Chapter 4

Chapter 43,960 wordsPublic domain

He sees couples join them for dancing, And afterwards joining for life, He sees them pay high for their prancing By a welter of wedded strife.

He twangs: “Music hails from the devil, Though vaunted to come from heaven, For it makes people do at a revel What multiplies sins by seven.

“There’s many a heart now mangled, And waiting its time to go, Whose tendrils were first entangled By my sweet viol and bow!”

THE HUSBAND’S VIEW

“CAN anything avail Beldame, for my hid grief?— Listen: I’ll tell the tale, It may bring faint relief!—

“I came where I was not known, In hope to flee my sin; And walking forth alone A young man said, ‘Good e’en.’

“In gentle voice and true He asked to marry me; ‘You only—only you Fulfil my dream!’ said he.

“We married o’ Monday morn, In the month of hay and flowers; My cares were nigh forsworn, And perfect love was ours.

“But ere the days are long Untimely fruit will show; My Love keeps up his song, Undreaming it is so.

“And I awake in the night, And think of months gone by, And of that cause of flight Hidden from my Love’s eye.

“Discovery borders near, And then! . . . But something stirred?— My husband—he is here! Heaven—has he overheard?”—

“Yes; I have heard, sweet Nan; I have known it all the time. I am not a particular man; Misfortunes are no crime:

“And what with our serious need Of sons for soldiering, That accident, indeed, To maids, is a useful thing!”

ROSE-ANN

WHY didn’t you say you was promised, Rose-Ann? Why didn’t you name it to me, Ere ever you tempted me hither, Rose-Ann, So often, so wearifully?

O why did you let me be near ’ee, Rose-Ann, Talking things about wedlock so free, And never by nod or by whisper, Rose-Ann, Give a hint that it wasn’t to be?

Down home I was raising a flock of stock ewes, Cocks and hens, and wee chickens by scores, And lavendered linen all ready to use, A-dreaming that they would be yours.

Mother said: “She’s a sport-making maiden, my son”; And a pretty sharp quarrel had we; O why do you prove by this wrong you have done That I saw not what mother could see?

Never once did you say you was promised, Rose-Ann, Never once did I dream it to be; And it cuts to the heart to be treated, Rose-Ann, As you in your scorning treat me!

THE HOMECOMING

_GRUFFLY growled the wind on Toller downland broad and bare_, _And lonesome was the house_, _and dark_; _and few came there_.

“Now don’t ye rub your eyes so red; we’re home and have no cares; Here’s a skimmer-cake for supper, peckled onions, and some pears; I’ve got a little keg o’ summat strong, too, under stairs: —What, slight your husband’s victuals? Other brides can tackle theirs!”

_The wind of winter mooed and mouthed their chimney like a horn_, _And round the house and past the house ’twas leafless and lorn_.

“But my dear and tender poppet, then, how came ye to agree In Ivel church this morning? Sure, there-right you married me!” —“Hoo-hoo!—I don’t know—I forgot how strange and far ’twould be, An’ I wish I was at home again with dear daddee!”

_Gruffly growled the wind on Toller downland broad and bare_, _And lonesome was the house and dark_; _and few came there_.

“I didn’t think such furniture as this was all you’d own, And great black beams for ceiling, and a floor o’ wretched stone, And nasty pewter platters, horrid forks of steel and bone, And a monstrous crock in chimney. ’Twas to me quite unbeknown!”

_Rattle rattle went the door_; _down flapped a cloud of smoke_, _As shifting north the wicked wind assayed a smarter stroke_.

“Now sit ye by the fire, poppet; put yourself at ease: And keep your little thumb out of your mouth, dear, please! And I’ll sing to ’ee a pretty song of lovely flowers and bees, And happy lovers taking walks within a grove o’ trees.”

_Gruffly growled the wind on Toller Down_, _so bleak and bare_, _And lonesome was the house_, _and dark_; _and few came there_.

“Now, don’t ye gnaw your handkercher; ’twill hurt your little tongue, And if you do feel spitish, ’tis because ye are over young; But you’ll be getting older, like us all, ere very long, And you’ll see me as I am—a man who never did ’ee wrong.”

