some fifteen years after the date of the foregoing incidents, a man who had dwelt in far countries, and viewed many cities, arrived at roy-town, a roadside hamlet on the old western turnpike road, not five miles from froom-everard, and put up at the buck’s head, an isolated inn at that spot. he was still barely of middle age, but it could be seen that a haze of grey was settling upon the locks of his hair, and that his face had lost colour and curve, as if by exposure to bleaching climates and strange atmospheres, or from ailments incidental thereto. he seemed to observe little around him, by reason of the intrusion of his musings upon the scene. in truth nicholas long was just now the creature of old hopes and fears consequent upon his arrival—this man who once had not cared if his name were blotted out from that district. the evening light showed wistful lines which he could not smooth away by the worldling’s gloss of nonchalance that he had learnt to fling over his face.
the buck’s head was a somewhat unusual place for a man of this sort to choose as a house of sojourn in preference to some casterbridge inn four miles further on. before he left home it had been a lively old tavern at which high-flyers, and heralds, and tally-hoes had changed horses on their stages up and down the country; but now the house was rather cavernous and chilly, the stable-roofs were hollow-backed, the landlord was asthmatic, and the traffic gone.
he arrived in the afternoon, and when he had sent back the fly and was having a nondescript meal, he put a question to the waiting-maid with a mien of indifference.
‘squire everard, of froom-everard manor, has been dead some years, i believe?’
she replied in the affirmative.
‘and are any of the family left there still?’
‘o no, bless you, sir! they sold the place years ago—squire everard’s son did—and went away. i’ve never heard where they went to. they came quite to nothing.’
‘never heard anything of the young lady—the squire’s daughter?’
‘no. you see ’twas before i came to these parts.’
when the waitress left the room, nicholas pushed aside his plate and gazed out of the window. he was not going over into the froom valley altogether on christine’s account, but she had greatly animated his motive in coming that way. anyhow he would push on there now that he was so near, and not ask questions here where he was liable to be wrongly informed. the fundamental inquiry he had not ventured to make—whether christine had married before the family went away. he had abstained because of an absurd dread of extinguishing hopeful surmise. that the everards had left their old home was bad enough intelligence for one day.
rising from the table he put on his hat and went out, ascending towards the upland which divided this district from his native vale. the first familiar feature that met his eye was a little spot on the distant sky—a clump of trees standing on a barrow which surmounted a yet more remote upland—a point where, in his childhood, he had believed people could stand and see america. he reached the further verge of the plateau on which he had entered. ah, there was the valley—a greenish-grey stretch of colour—still looking placid and serene, as though it had not much missed him. if christine was no longer there, why should he pause over it this evening? his uncle and aunt were dead, and to-morrow would be soon enough to inquire for remoter relatives. thus, disinclined to go further, he turned to retrace his way to the inn.
in the backward path he now perceived the figure of a woman, who had been walking at a distance behind him; and as she drew nearer he began to be startled. surely, despite the variations introduced into that figure by changing years, its ground-lines were those of christine?
nicholas had been sentimental enough to write to christine immediately on landing at southampton a day or two before this, addressing his letter at a venture to the old house, and merely telling her that he planned to reach the roy-town inn on the present afternoon. the news of the scattering of the everards had dissipated his hope of hearing of her; but here she was.
so they met—there, alone, on the open down by a pond, just as if the meeting had been carefully arranged.
she threw up her veil. she was still beautiful, though the years had touched her; a little more matronly—much more homely. or was it only that he was much less homely now—a man of the world—the sense of homeliness being relative? her face had grown to be pre-eminently of the sort that would be called interesting. her habiliments were of a demure and sober cast, though she was one who had used to dress so airily and so gaily. years had laid on a few shadows too in this.
‘i received your letter,’ she said, when the momentary embarrassment of their first approach had passed. ‘and i thought i would walk across the hills to-day, as it was fine. i have just called at the inn, and they told me you were out. i was now on my way homeward.’
he hardly listened to this, though he intently gazed at her. ‘christine,’ he said, ‘one word. are you free?’
