Thomas Hardy - The Return of the Native

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"What the infernal!" he shrieked. "Now, what shall we do? Perhaps I
have thrown six--have you any matches?"

"None," said Venn.

"Christian had some--I wonder where he is. Christian!"

But there was no reply to Wildeve's shout, save a mournful whining
from the herons which were nesting lower down the vale. Both men
looked blankly round without rising. As their eyes grew accustomed to
the darkness they perceived faint greenish points of light among the
grass and fern. These lights dotted the hillside like stars of a low
magnitude.

"Ah--glowworms," said Wildeve. "Wait a minute. We can continue the
game."

Venn sat still, and his companion went hither and thither till he had
gathered thirteen glowworms--as many as he could find in a space of
four or five minutes--upon a foxglove leaf which he pulled for the
purpose. The reddleman vented a low humorous laugh when he saw his
adversary return with these. "Determined to go on, then?" he said
drily.

"I always am!" said Wildeve angrily. And shaking the glowworms from
the leaf he ranged them with a trembling hand in a circle on the
stone, leaving a space in the middle for the descent of the dice-box,
over which the thirteen tiny lamps threw a pale phosphoric shine. The
game was again renewed. It happened to be that season of the year at
which glowworms put forth their greatest brilliancy, and the light
they yielded was more than ample for the purpose, since it is possible
on such nights to read the handwriting of a letter by the light of two
or three.

The incongruity between the men's deeds and their environment was
great. Amid the soft juicy vegetation of the hollow in which they
sat, the motionless and the uninhabited solitude, intruded the chink
of guineas, the rattle of dice, the exclamations of the reckless
players.

Wildeve had lifted the box as soon as the lights were obtained, and
the solitary die proclaimed that the game was still against him.

"I won't play any more--you've been tampering with the dice," he
shouted.

"How--when they were your own?" said the reddleman.

"We'll change the game: the lowest point shall win the stake--it may
cut off my ill luck. Do you refuse?"

"No--go on," said Venn.

"O, there they are again--damn them!" cried Wildeve, looking up. The
heath-croppers had returned noiselessly, and were looking on with
erect heads just as before, their timid eyes fixed upon the scene, as
if they were wondering what mankind and candle-light could have to do
in these haunts at this untoward hour.

"What a plague those creatures are--staring at me so!" he said, and
flung a stone, which scattered them; when the game was continued as
before.

Wildeve had now ten guineas left; and each laid five. Wildeve threw
three points; Venn two, and raked in the coins. The other seized the
die, and clenched his teeth upon it in sheer rage, as if he would
bite it in pieces. "Never give in--here are my last five!" he cried,
throwing them down. "Hang the glowworms--they are going out. Why
don't you burn, you little fools? Stir them up with a thorn."

He probed the glowworms with a bit of stick, and rolled them over,
till the bright side of their tails was upwards.

"There's light enough. Throw on," said Venn.

Wildeve brought down the box within the shining circle and looked
eagerly. He had thrown ace. "Well done!--I said it would turn, and
it has turned." Venn said nothing; but his hand shook slightly.

He threw ace also.

"O!" said Wildeve. "Curse me!"

The die smacked the stone a second time. It was ace again. Venn
looked gloomy, threw: the die was seen to be lying in two pieces,
the cleft sides uppermost.

"I've thrown nothing at all," he said.

"Serves me right--I split the die with my teeth. Here--take your
money. Blank is less than one."

"I don't wish it."

"Take it, I say--you've won it!" And Wildeve threw the stakes against
the reddleman's chest. Venn gathered them up, arose, and withdrew
from the hollow, Wildeve sitting stupefied.

When he had come to himself he also arose, and, with the extinguished
lantern in his hand, went towards the high-road. On reaching it he
stood still. The silence of night pervaded the whole heath except in
one direction; and that was towards Mistover. There he could hear the
noise of light wheels, and presently saw two carriage-lamps descending
the hill. Wildeve screened himself under a bush and waited.

The vehicle came on and passed before him. It was a hired carriage,
and behind the coachman were two persons whom he knew well. There sat
Eustacia and Yeobright, the arm of the latter being round her waist.
They turned the sharp corner at the bottom towards the temporary home
which Clym had hired and furnished, about five miles to the eastward.

