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It was summer-time, six months later, and mowers and haymakers were
at work in the meads. The manor-house, being opposite them,
frequently formed a peg for conversation during these operations; and
the doings of the squire, and the squire's young wife, the curate's
sister--who was at present the admired of most of them, and the
interest of all--met with their due amount of criticism.

Rosa was happy, if ever woman could be said to be so. She had not
learnt the fate of her father, and sometimes wondered--perhaps with a
sense of relief--why he did not write to her from his supposed home
in Canada. Her brother Joshua had been presented to a living in a
small town, shortly after her marriage, and Cornelius had thereupon
succeeded to the vacant curacy of Narrobourne.

These two had awaited in deep suspense the discovery of their
father's body; and yet the discovery had not been made. Every day
they expected a man or a boy to run up from the meads with the
intelligence; but he had never come. Days had accumulated to weeks
and months; the wedding had come and gone: Joshua had tolled and
read himself in at his new parish; and never a shout of amazement
over the millwright's remains.

But now, in June, when they were mowing the meads, the hatches had to
be drawn and the water let out of its channels for the convenience of
the mowers. It was thus that the discovery was made. A man,
stooping low with his scythe, caught a view of the culvert
lengthwise, and saw something entangled in the recently bared weeds
of its bed. A day or two after there was an inquest; but the body
was unrecognizable. Fish and flood had been busy with the
millwright; he had no watch or marked article which could be
identified; and a verdict of the accidental drowning of a person
unknown settled the matter.

As the body was found in Narrobourne parish, there it had to be
buried. Cornelius wrote to Joshua, begging him to come and read the
service, or to send some one; he himself could not do it. Rather
than let in a stranger Joshua came, and silently scanned the
coroner's order handed him by the undertaker:-

'I, Henry Giles, Coroner for the Mid-Division of Outer Wessex, do
hereby order the Burial of the Body now shown to the Inquest Jury as
the Body of an Adult Male Person Unknown . . . ,' etc.

Joshua Halborough got through the service in some way, and rejoined
his brother Cornelius at his house. Neither accepted an invitation
to lunch at their sister's; they wished to discuss parish matters
together. In the afternoon she came down, though they had already
called on her, and had not expected to see her again. Her bright
eyes, brown hair, flowery bonnet, lemon-coloured gloves, and flush
beauty, were like an irradiation into the apartment, which they in
their gloom could hardly bear.

'I forgot to tell you,' she said, 'of a curious thing which happened
to me a month or two before my marriage--something which I have
thought may have had a connection with the accident to the poor man
you have buried to-day. It was on that evening I was at the manor-
house waiting for you to fetch me; I was in the winter-garden with
Albert, and we were sitting silent together, when we fancied we heard
a cry. We opened the door, and while Albert ran to fetch his hat,
leaving me standing there, the cry was repeated, and my excited
senses made me think I heard my own name. When Albert came back all
was silent, and we decided that it was only a drunken shout, and not
a cry for help. We both forgot the incident, and it never has
occurred to me till since the funeral to-day that it might have been
this stranger's cry. The name of course was only fancy, or he might
have had a wife or child with a name something like mine, poor man!'

When she was gone the brothers were silent till Cornelius said, 'Now
mark this, Joshua. Sooner or later she'll know.'


'From one of us. Do you think human hearts are iron-cased safes,
that you suppose we can keep this secret for ever?'

'Yes, I think they are, sometimes,' said Joshua.

'No. It will out. We shall tell.'

'What, and ruin her--kill her? Disgrace her children, and pull down
the whole auspicious house of Fellmer about our ears? No! May I--
drown where he was drowned before I do it! Never, never. Surely you
can say the same, Cornelius!'

Cornelius seemed fortified, and no more was said. For a long time
after that day he did not see Joshua, and before the next year was
out a son and heir was born to the Fellmers. The villagers rang the
three bells every evening for a week and more, and were made merry by
Mr. Fellmer's ale; and when the christening came on Joshua paid
Narrobourne another visit.

Among all the people who assembled on that day the brother clergymen
were the least interested. Their minds were haunted by a spirit in
kerseymere in the evening they walked together in the fields.

'She's all right,' said Joshua. 'But here are you doing journey-
work, Cornelius, and likely to continue at it till the end of the
day, as far as I can see. I, too, with my petty living--what am I
after all? . . . To tell the truth, the Church is a poor forlorn hope
for people without influence, particularly when their enthusiasm
begins to flag. A social regenerator has a better chance outside,
where he is unhampered by dogma and tradition. As for me, I would
rather have gone on mending mills, with my crust of bread and

Almost automatically they had bent their steps along the margin of
the river; they now paused. They were standing on the brink of the
well-known weir. There were the hatches, there was the culvert; they
could see the pebbly bed of the stream through the pellucid water.
The notes of the church-bells were audible, still jangled by the
enthusiastic villagers.

'Why see--it was there I hid his walking-stick!' said Joshua, looking
towards the sedge. The next moment, during a passing breeze,
something flashed white on the spot to which the attention of
Cornelius was drawn.

From the sedge rose a straight little silver-poplar, and it was the
leaves of this sapling which caused the flicker of whiteness.

'His walking-stick has grown!' Joshua added. 'It was a rough one--
cut from the hedge, I remember.'

At every puff of wind the tree turned white, till they could not bear
to look at it; and they walked away.

'I see him every night,' Cornelius murmured . . . 'Ah, we read our
Hebrews to little account, Jos! [GREEK TEXT] To have endured the
cross, despising the shame--there lay greatness! But now I often
feel that I should like to put an end to trouble here in this self-
same spot.'

'I have thought of it myself,' said Joshua.

'Perhaps we shall, some day,' murmured his brother. 'Perhaps,' said
Joshua moodily.

With that contingency to consider in the silence of their nights and
days they bent their steps homewards.

December 1888.

Life's Little Ironies by Thomas Hardy
19th century fiction

Short stories
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