‘i—i am in a certain sense,’ she replied, colouring.
the announcement had a magical effect. the intervening time between past and present closed up for him, and moved by an impulse which he had combated for fifteen years, he seized her two hands and drew her towards him.
she started back, and became almost a mere acquaintance. ‘i have to tell you,’ she gasped, ‘that i have—been married.’
nicholas’s rose-coloured dream was immediately toned down to a greyish tinge.
‘i did not marry till many years after you had left,’ she continued in the humble tones of one confessing to a crime. ‘oh nic,’ she cried reproachfully, ‘how could you stay away so long?’
‘whom did you marry?’
‘mr. bellston.’
‘i—ought to have expected it.’ he was going to add, ‘and is he dead?’ but he checked himself. her dress unmistakably suggested widowhood; and she had said she was free.
‘i must now hasten home,’ said she. ‘i felt that, considering my shortcomings at our parting so many years ago, i owed you the initiative now.’
‘there is some of your old generosity in that. i’ll walk with you, if i may. where are you living, christine?’
‘in the same house, but not on the old conditions. i have part of it on lease; the farmer now tenanting the premises found the whole more than he wanted, and the owner allowed me to keep what rooms i chose. i am poor now, you know, nicholas, and almost friendless. my brother sold the froom-everard estate when it came to him, and the person who bought it turned our home into a farmhouse. till my father’s death my husband and i lived in the manor-house with him, so that i have never lived away from the spot.’
she was poor. that, and the change of name, sufficiently accounted for the inn-servant’s ignorance of her continued existence within the walls of her old home.
it was growing dusk, and he still walked with her. a woman’s head arose from the declivity before them, and as she drew nearer, christine asked him to go back.
‘this is the wife of the farmer who shares the house,’ she said. ‘she is accustomed to come out and meet me whenever i walk far and am benighted. i am obliged to walk everywhere now.’
the farmer’s wife, seeing that christine was not alone, paused in her advance, and nicholas said, ‘dear christine, if you are obliged to do these things, i am not, and what wealth i can command you may command likewise. they say rolling stones gather no moss; but they gather dross sometimes. i was one of the pioneers to the gold-fields, you know, and made a sufficient fortune there for my wants. what is more, i kept it. when i had done this i was coming home, but hearing of my uncle’s death i changed my plan, travelled, speculated, and increased my fortune. now, before we part: you remember you stood with me at the altar once, and therefore i speak with less preparation than i should otherwise use. before we part then i ask, shall another again intrude between us? or shall we complete the union we began?’
she trembled—just as she had done at that very minute of standing with him in the church, to which he had recalled her mind. ‘i will not enter into that now, dear nicholas,’ she replied. ‘there will be more to talk of and consider first—more to explain, which it would have spoiled this meeting to have entered into now.’
‘yes, yes; but—’
‘further than the brief answer i first gave, nic, don’t press me to-night. i still have the old affection for you, or i should not have sought you. let that suffice for the moment.’
‘very well, dear one. and when shall i call to see you?’
‘i will write and fix an hour. i will tell you everything of my history then.’
and thus they parted, nicholas feeling that he had not come here fruitlessly. when she and her companion were out of sight he retraced his steps to roy-town, where he made himself as comfortable as he could in the deserted old inn of his boyhood’s days. he missed her companionship this evening more than he had done at any time during the whole fifteen years; and it was as though instead of separation there had been constant communion with her throughout that period. the tones of her voice had stirred his heart in a nook which had lain stagnant ever since he last heard them. they recalled the woman to whom he had once lifted his eyes as to a goddess. her announcement that she had been another’s came as a little shock to him, and he did not now lift his eyes to her in precisely the same way as he had lifted them at first. but he forgave her for marrying bellston; what could he expect after fifteen years?
he slept at roy-town that night, and in the morning there was a short note from her, repeating more emphatically her statement of the previous evening—that she wished to inform him clearly of her circumstances, and to calmly consider with him the position in which she was placed. would he call upon her on sunday afternoon, when she was sure to be alone?
