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CHAPTER III



The acquaintance thus oddly reopened proceeded apace. She often
looked out to get a few words with him, by night or by day. Her
sorrow was that she could not accompany her one old friend on foot a
little way, and talk more freely than she could do while he paused
before the house. One night, at the beginning of June, when she was
again on the watch after an absence of some days from the window, he
entered the gate and said softly, 'Now, wouldn't some air do you
good? I've only half a load this morning. Why not ride up to Covent
Garden with me? There's a nice seat on the cabbages, where I've
spread a sack. You can be home again in a cab before anybody is up.'

She refused at first, and then, trembling with excitement, hastily
finished her dressing, and wrapped herself up in cloak and veil,
afterwards sidling downstairs by the aid of the handrail, in a way
she could adopt on an emergency. When she had opened the door she
found Sam on the step, and he lifted her bodily on his strong arm
across the little forecourt into his vehicle. Not a soul was visible
or audible in the infinite length of the straight, flat highway, with
its ever-waiting lamps converging to points in each direction. The
air was fresh as country air at this hour, and the stars shone,
except to the north-eastward, where there was a whitish light--the
dawn. Sam carefully placed her in the seat, and drove on.

They talked as they had talked in old days, Sam pulling himself up
now and then, when he thought himself too familiar. More than once
she said with misgiving that she wondered if she ought to have
indulged in the freak. 'But I am so lonely in my house,' she added,
'and this makes me so happy!'

'You must come again, dear Mrs. Twycott. There is no time o' day for
taking the air like this.'

It grew lighter and lighter. The sparrows became busy in the
streets, and the city waxed denser around them. When they approached
the river it was day, and on the bridge they beheld the full blaze of
morning sunlight in the direction of St. Paul's, the river glistening
towards it, and not a craft stirring.

Near Covent Garden he put her into a cab, and they parted, looking
into each other's faces like the very old friends they were. She
reached home without adventure, limped to the door, and let herself
in with her latch-key unseen.

The air and Sam's presence had revived her: her cheeks were quite
pink--almost beautiful. She had something to live for in addition to
her son. A woman of pure instincts, she knew there had been nothing
really wrong in the journey, but supposed it conventionally to be
very wrong indeed.

Soon, however, she gave way to the temptation of going with him
again, and on this occasion their conversation was distinctly tender,
and Sam said he never should forget her, notwithstanding that she had
served him rather badly at one time. After much hesitation he told
her of a plan it was in his power to carry out, and one he should
like to take in hand, since he did not care for London work: it was
to set up as a master greengrocer down at Aldbrickham, the county-
town of their native place. He knew of an opening--a shop kept by
aged people who wished to retire.

'And why don't you do it, then, Sam?' she asked with a slight
heartsinking.

'Because I'm not sure if--you'd join me. I know you wouldn't--
couldn't! Such a lady as ye've been so long, you couldn't be a wife
to a man like me.'

'I hardly suppose I could!' she assented, also frightened at the
idea.

'If you could,' he said eagerly, 'you'd on'y have to sit in the back
parlour and look through the glass partition when I was away
sometimes--just to keep an eye on things. The lameness wouldn't
hinder that . . . I'd keep you as genteel as ever I could, dear
Sophy--if I might think of it!' he pleaded.

'Sam, I'll be frank,' she said, putting her hand on his. 'If it were
only myself I would do it, and gladly, though everything I possess
would be lost to me by marrying again.'

'I don't mind that! It's more independent.'

'That's good of you, dear, dear Sam. But there's something else. I
have a son . . . I almost fancy when I am miserable sometimes that he
is not really mine, but one I hold in trust for my late husband. He
seems to belong so little to me personally, so entirely to his dead
father. He is so much educated and I so little that I do not feel
dignified enough to be his mother . . . Well, he would have to be
told.'

'Yes. Unquestionably.' Sam saw her thought and her fear. 'Still,
you can do as you like, Sophy--Mrs. Twycott,' he added. 'It is not
you who are the child, but he.'

'Ah, you don't know! Sam, if I could, I would marry you, some day.
But you must wait a while, and let me think.'

It was enough for him, and he was blithe at their parting. Not so
she. To tell Randolph seemed impossible. She could wait till he had
gone up to Oxford, when what she did would affect his life but
little. But would he ever tolerate the idea? And if not, could she
defy him?

