THE HISTORY OF THE HARDCOMES
by Thomas Hardy

‘Yes, Tony’s was the very best wedding-randy that ever I was at; and I’ve been at a good many, as you may suppose’—turning to the newly-arrived one—‘having as a church-officer, the privilege to attend all christening, wedding, and funeral parties—such being our Wessex custom.

‘’Twas on a frosty night in Christmas week, and among the folk invited were the said Hardcomes o’ Climmerston—Steve and James—first cousins, both of them small farmers, just entering into business on their own account.  With them came, as a matter of course, their intended wives, two young women of the neighbourhood, both very pretty and sprightly maidens, and numbers of friends from Abbot’s-Cernel, and Weatherbury, and Mellstock, and I don’t know where—a regular houseful.

‘The kitchen was cleared of furniture for dancing, and the old folk played at “Put” and “All-fours” in the parlour, though at last they gave that up to join in the dance.  The top of the figure was by the large front window of the room, and there were so many couples that the lower part of the figure reached through the door at the back, and into the darkness of the out-house; in fact, you couldn’t see the end of the row at all, and ’twas never known exactly how long that dance was, the lowest couples being lost among the faggots and brushwood in the out-house.

‘When we had danced a few hours, and the crowns of we taller men were swelling into lumps with bumping the beams of the ceiling, the first fiddler laid down his fiddle-bow, and said he should play no more, for he wished to dance.  And in another hour the second fiddler laid down his, and said he wanted to dance too; so there was only the third fiddler left, and he was a’ old, veteran man, very weak in the wrist.  However, he managed to keep up a faltering tweedle-dee; but there being no chair in the room, and his knees being as weak as his wrists, he was obliged to sit upon as much of the little corner-table as projected beyond the corner-cupboard fixed over it, which was not a very wide seat for a man advanced in years.

‘Among those who danced most continually were the two engaged couples, as was natural to their situation.  Each pair was very well matched, and very unlike the other.  James Hardcome’s intended was called Emily Darth, and both she and James were gentle, nice-minded, in-door people, fond of a quiet life.  Steve and his chosen, named Olive Pawle, were different; they were of a more bustling nature, fond of racketing about and seeing what was going on in the world.  The two couples had arranged to get married on the same day, and that not long thence; Tony’s wedding being a sort of stimulant, as is often the case; I’ve noticed it professionally many times.

‘They danced with such a will as only young people in that stage of courtship can dance; and it happened that as the evening wore on James had for his partner Stephen’s plighted one, Olive, at the same time that Stephen was dancing with James’s Emily.  It was noticed that in spite o’ the exchange the young men seemed to enjoy the dance no less than before.  By and by they were treading another tune in the same changed order as we had noticed earlier, and though at first each one had held the other’s mistress strictly at half-arm’s length, lest there should be shown any objection to too close quarters by the lady’s proper man, as time passed there was a little more closeness between ’em; and presently a little more closeness still.

‘The later it got the more did each of the two cousins dance with the wrong young girl, and the tighter did he hold her to his side as he whirled her round; and, what was very remarkable, neither seemed to mind what the other was doing.  The party began to draw towards its end, and I saw no more that night, being one of the first to leave, on account of my morning’s business.  But I learnt the rest of it from those that knew.

‘After finishing a particularly warming dance with the changed partners, as I’ve mentioned, the two young men looked at one another, and in a moment or two went out into the porch together.

“James,” says Steve, “what were you thinking of when you were dancing with my Olive?”

“Well,” said James, “perhaps what you were thinking of when you were dancing with my Emily.”

“I was thinking,” said Steve, with some hesitation, “that I wouldn’t mind changing for good and all!”

“It was what I was feeling likewise,” said James.

“I willingly agree to it, if you think we could manage it.”

“So do I.  But what would the girls say?”

“’Tis my belief,” said Steve, “that they wouldn’t particularly object.  Your Emily clung as close to me as if she already belonged to me, dear girl.”

“And your Olive to me,” says James.  “I could feel her heart beating like a clock.”

‘Well, they agreed to put it to the girls when they were all four walking home together.  And they did so.  When they parted that night the exchange was decided on—all having been done under the hot excitement of that evening’s dancing.  Thus it happened that on the following Sunday morning, when the people were sitting in church with mouths wide open to hear the names published as they had expected, there was no small amazement to hear them coupled the wrong way, as it seemed.  The congregation whispered, and thought the parson had made a mistake; till they discovered that his reading of the names was verily the true way.  As they had decided, so they were married, each one to the other’s original property.

