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 snowball 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 pass 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.

"God 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 Dick Dewy's open and cheerful face. Dick lifted his hat, and the vicar came out into the highway that Dick 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 Saturday to be repaired."

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

"'Twas natural enough that I should want to be there, I suppose," said Dick, 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 Dick'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 Dick 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 Dick, "'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 Dick offered him.

"I turn in here by Grey's Bridge," said Dick. "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 Dick'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 assailed 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 circumstances, 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 passed 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 passed 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 passed 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 embarrassed 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-grass 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 attitudes, 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 apron whilst these proceedings were in operation. He occasionally glanced at the hives in passing, to see if his wife's bees were swarming, ultimately rolling down his shirt-sleeves and going indoors, talking to tranter Dewy whilst buttoning the wristbands, to save time; next going upstairs for his best waistcoat, and coming down again to make another remark whilst buttoning that, during the time looking fixedly in the tranter's face as if he were a looking-glass.

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 assisting 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?"

"O, so natural and elegant, didn't they, Reuben!" she cried, through the chinks of the unceiled floor, to the tranter downstairs.

"What's that?" said the tranter, looking up inquiringly at the floor above him for an answer.

"Didn't Dick and Fancy sound well when they were called home in church last Sunday?" came downwards again in Mrs. Penny's voice.

"Ay, that they did, my sonnies!—especially the first time. There was a terrible whispering piece of work in the congregation, wasn't there, neighbour Penny?" said the tranter, taking up the thread of conversation on his own account and, in order to be heard in the room above, speaking very loud to Mr. Penny, who sat at the distance of three feet from him, or rather less.

"I never can mind seeing such a whispering as there was," said Mr. Penny, also loudly, to the room above. "And such sorrowful envy on the maidens' faces; really, I never did see such envy as there was!"

Fancy's lineaments varied in innumerable little flushes, and her heart palpitated innumerable little tremors of pleasure. "But perhaps," she said, with assumed indifference, "it was only because no religion was going on just then?"

"O, no; nothing to do with that. 'Twas because of your high standing in the parish. It was just as if they had one and all caught Dick kissing and coling ye to death, wasn't it, Mrs. Dewy?"

"Ay; that 'twas."

"How people will talk about one's doings!" Fancy exclaimed.

"Well, if you make songs about yourself, my dear, you can't blame other people for singing 'em."

"Mercy me! how shall I go through it?" said the young lady again, but merely to those in the bedroom, with a breathing of a kind between a sigh and a pant, round shining eyes, and warm face.

"O, you'll get through it well enough, child," said Mrs. Dewy placidly. "The edge of the performance is took off at the calling home; and when once you get up to the chancel end o' the church, you feel as saucy as you please. I'm sure I felt as brave as a sodger all through the deed—though of course I dropped my face and looked modest, as was becoming to a maid. Mind you do that, Fancy."

"And I walked into the church as quiet as a lamb, I'm sure," subjoined Mrs. Penny. "There, you see Penny is such a little small man. But certainly, I was flurried in the inside o' me. Well, thinks I, 'tis to be, and here goes! And do you do the same: say, ''Tis to be, and here goes!'"

"Is there such wonderful virtue in ''Tis to be, and here goes!'" inquired Fancy.

"Wonderful! 'Twill carry a body through it all from wedding to churching, if you only let it out with spirit enough."

"Very well, then," said Fancy, blushing. "'Tis to be, and here goes!"

"That's a girl for a husband!" said Mrs. Dewy.

"I do hope he'll come in time!" continued the bride-elect, inventing a new cause of affright, now that the other was demolished.

"'Twould be a thousand pities if he didn't come, now you be so brave," said Mrs. Penny.

Grandfather James, having overheard some of these remarks, said downstairs with mischievous loudness—

"I've known some would-be weddings when the men didn't come."

"They've happened not to come, before now, certainly," said Mr. Penny, cleaning one of the glasses of his spectacles.

