Thomas Hardy - The Return of the Native

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They stood still and prepared to bid each other farewell. Everything
before them was on a perfect level. The sun, resting on the horizon
line, streamed across the ground from between copper-coloured and
lilac clouds, stretched out in flats beneath a sky of pale soft green.
All dark objects on the earth that lay towards the sun were overspread
by a purple haze, against which groups of wailing gnats shone out,
rising upwards and dancing about like sparks of fire.

"O! this leaving you is too hard to bear!" exclaimed Eustacia in a
sudden whisper of anguish. "Your mother will influence you too much;
I shall not be judged fairly, it will get afloat that I am not a good
girl, and the witch story will be added to make me blacker!"

"They cannot. Nobody dares to speak disrespectfully of you or of me."

"Oh how I wish I was sure of never losing you--that you could not be
able to desert me anyhow!"

Clym stood silent a moment. His feelings were high, the moment was
passionate, and he cut the knot.

"You shall be sure of me, darling," he said, folding her in his arms.
"We will be married at once."

"O Clym!"

"Do you agree to it?"

"If--if we can."

"We certainly can, both being of full age. And I have not followed my
occupation all these years without having accumulated money; and if
you will agree to live in a tiny cottage somewhere on the heath, until
I take a house in Budmouth for the school, we can do it at a very
little expense."

"How long shall we have to live in the tiny cottage, Clym?"

"About six months. At the end of that time I shall have finished my
reading--yes, we will do it, and this heartaching will be over. We
shall, of course, live in absolute seclusion, and our married life
will only begin to outward view when we take the house in Budmouth,
where I have already addressed a letter on the matter. Would your
grandfather allow you?"

"I think he would--on the understanding that it should not last longer
than six months."

"I will guarantee that, if no misfortune happens."

"If no misfortune happens," she repeated slowly.

"Which is not likely. Dearest, fix the exact day."

And then they consulted on the question, and the day was chosen. It
was to be a fortnight from that time.

This was the end of their talk, and Eustacia left him. Clym watched
her as she retired towards the sun. The luminous rays wrapped her up
with her increasing distance, and the rustle of her dress over the
sprouting sedge and grass died away. As he watched, the dead flat
of the scenery overpowered him, though he was fully alive to the
beauty of that untarnished early summer green which was worn for the
nonce by the poorest blade. There was something in its oppressive
horizontality which too much reminded him of the arena of life; it
gave him a sense of bare equality with, and no superiority to, a
single living thing under the sun.

Eustacia was now no longer the goddess but the woman to him, a being
to fight for, support, help, be maligned for. Now that he had reached
a cooler moment he would have preferred a less hasty marriage; but
the card was laid, and he determined to abide by the game. Whether
Eustacia was to add one other to the list of those who love too hotly
to love long and well, the forthcoming event was certainly a ready way
of proving.

VI

Yeobright Goes, and the Breach Is Complete

All that evening smart sounds denoting an active packing up came from
Yeobright's room to the ears of his mother downstairs.

Next morning he departed from the house and again proceeded across the
heath. A long day's march was before him, his object being to secure
a dwelling to which he might take Eustacia when she became his wife.
Such a house, small, secluded, and with its windows boarded up, he had
casually observed a month earlier, about two miles beyond the village
of East Egdon, and six miles distant altogether; and thither he
directed his steps today.

The weather was far different from that of the evening before. The
yellow and vapoury sunset which had wrapped up Eustacia from his
parting gaze had presaged change. It was one of those not infrequent
days of an English June which are as wet and boisterous as November.
The cold clouds hastened on in a body, as if painted on a moving
slide. Vapours from other continents arrived upon the wind, which
curled and parted round him as he walked on.

At length Clym reached the margin of a fir and beech plantation that
had been enclosed from heath land in the year of his birth. Here
the trees, laden heavily with their new and humid leaves, were now
suffering more damage than during the highest winds of winter,
when the boughs are especially disencumbered to do battle with the
storm. The wet young beeches were undergoing amputations, bruises,
cripplings, and harsh lacerations, from which the wasting sap would
bleed for many a day to come, and which would leave scars visible till
the day of their burning. Each stem was wrenched at the root, where
it moved like a bone in its socket, and at every onset of the gale
convulsive sounds came from the branches, as if pain were felt. In a
neighbouring brake a finch was trying to sing; but the wind blew under
his feathers till they stood on end, twisted round his little tail,
and made him give up his song.