_Straight from Whit’sheet Hill to Benvill Lane the blusters pass_, _Hitting hedges_, _milestones_, _handposts_, _trees_, _and tufts of grass_.

“Well, had I only known, my dear, that this was how you’d be, I’d have married her of riper years that was so fond of me. But since I can’t, I’ve half a mind to run away to sea, And leave ’ee to go barefoot to your d—d daddee!”

_Up one wall and down the other—past each window-pane—_ _Prance the gusts_, _and then away down Crimmercrock’s long lane_.

“I—I—don’t know what to say to’t, since your wife I’ve vowed to be; And as ’tis done, I s’pose here I must bide—poor me! Aye—as you are ki-ki-kind, I’ll try to live along with ’ee, Although I’d fain have stayed at home with dear daddee!”

_Gruffly growled the wind on Toller Down_, _so bleak and bare_, _And lonesome was the house and dark_; _and few came there_.

“That’s right, my Heart! And though on haunted Toller Down we be, And the wind swears things in chimley, we’ll to supper merrily! So don’t ye tap your shoe so pettish-like; but smile at me, And ye’ll soon forget to sock and sigh for dear daddee!”

_December_ 1901.

PIECES OCCASIONAL AND VARIOUS

A CHURCH ROMANCE (MELLSTOCK _circa_ 1835)

SHE turned in the high pew, until her sight Swept the west gallery, and caught its row Of music-men with viol, book, and bow Against the sinking sad tower-window light.

She turned again; and in her pride’s despite One strenuous viol’s inspirer seemed to throw A message from his string to her below, Which said: “I claim thee as my own forthright!”

Thus their hearts’ bond began, in due time signed. And long years thence, when Age had scared Romance, At some old attitude of his or glance That gallery-scene would break upon her mind, With him as minstrel, ardent, young, and trim, Bowing “New Sabbath” or “Mount Ephraim.”

THE RASH BRIDE AN EXPERIENCE OF THE MELLSTOCK QUIRE

WE Christmas-carolled down the Vale, and up the Vale, and round the Vale, We played and sang that night as we were yearly wont to do— A carol in a minor key, a carol in the major D, Then at each house: “Good wishes: many Christmas joys to you!”

Next, to the widow’s John and I and all the rest drew on. And I Discerned that John could hardly hold the tongue of him for joy. The widow was a sweet young thing whom John was bent on marrying, And quiring at her casement seemed romantic to the boy.

III

“She’ll make reply, I trust,” said he, “to our salute? She must!” said he, “And then I will accost her gently—much to her surprise!— For knowing not I am with you here, when I speak up and call her dear A tenderness will fill her voice, a bashfulness her eyes.

So, by her window-square we stood; ay, with our lanterns there we stood, And he along with us,—not singing, waiting for a sign; And when we’d quired her carols three a light was lit and out looked she, A shawl about her bedgown, and her colour red as wine.

And sweetly then she bowed her thanks, and smiled, and spoke aloud her thanks; When lo, behind her back there, in the room, a man appeared. I knew him—one from Woolcomb way—Giles Swetman—honest as the day, But eager, hasty; and I felt that some strange trouble neared.

“How comes he there? . . . Suppose,” said we, “she’s wed of late! Who knows?” said we. —“She married yester-morning—only mother yet has known The secret o’t!” shrilled one small boy. “But now I’ve told, let’s wish ’em joy!” A heavy fall aroused us: John had gone down like a stone.

VII

We rushed to him and caught him round, and lifted him, and brought him round, When, hearing something wrong had happened, oped the window she: “Has one of you fallen ill?” she asked, “by these night labours overtasked?” None answered. That she’d done poor John a cruel turn felt we.

VIII

Till up spoke Michael: “Fie, young dame! You’ve broke your promise, sly young dame, By forming this new tie, young dame, and jilting John so true, Who trudged to-night to sing to ’ee because he thought he’d bring to ’ee Good wishes as your coming spouse. May ye such trifling rue!”

Her man had said no word at all; but being behind had heard it all, And now cried: “Neighbours, on my soul I knew not ’twas like this!” And then to her: “If I had known you’d had in tow not me alone, No wife should you have been of mine. It is a dear bought bliss!”