‘Well, the two couples lived on for a year or two ordinarily enough, till the time came when these young people began to grow a little less warm to their respective spouses, as is the rule of married life; and the two cousins wondered more and more in their hearts what had made ’em so mad at the last moment to marry crosswise as they did, when they might have married straight, as was planned by nature, and as they had fallen in love.  ’Twas Tony’s party that had done it, plain enough, and they half wished they had never gone there.  James, being a quiet, fireside, perusing man, felt at times a wide gap between himself and Olive, his wife, who loved riding and driving and out-door jaunts to a degree; while Steve, who was always knocking about hither and thither, had a very domestic wife, who worked samplers, and made hearthrugs, scarcely ever wished to cross the threshold, and only drove out with him to please him.

‘However, they said very little about this mismating to any of their acquaintances, though sometimes Steve would look at James’s wife and sigh, and James would look at Steve’s wife and do the same.  Indeed, at last the two men were frank enough towards each other not to mind mentioning it quietly to themselves, in a long-faced, sorry-smiling, whimsical sort of way, and would shake their heads together over their foolishness in upsetting a well-considered choice on the strength of an hour’s fancy in the whirl and wildness of a dance.  Still, they were sensible and honest young fellows enough, and did their best to make shift with their lot as they had arranged it, and not to repine at what could not now be altered or mended.

‘So things remained till one fine summer day they went for their yearly little outing together, as they had made it their custom to do for a long while past.  This year they chose Budmouth-Regis as the place to spend their holiday in; and off they went in their best clothes at nine o’clock in the morning.

‘When they had reached Budmouth-Regis they walked two and two along the shore—their new boots going squeakity-squash upon the clammy velvet sands.  I can seem to see ’em now!  Then they looked at the ships in the harbour; and then went up to the Look-out; and then had dinner at an inn; and then again walked two and two, squeakity-squash, upon the velvet sands.  As evening drew on they sat on one of the public seats upon the Esplanade, and listened to the band; and then they said “What shall we do next?”

“Of all things,” said Olive (Mrs. James Hardcome, that is), “I should like to row in the bay!  We could listen to the music from the water as well as from here, and have the fun of rowing besides.”

“The very thing; so should I,” says Stephen, his tastes being always like hers.

Here the clerk turned to the curate.

‘But you, sir, know the rest of the strange particulars of that strange evening of their lives better than anybody else, having had much of it from their own lips, which I had not; and perhaps you’ll oblige the gentleman?’

‘Certainly, if it is wished,’ said the curate.  And he took up the clerk’s tale:—

* * * * *

‘Stephen’s wife hated the sea, except from land, and couldn’t bear the thought of going into a boat.  James, too, disliked the water, and said that for his part he would much sooner stay on and listen to the band in the seat they occupied, though he did not wish to stand in his wife’s way if she desired a row.  The end of the discussion was that James and his cousin’s wife Emily agreed to remain where they were sitting and enjoy the music, while they watched the other two hire a boat just beneath, and take their water-excursion of half an hour or so, till they should choose to come back and join the sitters on the Esplanade; when they would all start homeward together.

‘Nothing could have pleased the other two restless ones better than this arrangement; and Emily and James watched them go down to the boatman below and choose one of the little yellow skiffs, and walk carefully out upon the little plank that was laid on trestles to enable them to get alongside the craft.  They saw Stephen hand Olive in, and take his seat facing her; when they were settled they waved their hands to the couple watching them, and then Stephen took the pair of sculls and pulled off to the tune beat by the band, she steering through the other boats skimming about, for the sea was as smooth as glass that evening, and pleasure-seekers were rowing everywhere.

“How pretty they look moving on, don’t they?” said Emily to James (as I’ve been assured).  “They both enjoy it equally.  In everything their likings are the same.”

“That’s true,” said James.

“They would have made a handsome pair if they had married,” said she.

“Yes,” said he.  “’Tis a pity we should have parted ’em”

“Don’t talk of that, James,” said she.  “For better or for worse we decided to do as we did, and there’s an end of it.”