Wildeve forgot the loss of the money at the sight of his lost
love, whose preciousness in his eyes was increasing in geometrical
progression with each new incident that reminded him of their hopeless
division. Brimming with the subtilized misery that he was capable of
feeling, he followed the opposite way towards the inn.

About the same moment that Wildeve stepped into the highway Venn also
had reached it at a point a hundred yards further on; and he, hearing
the same wheels, likewise waited till the carriage should come up.
When he saw who sat therein he seemed to be disappointed. Reflecting
a minute or two, during which interval the carriage rolled on, he
crossed the road, and took a short cut through the furze and heath to
a point where the turnpike-road bent round in ascending a hill. He
was now again in front of the carriage, which presently came up at a
walking pace. Venn stepped forward and showed himself.

Eustacia started when the lamp shone upon him, and Clym's arm was
involuntarily withdrawn from her waist. He said, "What, Diggory? You
are having a lonely walk."

"Yes--I beg your pardon for stopping you," said Venn. "But I am
waiting about for Mrs. Wildeve: I have something to give her from Mrs.
Yeobright. Can you tell me if she's gone home from the party yet?"

"No. But she will be leaving soon. You may possibly meet her at the
corner."

Venn made a farewell obeisance, and walked back to his former
position, where the by-road from Mistover joined the highway. Here
he remained fixed for nearly half an hour, and then another pair
of lights came down the hill. It was the old-fashioned wheeled
nondescript belonging to the captain, and Thomasin sat in it alone,
driven by Charley.

The reddleman came up as they slowly turned the corner. "I beg pardon
for stopping you, Mrs. Wildeve," he said. "But I have something to
give you privately from Mrs. Yeobright." He handed a small parcel; it
consisted of the hundred guineas he had just won, roughly twisted up
in a piece of paper.

Thomasin recovered from her surprise, and took the packet. "That's
all, ma'am--I wish you good night," he said, and vanished from her
view.

Thus Venn, in his anxiety to rectify matters, had placed in Thomasin's
hands not only the fifty guineas which rightly belonged to her, but
also the fifty intended for her cousin Clym. His mistake had been
based upon Wildeve's words at the opening of the game, when he
indignantly denied that the guinea was not his own. It had not been
comprehended by the reddleman that at half-way through the performance
the game was continued with the money of another person; and it was an
error which afterwards helped to cause more misfortune than treble the
loss in money value could have done.

The night was now somewhat advanced; and Venn plunged deeper into the
heath, till he came to a ravine where his van was standing--a spot not
more than two hundred yards from the site of the gambling bout. He
entered this movable home of his, lit his lantern, and, before closing
his door for the night, stood reflecting on the circumstances of
the preceding hours. While he stood the dawn grew visible in the
north-east quarter of the heavens, which, the clouds having cleared
off, was bright with a soft sheen at this midsummer time, though it
was only between one and two o'clock. Venn, thoroughly weary, then
shut his door and flung himself down to sleep.

BOOK FOURTH
THE CLOSED DOOR

I

The Rencounter by the Pool

The July sun shone over Egdon and fired its crimson heather to
scarlet. It was the one season of the year, and the one weather of
the season, in which the heath was gorgeous. This flowering period
represented the second or noontide division in the cycle of those
superficial changes which alone were possible here; it followed the
green or young-fern period, representing the morn, and preceded the
brown period, when the heathbells and ferns would wear the russet
tinges of evening; to be in turn displaced by the dark hue of the
winter period, representing night.

Clym and Eustacia, in their little house at Alderworth, beyond East
Egdon, were living on with a monotony which was delightful to them.
The heath and changes of weather were quite blotted out from their
eyes for the present. They were enclosed in a sort of luminous mist,
which hid from them surroundings of any inharmonious colour, and
gave to all things the character of light. When it rained they were
charmed, because they could remain indoors together all day with such
a show of reason; when it was fine they were charmed, because they
could sit together on the hills. They were like those double stars
which revolve round and round each other, and from a distance appear
to be one. The absolute solitude in which they lived intensified
their reciprocal thoughts; yet some might have said that it had the
disadvantage of consuming their mutual affections at a fearfully
prodigal rate. Yeobright did not fear for his own part; but
recollection of Eustacia's old speech about the evanescence of love,
now apparently forgotten by her, sometimes caused him to ask himself
a question; and he recoiled at the thought that the quality of
finiteness was not foreign to Eden.

