The Return of the Native

by Thomas Hardy

  V

  Perplexity among Honest People

  Thomasin looked as if quite overcome by her aunt's change of manner."It means just what it seems to mean: I am--not married," she repliedfaintly. "Excuse me--for humiliating you, aunt, by this mishap: I amsorry for it. But I cannot help it."

  "Me? Think of yourself first."

  "It was nobody's fault. When we got there the parson wouldn't marryus because of some trifling irregularity in the license."

  "What irregularity?"

  "I don't know. Mr. Wildeve can explain. I did not think when I wentaway this morning that I should come back like this." It being dark,Thomasin allowed her emotion to escape her by the silent way of tears,which could roll down her cheek unseen.

  "I could almost say that it serves you right--if I did not feel thatyou don't deserve it," continued Mrs. Yeobright, who, possessing twodistinct moods in close contiguity, a gentle mood and an angry, flewfrom one to the other without the least warning. "Remember, Thomasin,this business was none of my seeking; from the very first, when youbegan to feel foolish about that man, I warned you he would not makeyou happy. I felt it so strongly that I did what I would never havebelieved myself capable of doing--stood up in the church, and mademyself the public talk for weeks. But having once consented, I don'tsubmit to these fancies without good reason. Marry him you must afterthis."

  "Do you think I wish to do otherwise for one moment?" said Thomasin,with a heavy sigh. "I know how wrong it was of me to love him, butdon't pain me by talking like that, aunt! You would not have had mestay there with him, would you?--and your house is the only home Ihave to return to. He says we can be married in a day or two."

  "I wish he had never seen you."

  "Very well; then I will be the miserablest woman in the world, and notlet him see me again. No, I won't have him!"

  "It is too late to speak so. Come with me. I am going to the inn tosee if he has returned. Of course I shall get to the bottom of thisstory at once. Mr. Wildeve must not suppose he can play tricks uponme, or any belonging to me."

  "It was not that. The license was wrong, and he couldn't get anotherthe same day. He will tell you in a moment how it was, if he comes."

  "Why didn't he bring you back?"

  "That was me!" again sobbed Thomasin. "When I found we could not bemarried I didn't like to come back with him, and I was very ill. ThenI saw Diggory Venn, and was glad to get him to take me home. I cannotexplain it any better, and you must be angry with me if you will."

  "I shall see about that," said Mrs. Yeobright; and they turned towardsthe inn, known in the neighbourhood as the Quiet Woman, the sign ofwhich represented the figure of a matron carrying her head under herarm, beneath which gruesome design was written the couplet so wellknown to frequenters of the inn:--

  SINCE THE WOMAN'S QUIET LET NO MAN BREED A RIOT.

  The front of the house was towards the heath and Rainbarrow, whosedark shape seemed to threaten it from the sky. Upon the door wasa neglected brass plate, bearing the unexpected inscription, "Mr.Wildeve, Engineer"--a useless yet cherished relic from the time whenhe had been started in that profession in an office at Budmouth bythose who had hoped much from him, and had been disappointed. Thegarden was at the back, and behind this ran a still deep stream,forming the margin of the heath in that direction, meadow-landappearing beyond the stream.

  But the thick obscurity permitted only skylines to be visible ofany scene at present. The water at the back of the house could beheard, idly spinning whirpools in its creep between the rows of dryfeather-headed reeds which formed a stockade along each bank. Theirpresence was denoted by sounds as of a congregation praying humbly,produced by their rubbing against each other in the slow wind.

  The window, whence the candlelight had shone up the vale to the eyesof the bonfire group, was uncurtained, but the sill lay too high fora pedestrian on the outside to look over it into the room. A vastshadow, in which could be dimly traced portions of a masculinecontour, blotted half the ceiling.

  "He seems to be at home," said Mrs. Yeobright.

  "Must I come in, too, aunt?" asked Thomasin faintly. "I suppose not;it would be wrong."

  "You must come, certainly--to confront him, so that he may make nofalse representations to me. We shall not be five minutes in thehouse, and then we'll walk home."

  Entering the open passage she tapped at the door of the privateparlour, unfastened it, and looked in.

  The back and shoulders of a man came between Mrs. Yeobright's eyes andthe fire. Wildeve, whose form it was, immediately turned, arose, andadvanced to meet his visitors.