‘They sat on after that without speaking, side by side, and the band played as before; the people strolled up and down; and Stephen and Olive shrank smaller and smaller as they shot straight out to sea.  The two on shore used to relate how they saw Stephen stop rowing a moment, and take off his coat to get at his work better; but James’s wife sat quite still in the stern, holding the tiller-ropes by which she steered the boat.  When they had got very small indeed she turned her head to shore.

“She is waving her handkerchief to us,” said Stephen’s wife, who thereupon pulled out her own, and waved it as a return signal.

‘The boat’s course had been a little awry while Mrs. James neglected her steering to wave her handkerchief to her husband and Mrs. Stephen; but now the light skiff went straight onward again, and they could soon see nothing more of the two figures it contained than Olive’s light mantle and Stephen’s white shirt sleeves behind.

‘The two on the shore talked on.  “’Twas very curious—our changing partners at Tony Kytes’s wedding,” Emily declared.  “Tony was of a fickle nature by all account, and it really seemed as if his character had infected us that night.  Which of you two was it that first proposed not to marry as we were engaged?”

“H’m—I can’t remember at this moment,” says James.  “We talked it over, you know; and no sooner said than done.”

“’Twas the dancing,” said she.  “People get quite crazy sometimes in a dance.”

“They do,” he owned.

“James—do you think they care for one another still?” asks Mrs. Stephen.

James Hardcome mused and admitted that perhaps a little tender feeling might flicker up in their hearts for a moment now and then.  “Still, nothing of any account,” he said.

“I sometimes think that Olive is in Steve’s mind a good deal,” murmurs Mrs. Stephen; “particularly when she pleases his fancy by riding past our window at a gallop on one of the draught-horses . . . I never could do anything of that sort; I could never get over my fear of a horse.”

“And I am no horseman, though I pretend to be on her account,” murmured James Hardcome.  “But isn’t it almost time for them to turn and sweep round to the shore, as the other boating folk have done?  I wonder what Olive means by steering away straight to the horizon like that?  She has hardly swerved from a direct line seaward since they started.”

“No doubt they are talking, and don’t think of where they are going,” suggests Stephen’s wife.

“Perhaps so,” said James.  “I didn’t know Steve could row like that.”

“O yes,” says she.  “He often comes here on business, and generally has a pull round the bay.”

“I can hardly see the boat or them,” says James again; “and it is getting dark.”

The heedless pair afloat now formed a mere speck in the films of the coming night, which thickened apace, till it completely swallowed up their distant shapes.  They had disappeared while still following the same straight course away from the world of land-livers, as if they were intending to drop over the sea-edge into space, and never return to earth again.

The two on the shore continued to sit on, punctually abiding by their agreement to remain on the same spot till the others returned.  The Esplanade lamps were lit one by one, the bandsmen folded up their stands and departed, the yachts in the bay hung out their riding lights, and the little boats came back to shore one after another, their hirers walking on to the sands by the plank they had climbed to go afloat; but among these Stephen and Olive did not appear.

“What a time they are!” said Emily.  “I am getting quite chilly.  I did not expect to have to sit so long in the evening air.”

‘Thereupon James Hardcome said that he did not require his overcoat, and insisted on lending it to her.

‘He wrapped it round Emily’s shoulders.

“Thank you, James,” she said.  “How cold Olive must be in that thin jacket!”

‘He said he was thinking so too.  “Well, they are sure to be quite close at hand by this time, though we can’t see ’em.  The boats are not all in yet.  Some of the rowers are fond of paddling along the shore to finish out their hour of hiring.”

“Shall we walk by the edge of the water,” said she, “to see if we can discover them?”

‘He assented, reminding her that they must not lose sight of the seat, lest the belated pair should return and miss them, and be vexed that they had not kept the appointment.

‘They walked a sentry beat up and down the sands immediately opposite the seat; and still the others did not come.  James Hardcome at last went to the boatman, thinking that after all his wife and cousin might have come in under shadow of the dusk without being perceived, and might have forgotten the appointment at the bench.

“All in?” asked James.

“All but one boat,” said the lessor.  “I can’t think where that couple is keeping to.  They might run foul of something or other in the dark.”

‘Again Stephen’s wife and Olive’s husband waited, with more and more anxiety.  But no little yellow boat returned.  Was it possible they could have landed further down the Esplanade?

“It may have been done to escape paying,” said the boat-owner.  “But they didn’t look like people who would do that.”