She changed death-white, and heaved a cry: we’d never heard so grieved a cry As came from her at this from him: heart-broken quite seemed she; And suddenly, as we looked on, she turned, and rushed; and she was gone, Whither, her husband, following after, knew not; nor knew we.

We searched till dawn about the house; within the house, without the house, We searched among the laurel boughs that grew beneath the wall, And then among the crocks and things, and stores for winter junketings, In linhay, loft, and dairy; but we found her not at all.

XII

Then John rushed in: “O friends,” he said, “hear this, this, this!” and bends his head: “I’ve—searched round by the—_well_, and find the cover open wide! I am fearful that—I can’t say what . . . Bring lanterns, and some cords to knot.” We did so, and we went and stood the deep dark hole beside.

XIII

And then they, ropes in hand, and I—ay, John, and all the band, and I Let down a lantern to the depths—some hundred feet and more; It glimmered like a fog-dimmed star; and there, beside its light, afar, White drapery floated, and we knew the meaning that it bore.

XIV

The rest is naught . . . We buried her o’ Sunday. Neighbours carried her; And Swetman—he who’d married her—now miserablest of men, Walked mourning first; and then walked John; just quivering, but composed anon; And we the quire formed round the grave, as was the custom then.

Our old bass player, as I recall—his white hair blown—but why recall!— His viol upstrapped, bent figure—doomed to follow her full soon— Stood bowing, pale and tremulous; and next to him the rest of us . . . We sang the Ninetieth Psalm to her—set to Saint Stephen’s tune.

THE DEAD QUIRE

BESIDE the Mead of Memories, Where Church-way mounts to Moaning Hill, The sad man sighed his phantasies: He seems to sigh them still.

“’Twas the Birth-tide Eve, and the hamleteers Made merry with ancient Mellstock zest, But the Mellstock quire of former years Had entered into rest.

III

“Old Dewy lay by the gaunt yew tree, And Reuben and Michael a pace behind, And Bowman with his family By the wall that the ivies bind.

“The singers had followed one by one, Treble, and tenor, and thorough-bass; And the worm that wasteth had begun To mine their mouldering place.

“For two-score years, ere Christ-day light, Mellstock had throbbed to strains from these; But now there echoed on the night No Christmas harmonies.

“Three meadows off, at a dormered inn, The youth had gathered in high carouse, And, ranged on settles, some therein Had drunk them to a drowse.

VII

“Loud, lively, reckless, some had grown, Each dandling on his jigging knee Eliza, Dolly, Nance, or Joan— Livers in levity.

VIII

“The taper flames and hearthfire shine Grew smoke-hazed to a lurid light, And songs on subjects not divine Were warbled forth that night.

“Yet many were sons and grandsons here Of those who, on such eves gone by, At that still hour had throated clear Their anthems to the sky.

“The clock belled midnight; and ere long One shouted, ‘Now ’tis Christmas morn; Here’s to our women old and young, And to John Barleycorn!’

“They drink the toast and shout again: The pewter-ware rings back the boom, And for a breath-while follows then A silence in the room.

XII

“When nigh without, as in old days, The ancient quire of voice and string Seemed singing words of prayer and praise As they had used to sing:

XIII

“‘While shepherds watch’d their flocks by night,’— Thus swells the long familiar sound In many a quaint symphonic flight— To, ‘Glory shone around.’

XIV

“The sons defined their fathers’ tones, The widow his whom she had wed, And others in the minor moans The viols of the dead.

“Something supernal has the sound As verse by verse the strain proceeds, And stilly staring on the ground Each roysterer holds and heeds.

XVI

“Towards its chorded closing bar Plaintively, thinly, waned the hymn, Yet lingered, like the notes afar Of banded seraphim.

XVII

“With brows abashed, and reverent tread, The hearkeners sought the tavern door: But nothing, save wan moonlight, spread The empty highway o’er.

XVIII

“While on their hearing fixed and tense The aerial music seemed to sink, As it were gently moving thence Along the river brink.

XIX

“Then did the Quick pursue the Dead By crystal Froom that crinkles there; And still the viewless quire ahead Voiced the old holy air.

“By Bank-walk wicket, brightly bleached, It passed, and ’twixt the hedges twain, Dogged by the living; till it reached The bottom of Church Lane.

XXI

“There, at the turning, it was heard Drawing to where the churchyard lay: But when they followed thitherward It smalled, and died away.