  He was quite a young man, and of the two properties, form and motion,the latter first attracted the eye in him. The grace of his movementwas singular: it was the pantomimic expression of a lady-killingcareer. Next came into notice the more material qualities, amongwhich was a profuse crop of hair impending over the top of his face,lending to his forehead the high-cornered outline of an early Gothicshield; and a neck which was smooth and round as a cylinder. The lowerhalf of his figure was of light build. Altogether he was one in whomno man would have seen anything to admire, and in whom no woman wouldhave seen anything to dislike.

  He discerned the young girl's form in the passage, and said,"Thomasin, then, has reached home. How could you leave me in thatway, darling?" And turning to Mrs. Yeobright: "It was useless to arguewith her. She would go, and go alone."

  "But what's the meaning of it all?" demanded Mrs. Yeobright haughtily.

  "Take a seat," said Wildeve, placing chairs for the two women. "Well,it was a very stupid mistake, but such mistakes will happen. Thelicense was useless at Anglebury. It was made out for Budmouth, butas I didn't read it I wasn't aware of that."

  "But you had been staying at Anglebury?"

  "No. I had been at Budmouth--till two days ago--and that was where Ihad intended to take her; but when I came to fetch her we decided uponAnglebury, forgetting that a new license would be necessary. There wasnot time to get to Budmouth afterwards."

  "I think you are very much to blame," said Mrs. Yeobright.

  "It was quite my fault we chose Anglebury," Thomasin pleaded. "Iproposed it because I was not known there."

  "I know so well that I am to blame that you need not remind me of it,"replied Wildeve shortly.

  "Such things don't happen for nothing," said the aunt. "It is a greatslight to me and my family; and when it gets known there will be avery unpleasant time for us. How can she look her friends in the facetomorrow? It is a very great injury, and one I cannot easily forgive.It may even reflect on her character."

  "Nonsense," said Wildeve.

  Thomasin's large eyes had flown from the face of one to the face ofthe other during this discussion, and she now said anxiously, "Willyou allow me, aunt, to talk it over alone with Damon for five minutes?Will you, Damon?"

  "Certainly, dear," said Wildeve, "if your aunt will excuse us." He ledher into an adjoining room, leaving Mrs. Yeobright by the fire.

  As soon as they were alone, and the door closed, Thomasin said,turning up her pale, tearful face to him, "It is killing me, this,Damon! I did not mean to part from you in anger at Anglebury thismorning; but I was frightened, and hardly knew what I said. I've notlet aunt know how much I have suffered to-day; and it is so hard tocommand my face and voice, and to smile as if it were a slight thingto me; but I try to do so, that she may not be still more indignantwith you. I know you could not help it, dear, whatever aunt maythink."

  "She is very unpleasant."

  "Yes," Thomasin murmured, "and I suppose I seem so now... Damon, whatdo you mean to do about me?"

  "Do about you?"

  "Yes. Those who don't like you whisper things which at moments make medoubt you. We mean to marry, I suppose, don't we?"

  "Of course we do. We have only to go to Budmouth on Monday, and wemarry at once."

  "Then do let us go!--O Damon, what you make me say!" She hid herface in her handkerchief. "Here am I asking you to marry me, whenby
rights you ought to be on your knees imploring me, your cruelmistress, not to refuse you, and saying it would break your heart if Idid. I used to think it would be pretty and sweet like that; but howdifferent!"

  "Yes, real life is never at all like that."

  "But I don't care personally if it never takes place," she added witha little dignity; "no, I can live without you. It is aunt I think of.She is so proud, and thinks so much of her family respectability,that she will be cut down with mortification if this story shouldget abroad before--it is done. My cousin Clym, too, will be muchwounded."

  "Then he will be very unreasonable. In fact, you are all ratherunreasonable."

  Thomasin coloured a little, and not with love. But whatever themomentary feeling which caused that flush in her, it went as it came,and she humbly said, "I never mean to be, if I can help it. I merelyfeel that you have my aunt to some extent in your power at last."

  "As a matter of justice it is almost due to me," said Wildeve. "Thinkwhat I have gone through to win her consent; the insult that it isto any man to have the banns forbidden: the double insult to a manunlucky enough to be cursed with sensitiveness, and blue demons,and Heaven knows what, as I am. I can never forget those banns. Aharsher man would rejoice now in the power I have of turning upon youraunt by going no further in the business."

  She looked wistfully at him with her sorrowful eyes as he said thosewords, and her aspect showed that more than one person in the roomcould deplore the possession of sensitiveness. Seeing that she wasreally suffering he seemed disturbed and added, "This is merely areflection you know. I have not the least intention to refuse tocomplete the marriage, Tamsie mine--I could not bear it."