Yet a few yards to Yeobright's left, on the open heath, how
ineffectively gnashed the storm! Those gusts which tore the trees
merely waved the furze and heather in a light caress. Egdon was made
for such times as these.

Yeobright reached the empty house about mid-day. It was almost as
lonely as that of Eustacia's grandfather, but the fact that it stood
near a heath was disguised by a belt of firs which almost enclosed
the premises. He journeyed on about a mile further to the village
in which the owner lived, and, returning with him to the house,
arrangements were completed, and the man undertook that one room at
least should be ready for occupation the next day. Clym's intention
was to live there alone until Eustacia should join him on their
wedding day.

Then he turned to pursue his way homeward through the drizzle that had
so greatly transformed the scene. The ferns, among which he had lain
in comfort yesterday, were dripping moisture from every frond, wetting
his legs through as he brushed past; and the fur of the rabbits
leaping before him was clotted into dark locks by the same watery
surrounding.

He reached home damp and weary enough after his ten-mile walk. It
had hardly been a propitious beginning, but he had chosen his course,
and would show no swerving. The evening and the following morning
were spent in concluding arrangements for his departure. To stay at
home a minute longer than necessary after having once come to his
determination would be, he felt, only to give new pain to his mother
by some word, look, or deed.

He had hired a conveyance and sent off his goods by two o'clock that
day. The next step was to get some furniture, which, after serving
for temporary use in the cottage, would be available for the house
at Budmouth when increased by goods of a better description. A mart
extensive enough for the purpose existed at Anglebury, some miles
beyond the spot chosen for his residence, and there he resolved to
pass the coming night.

It now only remained to wish his mother good-bye. She was sitting by
the window as usual when he came downstairs.

"Mother, I am going to leave you," he said, holding out his hand.

"I thought you were, by your packing," replied Mrs. Yeobright in a
voice from which every particle of emotion was painfully excluded.

"And you will part friends with me?"

"Certainly, Clym."

"I am going to be married on the twenty-fifth."

"I thought you were going to be married."

"And then--and then you must come and see us. You will understand me
better after that, and our situation will not be so wretched as it is
now."

"I do not think it likely I shall come to see you."

"Then it will not be my fault or Eustacia's, mother. Good-bye!"

He kissed her cheek, and departed in great misery, which was several
hours in lessening itself to a controllable level. The position had
been such that nothing more could be said without, in the first place,
breaking down a barrier; and that was not to be done.

No sooner had Yeobright gone from his mother's house than her face
changed its rigid aspect for one of blank despair. After a while she
wept, and her tears brought some relief. During the rest of the day
she did nothing but walk up and down the garden path in a state
bordering on stupefaction. Night came, and with it but little rest.
The next day, with an instinct to do something which should reduce
prostration to mournfulness, she went to her son's room, and with her
own hands arranged it in order, for an imaginary time when he should
return again. She gave some attention to her flowers, but it was
perfunctorily bestowed, for they no longer charmed her.

It was a great relief when, early in the afternoon, Thomasin paid
her an unexpected visit. This was not the first meeting between the
relatives since Thomasin's marriage; and past blunders having been
in a rough way rectified, they could always greet each other with
pleasure and ease.

The oblique band of sunlight which followed her through the door
became the young wife well. It illuminated her as her presence
illuminated the heath. In her movements, in her gaze, she reminded
the beholder of the feathered creatures who lived around her home.
All similes and allegories concerning her began and ended with birds.
There was as much variety in her motions as in their flight. When she
was musing she was a kestrel, which hangs in the air by an invisible
motion of its wings. When she was in a high wind her light body was
blown against trees and banks like a heron's. When she was frightened
she darted noiselessly like a kingfisher. When she was serene she
skimmed like a swallow, and that is how she was moving now.

"You are looking very blithe, upon my word, Tamsie," said Mrs.
Yeobright, with a sad smile. "How is Damon?"

"He is very well."

"Is he kind to you, Thomasin?" And Mrs. Yeobright observed her
narrowly.

"Pretty fairly."

"Is that honestly said?"

