies.
The sky had a new and startling beauty that night. A broad, fluctuating, semicircular arch of vivid white light spanned the northern quarter of the heavens, reaching from the horizon to the star Eta in the Greater Bear. It was the Aurora Borealis, just risen up for the winter season out of the freezing seas of the north, where every autumn vapour was now undergoing rapid congelation.
‘O, let us sit and look at it!’ she said; and they turned their backs upon the equatorial and the southern glories of the heavens to this new beauty in a quarter which they seldom contemplated.
The lustre of the fixed stars was diminished to a sort of blueness. Little by little the arch grew higher against the dark void, like the form of the Spirit-maiden in the shades of Glenfinlas, till its crown drew near the zenith, and threw a tissue over the whole waggon and horses of the great northern constellation. Brilliant shafts radiated from the convexity of the arch, coming and going silently. The temperature fell, and Lady Constantine drew her wrap more closely around her.
‘We’ll go down,’ said Swithin. ‘The cabin is beautifully warm. Why should we try to observe to-night? Indeed, we cannot; the Aurora light overpowers everything.’
‘Very well. To-morrow night there will be no interruption. I shall be gone.’
‘You leave me to-morrow, Viviette?’
‘Yes; to-morrow morning.’
The truth was that, with the progress of the hours and days, the conviction had been borne in upon Viviette more and more forcibly that not for kingdoms and principalities could she afford to risk the discovery of her presence here by any living soul.
‘But let me see your face, dearest,’ he said. ‘I don’t think it will be safe for you to meet your brother yet.’
As it was too dark to see her face on the summit where they sat they descended the winding staircase, and in the cabin Swithin examined the damaged cheek. The line, though so far attenuated as not to be observable by any one but a close observer, had not quite disappeared. But in consequence of her reiterated and almost tearful anxiety to go, and as there was a strong probability that her brother had left the house, Swithin decided to call at Welland next morning, and reconnoitre with a view to her return.
Locking her in he crossed the dewy stubble into the park. The house was silent and deserted; and only one tall stalk of smoke ascended from the chimneys. Notwithstanding that the hour was nearly nine he knocked at the door.
‘Is Lady Constantine at home?’ asked Swithin, with a disingenuousness now habitual, yet unknown to him six months before.
‘No, Mr. St. Cleeve; my lady has not returned from Bath. We expect her every day.’
‘Nobody staying in the house?’
‘My lady’s brother has been here; but he is gone on to Budmouth. He will come again in two or three weeks, I understand.’
This was enough. Swithin said he would call again, and returned to the cabin, where, waking Viviette, who was not by nature an early riser, he waited on the column till she was ready to breakfast. When this had been shared they prepared to start.
A long walk was before them. Warborne station lay five miles distant, and the next station above that nine miles. They were bound for the latter; their plan being that she should there take the train to the junction where the whip accident had occurred, claim her luggage, and return with it to Warborne, as if from Bath.
The morning was cool and the walk not wearisome. When once they had left behind the stubble-field of their environment and the parish of Welland, they sauntered on comfortably, Lady Constantine’s spirits rising as she withdrew further from danger.
They parted by a little brook, about half a mile from the station; Swithin to return to Welland by the way he had come.
Lady Constantine telegraphed from the junction to Warborne for a carriage to be in readiness to meet her on her arrival; and then, waiting for the down train, she travelled smoothly home, reaching Welland House about five minutes sooner than Swithin reached the column hard by, after footing it all the way from where they had parted.
CHAPTER XXI
From that day forward their life resumed its old channel in general outward aspect.
Perhaps the most remarkable feature in their exploit was its comparative effectiveness as an expedient for the end designed, — that of restoring calm assiduity to the study of astronomy. Swithin took up his old position as the lonely philosopher at the column, and Lady Constantine lapsed back to immured existence at the house, with apparently not a friend in the parish. The enforced narrowness of life which her limited resources necessitated was now an additional safeguard against the discovery of her relations with St. Cleeve. Her neighbours seldom troubled her; as much, it must be owned, from a tacit understanding that she was not in a position to return invitations as from any selfish coldness engendered by her want of wealth.
At the first meeting of the secretly united pair after their short honeymoon they were compelled to behave as strangers to each other. It occurred in the only part of Welland which deserved the name of a village street, and all the labourers were returning to their midday meal, with those of their wives who assisted at outdoor work. Before the eyes of this innocent though quite untrustworthy group, Swithin and his Viviette could only shake hands in passing, though she contrived to say to him in an undertone, ‘My brother does not return yet for some time. He has gone to Paris. I will be on the lawn this evening, if you can come.’ It was a fluttered smile that she bestowed on him, and there was no doubt that every fibre of her heart vibrated afresh at meeting, with such reserve, one who stood in his close relation to her.
