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'To go back to the beginning--if one must--there were two women in
the parish when I was a child, who were to a certain extent rivals in
good looks. Never mind particulars, but in consequence of this they
were at daggers-drawn, and they did not love each other any better
when one of them tempted the other's lover away from her and married
him. He was a young man of the name of Winter, and in due time they
had a son.

'The other woman did not marry for many years: but when she was
about thirty a quiet man named Palmley asked her to be his wife, and
she accepted him. You don't mind when the Palmleys were Longpuddle
folk, but I do well. She had a son also, who was, of course, nine or
ten years younger than the son of the first. The child proved to be
of rather weak intellect, though his mother loved him as the apple of
her eye.

'This woman's husband died when the child was eight years old, and
left his widow and boy in poverty. Her former rival, also a widow
now, but fairly well provided for, offered for pity's sake to take
the child as errand-boy, small as he was, her own son, Jack, being
hard upon seventeen. Her poor neighbour could do no better than let
the child go there. And to the richer woman's house little Palmley
straightway went.

'Well, in some way or other--how, it was never exactly known--the
thriving woman, Mrs. Winter, sent the little boy with a message to
the next village one December day, much against his will. It was
getting dark, and the child prayed to be allowed not to go, because
he would be afraid coming home. But the mistress insisted, more out
of thoughtlessness than cruelty, and the child went. On his way back
he had to pass through Yalbury Wood, and something came out from
behind a tree and frightened him into fits. The child was quite
ruined by it; he became quite a drivelling idiot, and soon afterward

'Then the other woman had nothing left to live for, and vowed
vengeance against that rival who had first won away her lover, and
now had been the cause of her bereavement. This last affliction was
certainly not intended by her thriving acquaintance, though it must
be owned that when it was done she seemed but little concerned.
Whatever vengeance poor Mrs. Palmley felt, she had no opportunity of
carrying it out, and time might have softened her feelings into
forgetfulness of her supposed wrongs as she dragged on her lonely
life. So matters stood when, a year after the death of the child,
Mrs. Palmley's niece, who had been born and bred in the city of
Exonbury, came to live with her.

'This young woman--Miss Harriet Palmley--was a proud and handsome
girl, very well brought up, and more stylish and genteel than the
people of our village, as was natural, considering where she came
from. She regarded herself as much above Mrs. Winter and her son in
position as Mrs. Winter and her son considered themselves above poor
Mrs. Palmley. But love is an unceremonious thing, and what in the
world should happen but that young Jack Winter must fall wofully and
wildly in love with Harriet Palmley almost as soon as he saw her.

'She, being better educated than he, and caring nothing for the
village notion of his mother's superiority to her aunt, did not give
him much encouragement. But Longpuddle being no very large world,
the two could not help seeing a good deal of each other while she was
staying there, and, disdainful young woman as she was, she did seem
to take a little pleasure in his attentions and advances.

'One day when they were picking apples together, he asked her to
marry him. She had not expected anything so practical as that at so
early a time, and was led by her surprise into a half-promise; at any
rate she did not absolutely refuse him, and accepted some little
presents that he made her.

'But he saw that her view of him was rather as a simple village lad
than as a young man to look up to, and he felt that he must do
something bold to secure her. So he said one day, "I am going away,
to try to get into a better position than I can get here." In two or
three weeks he wished her good-bye, and went away to Monksbury, to
superintend a farm, with a view to start as a farmer himself; and
from there he wrote regularly to her, as if their marriage were an
understood thing.

'Now Harriet liked the young man's presents and the admiration of his
eyes; but on paper he was less attractive to her. Her mother had
been a school-mistress, and Harriet had besides a natural aptitude
for pen-and-ink work, in days when to be a ready writer was not such
a common thing as it is now, and when actual handwriting was valued
as an accomplishment in itself. Jack Winter's performances in the
shape of love-letters quite jarred her city nerves and her finer
taste, and when she answered one of them, in the lovely running hand
that she took such pride in, she very strictly and loftily bade him
to practise with a pen and spelling-book if he wished to please her.
Whether he listened to her request or not nobody knows, but his
letters did not improve. He ventured to tell her in his clumsy way
that if her heart were more warm towards him she would not be so nice
about his handwriting and spelling; which indeed was true enough.

'Well, in Jack's absence the weak flame that had been set alight in
Harriet's heart soon sank low, and at last went out altogether. He
wrote and wrote, and begged and prayed her to give a reason for her
coldness; and then she told him plainly that she was town born, and
he was not sufficiently well educated to please her.

'Jack Winter's want of pen-and-ink training did not make him less
thin-skinned than others; in fact, he was terribly tender and touchy
about anything. This reason that she gave for finally throwing him
over grieved him, shamed him, and mortified him more than can be told
in these times, the pride of that day in being able to write with
beautiful flourishes, and the sorrow at not being able to do so,
raging so high. Jack replied to her with an angry note, and then she
hit back with smart little stings, telling him how many words he had
misspelt in his last letter, and declaring again that this alone was
sufficient justification for any woman to put an end to an
understanding with him. Her husband must be a better scholar.