‘nic,’ she wrote on, ‘what a cosmopolite you are! i expected to find my old yeoman still; but i was quite awed in the presence of such a citizen of the world. did i seem rusty and unpractised? ah—you seemed so once to me!’
tender playful words; the old christine was in them. she said sunday afternoon, and it was now only saturday morning. he wished she had said to-day; that short revival of her image had vitalized to sudden heat feelings that had almost been stilled. whatever she might have to explain as to her position—and it was awkwardly narrowed, no doubt—he could not give her up. miss everard or mrs. bellston, what mattered it?—she was the same christine.
he did not go outside the inn all saturday. he had no wish to see or do anything but to await the coming interview. so he smoked, and read the local newspaper of the previous week, and stowed himself in the chimney-corner. in the evening he felt that he could remain indoors no longer, and the moon being near the full, he started from the inn on foot in the same direction as that of yesterday, with the view of contemplating the old village and its precincts, and hovering round her house under the cloak of night.
with a stout stick in his hand he climbed over the five miles of upland in a comparatively short space of time. nicholas had seen many strange lands and trodden many strange ways since he last walked that path, but as he trudged he seemed wonderfully like his old self, and had not the slightest difficulty in finding the way. in descending to the meads the streams perplexed him a little, some of the old foot-bridges having been removed; but he ultimately got across the larger water-courses, and pushed on to the village, avoiding her residence for the moment, lest she should encounter him, and think he had not respected the time of her appointment.
he found his way to the churchyard, and first ascertained where lay the two relations he had left alive at his departure; then he observed the gravestones of other inhabitants with whom he had been well acquainted, till by degrees he seemed to be in the society of all the elder froom-everard population, as he had known the place. side by side as they had lived in his day here were they now. they had moved house in mass.
but no tomb of mr. bellston was visible, though, as he had lived at the manor-house, it would have been natural to find it here. in truth nicholas was more anxious to discover that than anything, being curious to know how long he had been dead. seeing from the glimmer of a light in the church that somebody was there cleaning for sunday he entered, and looked round upon the walls as well as he could. but there was no monument to her husband, though one had been erected to the squire.
nicholas addressed the young man who was sweeping. ‘i don’t see any monument or tomb to the late mr. bellston?’
‘o no, sir; you won’t see that,’ said the young man drily.
‘why, pray?’
‘because he’s not buried here. he’s not christian-buried anywhere, as far as we know. in short, perhaps he’s not buried at all; and between ourselves, perhaps he’s alive.’
nicholas sank an inch shorter. ‘ah,’ he answered.
‘then you don’t know the peculiar circumstances, sir?’
‘i am a stranger here—as to late years.’
‘mr. bellston was a traveller—an explorer—it was his calling; you may have heard his name as such?’
‘i remember.’ nicholas recalled the fact that this very bent of mr. bellston’s was the incentive to his own roaming.
‘well, when he married he came and lived here with his wife and his wife’s father, and said he would travel no more. but after a time he got weary of biding quiet here, and weary of her—he was not a good husband to the young lady by any means—and he betook himself again to his old trick of roving—with her money. away he went, quite out of the realm of human foot, into the bowels of asia, and never was heard of more. he was murdered, it is said, but nobody knows; though as that was nine years ago he’s dead enough in principle, if not in corporation. his widow lives quite humble, for between her husband and her brother she’s left in very lean pasturage.’
nicholas went back to the buck’s head without hovering round her dwelling. this then was the explanation which she had wanted to make. not dead, but missing. how could he have expected that the first fair promise of happiness held out to him would remain untarnished? she had said that she was free; and legally she was free, no doubt. moreover, from her tone and manner he felt himself justified in concluding that she would be willing to run the risk of a union with him, in the improbability of her husband’s existence. even if that husband lived, his return was not a likely event, to judge from his character. a man who could spend her money on his own personal adventures would not be anxious to disturb her poverty after such a lapse of time.
well, the prospect was not so unclouded as it had seemed. but could he, even now, give up christine?