  "You could not, I know!" said the fair girl, brightening. "You, whocannot bear the sight of pain in even an insect, or any disagreeablesound, or unpleasant smell even, will not long cause pain to me andmine."

  "I will not, if I can help it."

  "Your hand upon it, Damon."

  He carelessly gave her his hand.

  "Ah, by my crown, what's that?" he said suddenly.

  There fell upon their ears the sound of numerous voices singing infront of the house. Among these, two made themselves prominent bytheir peculiarity: one was a very strong bass, the other a wheezy thinpiping. Thomasin recognized them as belonging to Timothy Fairway andGrandfer Cantle respectively.

  "What does it mean--it is not skimmity-riding, I hope?" she said, witha frightened gaze at Wildeve.

  "Of course not; no, it is that the heath-folk have come to sing tous a welcome. This is intolerable!" He began pacing about, the menoutside singing cheerily--

  "He told' her that she' was the joy' of his life'. And if' she'd con-sent' he would make her his wife'; She could' not refuse' him; to church' so they went', Young Will was forgot', and young Sue' was content'; And then' was she kiss'd' and set down' on his knee', No man' in the world' was so lov'-ing as he'!"

  Mrs. Yeobright burst in from the outer room. "Thomasin, Thomasin!"she said, looking indignantly at Wildeve; "here's a pretty exposure!Let us escape at once. Come!"

  It was, however, too late to get away by the passage. A ruggedknocking had begun upon the door of the front room. Wildeve, who hadgone to the window, came back.

  "Stop!" he said imperiously, putting his hand upon Mrs. Yeobright'sarm. "We are regularly besieged. There are fifty of them out thereif there's one. You stay in this room with Thomasin; I'll go out andface them. You must stay now, for my sake, till they are gone, sothat it may seem as if all was right. Come, Tamsie dear, don't gomaking a scene--we must marry after this; that you can see as well asI. Sit still, that's all--and don't speak much. I'll manage them.Blundering fools!"

  He pressed the agitated girl into a seat, returned to the outer roomand opened the door. Immediately outside, in the passage, appearedGrandfer Cantle singing in concert with those still standing infront of the house. He came into the room and nodded abstractedlyto Wildeve, his lips still parted, and his features excruciatinglystrained in the emission of the chorus. This being ended, he saidheartily, "Here's welcome to the newmade couple, and God bless 'em!"

  "Thank you," said Wildeve, with dry resentment, his face as gloomy asa thunderstorm.

  At the Grandfer's heels now came the rest of the group, which includedFairway, Christian, Sam the turf-cutter, Humphrey, and a dozen others.All smiled upon Wildeve, and upon his tables and chairs likewise,from a general sense of friendliness towards the articles as well astowards their owner.

  "We be not here afore Mrs. Yeobright after all," said Fairway,recognizing the matron's bonnet through the glass partition whichdivided the public apartment they had entered from the room where thewomen sat. "We struck down across, d'ye see, Mr. Wildeve, and shewent round by the path."

  "And I see the young bride's little head!" said Grandfer, peeping inthe same direction, and discerning Thomasin, who was waiting besideher aunt in a miserable and awkward way. "Not quite settled inyet--well, well, there's plenty of time."

  Wildeve made no reply; and probably feeling that the sooner he treatedthem the sooner they would go, he produced a stone jar, which threw awarm halo over matters at once.

  "That's a drop of the right sort, I can see," said Grandfer Cantle,with the air of a man too well-mannered to show any hurry to tasteit.

  "Yes," said Wildeve, "'tis some old mead. I hope you will like it."

  "O ay!" replied the guests, in the hearty tones natural when the wordsdemanded by politeness coincide with those of deepest feeling. "Thereisn't a prettier drink under the sun."

  "I'll take my oath there isn't," added Grandfer Cantle. "All that canbe said against mead is that 'tis rather heady, and apt to lie about aman a good while. But tomorrow's Sunday, thank God."

  "I feel'd for all the world like some bold soldier after I had hadsome once," said Christian.

  "You shall feel so again," said Wildeve, with condescension, "Cups orglasses, gentlemen?"

  "Well, if you don't mind, we'll have the beaker, and pass 'en round;'tis better than heling it out in dribbles."

  "Jown the slippery glasses," said Grandfer Cantle. "What's the goodof a thing that you can't put down in the ashes to warm, hey,neighbours; that's what I ask?"

