The End Of Life

  • 16 Apr - 22 Apr, 2022
  • Mag The Weekly
  • Fiction

I never pass through Chalk–Newton without turning to regard the neighbouring upland, at a point where a lane crosses the lone straight highway dividing this from the next parish; a sight which does not fail to recall the event that once happened there; and, though it may seem superfluous, at this date, to disinter more memories of village history, the whispers of that spot may claim to be preserved. It was on a dark, yet mild and exceptionally dry evening at Christmastime (according to the testimony of William Dewy of Mellstock, Michael Mail, and others), that the choir of Chalk–Newton, a large parish situate about half–way between the towns of Ivel and Casterbridge, and now a railway station, left their homes just before midnight to repeat their annual harmonies under the windows of the local population.

The band of instrumentalists and singers was one of the largest in the county; and, unlike the smaller and finer Mellstock string–band, which eschewed all but the catgut; it included brass and reed performers at full Sunday services, and reached all across the west gallery. On this night there were two or three violins, two 'cellos, a tenor viol, double bass, hautboy, clarionets, serpent, and seven singers. It was, however, not the choir's labours, but what its members chanced to witness, that particularly marked the occasion. They had pursued their rounds for many years without meeting with any incident of an unusual kind, but to–night, according to the assertions of several, there prevailed, to begin with, an exceptionally solemn and thoughtful mood among two or three of the oldest in the band, as if they were thinking they might be joined by the phantoms of dead friends who had been of their number in earlier years, and now were mute in the churchyard under flattening mounds friends who had shown greater zest for melody in their time than was shown in this; or that some past voice of a semi–transparent figure might quaver from some bedroom–window its acknowledgment of their nocturnal greeting, instead of a familiar living neighbour.

Whether this were fact or fancy, the younger members of the choir met together with their customary thoughtlessness and buoyancy. When they had gathered by the stone stump of the cross in the middle of the village, near the White Horse Inn, which they made their starting point, someone observed that they were full early, that it was not yet twelve o'clock. The local waits of those days mostly refrained from sounding a note before Christmas morning had astronomically arrived, and not caring to return to their beer, they decided to begin with some outlying cottages in Sidlinch Lane, where the people had no clocks, and would not know whether it was night or morning. In that direction they accordingly went; and as they ascended to higher ground their attention was attracted by a light beyond the houses, quite at the top of the lane.

The road from Chalk–Newton to Broad Sidlinch is about two miles long and in the middle of its course, where it passes over the ridge dividing the two villages, it crosses at right angles, as has been stated, the lonely monotonous old highway known as Long Ash Lane, which runs, straight as a surveyor's line, many miles north and south of this spot, on the foundation of a Roman road, and has often been mentioned in these narratives. Though now quite deserted and grass–grown, at the beginning of the century it was well kept and frequented by traffic. The glimmering light appeared to come from the precise point where the roads intersected. 'I think I know what that mid mean!' one of the group remarked. They stood a few moments, discussing the probability of the light having origin in an event of which rumours had reached them, and resolved to go up the hill. Approaching the high land their conjectures were strengthened. Long Ash Lane cut athwart them, right and left; and they saw that at the junction of the four ways, under the hand–post, a grave was dug, into which, as the choir drew nigh, a corpse had just been thrown by the four Sidlinch men employed for the purpose.

The cart and horse which had brought the body thither stood silently by. The singers and musicians from Chalk–Newton halted, and looked on while the gravediggers shovelled in and trod down the earth, till, the hole being filled, the latter threw their spades into the cart, and prepared to depart. 'Who mid ye be a–burying there?' asked Lot Swanhills in a raised voice. 'Not the sergeant?' The Sidlinch men had been so deeply engrossed in their task that they had not noticed the lanterns of the Chalk–Newton choir till now. 'What––be you the Newton carol–singers?' returned the representatives of Sidlinch. 'Ay, sure. Can it be that it is old Sergeant Holway you've a–buried there?' ''Tis so. You've heard about it, then?' The choir knew no particulars––only that he had shot himself in his applecloset on the previous Sunday. 'Nobody seem'th to know what 'a did it for, 'a b'lieve? Leastwise, we don't know at Chalk–Newton,' continued Lot. 'O yes. It all came out at the inquest.' The singers drew close, and the Sidlinch men, pausing to rest after their labours, told the story. 'It was all owing to that son of his, poor old man. It broke his heart.'

'But the son is a soldier, surely; now with his regiment in the East Indies?' 'Ay. And it have been rough with the army over there lately. 'Twas a pity his father persuaded him to go. But Luke shouldn't have twyted the sergeant o't, since 'a did it for the best.' The circumstances, in brief, were these: The sergeant who had come to this lamentable end, father of the young soldier who had gone with his regiment to the East, had been singularly comfortable in his military experiences, these having ended long before the outbreak of the Great War with France. On his discharge, after duly serving his time, he had returned to his native village, and married, and take kindly to domestic life. But the war in which England next involved herself had cost him many frettings that age and infirmity prevented him from being ever again an active unit of the army. When his only son grew to young manhood, and the question arose of his going out in life, the lad expressed his wish to be a mechanic. But his father advised enthusiastically for the army.

