"O d.i.c.k, how wet you are!" she said, as he drew up under the window.

"Why, your coat shines as if it had been varnished, and your hat--my goodness, there's a streaming hat!"

"O, I don't mind, darling!" said d.i.c.k cheerfully. "Wet never hurts me, though I am rather sorry for my best clothes. However, it couldn't be helped; we lent all the umbrellas to the women. I don't know when I shall get mine back!"

"And look, there's a nasty patch of something just on your shoulder."

"Ah, that's j.a.panning; it rubbed off the clamps of poor Jack's coffin when we lowered him from our shoulders upon the bier! I don't care about that, for 'twas the last deed I could do for him; and 'tis hard if you can't afford a coat for an old friend."

Fancy put her hand to her mouth for half a minute. Underneath the palm of that little hand there existed for that half-minute a little yawn.

"d.i.c.k, I don't like you to stand there in the wet. And you mustn't sit down. Go home and change your things. Don't stay another minute."

"One kiss after coming so far," he pleaded.

"If I can reach, then."

He looked rather disappointed at not being invited round to the door. She twisted from her seated position and bent herself downwards, but not even by standing on the plinth was it possible for d.i.c.k to get his lips into contact with hers as she held them. By great exertion she might have reached a little lower; but then she would have exposed her head to the rain.

"Never mind, d.i.c.k; kiss my hand," she said, flinging it down to him.

"Now, good-bye."

"Good-bye."

He walked slowly away, turning and turning again to look at her till he was out of sight. During the retreat she said to herself, almost involuntarily, and still conscious of that morning's triumph--"I like d.i.c.k, and I love him; but how plain and sorry a man looks in the rain, with no umbrella, and wet through!"

As he vanished, she made as if to descend from her seat; but glancing in the other direction she saw another form coming along the same track. It was also that of a man. He, too, was in black from top to toe; but he carried an umbrella.

He drew nearer, and the direction of the rain caused him so to slant his umbrella that from her height above the ground his head was invisible, as she was also to him. He pa.s.sed in due time directly beneath her, and in looking down upon the exterior of his umbrella her feminine eyes perceived it to be of superior silk--less common at that date than since--and of elegant make. He reached the entrance to the building, and Fancy suddenly lost sight of him. Instead of pursuing the roadway as d.i.c.k had done he had turned sharply round into her own porch.

She jumped to the floor, hastily flung off her shawl and bonnet, smoothed and patted her hair till the curls hung in pa.s.sable condition, and listened. No knock. Nearly a minute pa.s.sed, and still there was no knock. Then there arose a soft series of raps, no louder than the tapping of a distant woodp.e.c.k.e.r, and barely distinct enough to reach her ears. She composed herself and flung open the door.

In the porch stood Mr. Maybold.

There was a warm flush upon his face, and a bright flash in his eyes, which made him look handsomer than she had ever seen him before.

"Good-evening, Miss Day."

"Good-evening, Mr. Maybold," she said, in a strange state of mind. She had noticed, beyond the ardent hue of his face, that his voice had a singular tremor in it, and that his hand shook like an aspen leaf when he laid his umbrella in the corner of the porch. Without another word being spoken by either, he came into the schoolroom, shut the door, and moved close to her. Once inside, the expression of his face was no more discernible, by reason of the increasing dusk of evening.

"I want to speak to you," he then said; "seriously--on a perhaps unexpected subject, but one which is all the world to me--I don't know what it may be to you, Miss Day."

No reply.

"Fancy, I have come to ask you if you will be my wife?"

As a person who has been idly amusing himself with rolling a s...o...b..ll might start at finding he had set in motion an avalanche, so did Fancy start at these words from the vicar. And in the dead silence which followed them, the breathings of the man and of the woman could be distinctly and separately heard; and there was this difference between them--his respirations gradually grew quieter and less rapid after the enunciation, hers, from having been low and regular, increased in quickness and force, till she almost panted.

"I cannot, I cannot, Mr. Maybold--I cannot! Don't ask me!" she said.

"Don't answer in a hurry!" he entreated. "And do listen to me. This is no sudden feeling on my part. I have loved you for more than six months!