XXII

“Each headstone of the quire, each mound, Confronted them beneath the moon; But no more floated therearound That ancient Birth-night tune.

XXIII

“There Dewy lay by the gaunt yew tree, There Reuben and Michael, a pace behind, And Bowman with his family By the wall that the ivies bind . . .

XXIV

“As from a dream each sobered son Awoke, and musing reached his door: ’Twas said that of them all, not one Sat in a tavern more.”

XXV

—The sad man ceased; and ceased to heed His listener, and crossed the leaze From Moaning Hill towards the mead— The Mead of Memories.

1897.

THE CHRISTENING

WHOSE child is this they bring Into the aisle?— At so superb a thing The congregation smile And turn their heads awhile.

Its eyes are blue and bright, Its cheeks like rose; Its simple robes unite Whitest of calicoes With lawn, and satin bows.

A pride in the human race At this paragon Of mortals, lights each face While the old rite goes on; But ah, they are shocked anon.

What girl is she who peeps From the gallery stair, Smiles palely, redly weeps, With feverish furtive air As though not fitly there?

“I am the baby’s mother; This gem of the race The decent fain would smother, And for my deep disgrace I am bidden to leave the place.”

“Where is the baby’s father?”— “In the woods afar. He says there is none he’d rather Meet under moon or star Than me, of all that are.

“To clasp me in lovelike weather, Wish fixing when, He says: To be together At will, just now and then, Makes him the blest of men;

“But chained and doomed for life To slovening As vulgar man and wife, He says, is another thing: Yea: sweet Love’s sepulchring!”

1904.

A DREAM QUESTION

“It shall be dark unto you, that ye shall not divine.”

MICAH iii. 6.

I ASKED the Lord: “Sire, is this true Which hosts of theologians hold, That when we creatures censure you For shaping griefs and ails untold (Deeming them punishments undue) You rage, as Moses wrote of old?

When we exclaim: ‘Beneficent He is not, for he orders pain, Or, if so, not omnipotent: To a mere child the thing is plain!’ Those who profess to represent You, cry out: ‘Impious and profane!’”

He: “Save me from my friends, who deem That I care what my creatures say! Mouth as you list: sneer, rail, blaspheme, O manikin, the livelong day, Not one grief-groan or pleasure-gleam Will you increase or take away.

“Why things are thus, whoso derides, May well remain my secret still . . . A fourth dimension, say the guides, To matter is conceivable. Think some such mystery resides Within the ethic of my will.”

BY THE BARROWS

NOT far from Mellstock—so tradition saith— Where barrows, bulging as they bosoms were Of Multimammia stretched supinely there, Catch night and noon the tempest’s wanton breath,

A battle, desperate doubtless unto death, Was one time fought. The outlook, lone and bare, The towering hawk and passing raven share, And all the upland round is called “The He’th.”

Here once a woman, in our modern age, Fought singlehandedly to shield a child— One not her own—from a man’s senseless rage. And to my mind no patriots’ bones there piled So consecrate the silence as her deed Of stoic and devoted self-unheed.

A WIFE AND ANOTHER

“WAR ends, and he’s returning Early; yea, The evening next to-morrow’s!”— —This I say To her, whom I suspiciously survey,

Holding my husband’s letter To her view.— She glanced at it but lightly, And I knew That one from him that day had reached her too.

There was no time for scruple; Secretly I filched her missive, conned it, Learnt that he Would lodge with her ere he came home to me.

To reach the port before her, And, unscanned, There wait to intercept them Soon I planned: That, in her stead, _I_ might before him stand.

So purposed, so effected; At the inn Assigned, I found her hidden:— O that sin Should bear what she bore when I entered in!

Her heavy lids grew laden With despairs, Her lips made soundless movements Unawares, While I peered at the chamber hired as theirs.

And as beside its doorway, Deadly hued, One inside, one withoutside We two stood, He came—my husband—as she knew he would.

No pleasurable triumph Was that sight! The ghastly disappointment Broke them quite. What love was theirs, to move them with such might!

“Madam, forgive me!” said she, Sorrow bent, “A child—I soon shall bear him . . . Yes—I meant To tell you—that he won me ere he went.”