'He bore her rejection of him in silence, but his suffering was
sharp--all the sharper in being untold. She communicated with Jack
no more; and as his reason for going out into the world had been only
to provide a home worthy of her, he had no further object in planning
such a home now that she was lost to him. He therefore gave up the
farming occupation by which he had hoped to make himself a master-
farmer, and left the spot to return to his mother.

'As soon as he got back to Longpuddle he found that Harriet had
already looked wi' favour upon another lover. He was a young road-
contractor, and Jack could not but admit that his rival was both in
manners and scholarship much ahead of him. Indeed, a more sensible
match for the beauty who had been dropped into the village by fate
could hardly have been found than this man, who could offer her so
much better a chance than Jack could have done, with his uncertain
future and narrow abilities for grappling with the world. The fact
was so clear to him that he could hardly blame her.

'One day by accident Jack saw on a scrap of paper the handwriting of
Harriet's new beloved. It was flowing like a stream, well spelt, the
work of a man accustomed to the ink-bottle and the dictionary, of a
man already called in the parish a good scholar. And then it struck
all of a sudden into Jack's mind what a contrast the letters of this
young man must make to his own miserable old letters, and how
ridiculous they must make his lines appear. He groaned and wished he
had never written to her, and wondered if she had ever kept his poor
performances. Possibly she had kept them, for women are in the habit
of doing that, he thought, and whilst they were in her hands there
was always a chance of his honest, stupid love-assurances to her
being joked over by Harriet with her present lover, or by anybody who
should accidentally uncover them.

'The nervous, moody young man could not bear the thought of it, and
at length decided to ask her to return them, as was proper when
engagements were broken off. He was some hours in framing, copying,
and recopying the short note in which he made his request, and having
finished it he sent it to her house. His messenger came back with
the answer, by word of mouth, that Miss Palmley bade him say she
should not part with what was hers, and wondered at his boldness in
troubling her.

'Jack was much affronted at this, and determined to go for his
letters himself. He chose a time when he knew she was at home, and
knocked and went in without much ceremony; for though Harriet was so
high and mighty, Jack had small respect for her aunt, Mrs. Palmley,
whose little child had been his boot-cleaner in earlier days.
Harriet was in the room, this being the first time they had met since
she had jilted him. He asked for his letters with a stern and bitter
look at her.

'At first she said he might have them for all that she cared, and
took them out of the bureau where she kept them. Then she glanced
over the outside one of the packet, and suddenly altering her mind,
she told him shortly that his request was a silly one, and slipped
the letters into her aunt's work-box, which stood open on the table,
locking it, and saying with a bantering laugh that of course she
thought it best to keep 'em, since they might be useful to produce as
evidence that she had good cause for declining to marry him.

'He blazed up hot. "Give me those letters!" he said. "They are

'"No, they are not," she replied; "they are mine."

'"Whos'ever they are I want them back," says he. "I don't want to be
made sport of for my penmanship: you've another young man now! he
has your confidence, and you pour all your tales into his ear.
You'll be showing them to him!"

'"Perhaps," said my lady Harriet, with calm coolness, like the
heartless woman that she was.

'Her manner so maddened him that he made a step towards the work-box,
but she snatched it up, locked it in the bureau, and turned upon him
triumphant. For a moment he seemed to be going to wrench the key of
the bureau out of her hand; but he stopped himself, and swung round
upon his heel and went away.

'When he was out-of-doors alone, and it got night, he walked about
restless, and stinging with the sense of being beaten at all points
by her. He could not help fancying her telling her new lover or her
acquaintances of this scene with himself, and laughing with them over
those poor blotted, crooked lines of his that he had been so anxious
to obtain. As the evening passed on he worked himself into a dogged
resolution to have them back at any price, come what might.

'At the dead of night he came out of his mother's house by the back
door, and creeping through the garden hedge went along the field
adjoining till he reached the back of her aunt's dwelling. The moon
struck bright and flat upon the walls, 'twas said, and every shiny
leaf of the creepers was like a little looking-glass in the rays.
From long acquaintance Jack knew the arrangement and position of
everything in Mrs. Palmley's house as well as in his own mother's.
The back window close to him was a casement with little leaded
squares, as it is to this day, and was, as now, one of two lighting
the sitting-room. The other, being in front, was closed up with
shutters, but this back one had not even a blind, and the moonlight
as it streamed in showed every article of the furniture to him
outside. To the right of the room is the fireplace, as you may
remember; to the left was the bureau at that time; inside the bureau
was Harriet's work-box, as he supposed (though it was really her
aunt's), and inside the work-box were his letters. Well, he took out
his pocket-knife, and without noise lifted the leading of one of the
panes, so that he could take out the glass, and putting his hand
through the hole he unfastened the casement, and climbed in through
the opening. All the household--that is to say, Mrs. Palmley,
Harriet, and the little maid-servant--were asleep. Jack went
straight to the bureau, so he said, hoping it might have been
unfastened again--it not being kept locked in ordinary--but Harriet
had never unfastened it since she secured her letters there the day
before. Jack told afterward how he thought of her asleep upstairs,
caring nothing for him, and of the way she had made sport of him and
of his letters; and having advanced so far, he was not to be hindered
now. By forcing the large blade of his knife under the flap of the
bureau, he burst the weak lock; within was the rosewood work-box just
as she had placed it in her hurry to keep it from him. There being
no time to spare for getting the letters out of it then, he took it
under his arm, shut the bureau, and made the best of his way out of
the house, latching the casement behind him, and refixing the pane of
glass in its place.