"O, do hear what they are saying downstairs," whispered Fancy. "Hush, hush!"

She listened.

"They have, haven't they, Geoffrey?" continued grandfather James, as Geoffrey entered.

"Have what?" said Geoffrey.

"The men have been known not to come."

"That they have," said the keeper.

"Ay; I've knowed times when the wedding had to be put off through his not appearing, being tired of the woman. And another case I knowed was when the man was catched in a man-trap crossing Oaker's Wood, and the three months had run out before he got well, and the banns had to be published over again."

"How horrible!" said Fancy.

"They only say it on purpose to tease 'ee, my dear," said Mrs. Dewy.

"'Tis quite sad to think what wretched shifts poor maids have been put to," came again from downstairs. "Ye should hear Clerk Wilkins, my brother-law, tell his experiences in marrying couples these last thirty year: sometimes one thing, sometimes another—'tis quite heart-rending—enough to make your hair stand on end."

"Those things don't happen very often, I know," said Fancy, with smouldering uneasiness.

"Well, really 'tis time Dick was here," said the tranter.

"Don't keep on at me so, grandfather James and Mr. Dewy, and all you down there!" Fancy broke out, unable to endure any longer. "I am sure I shall die, or do something, if you do!"

"Never you hearken to these old chaps, Miss Day!" cried Nat Callcome, the best man, who had just entered, and threw his voice upward through the chinks of the floor as the others had done. "'Tis all right; Dick's coming on like a wild feller; he'll be here in a minute. The hive o' bees his mother gie'd en for his new garden swarmed jist as he was starting, and he said, 'I can't afford to lose a stock o' bees; no, that I can't, though I fain would; and Fancy wouldn't wish it on any account.' So he jist stopped to ting to 'em and shake 'em."

"A genuine wise man," said Geoffrey.

"To be sure, what a day's work we had yesterday!" Mr. Callcome continued, lowering his voice as if it were not necessary any longer to include those in the room above among his audience, and selecting a remote corner of his best clean handkerchief for wiping his face. "To be sure!"

"Things so heavy, I suppose," said Geoffrey, as if reading through the chimney-window from the far end of the vista.

"Ay," said Nat, looking round the room at points from which furniture had been removed. "And so awkward to carry, too. 'Twas ath'art and across Dick's garden; in and out Dick's door; up and down Dick's stairs; round and round Dick's chammers till legs were worn to stumps: and Dick is so particular, too. And the stores of victuals and drink that lad has laid in: why, 'tis enough for Noah's ark! I'm sure I never wish to see a choicer half-dozen of hams than he's got there in his chimley; and the cider I tasted was a very pretty drop, indeed;—none could desire a prettier cider."

"They be for the love and the stalled ox both. Ah, the greedy martels!" said grandfather James.

"Well, may-be they be. Surely," says I, "that couple between 'em have heaped up so much furniture and victuals, that anybody would think they were going to take hold the big end of married life first, and begin wi' a grown-up family. Ah, what a bath of heat we two chaps were in, to be sure, a-getting that furniture in order!"

"I do so wish the room below was ceiled," said Fancy, as the dressing went on; "we can hear all they say and do down there."

"Hark! Who's that?" exclaimed a small pupil-teacher, who also assisted this morning, to her great delight. She ran half-way down the stairs, and peeped round the banister. "O, you should, you should, you should!" she exclaimed, scrambling up to the room again.

"What?" said Fancy.

"See the bridesmaids! They've just a come! 'Tis wonderful, really! 'tis wonderful how muslin can be brought to it. There, they don't look a bit like themselves, but like some very rich sisters o' theirs that nobody knew they had!"

"Make 'em come up to me, make 'em come up!" cried Fancy ecstatically; and the four damsels appointed, namely, Miss Susan Dewy, Miss Bessie Dewy, Miss Vashti Sniff, and Miss Mercy Onmey, surged upstairs, and floated along the passage.