  "Right, Grandfer," said Sam; and the mead then circulated.

  "Well," said Timothy Fairway, feeling demands upon his praise in someform or other, "'tis a worthy thing to be married, Mr. Wildeve; andthe woman you've got is a dimant, so says I. Yes," he continued, toGrandfer Cantle, raising his voice so as to be heard through thepartition, "her father (inclining his head towards the inner room) wasas good a feller as ever lived. He always had his great indignationready against anything underhand."

  "Is that very dangerous?" said Christian.

  "And there were few in these parts that were upsides with him," saidSam. "Whenever a club walked he'd play the clarinet in the band thatmarched before 'em as if he'd never touched anything but a clarinetall his life. And then, when they got to church door he'd throw downthe clarinet, mount the gallery, snatch up the bass-viol, and rozumaway as if he'd never played anything but a bass-viol. Folk wouldsay--folk that knowed what a true stave was--'Surely, surely that'snever the same man that I saw handling the clarinet so masterly bynow!"

  "I can mind it," said the furze-cutter. "'Twas a wonderful thing thatone body could hold it all and never mix the fingering."

  "There was Kingsbere church likewise," Fairway recommenced, as oneopening a new vein of the same mine of interest.

  Wildeve breathed the breath of one intolerably bored, and glancedthrough the partition at the prisoners.

  "He used to walk over there of a Sunday afternoon to visit his oldacquaintance Andrew Brown, the first clarinet there; a good manenough, but rather screechy in his music, if you can mind?"

  "'A was."

  "And neighbour Yeobright would take Andrey's place for some part ofthe service, to let Andrey have a bit of a nap, as any friend wouldnaturally do."

  "As any friend wo
uld," said Grandfer Cantle, the other listenersexpressing the same accord by the shorter way of nodding their heads.

  "No sooner was Andrey asleep and the first whiff of neighbourYeobright's wind had got inside Andrey's clarinet than everyone inchurch feeled in a moment there was a great soul among 'em. All headswould turn, and they'd say, 'Ah, I thought 'twas he!' One Sunday I canwell mind--a bass-viol day that time, and Yeobright had brought hisown. 'Twas the Hundred-and-thirty-third to 'Lydia'; and when they'dcome to 'Ran down his beard and o'er his robes its costly moistureshed,' neighbour Yeobright, who had just warmed to his work, drove hisbow into them strings that glorious grand that he e'en a'most sawedthe bass-viol into two pieces. Every winder in church rattled as if'twere a thunderstorm. Old Pa'son Williams lifted his hands in hisgreat holy surplice as natural as if he'd been in common clothes, andseemed to say to hisself, 'O for such a man in our parish!' But not asoul in Kingsbere could hold a candle to Yeobright."

  "Was it quite safe when the winder shook?" Christian inquired.

  He received no answer, all for the moment sitting rapt in admirationof the performance described. As with Farinelli's singing before theprincesses, Sheridan's renowned Begum Speech, and other such examples,the fortunate condition of its being for ever lost to the worldinvested the deceased Mr. Yeobright's _tour de force_ on thatmemorable afternoon with a cumulative glory which comparativecriticism, had that been possible, might considerably have shorn down.

  "He was the last you'd have expected to drop off in the prime oflife," said Humphrey.

  "Ah, well: he was looking for the earth some months afore he went. Atthat time women used to run for smocks and gown-pieces at GreenhillFair, and my wife that is now, being a long-legged slittering maid,hardly husband-high, went with the rest of the maidens, for 'a wasa good runner afore she got so heavy. When she came home I said--wewere then just beginning to walk together--'What have ye got, myhoney?' 'I've won--well, I've won--a gown-piece,' says she, hercolours coming up in a moment. 'Tis a smock for a crown, I thought;and so it turned out. Ay, when I think what she'll say to me nowwithout a mossel of red in her face, it do seem strange that 'awouldn't say such a little thing then... However, then she went on,and that's what made me bring up the story. 'Well, whatever clothesI've won, white or figured, for eyes to see or for eyes not to see'('a could do a pretty stroke of modesty in those days), 'I'd soonerhave lost it than have seen what I have. Poor Mr. Yeobright was tookbad directly he reached the fair ground, and was forced to go homeagain.' That was the last time he ever went out of the parish."

  "'A faltered on from one day to another, and then we heard he wasgone."

  "D'ye think he had great pain when 'a died?" said Christian.

  "O no: quite different. Nor any pain of mind. He was lucky enough tobe God A'mighty's own man."

