Rolliver’s inn, the single alehouse at this
end of the long and broken village, could only boast
of an off-licence; hence, as nobody could legally
drink on the premises, the amount of overt accommodation
for consumers was strictly limited to a little board
about six inches wide and two yards long, fixed to
the garden palings by pieces of wire, so as to form
a ledge. On this board thirsty strangers deposited
their cups as they stood in the road and drank, and
threw the dregs on the dusty ground to the pattern
of Polynesia, and wished they could have a restful
seat inside.
Thus the strangers. But there were also local
customers who felt the same wish; and where there’s
a will there’s a way.
In a large bedroom upstairs, the window of which was
thickly curtained with a great woollen shawl lately
discarded by the landlady, Mrs Rolliver, were gathered
on this evening nearly a dozen persons, all seeking
beatitude; all old inhabitants of the nearer end of
Marlott, and frequenters of this retreat. Not
only did the distance to the The Pure Drop, the fully-licensed
tavern at the further part of the dispersed village,
render its accommodation practically unavailable for
dwellers at this end; but the far more serious question,
the quality of the liquor, confirmed the prevalent
opinion that it was better to drink with Rolliver in
a corner of the housetop than with the other landlord
in a wide house.
A gaunt four-post bedstead which stood in the room
afforded sitting-space for several persons gathered
round three of its sides; a couple more men had elevated
themselves on a chest of drawers; another rested on
the oak-carved “cwoffer”; two on the wash-stand;
another on the stool; and thus all were, somehow, seated
at their ease. The stage of mental comfort to
which they had arrived at this hour was one wherein
their souls expanded beyond their skins, and spread
their personalities warmly through the room.
In this process the chamber and its furniture grew
more and more dignified and luxurious; the shawl hanging
at the window took upon itself the richness of tapestry;
the brass handles of the chest of drawers were as
golden knockers; and the carved bedposts seemed to
have some kinship with the magnificent pillars of
Solomon’s temple.
Mrs Durbeyfield, having quickly walked hitherward
after parting from Tess, opened the front door, crossed
the downstairs room, which was in deep gloom, and
then unfastened the stair-door like one whose fingers
knew the tricks of the latches well. Her ascent
of the crooked staircase was a slower process, and
her face, as it rose into the light above the last
stair, encountered the gaze of all the party assembled
in the bedroom.
“—Being a few private friends I’ve
asked in to keep up club-walking at my own expense,”
the landlady exclaimed at the sound of footsteps,
as glibly as a child repeating the Catechism, while
she peered over the stairs. “Oh, ’tis
you, Mrs Durbeyfield—Lard—how
you frightened me!—I thought it might be
some gaffer sent by Gover’ment.”