'Winter found his way back to his mother's as he had come, and being
dog-tired, crept upstairs to bed, hiding the box till he could
destroy its contents. The next morning early he set about doing
this, and carried it to the linhay at the back of his mother's
dwelling. Here by the hearth he opened the box, and began burning
one by one the letters that had cost him so much labour to write and
shame to think of, meaning to return the box to Harriet, after
repairing the slight damage he had caused it by opening it without a
key, with a note--the last she would ever receive from him--telling
her triumphantly that in refusing to return what he had asked for she
had calculated too surely upon his submission to her whims.

'But on removing the last letter from the box he received a shock;
for underneath it, at the very bottom, lay money--several golden
guineas--"Doubtless Harriet's pocket-money," he said to himself;
though it was not, but Mrs. Palmley's. Before he had got over his
qualms at this discovery he heard footsteps coming through the house-
passage to where he was. In haste he pushed the box and what was in
it under some brushwood which lay in the linhay; but Jack had been
already seen. Two constables entered the out-house, and seized him
as he knelt before the fireplace, securing the work-box and all it
contained at the same moment. They had come to apprehend him on a
charge of breaking into the dwelling-house of Mrs. Palmley on the
night preceding; and almost before the lad knew what had happened to
him they were leading him along the lane that connects that end of
the village with this turnpike-road, and along they marched him
between 'em all the way to Casterbridge jail.

'Jack's act amounted to night burglary--though he had never thought
of it--and burglary was felony, and a capital offence in those days.
His figure had been seen by some one against the bright wall as he
came away from Mrs. Palmley's back window, and the box and money were
found in his possession, while the evidence of the broken bureau-lock
and tinkered window-pane was more than enough for circumstantial
detail. Whether his protestation that he went only for his letters,
which he believed to be wrongfully kept from him, would have availed
him anything if supported by other evidence I do not know; but the
one person who could have borne it out was Harriet, and she acted
entirely under the sway of her aunt. That aunt was deadly towards
Jack Winter. Mrs. Palmley's time had come. Here was her revenge
upon the woman who had first won away her lover, and next ruined and
deprived her of her heart's treasure--her little son. When the
assize week drew on, and Jack had to stand his trial, Harriet did not
appear in the case at all, which was allowed to take its course, Mrs.
Palmley testifying to the general facts of the burglary. Whether
Harriet would have come forward if Jack had appealed to her is not
known; possibly she would have done it for pity's sake; but Jack was
too proud to ask a single favour of a girl who had jilted him; and he
let her alone. The trial was a short one, and the death sentence was

'The day o' young Jack's execution was a cold dusty Saturday in
March. He was so boyish and slim that they were obliged in mercy to
hang him in the heaviest fetters kept in the jail, lest his heft
should not break his neck, and they weighed so upon him that he could
hardly drag himself up to the drop. At that time the gover'ment was
not strict about burying the body of an executed person within the
precincts of the prison, and at the earnest prayer of his poor mother
his body was allowed to be brought home. All the parish waited at
their cottage doors in the evening for its arrival: I remember how,
as a very little girl, I stood by my mother's side. About eight
o'clock, as we hearkened on our door-stones in the cold bright
starlight, we could hear the faint crackle of a waggon from the
direction of the turnpike-road. The noise was lost as the waggon
dropped into a hollow, then it was plain again as it lumbered down
the next long incline, and presently it entered Longpuddle. The
coffin was laid in the belfry for the night, and the next day,
Sunday, between the services, we buried him. A funeral sermon was
preached the same afternoon, the text chosen being, "He was the only
son of his mother, and she was a widow." . . . Yes, they were cruel

'As for Harriet, she and her lover were married in due time; but by
all account her life was no jocund one. She and her good-man found
that they could not live comfortably at Longpuddle, by reason of her
connection with Jack's misfortunes, and they settled in a distant
town, and were no more heard of by us; Mrs. Palmley, too, found it
advisable to join 'em shortly after. The dark-eyed, gaunt old Mrs.
Winter, remembered by the emigrant gentleman here, was, as you will
have foreseen, the Mrs. Winter of this story; and I can well call to
mind how lonely she was, how afraid the children were of her, and how
she kept herself as a stranger among us, though she lived so long.'

'Longpuddle has had her sad experiences as well as her sunny ones,'
said Mr. Lackland.

'Yes, yes. But I am thankful to say not many like that, though good
and bad have lived among us.'

'There was Georgy Crookhill--he was one of the shady sort, as I have
reason to know,' observed the registrar, with the manner of a man who
would like to have his say also.

'I used to hear what he was as a boy at school.'

'Well, as he began so he went on. It never got so far as a hanging
matter with him, to be sure; but he had some narrow escapes of penal
servitude; and once it was a case of the biter bit.'

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

Short stories
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