Perhaps my late interest in teaching the children here has not been so single-minded as it seemed. You will understand my motive--like me better, perhaps, for honestly telling you that I have struggled against my emotion continually, because I have thought that it was not well for me to love you! But I resolved to struggle no longer; I have examined the feeling; and the love I bear you is as genuine as that I could bear any woman! I see your great charm; I respect your natural talents, and the refinement they have brought into your nature--they are quite enough, and more than enough for me! They are equal to anything ever required of the mistress of a quiet parsonage-house--the place in which I shall pa.s.s my days, wherever it may be situated. O Fancy, I have watched you, criticized you even severely, brought my feelings to the light of judgment, and still have found them rational, and such as any man might have expected to be inspired with by a woman like you! So there is nothing hurried, secret, or untoward in my desire to do this. Fancy, will you marry me?"

No answer was returned.

"Don't refuse; don't," he implored. "It would be foolish of you--I mean cruel! Of course we would not live here, Fancy. I have had for a long time the offer of an exchange of livings with a friend in Yorkshire, but I have hitherto refused on account of my mother. There we would go. Your musical powers shall be still further developed; you shall have whatever pianoforte you like; you shall have anything, Fancy, anything to make you happy--pony-carriage, flowers, birds, pleasant society; yes, you have enough in you for any society, after a few months of travel with me! Will you, Fancy, marry me?"

Another pause ensued, varied only by the surging of the rain against the window-panes, and then Fancy spoke, in a faint and broken voice.

"Yes, I will," she said.

"G.o.d bless you, my own!" He advanced quickly, and put his arm out to embrace her. She drew back hastily. "No no, not now!" she said in an agitated whisper. "There are things;--but the temptation is, O, too strong, and I can't resist it; I can't tell you now, but I must tell you!

Don't, please, don't come near me now! I want to think, I can scarcely get myself used to the idea of what I have promised yet." The next minute she turned to a desk, buried her face in her hands, and burst into a hysterical fit of weeping. "O, leave me to myself!" she sobbed; "leave me! O, leave me!"

"Don't be distressed; don't, dearest!" It was with visible difficulty that he restrained himself from approaching her. "You shall tell me at your leisure what it is that grieves you so; I am happy--beyond all measure happy!--at having your simple promise."

"And do go and leave me now!"

"But I must not, in justice to you, leave for a minute, until you are yourself again."

"There then," she said, controlling her emotion, and standing up; "I am not disturbed now."

He reluctantly moved towards the door. "Good-bye!" he murmured tenderly.

"I'll come to-morrow about this time."

CHAPTER VII: SECOND THOUGHTS

The next morning the vicar rose early. The first thing he did was to write a long and careful letter to his friend in Yorkshire. Then, eating a little breakfast, he crossed the meadows in the direction of Casterbridge, bearing his letter in his pocket, that he might post it at the town office, and obviate the loss of one day in its transmission that would have resulted had he left it for the foot-post through the village.

It was a foggy morning, and the trees shed in noisy water-drops the moisture they had collected from the thick air, an acorn occasionally falling from its cup to the ground, in company with the drippings. In the meads, sheets of spiders'-web, almost opaque with wet, hung in folds over the fences, and the falling leaves appeared in every variety of brown, green, and yellow hue.

A low and merry whistling was heard on the highway he was approaching, then the light footsteps of a man going in the same direction as himself.

On reaching the junction of his path with the road, the vicar beheld d.i.c.k Dewy's open and cheerful face. d.i.c.k lifted his hat, and the vicar came out into the highway that d.i.c.k was pursuing.

"Good-morning, Dewy. How well you are looking!" said Mr. Maybold.

"Yes, sir, I am well--quite well! I am going to Casterbridge now, to get Smart's collar; we left it there Sat.u.r.day to be repaired."

"I am going to Casterbridge, so we'll walk together," the vicar said.

d.i.c.k gave a hop with one foot to put himself in step with Mr. Maybold, who proceeded: "I fancy I didn't see you at church yesterday, Dewy. Or were you behind the pier?"

"No; I went to Charmley. Poor John Dunford chose me to be one of his bearers a long time before he died, and yesterday was the funeral. Of course I couldn't refuse, though I should have liked particularly to have been at home as 'twas the day of the new music."

"Yes, you should have been. The musical portion of the service was successful--very successful indeed; and what is more to the purpose, no ill-feeling whatever was evinced by any of the members of the old choir.

They joined in the singing with the greatest good-will."