Complete Works of Thomas Hardy (Illustrated) (679 page)

‘I am so, O so glad you are come!’ she said huskily, as she held out her thin hand and stifled a sob. ‘I have been so — ’

She could get no further for a moment, and Avice turned away weeping, and abruptly left the room.

‘I have so set my heart on this,’ Mrs. Pierston went on, ‘that I have not been able to sleep of late, for I have feared I might drop off suddenly before she is yours, and lose the comfort of seeing you actually united. Your being so kind to me in old times has made me so sure that she will find a good husband in you, that I am over anxious, I know. Indeed, I have not liked to let her know quite how anxious I am.’

Thus they talked till Jocelyn bade her goodnight, it being noticeable that Mrs. Pierston, chastened by her illnesses, maintained no longer any reserve on her gladness to acquire him as her son-in-law; and her feelings destroyed any remaining scruples he might have had from perceiving that Avice’s consent was rather an obedience than a desire. As he went downstairs, and found Avice awaiting his descent, he wondered if anything had occurred here during his absence to give Mrs. Pierston new uneasiness about the marriage, but it was an inquiry he could not address to a girl whose actions could alone be the cause of such uneasiness.

He looked round for her as he supped, but though she had come into the room with him she was not there now. He remembered her telling him that she had had supper with her mother, and Jocelyn sat on quietly musing and sipping his wine for something near half-an-hour. Wondering then for the first time what had become of her, he rose and went to the door. Avice was quite near him after all — only standing at the front door as she had been doing when he came, looking into the light of the full moon, which had risen since his arrival. His sudden opening of the dining-room door seemed to agitate her.

‘What is it, dear?’ he asked.

‘As mother is much better and doesn’t want me, I ought to go and see somebody I promised to take a parcel to — I feel I ought. And yet, as you have just come to see me — I suppose you don’t approve of my going out while you are here?’

‘Who is the person?’

‘Somebody down that way,’ she said indefinitely. ‘It is not very far off. I am not afraid — I go out often by myself at night hereabout.’

He reassured her good-humouredly. ‘If you really wish to go, my dear, of course I don’t object. I have no authority to do that till tomorrow, and you know that if I had it I shouldn’t use it.’

‘O but you have! Mother being an invalid, you are in her place, apart from — to-morrow.’

‘Nonsense, darling. Run across to your friend’s house by all means if you want to.’

‘And you’ll be here when I come in?’

‘No, I am going down to the inn to see if my things are brought up.’

‘But hasn’t mother asked you to stay here? The spare room was got ready for you.... Dear me, I am afraid I ought to have told you.’

‘She did ask me. But I have some things coming, directed to the inn, and I had better be there. So I’ll wish you good-night, though it is not late. I will come in quite early to-morrow, to inquire how your mother is going on, and to wish you good-morning. You will be back again quickly this evening?’

‘O yes.’

‘And I needn’t go with you for company?’

‘O no, thank you. It is no distance.’

Pierston then departed, thinking how entirely her manner was that of one to whom a question of doing anything was a question of permission and not of judgment. He had no sooner gone than Avice took a parcel from a cupboard, put on her hat and cloak, and following by the way he had taken till she reached the entrance to Sylvania Castle, there stood still. She could hear Pierston’s footsteps passing down East Quarriers to the inn; but she went no further in that direction. Turning into the lane on the right, of which mention has so often been made, she went quickly past the last cottage, and having entered the gorge beyond she clambered into the ruin of the Red King’s or Bow-and-Arrow Castle, standing as a square black mass against the moonlit, indefinite sea.

CHAPTER VI.

THE WELL-BELOVED IS — WHERE?

Mrs. Pierston passed a restless night, but this she let nobody know; nor, what was painfully evident to herself, that her prostration was increased by anxiety and suspense about the wedding on which she had too much set her heart.

During the very brief space in which she dozed Avice came into her room. As it was not infrequent for her daughter to look in upon her thus she took little notice, merely saying to assure the girl: ‘I am better, dear. Don’t come in again. Get to sleep yourself.’