‘James Hardcome knew that he could found no hope on such a reason as that.  But now, remembering what had been casually discussed between Steve and himself about their wives from time to time, he admitted for the first time the possibility that their old tenderness had been revived by their face-to-face position more strongly than either had anticipated at starting—the excursion having been so obviously undertaken for the pleasure of the performance only,—and that they had landed at some steps he knew of further down toward the pier, to be longer alone together.

‘Still he disliked to harbour the thought, and would not mention its existence to his companion.  He merely said to her, “Let us walk further on.”

‘They did so, and lingered between the boat-stage and the pier till Stephen Hardcome’s wife was uneasy, and was obliged to accept James’s offered arm.  Thus the night advanced.  Emily was presently so worn out by fatigue that James felt it necessary to conduct her home; there was, too, a remote chance that the truants had landed in the harbour on the other side of the town, or elsewhere, and hastened home in some unexpected way, in the belief that their consorts would not have waited so long.

‘However, he left a direction in the town that a lookout should be kept, though this was arranged privately, the bare possibility of an elopement being enough to make him reticent; and, full of misgivings, the two remaining ones hastened to catch the last train out of Budmouth-Regis; and when they got to Casterbridge drove back to Upper Longpuddle.’

‘Along this very road as we do now,’ remarked the parish clerk.

‘To be sure—along this very road,’ said the curate.  ‘However, Stephen and Olive were not at their homes; neither had entered the village since leaving it in the morning.  Emily and James Hardcome went to their respective dwellings to snatch a hasty night’s rest, and at daylight the next morning they drove again to Casterbridge and entered the Budmouth train, the line being just opened.

‘Nothing had been heard of the couple there during this brief absence.  In the course of a few hours some young men testified to having seen such a man and woman rowing in a frail hired craft, the head of the boat kept straight to sea; they had sat looking in each other’s faces as if they were in a dream, with no consciousness of what they were doing, or whither they were steering.  It was not till late that day that more tidings reached James’s ears.  The boat had been found drifting bottom upward a long way from land.  In the evening the sea rose somewhat, and a cry spread through the town that two bodies were cast ashore in Lullstead Bay, several miles to the eastward.  They were brought to Budmouth, and inspection revealed them to be the missing pair.  It was said that they had been found tightly locked in each other’s arms, his lips upon hers, their features still wrapt in the same calm and dream-like repose which had been observed in their demeanour as they had glided along.

‘Neither James nor Emily questioned the original motives of the unfortunate man and woman in putting to sea.  They were both above suspicion as to intention.  Whatever their mutual feelings might have led them on to, underhand behaviour was foreign to the nature of either.  Conjecture pictured that they might have fallen into tender reverie while gazing each into a pair of eyes that had formerly flashed for him and her alone, and, unwilling to avow what their mutual sentiments were, they had continued thus, oblivious of time and space, till darkness suddenly overtook them far from land.  But nothing was truly known.  It had been their destiny to die thus.  The two halves, intended by Nature to make the perfect whole, had failed in that result during their lives, though “in their death they were not divided.”  Their bodies were brought home, and buried on one day.  I remember that, on looking round the churchyard while reading the service, I observed nearly all the parish at their funeral.’

‘It was so, sir,’ said the clerk.

‘The remaining two,’ continued the curate (whose voice had grown husky while relating the lovers’ sad fate), ‘were a more thoughtful and far-seeing, though less romantic, couple than the first.  They were now mutually bereft of a companion, and found themselves by this accident in a position to fulfil their destiny according to Nature’s plan and their own original and calmly-formed intention.  James Hardcome took Emily to wife in the course of a year and a half; and the marriage proved in every respect a happy one.  I solemnized the service, Hardcome having told me, when he came to give notice of the proposed wedding, the story of his first wife’s loss almost word for word as I have told it to you.’

‘And are they living in Longpuddle still?’ asked the new-comer.

‘O no, sir,’ interposed the clerk.  ‘James has been dead these dozen years, and his mis’ess about six or seven.  They had no children.  William Privett used to be their odd man till he died.’

‘Ah—William Privett!  He dead too?—dear me!’ said the other.  ‘All passed away!’

‘Yes, sir.  William was much older than I.  He’d ha’ been over eighty if he had lived till now.’

‘There was something very strange about William’s death—very strange indeed!’ sighed a melancholy man in the back of the van.  It was the seedsman’s father, who had hitherto kept silence.

‘And what might that have been?’ asked Mr. Lackland.

End of The History Of The Hardcomes by Thomas Hardy