When three or four weeks had been passed thus, Yeobright resumed
his reading in earnest. To make up for lost time he studied
indefatigably, for he wished to enter his new profession with the
least possible delay.

Now, Eustacia's dream had always been that, once married to Clym,
she would have the power of inducing him to return to Paris. He had
carefully withheld all promise to do so; but would he be proof against
her coaxing and argument? She had calculated to such a degree on
the probability of success that she had represented Paris, and not
Budmouth, to her grandfather as in all likelihood their future home.
Her hopes were bound up in this dream. In the quiet days since their
marriage, when Yeobright had been poring over her lips, her eyes, and
the lines of her face, she had mused and mused on the subject, even
while in the act of returning his gaze; and now the sight of the
books, indicating a future which was antagonistic to her dream, struck
her with a positively painful jar. She was hoping for the time when,
as the mistress of some pretty establishment, however small, near a
Parisian Boulevard, she would be passing her days on the skirts at
least of the gay world, and catching stray wafts from those town
pleasures she was so well fitted to enjoy. Yet Yeobright was as firm
in the contrary intention as if the tendency of marriage were rather
to develop the fantasies of young philanthropy than to sweep them
away.

Her anxiety reached a high pitch; but there was something in Clym's
undeviating manner which made her hesitate before sounding him on
the subject. At this point in their experience, however, an incident
helped her. It occurred one evening about six weeks after their
union, and arose entirely out of the unconscious misapplication of
Venn of the fifty guineas intended for Yeobright.

A day or two after the receipt of the money Thomasin had sent a note
to her aunt to thank her. She had been surprised at the largeness of
the amount; but as no sum had ever been mentioned she set that down
to her late uncle's generosity. She had been strictly charged by her
aunt to say nothing to her husband of this gift; and Wildeve, as was
natural enough, had not brought himself to mention to his wife a
single particular of the midnight scene in the heath. Christian's
terror, in like manner, had tied his tongue on the share he took in
that proceeding; and hoping that by some means or other the money had
gone to its proper destination, he simply asserted as much, without
giving details.

Therefore, when a week or two had passed away, Mrs. Yeobright began
to wonder why she never heard from her son of the receipt of the
present; and to add gloom to her perplexity came the possibility
that resentment might be the cause of his silence. She could hardly
believe as much, but why did he not write? She questioned Christian,
and the confusion in his answers would at once have led her to
believe that something was wrong, had not one-half of his story been
corroborated by Thomasin's note.

Mrs. Yeobright was in this state of uncertainty when she was informed
one morning that her son's wife was visiting her grandfather at
Mistover. She determined to walk up the hill, see Eustacia, and
ascertain from her daughter-in-law's lips whether the family guineas,
which were to Mrs. Yeobright what family jewels are to wealthier
dowagers, had miscarried or not.

When Christian learnt where she was going his concern reached its
height. At the moment of her departure he could prevaricate no
longer, and, confessing to the gambling, told her the truth as far
as he knew it--that the guineas had been won by Wildeve.

"What, is he going to keep them?" Mrs. Yeobright cried.

"I hope and trust not!" moaned Christian. "He's a good man, and
perhaps will do right things. He said you ought to have gied Mr.
Clym's share to Eustacia, and that's perhaps what he'll do himself."

To Mrs. Yeobright, as soon as she could calmly reflect, there was much
likelihood in this, for she could hardly believe that Wildeve would
really appropriate money belonging to her son. The intermediate
course of giving it to Eustacia was the sort of thing to please
Wildeve's fancy. But it filled the mother with anger none the less.
That Wildeve should have got command of the guineas after all, and
should rearrange the disposal of them, placing Clym's share in Clym's
wife's hands, because she had been his own sweetheart, and might be so
still, was as irritating a pain as any that Mrs. Yeobright had ever
borne.

She instantly dismissed the wretched Christian from her employ for his
conduct in the affair; but, feeling quite helpless and unable to do
without him, told him afterwards that he might stay a little longer
if he chose. Then she hastened off to Eustacia, moved by a much less
promising emotion towards her daughter-in-law than she had felt half
an hour earlier, when planning her journey. At that time it was to
inquire in a friendly spirit if there had been any accidental loss;
now it was to ask plainly if Wildeve had privately given her money
which had been intended as a sacred gift to Clym.