The shades of night fell early now, and Swithin was at the spot of appointment about the time that he knew her dinner would be over. It was just where they had met at the beginning of the year, but many changes had resulted since then. The flower-beds that had used to be so neatly edged were now jagged and leafy; black stars appeared on the pale surface of the gravel walks, denoting tufts of grass that grew unmolested there. Lady Constantine’s external affairs wore just that aspect which suggests that new blood may be advantageously introduced into the line; and new blood had been introduced, in good sooth, — with what social result remained to be seen.
She silently entered on the scene from the same window which had given her passage in months gone by. They met with a concerted embrace, and St. Cleeve spoke his greeting in whispers.
‘We are quite safe, dearest,’ said she.
‘But the servants?’
‘My meagre staff consists of only two women and the boy; and they are away in the other wing. I thought you would like to see the inside of my house, after showing me the inside of yours. So we will walk through it instead of staying out here.’
She let him in through the casement, and they strolled forward softly, Swithin with some curiosity, never before having gone beyond the library and adjoining room. The whole western side of the house was at this time shut up, her life being confined to two or three small rooms in the south-east corner. The great apartments through which they now whisperingly walked wore already that funereal aspect that comes from disuse and inattention. Triangular cobwebs already formed little hammocks for the dust in corners of the wainscot, and a close smell of wood and leather, seasoned with mouse-droppings, pervaded the atmosphere. So seldom was the solitude of these chambers intruded on by human feet that more than once a mouse stood and looked the twain in the face from the arm of a sofa, or the top of a cabinet, without any great fear.
Swithin had no residential ambition whatever, but he was interested in the place. ‘Will the house ever be thrown open to gaiety, as it was in old times?’ said he.
‘Not unless you make a fortune,’ she replied laughingly. ‘It is mine for my life, as you know; but the estate is so terribly saddled with annuities to Sir Blount’s distant relatives, one of whom will succeed me here, that I have practically no more than my own little private income to exist on.’
‘And are you bound to occupy the house?’
‘Not bound to. But I must not let it on lease.’
‘And was there any stipulation in the event of your re-marriage?’
‘It was not mentioned.’
‘It is satisfactory to find that you lose nothing by marrying me, at all events, dear Viviette.’
‘I hope you lose nothing either — at least, of consequence.’
‘What have I to lose?’
‘I meant your liberty. Suppose you become a popular physicist (popularity seems cooling towards art and coquetting with science now-a-days), and a better chance offers, and one who would make you a newer and brighter wife than I am comes in your way. Will you never regret this? Will you never despise me?’
Swithin answered by a kiss, and they again went on; proceeding like a couple of burglars, lest they should draw the attention of the cook or Green.
In one of the upper rooms his eyes were attracted by an old chamber organ, which had once been lent for use in the church. He mentioned his recollection of the same, which led her to say, ‘That reminds me of something. There is to be a confirmation in our parish in the spring, and you once told me that you had never been confirmed. What shocking neglect! Why was it?’
‘I hardly know. The confusion resulting from my father’s death caused it to be forgotten, I suppose.’
‘Now, dear Swithin, you will do this to please me, — be confirmed on the present occasion?’
‘Since I have done without the virtue of it so long, might I not do without it altogether?’
‘No, no!’ she said earnestly. ‘I do wish it, indeed. I am made unhappy when I think you don’t care about such serious matters. Without the Church to cling to, what have we?’
‘Each other. But seriously, I should be inverting the established order of spiritual things; people ought to be confirmed before they are married.’
‘That’s really of minor consequence. Now, don’t think slightingly of what so many good men have laid down as necessary to be done. And, dear Swithin, I somehow feel that a certain levity which has perhaps shown itself in our treatment of the sacrament of marriage — by making a clandestine adventure of what is, after all, a solemn rite — would be well atoned for by a due seriousness in other points of religious observance. This opportunity should therefore not be passed over. I thought of it all last night; and you are a parson’s son, remember, and he would have insisted on it if he had been alive. In short, Swithin, do be a good boy, and observe the Church’s ordinances.’
Lady Constantine, by virtue of her temperament, was necessarily either lover or dévote, and she vibrated so gracefully between these two conditions that nobody who had known the circumstances could have condemned her inconsistencies. To be led into difficulties by those mastering emotions of hers, to aim at escape by turning round and seizing the apparatus of religion — which could only rightly be worked by the very emotions already bestowed elsewhere — it was, after all, but Nature’s well-meaning attempt to preserve the honour of her daughter’s conscience in the trying quandary to which the conditions of sex had given rise. As Viviette could not be confirmed herself, and as Communion Sunday was a long way off, she urged Swithin thus.
‘And the new bishop is such a good man,’ she continued. ‘I used to have a slight acquaintance with him when he was a parish priest.’
