CHAPTER VII: SECOND THOUGHTS
The next morning the vicar rose early. The first thing he did was towrite a long and careful letter to his friend in Yorkshire. Then, eatinga little breakfast, he crossed the meadows in the direction ofCasterbridge, bearing his letter in his pocket, that he might post it atthe town office, and obviate the loss of one day in its transmission thatwould 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 themoisture they had collected from the thick air, an acorn occasionallyfalling from its cup to the ground, in company with the drippings. Inthe meads, sheets of spiders'-web, almost opaque with wet, hung in foldsover the fences, and the falling leaves appeared in every variety ofbrown, 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 DickDewy's open and cheerful face. Dick lifted his hat, and the vicar cameout 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 getSmart'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. Orwere you behind the pier?"
"No; I went to Charmley. Poor John Dunford chose me to be one of hisbearers a long time before he died, and yesterday was the funeral. Ofcourse I couldn't refuse, though I should have liked particularly to havebeen at home as 'twas the day of the new music."
"Yes, you should have been. The musical portion of the service wassuccessful--very successful indeed; and what is more to the purpose, noill-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," saidDick, smiling a private smile; "considering who the organ-player was."
At this the vicar reddened a little, and said, "Yes, yes," though not atall comprehending Dick's true meaning, who, as he received no furtherreply, continued hesitatingly, and with another smile denoting his prideas a lover--
"I suppose you know what I mean, sir? You've heard about me and--MissDay?"
The red in Maybold's countenance went away: he turned and looked Dick inthe face.
"No," he said constrainedly, "I've heard nothing whatever about you andMiss 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 manymonths 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 wasconscious of a cold and sickly thrill throughout him; and all he reasonedwas this that the young creature whose graces had intoxicated him intomaking the most imprudent resolution of his life, was less an angel thana woman.
"You see, sir," continued the ingenuous Dick, "'twill be better in onesense. 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 alreadyour eye on one--brown as a berry, neck like a rainbow, fifteen hands, andnot a gray hair in her--offered us at twenty-five want a crown. And tokip pace with the times I have had some cards prented and I beg leave tohand you one, sir."
"Certainly," said the vicar, mechanically taking the card that Dickoffered him.
"I turn in here by Grey's Bridge," said Dick. "I suppose you go straighton and up town?"
"Yes."
"Good-morning, sir."
"Good-morning, Dewy."
Maybold stood still upon the bridge, holding the card as it had been putinto his hand, and Dick's footsteps died away towards Durnover Mill. Thevicar'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 theriver. He saw--without heeding--how the water came rapidly from beneaththe arches, glided down a little steep, then spread itself over a pool inwhich dace, trout, and minnows sported at ease among the long green locksof weed that lay heaving and sinking with their roots towards thecurrent. At the end of ten minutes spent leaning thus, he drew from hispocket the letter to his friend, tore it deliberately into such minutefragments that scarcely two syllables remained in juxtaposition, and sentthe whole handful of shreds fluttering into the water. Here he watchedthem eddy, dart, and turn, as they were carried downwards towards theocean and gradually disappeared from his view. Finally he moved off, andpursued his way at a rapid pace back again to Mellstock Vicarage.
Nerving himself by a long and intense effort, he sat down in his studyand 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 tothe school at once."
The maid took the parcel and the letter, and in a few minutes a boy wasseen to leave the vicarage gate, with the one under his arm, and theother in his hand. The vicar sat with his hand to his brow, watching thelad as he descended Church Lane and entered the waterside path whichintervened between that spot and the school.
Here he was met by another boy, and after a free salutation andpugilistic frisk had passed between the two, the second boy came on hisway 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 readthe 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,wa
s a note containing these words only:
"Tell him everything; it is best. He will forgive you."