"I wish Dick would come!" was again the burden of Fancy.

The same instant a small twig and flower from the creeper outside the door flew in at the open window, and a masculine voice said, "Ready, Fancy dearest?"

"There he is, he is!" cried Fancy, tittering spasmodically, and breathing as it were for the first time that morning.

The bridesmaids crowded to the window and turned their heads in the direction pointed out, at which motion eight earrings all swung as one:—not looking at Dick because they particularly wanted to see him, but with an important sense of their duty as obedient ministers of the will of that apotheosised being—the Bride.

"He looks very taking!" said Miss Vashti Sniff, a young lady who blushed cream-colour and wore yellow bonnet ribbons.

Dick was advancing to the door in a painfully new coat of shining cloth, primrose-coloured waistcoat, hat of the same painful style of newness, and with an extra quantity of whiskers shaved off his face, and hair cut to an unwonted shortness in honour of the occasion.

"Now, I'll run down," said Fancy, looking at herself over her shoulder in the glass, and flitting off.

"O Dick!" she exclaimed, "I am so glad you are come! I knew you would, of course, but I thought, Oh if you shouldn't!"

"Not come, Fancy! Het or wet, blow or snow, here come I to-day! Why, what's possessing your little soul? You never used to mind such things a bit."

"Ah, Mr. Dick, I hadn't hoisted my colours and committed myself then!" said Fancy.

"'Tis a pity I can't marry the whole five of ye!" said Dick, surveying them all round.

"Heh-heh-heh!" laughed the four bridesmaids, and Fancy privately touched Dick and smoothed him down behind his shoulder, as if to assure herself that he was there in flesh and blood as her own property.

"Well, whoever would have thought such a thing?" said Dick, taking off his hat, sinking into a chair, and turning to the elder members of the company.

The latter arranged their eyes and lips to signify that in their opinion nobody could have thought such a thing, whatever it was.

"That my bees should ha' swarmed just then, of all times and seasons!" continued Dick, throwing a comprehensive glance like a net over the whole auditory. "And 'tis a fine swarm, too: I haven't seen such a fine swarm for these ten years."

"A' excellent sign," said Mrs. Penny, from the depths of experience. "A' excellent sign."

"I am glad everything seems so right," said Fancy with a breath of relief.

"And so am I," said the four bridesmaids with much sympathy.

"Well, bees can't be put off," observed the inharmonious grandfather James. "Marrying a woman is a thing you can do at any moment; but a swarm o' bees won't come for the asking."

Dick fanned himself with his hat. "I can't think," he said thoughtfully, "whatever 'twas I did to offend Mr. Maybold, a man I like so much too. He rather took to me when he came first, and used to say he should like to see me married, and that he'd marry me, whether the young woman I chose lived in his parish or no. I just hinted to him of it when I put in the banns, but he didn't seem to take kindly to the notion now, and so I said no more. I wonder how it was."

"I wonder!" said Fancy, looking into vacancy with those beautiful eyes of hers—too refined and beautiful for a tranter's wife; but, perhaps, not too good.

"Altered his mind, as folks will, I suppose," said the tranter. "Well, my sonnies, there'll be a good strong party looking at us to-day as we go along."

"And the body of the church," said Geoffrey, "will be lined with females, and a row of young fellers' heads, as far down as the eyes, will be noticed just above the sills of the chancel-winders."

"Ay, you've been through it twice," said Reuben, "and well mid know."

"I can put up with it for once," said Dick, "or twice either, or a dozen times."

"O Dick!" said Fancy reproachfully.

"Why, dear, that's nothing,—only just a bit of a flourish. You be as nervous as a cat to-day."

"And then, of course, when 'tis all over," continued the tranter, "we shall march two and two round the parish."

"Yes, sure," said Mr. Penny: "two and two: every man hitched up to his woman, 'a b'lieve."