"Yes, aunt. I would tell you if he were unkind." She added, blushing,
and with hesitation, "He--I don't know if I ought to complain to you
about this, but I am not quite sure what to do. I want some money,
you know, aunt--some to buy little things for myself--and he doesn't
give me any. I don't like to ask him; and yet, perhaps, he doesn't
give it me because he doesn't know. Ought I to mention it to him,
aunt?"

"Of course you ought. Have you never said a word on the matter?"

"You see, I had some of my own," said Thomasin evasively, "and I have
not wanted any of his until lately. I did just say something about it
last week; but he seems--not to remember."

"He must be made to remember. You are aware that I have a little box
full of spade-guineas, which your uncle put into my hands to divide
between yourself and Clym whenever I chose. Perhaps the time has come
when it should be done. They can be turned into sovereigns at any
moment."

"I think I should like to have my share--that is, if you don't mind."

"You shall, if necessary. But it is only proper that you should first
tell your husband distinctly that you are without any, and see what he
will do."

"Very well, I will... Aunt, I have heard about Clym. I know you are
in trouble about him, and that's why I have come."

Mrs. Yeobright turned away, and her features worked in her attempt to
conceal her feelings. Then she ceased to make any attempt, and said,
weeping, "O Thomasin, do you think he hates me? How can he bear to
grieve me so, when I have lived only for him through all these years?"

"Hate you--no," said Thomasin soothingly. "It is only that he loves
her too well. Look at it quietly--do. It is not so very bad of him.
Do you know, I thought it not the worst match he could have made.
Miss Vye's family is a good one on her mother's side; and her father
was a romantic wanderer--a sort of Greek Ulysses."

"It is no use, Thomasin; it is no use. Your intention is good; but
I will not trouble you to argue. I have gone through the whole that
can be said on either side times, and many times. Clym and I have
not parted in anger; we have parted in a worse way. It is not a
passionate quarrel that would have broken my heart; it is the steady
opposition and persistence in going wrong that he has shown. O
Thomasin, he was so good as a little boy--so tender and kind!"

"He was, I know."

"I did not think one whom I called mine would grow up to treat me like
this. He spoke to me as if I opposed him to injure him. As though I
could wish him ill!"

"There are worse women in the world than Eustacia Vye."

"There are too many better; that's the agony of it. It was she,
Thomasin, and she only, who led your husband to act as he did: I would
swear it!"

"No," said Thomasin eagerly. "It was before he knew me that he
thought of her, and it was nothing but a mere flirtation."

"Very well; we will let it be so. There is little use in unravelling
that now. Sons must be blind if they will. Why is it that a woman
can see from a distance what a man cannot see close? Clym must do as
he will--he is nothing more to me. And this is maternity--to give
one's best years and best love to ensure the fate of being despised!"

"You are too unyielding. Think how many mothers there are whose sons
have brought them to public shame by real crimes before you feel so
deeply a case like this."

"Thomasin, don't lecture me--I can't have it. It is the excess above
what we expect that makes the force of the blow, and that may not
be greater in their case than in mine: they may have foreseen the
worst... I am wrongly made, Thomasin," she added, with a mournful
smile. "Some widows can guard against the wounds their children give
them by turning their hearts to another husband and beginning life
again. But I always was a poor, weak, one-idea'd creature--I had not
the compass of heart nor the enterprise for that. Just as forlorn and
stupefied as I was when my husband's spirit flew away I have sat ever
since--never attempting to mend matters at all. I was comparatively a
young woman then, and I might have had another family by this time,
and have been comforted by them for the failure of this one son."

"It is more noble in you that you did not."

"The more noble, the less wise."

"Forget it, and be soothed, dear aunt. And I shall not leave you
alone for long. I shall come and see you every day."

And for one week Thomasin literally fulfilled her word. She
endeavoured to make light of the wedding; and brought news of the
preparations, and that she was invited to be present. The next week
she was rather unwell, and did not appear. Nothing had as yet been
done about the guineas, for Thomasin feared to address her husband
again on the subject, and Mrs. Yeobright had insisted upon this.

One day just before this time Wildeve was standing at the door of
the Quiet Woman. In addition to the upward path through the heath to
Rainbarrow and Mistover, there was a road which branched from the
highway a short distance below the inn, and ascended to Mistover by a
circuitous and easy incline. This was the only route on that side for
vehicles to the captain's retreat. A light cart from the nearest town
descended the road, and the lad who was driving pulled up in front of
the inn for something to drink.