  "And other folk--d'ye think 'twill be much pain to 'em, MisterFairway?"

  "That depends on whether they be afeard."

  "I bain't afeard at all, I thank God!" said Christian strenuously."I'm glad I bain't, for then 'twon't pain me... I don't think I beafeard--or if I be I can't help it, and I don't deserve to suffer. Iwish I was not afeard at all!"

  There was a solemn silence, and looking from the window, which wasunshuttered and unblinded, Timothy said, "Well, what a fess littlebonfire that one is, out by Cap'n Vye's! 'Tis burning just the samenow as ever, upon my life."

  All glances went through the window, and nobody noticed that Wildevedisguised a brief, telltale look. Far away up the sombre valley ofheath, and to the right of Rainbarrow, could indeed be seen the light,small, but steady and persistent as before.

  "It was lighted before ours was," Fairway continued; "and yet everyone in the country round is out afore 'n."

  "Perhaps there's meaning in it!" murmured Christian.

  "How meaning?" said Wildeve sharply.

  Christian was too scattered to reply, and Timothy helped him.

  "He means, sir, that the lonesome dark-eyed creature up there thatsome say is a witch--ever I should call a fine young woman such aname--is always up to some odd conceit or other; and so perhaps 'tisshe."

  "I'd be very glad to ask her in wedlock, if she'd hae me, and takethe risk of her wild dark eyes ill-wishing me," said Grandfer Cantlestaunchly.

  "Don't ye say it, father!" implored Christian.

  "Well, be dazed if he who do marry the maid won't hae an uncommonpicture for his best parlour," said Fairway in a liquid tone, placingdown the cup of mead at the end of a good pull.

  "And a partner as deep as the North Star," said Sam, taking up the cupand finishing the little that remained. "Well, really, now I think wemust be moving," said Humphrey, observing the emptiness of the vessel.

  "But we'll gie 'em another song?" said Grandfer Cantle. "I'm as fullof notes as a bird!"

  "Thank you, Grandfer," said Wildeve. "But we will not trouble younow. Some other day must do for that--when I have a party."

  "Be jown'd if I don't learn ten new songs for't, or I won't learn aline!" said Grandfer Cantle. "And you may be sure I won't disappointye by biding away, Mr. Wildeve."

  "I quite believe you," said that gentleman.

  All then took their leave, wishing their entertainer long life andhappiness as a married man, with recapitulations which occupied sometime. Wildeve attended them to the door, beyond which the deep-dyedupward stretch of heath stood awaiting them, an amplitude of darknessreigning from their feet almost to the zenith, where a definite formfirst became visible in the lowering forehead of Rainbarrow. Divinginto the dense obscurity in a line headed by Sam the turf-cutter, theypursued their trackless way home.

  When the scratching of the furze against their leggings had faintedupon the ear, Wildeve returned to the room where he had left Thomasinand her aunt. The women were gone.

  They could only have left the house in one way, by the back window;and this was open.

  Wildeve laughed to himself, remained a moment thinking, and idlyreturned to the front room. Here his glance fell upon a bottle ofwine which stood on the mantelpiece. "Ah--old Dowden!" he murmured;and going to the kitchen door shouted, "Is anybody here who can takesomething to old Dowden?"

  There was no reply. The room was empty, the lad who acted as hisfactotum having gone to bed. Wildeve came back put on his hat, tookthe bottle, and left the house, turning the key in the door, for therewas no guest at the inn tonight. As soon as he was on the road thelittle bonfire on Mistover Knap again met his eye.

  "Still waiting, are you, my lady?" he murmured.

  However, he did not proceed that way just then; but leaving the hillto the left of him, he stumbled over a rutted road that brought him toa cottage which, like all other habitations on the heath at this hour,was only saved from being visible by a faint shine from its bedroomwindow. This house was the home of Olly Dowden, the besom-maker, andhe entered.

  The lower room was in darkness; but by feeling his way he found atable, whereon he placed the bottle, and a minute later emerged againupon the heath. He stood and looked north-east at the undying littlefire--high up above him, though not so high as Rainbarrow.

  We have been told what happens when a woman deliberates; and theepigram is not always terminable with woman, provided that one be inthe case, and that a fair one. Wildeve stood, and stood longer, andbreathed perplexedly, and then said to himself with resignation,"Yes--by Heaven, I must go to her, I suppose!"

  Instead of turning in the direction of home he pressed on rapidly by apath under Rainbarrow towards what was evidently a signal light.