The mother, however, went thinking anew. She had no apprehensions about this marriage. She felt perfectly sure that it was the best thing she could do for her girl. Not a young woman on the island but was envying Avice at that moment; for Jocelyn was absurdly young for three score, a good-looking man, one whose history was generally known here; as also were the exact figures of the fortune he had inherited from his father, and the social standing he could claim — a standing, however, which that fortune would not have been large enough to procure unassisted by his reputation in his art.

But Avice had been weak enough, as her mother knew, to indulge in fancies for local youths from time to time, and Mrs. Pierston could not help congratulating herself that her daughter had been so docile in the circumstances. Yet to every one except, perhaps, Avice herself, Jocelyn was the most romantic of lovers. Indeed was there ever such a romance as that man embodied in his relations to her house? Rejecting the first Avice, the second had rejected him, and to rally to the third with final achievement was an artistic and tender finish to which it was ungrateful in anybody to be blind.

The widow thought that the second Avice might probably not have rejected Pierston on that occasion in the London studio so many years ago if destiny had not arranged that she should have been secretly united to another when the proposing moment came.

But what had come was best. ‘My God,’ she said at times that night, ‘to think my aim in writing to him should be fulfilling itself like this!’

When all was right and done, what a success upon the whole her life would have been. She who had begun her career as a cottage-girl, a small quarry-owner’s daughter, had sunk so low as to the position of laundress, had engaged in various menial occupations, had made an unhappy marriage for love which had, however, in the long run, thanks to Jocelyn’s management, much improved her position, was at last to see her daughter secure what she herself had just missed securing, and established in a home of affluence and refinement.

Thus the sick woman excited herself as the hours went on. At last, in her tenseness it seemed to her that the time had already come at which the household was stirring, and she fancied she heard conversation in her daughter’s room. But she found that it was only five o’clock, and not yet daylight. Her state was such that she could see the hangings of the bed tremble with her tremors. She had declared overnight that she did not require any one to sit up with her, but she now rang a little handbell, and in a few minutes a nurse appeared; Ruth Stockwool, an island woman and neighbour, whom Mrs. Pierston knew well, and who knew all Mrs. Pierston’s history.

‘I am so nervous that I can’t stay by myself,’ said the widow. ‘And I thought I heard Becky dressing Miss Avice in her wedding things.’

‘O no — not yet, ma’am. There’s nobody up. But I’ll get you something.’

When Mrs. Pierston had taken a little nourishment she went on: ‘I can’t help frightening myself with thoughts that she won’t marry him. You see he is older than Avice.’

‘Yes, he is,’ said her neighbour. ‘But I don’t see how anything can hender the wedden now.’

‘Avice, you know, had fancies; at least one fancy for another man; a young fellow of five-and-twenty. And she’s been very secret and odd about it. I wish she had raved and cried and had it out; but she’s been quite the other way. I know she’s fond of him still.’

‘What — that young Frenchman, Mr. Leverre o’ Sandbourne? I’ve heard a little of it. But I should say there wadden much between ‘em.’

‘I don’t think there was. But I’ve a sort of conviction that she saw him last night. I believe it was only to bid him good-bye, and return him some books he had given her; but I wish she had never known him; he is rather an excitable, impulsive young man, and he might make mischief. He isn’t a Frenchman, though he has lived in France. His father was a Jersey gentleman, and on his becoming a widower he married as his second wife a native of this very island. That’s mainly why the young man is so at home in these parts.’

‘Ah — now I follow ‘ee. She was a Bencomb, his stepmother: I heard something about her years ago.’

‘Yes; her father had the biggest stone-trade on the island at one time; but the name is forgotten here now. He retired years before I was born. However, mother used to tell me that she was a handsome young woman, who tried to catch Mr. Pierston when he was a young man, and scandalised herself a bit with him. She went off abroad with her father, who had made a fortune here; but when he got over there he lost it nearly all in some way. Years after she married this Jerseyman, Mr. Leverre, who had been fond of her as a girl, and she brought up his child as her own.’

Mrs. Pierston paused, but as Ruth did not ask any question she presently resumed her self-relieving murmur:

‘How Miss Avice got to know the young man was in this way. When Mrs. Leverre’s husband died she came from Jersey to live at Sandbourne; and made it her business one day to cross over to this place to make inquiries about Mr. Jocelyn Pierston. As my name was Pierston she called upon me with her son, and so Avice and he got acquainted. When Avice went back to Sandbourne to the finishing school they kept up the acquaintance in secret. He taught French somewhere there, and does still, I believe.’