"You come from Mistover?" said Wildeve.

"Yes. They are taking in good things up there. Going to be a
wedding." And the driver buried his face in his mug.

Wildeve had not received an inkling of the fact before, and a sudden
expression of pain overspread his face. He turned for a moment into
the passage to hide it. Then he came back again.

"Do you mean Miss Vye?" he said. "How is it--that she can be married
so soon?"

"By the will of God and a ready young man, I suppose."

"You don't mean Mr. Yeobright?"

"Yes. He has been creeping about with her all the spring."

"I suppose--she was immensely taken with him?"

"She is crazy about him, so their general servant of all work tells
me. And that lad Charley that looks after the horse is all in a daze
about it. The stun-poll has got fondlike of her."

"Is she lively--is she glad? Going to be married so soon--well!"

"It isn't so very soon."

"No; not so very soon."

Wildeve went indoors to the empty room, a curious heartache within
him. He rested his elbow upon the mantelpiece and his face upon his
hand. When Thomasin entered the room he did not tell her of what
he had heard. The old longing for Eustacia had reappeared in his
soul; and it was mainly because he had discovered that it was another
man's intention to possess her.

To be yearning for the difficult, to be weary of that offered; to care
for the remote, to dislike the near; it was Wildeve's nature always.
This is the true mark of the man of sentiment. Though Wildeve's
fevered feeling had not been elaborated to real poetical compass, it
was of the standard sort. He might have been called the Rousseau of
Egdon.

VII

The Morning and the Evening of a Day

The wedding morning came. Nobody would have imagined from appearances
that Blooms-End had any interest in Mistover that day. A solemn
stillness prevailed around the house of Clym's mother, and there
was no more animation indoors. Mrs. Yeobright, who had declined to
attend the ceremony, sat by the breakfast table in the old room which
communicated immediately with the porch, her eyes listlessly directed
towards the open door. It was the room in which, six months earlier,
the merry Christmas party had met, to which Eustacia came secretly and
as a stranger. The only living thing that entered now was a sparrow;
and seeing no movements to cause alarm, he hopped boldly round the
room, endeavoured to go out by the window, and fluttered among the
pot-flowers. This roused the lonely sitter, who got up, released
the bird, and went to the door. She was expecting Thomasin, who had
written the night before to state that the time had come when she
would wish to have the money, and that she would if possible call this
day.

Yet Thomasin occupied Mrs. Yeobright's thoughts but slightly as she
looked up the valley of the heath, alive with butterflies, and with
grasshoppers whose husky noises on every side formed a whispered
chorus. A domestic drama, for which the preparations were now being
made a mile or two off, was but little less vividly present to her
eyes than if enacted before her. She tried to dismiss the vision, and
walked about the garden plot; but her eyes ever and anon sought out
the direction of the parish church to which Mistover belonged, and
her excited fancy clove the hills which divided the building from
her eyes. The morning wore away. Eleven o'clock struck: could it
be that the wedding was then in progress? It must be so. She went
on imagining the scene at the church, which he had by this time
approached with his bride. She pictured the little group of children
by the gate as the pony-carriage drove up in which, as Thomasin had
learnt, they were going to perform the short journey. Then she saw
them enter and proceed to the chancel and kneel; and the service
seemed to go on.

She covered her face with her hands. "O, it is a mistake!" she
groaned. "And he will rue it some day, and think of me!"

While she remained thus, overcome by her forebodings, the old clock
indoors whizzed forth twelve strokes. Soon after, faint sounds floated
to her ear from afar over the hills. The breeze came from that
quarter, and it had brought with it the notes of distant bells, gaily
starting off in a peal: one, two, three, four, five. The ringers at
East Egdon were announcing the nuptials of Eustacia and her son.

"Then it is over," she murmured. "Well, well! and life too will be
over soon. And why should I go on scalding my face like this? Cry
about one thing in life, cry about all; one thread runs through the
whole piece. And yet we say, 'a time to laugh!'"