She started at two o'clock, and her meeting with Eustacia was hastened
by the appearance of the young lady beside the pool and bank which
bordered her grandfather's premises, where she stood surveying
the scene, and perhaps thinking of the romantic enactments it had
witnessed in past days. When Mrs. Yeobright approached, Eustacia
surveyed her with the calm stare of a stranger.

The mother-in-law was the first to speak. "I was coming to see you,"
she said.

"Indeed!" said Eustacia with surprise, for Mrs. Yeobright, much to the
girl's mortification, had refused to be present at the wedding. "I
did not at all expect you."

"I was coming on business only," said the visitor, more coldly than at
first. "Will you excuse my asking this--Have you received a gift from
Thomasin's husband?"

"A gift?"

"I mean money!"

"What--I myself?"

"Well, I meant yourself, privately--though I was not going to put it
in that way."

"Money from Mr. Wildeve? No--never! Madam, what do you mean by that?"
Eustacia fired up all too quickly, for her own consciousness of the
old attachment between herself and Wildeve led her to jump to the
conclusion that Mrs. Yeobright also knew of it, and might have come
to accuse her of receiving dishonourable presents from him now.

"I simply ask the question," said Mrs. Yeobright. "I have been--"

"You ought to have better opinions of me--I feared you were against
me from the first!" exclaimed Eustacia.

"No. I was simply for Clym," replied Mrs. Yeobright, with too much
emphasis in her earnestness. "It is the instinct of everyone to look
after their own."

"How can you imply that he required guarding against me?" cried
Eustacia, passionate tears in her eyes. "I have not injured him by
marrying him! What sin have I done that you should think so ill of me?
You had no right to speak against me to him when I have never wronged
you."

"I only did what was fair under the circumstances," said Mrs.
Yeobright more softly. "I would rather not have gone into this
question at present, but you compel me. I am not ashamed to tell you
the honest truth. I was firmly convinced that he ought not to marry
you--therefore I tried to dissuade him by all the means in my power.
But it is done now, and I have no idea of complaining any more. I am
ready to welcome you."

"Ah, yes, it is very well to see things in that business point of
view," murmured Eustacia with a smothered fire of feeling. "But why
should you think there is anything between me and Mr. Wildeve? I have
a spirit as well as you. I am indignant; and so would any woman be.
It was a condescension in me to be Clym's wife, and not a manoeuvre,
let me remind you; and therefore I will not be treated as a schemer
whom it becomes necessary to bear with because she has crept into the
family."

"Oh!" said Mrs. Yeobright, vainly endeavouring to control her anger.
"I have never heard anything to show that my son's lineage is not as
good as the Vyes'--perhaps better. It is amusing to hear you talk of
condescension."

"It was condescension, nevertheless," said Eustacia vehemently. "And
if I had known then what I know now, that I should be living in this
wild heath a month after my marriage, I--I should have thought twice
before agreeing."

"It would be better not to say that; it might not sound truthful. I
am not aware that any deception was used on his part--I know there was
not--whatever might have been the case on the other side."

"This is too exasperating!" answered the younger woman huskily, her
face crimsoning, and her eyes darting light. "How can you dare to
speak to me like that? I insist upon repeating to you that had I
known that my life would from my marriage up to this time have been as
it is, I should have said NO. I don't complain. I have never uttered
a sound of such a thing to him; but it is true. I hope therefore that
in the future you will be silent on my eagerness. If you injure me
now you injure yourself."

"Injure you? Do you think I am an evil-disposed person?"

"You injured me before my marriage, and you have now suspected me of
secretly favouring another man for money!"

"I could not help what I thought. But I have never spoken of you
outside my house."

"You spoke of me within it, to Clym, and you could not do worse."

"I did my duty."

"And I'll do mine."

"A part of which will possibly be to set him against his mother. It
is always so. But why should I not bear it as others have borne it
before me!"

"I understand you," said Eustacia, breathless with emotion. "You
think me capable of every bad thing. Who can be worse than a wife
who encourages a lover, and poisons her husband's mind against his
relative? Yet that is now the character given to me. Will you not
come and drag him out of my hands?"

Mrs. Yeobright gave back heat for heat.

"Don't rage at me, madam! It ill becomes your beauty, and I am not
worth the injury you may do it on my account, I assure you. I am only
a poor old woman who has lost a son."