‘Well, I hope she’ll forget en. He idden good enough.’

‘I hope so — I hope so.... Now I’ll try to get a little nap.’

Ruth Stockwool went back to her room, where, finding it would not be necessary to get up for another hour, she lay down again and soon slept. Her bed was close to the staircase, from which it was divided by a lath partition only, and her consciousness either was or seemed to be aroused by light brushing touches on the outside of the partition, as of fingers feeling the way downstairs in the dark. The slight noise passed, and in a few seconds she dreamt or fancied she could hear the unfastening of the back door.

She had nearly sunk into another sound sleep when precisely the same phenomena were repeated; fingers brushing along the wall close to her head, down, downward, the soft opening of the door, its close, and silence again.

She now became clearly awake. The repetition of the process had made the whole matter a singular one. Early as it was the first sounds might have been those of the housemaid descending, though why she should have come down so stealthily and in the dark did not make itself clear. But the second performance was inexplicable. Ruth got out of bed and lifted her blind. The dawn was hardly yet pink, and the light from the sandbank was not yet extinguished. But the bushes of euonymus against the white palings of the front garden could be seen, also the light surface of the road winding away like a riband to the north entrance of Sylvania Castle, thence round to the village, the cliffs, and the Cove behind. Upon the road two dark figures could just be discerned, one a little way behind the other, but overtaking and joining the foremost as Ruth looked. After all they might be quarriers or lighthouse-keepers from the south of the island, or fishermen just landed from a night’s work. There being nothing to connect them with the noises she had heard indoors she dismissed the whole subject, and went to bed again.

                    *          *          *

Jocelyn had promised to pay an early visit to ascertain the state of Mrs. Pierston’s health after her night’s rest, her precarious condition being more obvious to him than to Avice, and making him a little anxious. Subsequent events caused him to remember that while he was dressing he casually observed two or three boatmen standing near the cliff beyond the village, and apparently watching with deep interest what seemed to be a boat far away towards the opposite shore of South Wessex. At half-past eight he came from the door of the inn and went straight to Mrs. Pierston’s. On approaching he discovered that a strange expression which seemed to hang about the house-front that morning was more than a fancy, the gate, door, and two windows being open, though the blinds of other windows were not drawn up, the whole lending a vacant, dazed look to the domicile, as of a person gaping in sudden stultification. Nobody answered his knock, and walking into the dining-room he found that no breakfast had been laid. His flashing thought was, ‘Mrs. Pierston is dead.’

While standing in the room somebody came downstairs, and Jocelyn encountered Ruth Stockwool, an open letter fluttering in her hand.

‘O Mr. Pierston, Mr. Pierston! The Lord-a-Lord!’

‘What? Mrs. Pierston — ’

‘No, no! Miss Avice! She is gone! — yes — gone! Read ye this, sir. It was left in her bedroom, and we be fairly gallied out of our senses!’

He took the letter and confusedly beheld that it was in two handwritings, the first section being in Avice’s:

‘MY DEAR MOTHER, — How ever will you forgive me for what I have done! So deceitful as it seems. And yet till this night I had no idea of deceiving either you or Mr. Pierston.

‘Last night at ten o’clock I went out, as you may have guessed, to see Mr. Leverre for the last time, and to give him back his books, letters, and little presents to me. I went only a few steps — to Bow-and-Arrow Castle, where we met as we had agreed to do, since he could not call. When I reached the place I found him there waiting, but quite ill. He had been unwell at his mother’s house for some days, and had been obliged to stay in bed, but he had got up on purpose to come and bid me good-bye. The over-exertion of the journey upset him, and though we stayed and stayed till twelve o’clock he felt quite unable to go back home — unable, indeed, to move more than a few yards. I had tried so hard not to love him any longer, but I loved him so now that I could not desert him and leave him out there to catch his death. So I helped him — nearly carrying him — on and on to our door, and then round to the back. Here he got a little better, and as he could not stay there, and everybody was now asleep, I helped him upstairs into the room we had prepared for Mr. Pierston if he should have wanted one. I got him into bed, and then fetched some brandy and a little of your tonic. Did you see me come into your room for it, or were you asleep?