Towards evening Wildeve came. Since Thomasin's marriage Mrs. Yeobright
had shown towards him that grim friendliness which at last arises in
all such cases of undesired affinity. The vision of what ought to
have been is thrown aside in sheer weariness, and browbeaten human
endeavour listlessly makes the best of the fact that is. Wildeve, to
do him justice, had behaved very courteously to his wife's aunt; and
it was with no surprise that she saw him enter now.

"Thomasin has not been able to come, as she promised to do," he
replied to her inquiry, which had been anxious, for she knew that
her niece was badly in want of money. "The captain came down last
night and personally pressed her to join them today. So, not to be
unpleasant, she determined to go. They fetched her in the pony-chaise,
and are going to bring her back."

"Then it is done," said Mrs. Yeobright. "Have they gone to their new
home?"

"I don't know. I have had no news from Mistover since Thomasin left
to go."

"You did not go with her?" said she, as if there might be good reasons
why.

"I could not," said Wildeve, reddening slightly. "We could not both
leave the house; it was rather a busy morning, on account of Anglebury
Great Market. I believe you have something to give to Thomasin? If
you like, I will take it."

Mrs. Yeobright hesitated, and wondered if Wildeve knew what the
something was. "Did she tell you of this?" she inquired.

"Not particularly. She casually dropped a remark about having
arranged to fetch some article or other."

"It is hardly necessary to send it. She can have it whenever she
chooses to come."

"That won't be yet. In the present state of her health she must not
go on walking so much as she has done." He added, with a faint twang
of sarcasm, "What wonderful thing is it that I cannot be trusted to
take?"

"Nothing worth troubling you with."

"One would think you doubted my honesty," he said, with a laugh,
though his colour rose in a quick resentfulness frequent with him.

"You need think no such thing," said she drily. "It is simply that
I, in common with the rest of the world, feel that there are certain
things which had better be done by certain people than by others."

"As you like, as you like," said Wildeve laconically. "It is not
worth arguing about. Well, I think I must turn homeward again, as the
inn must not be left long in charge of the lad and the maid only."

He went his way, his farewell being scarcely so courteous as his
greeting. But Mrs. Yeobright knew him thoroughly by this time, and
took little notice of his manner, good or bad.

When Wildeve was gone Mrs. Yeobright stood and considered what would
be the best course to adopt with regard to the guineas, which she had
not liked to entrust to Wildeve. It was hardly credible that Thomasin
had told him to ask for them, when the necessity for them had arisen
from the difficulty of obtaining money at his hands. At the same time
Thomasin really wanted them, and might be unable to come to Blooms-End
for another week at least. To take or send the money to her at the
inn would be impolite, since Wildeve would pretty surely be present,
or would discover the transaction; and if, as her aunt suspected, he
treated her less kindly than she deserved to be treated, he might then
get the whole sum out of her gentle hands. But on this particular
evening Thomasin was at Mistover, and anything might be conveyed to
her there without the knowledge of her husband. Upon the whole the
opportunity was worth taking advantage of.

Her son, too, was there, and was now married. There could be no more
proper moment to render him his share of the money than the present.
And the chance that would be afforded her, by sending him this gift,
of showing how far she was from bearing him ill-will, cheered the sad
mother's heart.

She went upstairs and took from a locked drawer a little box, out of
which she poured a hoard of broad unworn guineas that had lain there
many a year. There were a hundred in all, and she divided them into
two heaps, fifty in each. Tying up these in small canvas bags, she
went down to the garden and called to Christian Cantle, who was
loitering about in hope of a supper which was not really owed him.
Mrs. Yeobright gave him the moneybags, charged him to go to Mistover,
and on no account to deliver them into any one's hands save her son's
and Thomasin's. On further thought she deemed it advisable to tell
Christian precisely what the two bags contained, that he might
be fully impressed with their importance. Christian pocketed the
money-bags, promised the greatest carefulness, and set out on his way.

"You need not hurry," said Mrs. Yeobright. "It will be better not to
get there till after dusk, and then nobody will notice you. Come back
here to supper, if it is not too late."

It was nearly nine o'clock when he began to ascend the vale towards
Mistover; but the long days of summer being at their climax, the first
obscurity of evening had only just begun to tan the landscape. At
this point of his journey Christian heard voices, and found that they
proceeded from a company of men and women who were traversing a hollow
ahead of him, the tops only of their heads being visible.

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