"'Twas natural enough that I should want to be there, I suppose," said d.i.c.k, smiling a private smile; "considering who the organ-player was."

At this the vicar reddened a little, and said, "Yes, yes," though not at all comprehending d.i.c.k's true meaning, who, as he received no further reply, continued hesitatingly, and with another smile denoting his pride as a lover--

"I suppose you know what I mean, sir? You've heard about me and--Miss Day?"

The red in Maybold's countenance went away: he turned and looked d.i.c.k in the face.

"No," he said constrainedly, "I've heard nothing whatever about you and Miss Day."

"Why, she's my sweetheart, and we are going to be married next Midsummer.

We are keeping it rather close just at present, because 'tis a good many months to wait; but it is her father's wish that we don't marry before, and of course we must submit. But the time 'ill soon slip along."

"Yes, the time will soon slip along--Time glides away every day--yes."

Maybold said these words, but he had no idea of what they were. He was conscious of a cold and sickly thrill throughout him; and all he reasoned was this that the young creature whose graces had intoxicated him into making the most imprudent resolution of his life, was less an angel than a woman.

"You see, sir," continued the ingenuous d.i.c.k, "'twill be better in one sense. I shall by that time be the regular manager of a branch o'

father's business, which has very much increased lately, and business, which we think of starting elsewhere. It has very much increased lately, and we expect next year to keep a' extra couple of horses. We've already our eye on one--brown as a berry, neck like a rainbow, fifteen hands, and not a gray hair in her--offered us at twenty-five want a crown. And to kip pace with the times I have had some cards prented and I beg leave to hand you one, sir."

"Certainly," said the vicar, mechanically taking the card that d.i.c.k offered him.

"I turn in here by Grey's Bridge," said d.i.c.k. "I suppose you go straight on and up town?"

"Yes."

"Good-morning, sir."

"Good-morning, Dewy."

Maybold stood still upon the bridge, holding the card as it had been put into his hand, and d.i.c.k's footsteps died away towards Durnover Mill. The vicar's first voluntary action was to read the card:--

DEWY AND SON, TRANTERS AND HAULIERS, MELLSTOCK.

NB.--Furniture, Coals, Potatoes, Live and Dead Stock, removed to any distance on the shortest notice.

Mr. Maybold leant over the parapet of the bridge and looked into the river. He saw--without heeding--how the water came rapidly from beneath the arches, glided down a little steep, then spread itself over a pool in which dace, trout, and minnows sported at ease among the long green locks of weed that lay heaving and sinking with their roots towards the current. At the end of ten minutes spent leaning thus, he drew from his pocket the letter to his friend, tore it deliberately into such minute fragments that scarcely two syllables remained in juxtaposition, and sent the whole handful of shreds fluttering into the water. Here he watched them eddy, dart, and turn, as they were carried downwards towards the ocean and gradually disappeared from his view. Finally he moved off, and pursued his way at a rapid pace back again to Mellstock Vicarage.

Nerving himself by a long and intense effort, he sat down in his study and wrote as follows:

"DEAR MISS DAY,--The meaning of your words, 'the temptation is too strong,' of your sadness and your tears, has been brought home to me by an accident. I know to-day what I did not know yesterday--that you are not a free woman.

"Why did you not tell me--why didn't you? Did you suppose I knew? No.

Had I known, my conduct in coming to you as I did would have been reprehensible.

"But I don't chide you! Perhaps no blame attaches to you--I can't tell. Fancy, though my opinion of you is a.s.sailed and disturbed in a way which cannot be expressed, I love you still, and my word to you holds good yet. But will you, in justice to an honest man who relies upon your word to him, consider whether, under the circ.u.mstances, you can honourably forsake him?--Yours ever sincerely,

"ARTHUR MAYBOLD."

He rang the bell. "Tell Charles to take these copybooks and this note to the school at once."

The maid took the parcel and the letter, and in a few minutes a boy was seen to leave the vicarage gate, with the one under his arm, and the other in his hand. The vicar sat with his hand to his brow, watching the lad as he descended Church Lane and entered the waterside path which intervened between that spot and the school.

Here he was met by another boy, and after a free salutation and pugilistic frisk had pa.s.sed between the two, the second boy came on his way to the vicarage, and the other vanished out of sight.