Then, as it were, within me Something snapped, As if my soul had largened: Conscience-capped, I saw myself the snarer—them the trapped.

“My hate dies, and I promise, Grace-beguiled,” I said, “to care for you, be Reconciled; And cherish, and take interest in the child.”

Without more words I pressed him Through the door Within which she stood, powerless To say more, And closed it on them, and downstairward bore.

“He joins his wife—my sister,” I, below, Remarked in going—lightly— Even as though All had come right, and we had arranged it so . . .

As I, my road retracing, Left them free, The night alone embracing Childless me, I held I had not stirred God wrothfully.

THE ROMAN ROAD

THE Roman Road runs straight and bare As the pale parting-line in hair Across the heath. And thoughtful men Contrast its days of Now and Then, And delve, and measure, and compare;

Visioning on the vacant air Helmed legionaries, who proudly rear The Eagle, as they pace again The Roman Road.

But no tall brass-helmed legionnaire Haunts it for me. Uprises there A mother’s form upon my ken, Guiding my infant steps, as when We walked that ancient thoroughfare, The Roman Road.

THE VAMPIRINE FAIR

GILBERT had sailed to India’s shore, And I was all alone: My lord came in at my open door And said, “O fairest one!”

He leant upon the slant bureau, And sighed, “I am sick for thee!” “My lord,” said I, “pray speak not so, Since wedded wife I be.”

Leaning upon the slant bureau, Bitter his next words came: “So much I know; and likewise know My love burns on the same!

“But since you thrust my love away, And since it knows no cure, I must live out as best I may The ache that I endure.”

When Michaelmas browned the nether Coomb, And Wingreen Hill above, And made the hollyhocks rags of bloom, My lord grew ill of love.

My lord grew ill with love for me; Gilbert was far from port; And—so it was—that time did see Me housed at Manor Court.

About the bowers of Manor Court The primrose pushed its head When, on a day at last, report Arrived of him I had wed.

“Gilbert, my lord, is homeward bound, His sloop is drawing near, What shall I do when I am found Not in his house but here?”

“O I will heal the injuries I’ve done to him and thee. I’ll give him means to live at ease Afar from Shastonb’ry.”

When Gilbert came we both took thought: “Since comfort and good cheer,” Said he, “So readily are bought, He’s welcome to thee, Dear.”

So when my lord flung liberally His gold in Gilbert’s hands, I coaxed and got my brothers three Made stewards of his lands.

And then I coaxed him to install My other kith and kin, With aim to benefit them all Before his love ran thin.

And next I craved to be possessed Of plate and jewels rare. He groaned: “You give me, Love, no rest, Take all the law will spare!”

And so in course of years my wealth Became a goodly hoard, My steward brethren, too, by stealth Had each a fortune stored.

Thereafter in the gloom he’d walk, And by and by began To say aloud in absent talk, “I am a ruined man!—

“I hardly could have thought,” he said, “When first I looked on thee, That one so soft, so rosy red, Could thus have beggared me!”

Seeing his fair estates in pawn, And him in such decline, I knew that his domain had gone To lift up me and mine.

Next month upon a Sunday morn A gunshot sounded nigh: By his own hand my lordly born Had doomed himself to die.

“Live, my dear lord, and much of thine Shall be restored to thee!” He smiled, and said ’twixt word and sign, “Alas—that cannot be!”

And while I searched his cabinet For letters, keys, or will, ’Twas touching that his gaze was set With love upon me still.

And when I burnt each document Before his dying eyes, ’Twas sweet that he did not resent My fear of compromise.

The steeple-cock gleamed golden when I watched his spirit go: And I became repentant then That I had wrecked him so.

Three weeks at least had come and gone, With many a saddened word, Before I wrote to Gilbert on The stroke that so had stirred.

And having worn a mournful gown, I joined, in decent while, My husband at a dashing town To live in dashing style.

Yet though I now enjoy my fling, And dine and dance and drive, I’d give my prettiest emerald ring To see my lord alive.

And when the meet on hunting-days Is near his churchyard home, I leave my bantering beaux to place A flower upon his tomb;

And sometimes say: “Perhaps too late The saints in Heaven deplore That tender time when, moved by Fate, He darked my cottage door.”

THE REMINDER