She had not told him a word when the yearly cricket-match came on at
Lord's between the public schools, though Sam had already gone back
to Aldbrickham. Mrs. Twycott felt stronger than usual: she went to
the match with Randolph, and was able to leave her chair and walk
about occasionally. The bright idea occurred to her that she could
casually broach the subject while moving round among the spectators,
when the boy's spirits were high with interest in the game, and he
would weigh domestic matters as feathers in the scale beside the
day's victory. They promenaded under the lurid July sun, this pair,
so wide apart, yet so near, and Sophy saw the large proportion of
boys like her own, in their broad white collars and dwarf hats, and
all around the rows of great coaches under which was jumbled the
debris of luxurious luncheons; bones, pie-crusts, champagne-bottles,
glasses, plates, napkins, and the family silver; while on the coaches
sat the proud fathers and mothers; but never a poor mother like her.
If Randolph had not appertained to these, had not centred all his
interests in them, had not cared exclusively for the class they
belonged to, how happy would things have been! A great huzza at some
small performance with the bat burst from the multitude of relatives,
and Randolph jumped wildly into the air to see what had happened.
Sophy fetched up the sentence that had been already shaped; but she
could not get it out. The occasion was, perhaps, an inopportune one.
The contrast between her story and the display of fashion to which
Randolph had grown to regard himself as akin would be fatal. She
awaited a better time.

It was on an evening when they were alone in their plain suburban
residence, where life was not blue but brown, that she ultimately
broke silence, qualifying her announcement of a probable second
marriage by assuring him that it would not take place for a long time
to come, when he would be living quite independently of her.

The boy thought the idea a very reasonable one, and asked if she had
chosen anybody? She hesitated; and he seemed to have a misgiving.
He hoped his stepfather would be a gentleman? he said.

'Not what you call a gentleman,' she answered timidly. 'He'll be
much as I was before I knew your father;' and by degrees she
acquainted him with the whole. The youth's face remained fixed for a
moment; then he flushed, leant on the table, and burst into
passionate tears.

His mother went up to him, kissed all of his face that she could get
at, and patted his back as if he were still the baby he once had
been, crying herself the while. When he had somewhat recovered from
his paroxysm he went hastily to his own room and fastened the door.

Parleyings were attempted through the keyhole, outside which she
waited and listened. It was long before he would reply, and when he
did it was to say sternly at her from within: 'I am ashamed of you!
It will ruin me! A miserable boor! a churl! a clown! It will
degrade me in the eyes of all the gentlemen of England!'

'Say no more--perhaps I am wrong! I will struggle against it!' she
cried miserably.

Before Randolph left her that summer a letter arrived from Sam to
inform her that he had been unexpectedly fortunate in obtaining the
shop. He was in possession; it was the largest in the town,
combining fruit with vegetables, and he thought it would form a home
worthy even of her some day. Might he not run up to town to see her?

She met him by stealth, and said he must still wait for her final
answer. The autumn dragged on, and when Randolph was home at
Christmas for the holidays she broached the matter again. But the
young gentleman was inexorable.

It was dropped for months; renewed again; abandoned under his
repugnance; again attempted; and thus the gentle creature reasoned
and pleaded till four or five long years had passed. Then the
faithful Sam revived his suit with some peremptoriness. Sophy's son,
now an undergraduate, was down from Oxford one Easter, when she again
opened the subject. As soon as he was ordained, she argued, he would
have a home of his own, wherein she, with her bad grammar and her
ignorance, would be an encumbrance to him. Better obliterate her as
much as possible.

He showed a more manly anger now, but would not agree. She on her
side was more persistent, and he had doubts whether she could be
trusted in his absence. But by indignation and contempt for her
taste he completely maintained his ascendency; and finally taking her
before a little cross and altar that he had erected in his bedroom
for his private devotions, there bade her kneel, and swear that she
would not wed Samuel Hobson without his consent. 'I owe this to my
father!' he said

The poor woman swore, thinking he would soften as soon as he was
ordained and in full swing of clerical work. But he did not. His
education had by this time sufficiently ousted his humanity to keep
him quite firm; though his mother might have led an idyllic life with
her faithful fruiterer and greengrocer, and nobody have been anything
the worse in the world.

Her lameness became more confirmed as time went on, and she seldom or
never left the house in the long southern thoroughfare, where she
seemed to be pining her heart away. 'Why mayn't I say to Sam that
I'll marry him? Why mayn't I?' she would murmur plaintively to
herself when nobody was near.

Some four years after this date a middle-aged man was standing at the
door of the largest fruiterer's shop in Aldbrickham. He was the
proprietor, but to-day, instead of his usual business attire, he wore
a neat suit of black; and his window was partly shuttered. From the
railway-station a funeral procession was seen approaching: it passed
his door and went out of the town towards the village of Gaymead.
The man, whose eyes were wet, held his hat in his hand as the
vehicles moved by; while from the mourning coach a young smooth-
shaven priest in a high waistcoat looked black as a cloud at the shop
keeper standing there.

December 1891.






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

Short stories
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