'Trade is coming to nothing in these days,' he said. 'And if the war with the French lasts, as it will, trade will be still worse. The army, Luke––that's the thing for 'ee. 'Twas the making of me, and 'twill be the making of you. I hadn't half such a chance as you'll have in these splendid hotter times.' Luke demurred, for he was a home–keeping, peace–loving youth. But, putting respectful trust in his father's judgment, he at length gave way, and enlisted in the Foot. In the course of a few weeks he was sent out to India to his regiment, which had distinguished itself in the East under General Wellesley. But Luke was unlucky. News came home indirectly that he lay sick out there; and then on one recent day when his father was out walking, the old man had received tidings that a letter awaited him at Casterbridge.

The sergeant sent a special messenger the whole nine miles, and the letter was paid for and brought home; but though, as he had guessed, it came from Luke, its contents were of an unexpected tenor. The letter had been written during a time of deep depression. Luke said that his life was a burden and slavery, and bitterly reproached his father for advising him to embark on a career for which he felt unsuited. He found himself suffering fatigues and illnesses without gaining glory, and engaged in a cause which he did not understand or appreciate. If it had not been for his father's bad advice he, Luke, would now have been working comfortably at a trade in the village that he had never wished to leave. After reading the letter the sergeant advanced a few steps till he was quite out of sight of everybody, and then sat down on the bank by the wayside.

When he arose half–an–hour later he looked withered and broken, and from that day his natural spirits left him. Wounded to the quick by his son's sarcastic stings, he indulged in liquor more and more frequently. His wife had died some years before this date, and the sergeant lived alone in the house which had been hers. One morning in the December under notice the report of a gun had been heard on his premises, and on entering the neighbours found him in a dying state. He had shot himself with an old firelock that he used for scaring birds; and from what he had said the day before, and the arrangements he had made for his decease, there was no doubt that his end had been deliberately planned, as a consequence of the despondency into which he had been thrown by his son's letter. The coroner's jury returned a verdict of felo de se. 'Here's his son's letter,' said one of the Sidlinch men. ''Twas found in his father's pocket. You can see by the state o't how many times he read it over.

Howsoever, the Lord's will be done, since it must, whether or no.' The grave was filled up and levelled, no mound being shaped over it. The Sidlinch men then bade the Chalk–Newton choir good–night, and departed with the cart in which they had brought the sergeant's body to the hill. When their tread had died away from the ear, and the windswept over the isolated grave with its customary siffle of indifference, Lot Swanhills turned and spoke to old Richard Toller, the hautboy player. ''Tis hard upon a man, and he a wold sojer, to serve en so, Richard. Not that the sergeant was ever in a battle bigger than would go into a halfacre paddock, that's true. Still, his soul ought to hae as good a chance as another man's, all the same, hey?' Richard replied that he was quite of the same opinion. 'What d'ye say to lifting up a carrel over his grave, as 'tis Christmas, and no hurry to begin down in parish, and 'twouldn't take up ten minutes, and not a soul up here to say us nay, or know anything about it?' Lot nodded assent. 'The man ought to hae his chances,' he repeated. 'Ye may as well spet upon his grave, for all the good we shall do en by what we lift up, now he's got so far,' said Notton, the clarionet man and professed sceptic of the choir.

'But I'm agreed if the rest be.' They thereupon placed themselves in a semicircle by the newly stirred earth, and roused the dull air with the well–known Number Sixteen of their collection, which Lot gave out as being the one he thought best suited to the occasion and the mood He comes' the pri'–soners to' re–lease', In Sa'–tan's bon'–dage held'. 'Jown it––we've never played to a dead man afore,' said Ezra Cattstock, when, having concluded the last verse, they stood reflecting for a breath or two. 'But it do seem more merciful than to go away and leave en, as they t'other fellers have done.' 'Now backalong to Newton, and by the time we get overnight the pa'son's 'twill be half after twelve,' said the leader. They had not, however, done more than gather up their instruments when the wind brought to their notice the noise of a vehicle rapidly driven up the same lane from Sidlinch which the gravediggers had lately retraced. To avoid being run over when moving on, they waited till the benighted traveller, whoever he might be, should pass them where they stood in the wider area of the Cross. In half a minute the light of the lanterns fell upon a hired fly, drawn by a steaming and jaded horse. It reached the hand–post, when a voice from the inside cried, 'Stop here!' The driver pulled rein. The carriage door was opened from within, and there leapt out a private soldier in the uniform of some

line regiment. He looked around, and was apparently surprised to see the musicians standing there.

'Have you buried a man here?' he asked.

'No. We bain't Sidlinch folk

thank God; we are Newton choir. Though a man is just buried here, that's true; and we've raised a carrel over the poor mortal's anomy.