The boy came to the door, and a note for Mr. Maybold was brought in.

He knew the writing. Opening the envelope with an unsteady hand, he read the subjoined words:

"DEAR MR. MAYBOLD,--I have been thinking seriously and sadly through the whole of the night of the question you put to me last evening and of my answer. That answer, as an honest woman, I had no right to give.

"It is my nature--perhaps all women's--to love refinement of mind and manners; but even more than this, to be ever fascinated with the idea of surroundings more elegant and pleasing than those which have been customary. And you praised me, and praise is life to me. It was alone my sensations at these things which prompted my reply. Ambition and vanity they would be called; perhaps they are so.

"After this explanation I hope you will generously allow me to withdraw the answer I too hastily gave.

"And one more request. To keep the meeting of last night, and all that pa.s.sed between us there, for ever a secret. Were it to become known, it would utterly blight the happiness of a trusting and generous man, whom I love still, and shall love always.--Yours sincerely,

"FANCY DAY.

The last written communication that ever pa.s.sed from the vicar to Fancy, was a note containing these words only:

"Tell him everything; it is best. He will forgive you."

PART THE FIFTH: CONCLUSION

CHAPTER I: 'THE KNOT THERE'S NO UNTYING'

The last day of the story is dated just subsequent to that point in the development of the seasons when country people go to bed among nearly naked trees, are lulled to sleep by a fall of rain, and awake next morning among green ones; when the landscape appears embarra.s.sed with the sudden weight and brilliancy of its leaves; when the night-jar comes and strikes up for the summer his tune of one note; when the apple-trees have bloomed, and the roads and orchard-gra.s.s become spotted with fallen petals; when the faces of the delicate flowers are darkened, and their heads weighed down, by the throng of honey-bees, which increase their humming till humming is too mild a term for the all-pervading sound; and when cuckoos, blackbirds, and sparrows, that have hitherto been merry and respectful neighbours, become noisy and persistent intimates.

The exterior of Geoffrey Day's house in Yalbury Wood appeared exactly as was usual at that season, but a frantic barking of the dogs at the back told of unwonted movements somewhere within. Inside the door the eyes beheld a gathering, which was a rarity indeed for the dwelling of the solitary wood-steward and keeper.

About the room were sitting and standing, in various gnarled att.i.tudes, our old acquaintance, grandfathers James and William, the tranter, Mr.

Penny, two or three children, including Jimmy and Charley, besides three or four country ladies and gentlemen from a greater distance who do not require any distinction by name. Geoffrey was seen and heard stamping about the outhouse and among the bushes of the garden, attending to details of daily routine before the proper time arrived for their performance, in order that they might be off his hands for the day. He appeared with his shirt-sleeves rolled up; his best new nether garments, in which he had arrayed himself that morning, being temporarily disguised under a weekday ap.r.o.n whilst these proceedings were in operation. He occasionally glanced at the hives in pa.s.sing, to see if his wife's bees were swarming, ultimately rolling down his shirt-sleeves and going indoors, talking to tranter Dewy whilst b.u.t.toning the wristbands, to save time; next going upstairs for his best waistcoat, and coming down again to make another remark whilst b.u.t.toning that, during the time looking fixedly in the tranter's face as if he were a looking-gla.s.s.

The furniture had undergone attenuation to an alarming extent, every duplicate piece having been removed, including the clock by Thomas Wood; Ezekiel Saunders being at last left sole referee in matters of time.

Fancy was stationary upstairs, receiving her layers of clothes and adornments, and answering by short fragments of laughter which had more fidgetiness than mirth in them, remarks that were made from time to time by Mrs. Dewy and Mrs. Penny, who were a.s.sisting her at the toilet, Mrs.

Day having pleaded a queerness in her head as a reason for shutting herself up in an inner bedroom for the whole morning. Mrs. Penny appeared with nine corkscrew curls on each side of her temples, and a back comb stuck upon her crown like a castle on a steep.

The conversation just now going on was concerning the banns, the last publication of which had been on the Sunday previous.

"And how did they sound?" Fancy subtly inquired.

"Very beautiful indeed," said Mrs. Penny. "I never heard any sound better."

"But how?"