"If you had treated me honourably you would have had him still."
Eustacia said, while scalding tears trickled from her eyes. "You have
brought yourself to folly; you have caused a division which can never
be healed!"

"I have done nothing. This audacity from a young woman is more than I
can bear."

"It was asked for; you have suspected me, and you have made me speak
of my husband in a way I would not have done. You will let him know
that I have spoken thus, and it will cause misery between us. Will
you go away from me? You are no friend!"

"I will go when I have spoken a word. If anyone says I have come
here to question you without good grounds for it, that person speaks
untruly. If anyone says that I attempted to stop your marriage by any
but honest means, that person, too, does not speak the truth. I have
fallen on an evil time; God has been unjust to me in letting you
insult me! Probably my son's happiness does not lie on this side of
the grave, for he is a foolish man who neglects the advice of his
parent. You, Eustacia, stand on the edge of a precipice without
knowing it. Only show my son one-half the temper you have shown me
today--and you may before long--and you will find that though he is
as gentle as a child with you now, he can be as hard as steel!"

The excited mother then withdrew, and Eustacia, panting, stood looking
into the pool.

II

He Is Set Upon by Adversities; but He Sings a Song

The result of that unpropitious interview was that Eustacia, instead
of passing the afternoon with her grandfather, hastily returned home
to Clym, where she arrived three hours earlier than she had been
expected.

She came indoors with her face flushed, and her eyes still showing
traces of her recent excitement. Yeobright looked up astonished; he
had never seen her in any way approaching to that state before. She
passed him by, and would have gone upstairs unnoticed, but Clym was
so concerned that he immediately followed her.

"What is the matter, Eustacia?" he said. She was standing on the
hearthrug in the bedroom, looking upon the floor, her hands clasped
in front of her, her bonnet yet unremoved. For a moment she did not
answer; and then she replied in a low voice--

"I have seen your mother; and I will never see her again!"

A weight fell like a stone upon Clym. That same morning, when Eustacia
had arranged to go and see her grandfather, Clym had expressed a
wish that she would drive down to Blooms-End and inquire for her
mother-in-law, or adopt any other means she might think fit to bring
about a reconciliation. She had set out gaily; and he had hoped for
much.

"Why is this?" he asked.

"I cannot tell--I cannot remember. I met your mother. And I will
never meet her again."

"Why?"

"What do I know about Mr. Wildeve now? I won't have wicked opinions
passed on me by anybody. O! it was too humiliating to be asked if I
had received any money from him, or encouraged him, or something of
the sort--I don't exactly know what!"

"How could she have asked you that?"

"She did."

"Then there must have been some meaning in it. What did my mother say
besides?"

"I don't know what she said, except in so far as this, that we both
said words which can never be forgiven!"

"Oh, there must be some misapprehension. Whose fault was it that her
meaning was not made clear?"

"I would rather not say. It may have been the fault of the
circumstances, which were awkward at the very least. O Clym--I cannot
help expressing it--this is an unpleasant position that you have
placed me in. But you must improve it--yes, say you will--for I hate
it all now! Yes, take me to Paris, and go on with your old occupation,
Clym! I don't mind how humbly we live there at first, if it can only
be Paris, and not Egdon Heath."

"But I have quite given up that idea," said Yeobright, with surprise.
"Surely I never led you to expect such a thing?"

"I own it. Yet there are thoughts which cannot be kept out of mind,
and that one was mine. Must I not have a voice in the matter, now I
am your wife and the sharer of your doom?"

"Well, there are things which are placed beyond the pale of
discussion; and I thought this was specially so, and by mutual
agreement."

"Clym, I am unhappy at what I hear," she said in a low voice; and her
eyes drooped, and she turned away.

This indication of an unexpected mine of hope in Eustacia's bosom
disconcerted her husband. It was the first time that he had
confronted the fact of the indirectness of a woman's movement towards
her desire. But his intention was unshaken, though he loved Eustacia
well. All the effect that her remark had upon him was a resolve to
chain himself more closely than ever to his books, so as to be the
sooner enabled to appeal to substantial results from another course
in arguing against her whim.

Next day the mystery of the guineas was explained. Thomasin paid them
a hurried visit, and Clym's share was delivered up to him by her own
hands. Eustacia was not present at the time.

"Then this is what my mother meant," exclaimed Clym. "Thomasin, do
you know that they have had a bitter quarrel?"

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