"I never can make a show of myself in that way!" said Fancy, looking at Dick to ascertain if he could.

"I'm agreed to anything you and the company like, my dear!" said Mr. Richard Dewy heartily.

"Why, we did when we were married, didn't we, Ann?" said the tranter; "and so do everybody, my sonnies."

"And so did we," said Fancy's father.

"And so did Penny and I," said Mrs. Penny: "I wore my best Bath clogs, I remember, and Penny was cross because it made me look so tall."

"And so did father and mother," said Miss Mercy Onmey.

"And I mean to, come next Christmas!" said Nat the groomsman vigorously, and looking towards the person of Miss Vashti Sniff.

"Respectable people don't nowadays," said Fancy. "Still, since poor mother did, I will."

"Ay," resumed the tranter, "'twas on a White Tuesday when I committed it. Mellstock Club walked the same day, and we new-married folk went a-gaying round the parish behind 'em. Everybody used to wear something white at Whitsuntide in them days. My sonnies, I've got the very white trousers that I wore, at home in box now. Ha'n't I, Ann?"

"You had till I cut 'em up for Jimmy," said Mrs. Dewy.

"And we ought, by rights, after doing this parish, to go round Higher and Lower Mellstock, and call at Viney's, and so work our way hither again across He'th," said Mr. Penny, recovering scent of the matter in hand. "Dairyman Viney is a very respectable man, and so is Farmer Kex, and we ought to show ourselves to them."

"True," said the tranter, "we ought to go round Mellstock to do the thing well. We shall form a very striking object walking along in rotation, good-now, neighbours?"

"That we shall: a proper pretty sight for the nation," said Mrs. Penny.

"Hullo!" said the tranter, suddenly catching sight of a singular human figure standing in the doorway, and wearing a long smock-frock of pillow- case cut and of snowy whiteness. "Why, Leaf! whatever dost thou do here?"

"I've come to know if so be I can come to the wedding—hee-hee!" said Leaf in a voice of timidity.

"Now, Leaf," said the tranter reproachfully, "you know we don't want 'ee here to-day: we've got no room for ye, Leaf."

"Thomas Leaf, Thomas Leaf, fie upon ye for prying!" said old William.

"I know I've got no head, but I thought, if I washed and put on a clane shirt and smock-frock, I might just call," said Leaf, turning away disappointed and trembling.

"Poor feller!" said the tranter, turning to Geoffrey. "Suppose we must let en come? His looks are rather against en, and he is terrible silly; but 'a have never been in jail, and 'a won't do no harm."

Leaf looked with gratitude at the tranter for these praises, and then anxiously at Geoffrey, to see what effect they would have in helping his cause.

"Ay, let en come," said Geoffrey decisively. "Leaf, th'rt welcome, 'st know;" and Leaf accordingly remained.

They were now all ready for leaving the house, and began to form a procession in the following order: Fancy and her father, Dick and Susan Dewy, Nat Callcome and Vashti Sniff, Ted Waywood and Mercy Onmey, and Jimmy and Bessie Dewy. These formed the executive, and all appeared in strict wedding attire. Then came the tranter and Mrs. Dewy, and last of all Mr. and Mrs. Penny;—the tranter conspicuous by his enormous gloves, size eleven and three-quarters, which appeared at a distance like boxing gloves bleached, and sat rather awkwardly upon his brown hands; this hall- mark of respectability having been set upon himself to-day (by Fancy's special request) for the first time in his life.

"The proper way is for the bridesmaids to walk together," suggested Fancy.

"What? 'Twas always young man and young woman, arm in crook, in my time!" said Geoffrey, astounded.

"And in mine!" said the tranter.

"And in ours!" said Mr. and Mrs. Penny.

"Never heard o' such a thing as woman and woman!" said old William; who, with grandfather James and Mrs. Day, was to stay at home.