‘Very well, dearest. To please you I’ll be confirmed. My grandmother, too, will be delighted, no doubt.’
They continued their ramble: Lady Constantine first advancing into rooms with the candle, to assure herself that all was empty, and then calling him forward in a whisper. The stillness was broken only by these whispers, or by the occasional crack of a floor-board beneath their tread. At last they sat down, and, shading the candle with a screen, she showed him the faded contents of this and that drawer or cabinet, or the wardrobe of some member of the family who had died young early in the century, when muslin reigned supreme, when waists were close to arm-pits, and muffs as large as smugglers’ tubs. These researches among habilimental hulls and husks, whose human kernels had long ago perished, went on for about half an hour; when the companions were startled by a loud ringing at the front-door bell.
CHAPTER XXII
Lady Constantine flung down the old-fashioned lacework, whose beauties she had been pointing out to Swithin, and exclaimed, ‘Who can it be? Not Louis, surely?’
They listened. An arrival was such a phenomenon at this unfrequented mansion, and particularly a late arrival, that no servant was on the alert to respond to the call; and the visitor rang again, more loudly than before. Sounds of the tardy opening and shutting of a passage-door from the kitchen quarter then reached their ears, and Viviette went into the corridor to hearken more attentively. In a few minutes she returned to the wardrobe-room in which she had left Swithin.
‘Yes; it is my brother!’ she said with difficult composure. ‘I just caught his voice. He has no doubt come back from Paris to stay. This is a rather vexatious, indolent way he has, never to write to prepare me!’
‘I can easily go away,’ said Swithin.
By this time, however, her brother had been shown into the house, and the footsteps of the page were audible, coming in search of Lady Constantine.
‘If you will wait there a moment,’ she said, directing St. Cleeve into a bedchamber which adjoined; ‘you will be quite safe from interruption, and I will quickly come back.’ Taking the light she left him.
Swithin waited in darkness. Not more than ten minutes had passed when a whisper in her voice came through the keyhole. He opened the door.
‘Yes; he is come to stay!’ she said. ‘He is at supper now.’
‘Very well; don’t be flurried, dearest. Shall I stay too, as we planned?’
‘O, Swithin, I fear not!’ she replied anxiously. ‘You see how it is. To-night we have broken the arrangement that you should never come here; and this is the result. Will it offend you if — I ask you to leave?’
‘Not in the least. Upon the whole, I prefer the comfort of my little cabin and homestead to the gauntness and alarms of this place.’
‘There, now, I fear you are offended!’ she said, a tear collecting in her eye. ‘I wish I was going back with you to the cabin! How happy we were, those three days of our stay there! But it is better, perhaps, just now, that you should leave me. Yes, these rooms are oppressive. They require a large household to make them cheerful. . . . Yet, Swithin,’ she added, after reflection, ‘I will not request you to go. Do as you think best. I will light a night-light, and leave you here to consider. For myself, I must go downstairs to my brother at once, or he’ll wonder what I am doing.’
She kindled the little light, and again retreated, closing the door upon him.
Swithin stood and waited some time; till he considered that upon the whole it would be preferable to leave. With this intention he emerged and went softly along the dark passage towards the extreme end, where there was a little crooked staircase that would conduct him down to a disused side door. Descending this stair he duly arrived at the other side of the house, facing the quarter whence the wind blew, and here he was surprised to catch the noise of rain beating against the windows. It was a state of weather which fully accounted for the visitor’s impatient ringing.
St. Cleeve was in a minor kind of dilemma. The rain reminded him that his hat and great-coat had been left downstairs, in the front part of the house; and though he might have gone home without either in ordinary weather it was not a pleasant feat in the pelting winter rain. Retracing his steps to Viviette’s room he took the light, and opened a closet-door that he had seen ajar on his way down. Within the closet hung various articles of apparel, upholstery lumber of all kinds filling the back part. Swithin thought he might find here a cloak of hers to throw round him, but finally took down from a peg a more suitable garment, the only one of the sort that was there. It was an old moth-eaten great-coat, heavily trimmed with fur; and in removing it a companion cap of sealskin was disclosed.
‘Whose can they be?’ he thought, and a gloomy answer suggested itself. ‘Pooh,’ he then said (summoning the scientific side of his nature), ‘matter is matter, and mental association only a delusion.’ Putting on the garments he returned the light to Lady Constantine’s bedroom, and again prepared to depart as before.
Scarcely, however, had he regained the corridor a second time, when he heard a light footstep — seemingly Viviette’s — again on the front landing. Wondering what she wanted with him further he waited, taking the precaution to step into the closet till sure it was she.
The figure came onward, bent to the keyhole of the bedroom door, and whispered (supposing him still inside), ‘Swithin, on second thoughts I think you may stay with safety.’