"Whichever way you and the company like, my dear!" said Dick, who, being on the point of securing his right to Fancy, seemed willing to renounce all other rights in the world with the greatest pleasure. The decision was left to Fancy.

"Well, I think I'd rather have it the way mother had it," she said, and the couples moved along under the trees, every man to his maid.

"Ah!" said grandfather James to grandfather William as they retired, "I wonder which she thinks most about, Dick or her wedding raiment!"

"Well, 'tis their nature," said grandfather William. "Remember the words of the prophet Jeremiah: 'Can a maid forget her ornaments, or a bride her attire?'"

Now among dark perpendicular firs, like the shafted columns of a cathedral; now through a hazel copse, matted with primroses and wild hyacinths; now under broad beeches in bright young leaves they threaded their way into the high road over Yalbury Hill, which dipped at that point directly into the village of Geoffrey Day's parish; and in the space of a quarter of an hour Fancy found herself to be Mrs. Richard Dewy, though, much to her surprise, feeling no other than Fancy Day still.

On the circuitous return walk through the lanes and fields, amid much chattering and laughter, especially when they came to stiles, Dick discerned a brown spot far up a turnip field.

"Why, 'tis Enoch!" he said to Fancy. "I thought I missed him at the house this morning. How is it he's left you?"

"He drank too much cider, and it got into his head, and they put him in Weatherbury stocks for it. Father was obliged to get somebody else for a day or two, and Enoch hasn't had anything to do with the woods since."

"We might ask him to call down to-night. Stocks are nothing for once, considering 'tis our wedding day." The bridal party was ordered to halt.

"Eno-o-o-o-ch!" cried Dick at the top of his voice.

"Y-a-a-a-a-a-as!" said Enoch from the distance.

"D'ye know who I be-e-e-e-e-e?"

"No-o-o-o-o-o-o!"

"Dick Dew-w-w-w-wy!"

"O-h-h-h-h-h!"

"Just a-ma-a-a-a-a-arried!"

"O-h-h-h-h-h!"

"This is my wife, Fa-a-a-a-a-ancy!" (holding her up to Enoch's view as if she had been a nosegay.)

"O-h-h-h-h-h!"

"Will ye come across to the party to-ni-i-i-i-i-i-ight!"

"Ca-a-a-a-a-an't!"

"Why n-o-o-o-o-ot?"

"Don't work for the family no-o-o-o-ow!"

"Not nice of Master Enoch," said Dick, as they resumed their walk.

"You mustn't blame en," said Geoffrey; "the man's not hisself now; he's in his morning frame of mind. When he's had a gallon o' cider or ale, or a pint or two of mead, the man's well enough, and his manners be as good as anybody's in the kingdom."



CHAPTER II: UNDER THE GREENWOOD TREE

The point in Yalbury Wood which abutted on the end of Geoffrey Day's premises was closed with an ancient tree, horizontally of enormous extent, though having no great pretensions to height. Many hundreds of birds had been born amidst the boughs of this single tree; tribes of rabbits and hares had nibbled at its bark from year to year; quaint tufts of fungi had sprung from the cavities of its forks; and countless families of moles and earthworms had crept about its roots. Beneath and beyond its shade spread a carefully-tended grass-plot, its purpose being to supply a healthy exercise-ground for young chickens and pheasants; the hens, their mothers, being enclosed in coops placed upon the same green flooring.

All these encumbrances were now removed, and as the afternoon advanced, the guests gathered on the spot, where music, dancing, and the singing of songs went forward with great spirit throughout the evening. The propriety of every one was intense by reason of the influence of Fancy, who, as an additional precaution in this direction, had strictly charged her father and the tranter to carefully avoid saying 'thee' and 'thou' in their conversation, on the plea that those ancient words sounded so very humiliating to persons of newer taste; also that they were never to be seen drawing the back of the hand across the mouth after drinking—a local English custom of extraordinary antiquity, but stated by Fancy to be decidedly dying out among the better classes of society.

In addition to the local musicians present, a man who had a thorough knowledge of the tambourine was invited from the village of Tantrum Clangley,—a place long celebrated for the skill of its inhabitants as performers on instruments of percussion. These important members of the assembly were relegated to a height of two or three feet from the ground, upon a temporary erection of planks supported by barrels. Whilst the dancing progressed the older persons sat in a group under the trunk of the tree,—the space being allotted to them somewhat grudgingly by the young ones, who were greedy of pirouetting room,—and fortified by a table against the heels of the dancers. Here the gaffers and gammers, whose dancing days were over, told stories of great impressiveness, and at intervals surveyed the advancing and retiring couples from the same retreat, as people on shore might be supposed to survey a naval engagement in the bay beyond; returning again to their tales when the pause was over. Those of the whirling throng, who, during the rests between each figure, turned their eyes in the direction of these seated ones, were only able to discover, on account of the music and bustle, that a very striking circumstance was in course of narration—denoted by an emphatic sweep of the hand, snapping of the fingers, close of the lips, and fixed look into the centre of the listener's eye for the space of a quarter of a minute, which raised in that listener such a reciprocating working of face as to sometimes make the distant dancers half wish to know what such an interesting tale could refer to.

Fancy caused her looks to wear as much matronly expression as was obtainable out of six hours' experience as a wife, in order that the contrast between her own state of life and that of the unmarried young women present might be duly impressed upon the company: occasionally stealing glances of admiration at her left hand, but this quite privately; for her ostensible bearing concerning the matter was intended to show that, though she undoubtedly occupied the most wondrous position in the eyes of the world that had ever been attained, she was almost unconscious of the circumstance, and that the somewhat prominent position in which that wonderfully-emblazoned left hand was continually found to be placed, when handing cups and saucers, knives, forks, and glasses, was quite the result of accident. As to wishing to excite envy in the bosoms of her maiden companions, by the exhibition of the shining ring, every one was to know it was quite foreign to the dignity of such an experienced married woman. Dick's imagination in the meantime was far less capable of drawing so much wontedness from his new condition. He had been for two or three hours trying to feel himself merely a newly- married man, but had been able to get no further in the attempt than to realize that he was Dick Dewy, the tranter's son, at a party given by Lord Wessex's head man-in-charge, on the outlying Yalbury estate, dancing and chatting with Fancy Day.

Five country dances, including 'Haste to the Wedding,' two reels, and three fragments of horn-pipes, brought them to the time for supper, which, on account of the dampness of the grass from the immaturity of the summer season, was spread indoors. At the conclusion of the meal Dick went out to put the horse in; and Fancy, with the elder half of the four bridesmaids, retired upstairs to dress for the journey to Dick's new cottage near Mellstock.

"How long will you be putting on your bonnet, Fancy?" Dick inquired at the foot of the staircase. Being now a man of business and married, he was strong on the importance of time, and doubled the emphasis of his words in conversing, and added vigour to his nods.

"Only a minute."

"How long is that?"

"Well, dear, five."

"Ah, sonnies!" said the tranter, as Dick retired, "'tis a talent of the female race that low numbers should stand for high, more especially in matters of waiting, matters of age, and matters of money."

"True, true, upon my body," said Geoffrey.

"Ye spak with feeling, Geoffrey, seemingly."

"Anybody that d'know my experience might guess that."

"What's she doing now, Geoffrey?"

"Claning out all the upstairs drawers and cupboards, and dusting the second-best chainey—a thing that's only done once a year. 'If there's work to be done I must do it,' says she, 'wedding or no.'"

"'Tis my belief she's a very good woman at bottom."

"She's terrible deep, then."

Mrs. Penny turned round. "Well, 'tis humps and hollers with the best of us; but still and for all that, Dick and Fancy stand as fair a chance of having a bit of sunsheen as any married pair in the land."

"Ay, there's no gainsaying it."

Mrs. Dewy came up, talking to one person and looking at another. "Happy, yes," she said. "'Tis always so when a couple is so exactly in tune with one another as Dick and she."

"When they be'n't too poor to have time to sing," said grandfather James.

"I tell ye, neighbours, when the pinch comes," said the tranter: "when the oldest daughter's boots be only a size less than her mother's, and the rest o' the flock close behind her. A sharp time for a man that, my sonnies; a very sharp time! Chanticleer's comb is a-cut then, 'a believe."

"That's about the form o't," said Mr. Penny. "That'll put the stuns upon a man, when you must measure mother and daughter's lasts to tell 'em apart."

"You've no cause to complain, Reuben, of such a close-coming flock," said Mrs. Dewy; "for ours was a straggling lot enough, God knows!"

"I d'know it, I d'know it," said the tranter. "You be a well-enough woman, Ann."

Mrs. Dewy put her mouth in the form of a smile, and put it back again without smiling.

"And if they come together, they go together," said Mrs. Penny, whose family had been the reverse of the tranter's; "and a little money will make either fate tolerable. And money can be made by our young couple, I know."

"Yes, that it can!" said the impulsive voice of Leaf, who had hitherto humbly admired the proceedings from a corner. "It can be done—all that's wanted is a few pounds to begin with. That's all! I know a story about it!"

"Let's hear thy story, Leaf," said the tranter. "I never knew you were clever enough to tell a story. Silence, all of ye! Mr. Leaf will tell a story."

"Tell your story, Thomas Leaf," said grandfather William in the tone of a schoolmaster.

"Once," said the delighted Leaf, in an uncertain voice, "there was a man who lived in a house! Well, this man went thinking and thinking night and day. At last, he said to himself, as I might, 'If I had only ten pound, I'd make a fortune.' At last by hook or by crook, behold he got the ten pounds!"

"Only think of that!" said Nat Callcome satirically.

"Silence!" said the tranter.

"Well, now comes the interesting part of the story! In a little time he made that ten pounds twenty. Then a little time after that he doubled it, and made it forty. Well, he went on, and a good while after that he made it eighty, and on to a hundred. Well, by-and-by he made it two hundred! Well, you'd never believe it, but—he went on and made it four hundred! He went on, and what did he do? Why, he made it eight hundred! Yes, he did," continued Leaf, in the highest pitch of excitement, bringing down his fist upon his knee with such force that he quivered with the pain; "yes, and he went on and made it A THOUSAND!"

"Hear, hear!" said the tranter. "Better than the history of England, my sonnies!"

"Thank you for your story, Thomas Leaf," said grandfather William; and then Leaf gradually sank into nothingness again.

Amid a medley of laughter, old shoes, and elder-wine, Dick and his bride took their departure, side by side in the excellent new spring-cart which the young tranter now possessed. The moon was just over the full, rendering any light from lamps or their own beauties quite unnecessary to the pair. They drove slowly along Yalbury Bottom, where the road passed between two copses. Dick was talking to his companion.

"Fancy," he said, "why we are so happy is because there is such full confidence between us. Ever since that time you confessed to that little flirtation with Shiner by the river (which was really no flirtation at all), I have thought how artless and good you must be to tell me o' such a trifling thing, and to be so frightened about it as you were. It has won me to tell you my every deed and word since then. We'll have no secrets from each other, darling, will we ever?—no secret at all."

"None from to-day," said Fancy. "Hark! what's that?"

From a neighbouring thicket was suddenly heard to issue in a loud, musical, and liquid voice—

"Tippiwit! swe-e-et! ki-ki-ki! Come hither, come hither, come hither!"

"O, 'tis the nightingale," murmured she, and thought of a secret she would never tell.



Footnotes:

{1} This, a local expression, must be a corruption of something less questionable.

THE END