Book Six - Aftercourses
1 - The Inevitable Movement Onward
The story of the deaths of Eustacia and Wildeve was told
throughout Egdon, and far beyond, for many weeks and months. All the
known incidents of their love were enlarged, distorted, touched up,
and modified, till the original reality bore but a slight resemblance
to the counterfeit presentation by surrounding tongues. Yet, upon the
whole, neither the man nor the woman lost dignity by sudden death. Misfortune
had struck them gracefully, cutting off their erratic histories with
a catastrophic dash, instead of, as with many, attenuating each life
to an uninteresting meagreness, through long years of wrinkles, neglect,
and decay.
On those most nearly concerned the effect was somewhat different. Strangers
who had heard of many such cases now merely heard of one more; but immediately
where a blow falls no previous imaginings amount to appreciable preparation
for it. The very suddenness of her bereavement dulled, to some extent,
Thomasin's feelings; yet irrationally enough, a consciousness that the
husband she had lost ought to have been a better man did not lessen
her mourning at all. On the contrary, this fact seemed at first to set
off the dead husband in his young wife's eyes, and to be the necessary
cloud to the rainbow.
But the horrors of the unknown had passed. Vague misgivings about her
future as a deserted wife were at an end. The worst had once been matter
of trembling conjecture; it was now matter of reason only, a limited
badness. Her chief interest, the little Eustacia, still remained. There
was humility in her grief, no defiance in her attitude; and when this
is the case a shaken spirit is apt to be stilled.
Could Thomasin's mournfulness now and Eustacia's serenity during life
have been reduced to common measure, they would have touched the same
mark nearly. But Thomasin's former brightness made shadow of that which
in a sombre atmosphere was light itself.
The spring came and calmed her; the summer came and soothed her; the
autumn arrived, and she began to be comforted, for her little girl was
strong and happy, growing in size and knowledge every day. Outward events
flattered Thomasin not a little. Wildeve had died intestate, and she
and the child were his only relatives. When administration had been
granted, all the debts paid, and the residue of her husband's uncle's
property had come into her hands, it was found that the sum waiting
to be invested for her own and the child's benefit was little less than
ten thousand pounds.
Where should she live? The obvious place was Blooms-End. The old rooms,
it is true, were not much higher than the between-decks of a frigate,
necessitating a sinking in the floor under the new clock-case she brought
from the inn, and the removal of the handsome brass knobs on its head,
before there was height for it to stand; but, such as the rooms were,
there were plenty of them, and the place was endeared to her by every
early recollection. Clym very gladly admitted her as a tenant, confining
his own existence to two rooms at the top of the back staircase, where
he lived on quietly, shut off from Thomasin and the three servants she
had thought fit to indulge in now that she was a mistress of money,
going his own ways, and thinking his own thoughts.
His sorrows had made some change in his outward appearance; and yet
the alteration was chiefly within. It might have been said that he had
a wrinkled mind. He had no enemies, and he could get nobody to reproach
him, which was why he so bitterly reproached himself.
He did sometimes think he had been ill-used by fortune, so far as to
say that to be born is a palpable dilemma, and that instead of men aiming
to advance in life with glory they should calculate how to retreat out
of it without shame. But that he and his had been sarcastically and
pitilessly handled in having such irons thrust into their souls he did
not maintain long. It is usually so, except with the sternest of men.
Human beings, in their generous endeavour to construct a hypothesis
that shall not degrade a First Cause, have always hesitated to conceive
a dominant power of lower moral quality than their own; and, even while
they sit down and weep by the waters of Babylon, invent excuses for
the oppression which prompts their tears.
Thus, though words of solace were vainly uttered in his presence, he
found relief in a direction of his own choosing when left to himself.
For a man of his habits the house and the hundred and twenty pounds
a year which he had inherited from his mother were enough to supply
all worldly needs. Resources do not depend upon gross amounts, but upon
the proportion of spendings to takings.
He frequently walked the heath alone, when the past seized upon him
with its shadowy hand, and held him there to listen to its tale. His
imagination would then people the spot with its ancient inhabitants-forgotten
Celtic tribes trod their tracks about him, and he could almost live
among them, look in their faces, and see them standing beside the barrows
which swelled around, untouched and perfect as at the time of their
erection. Those of the dyed barbarians who had chosen the cultivable
tracts were, in comparison with those who had left their marks here,
as writers on paper beside writers on parchment. Their records had perished
long ago by the plough, while the works of these remained. Yet they
all had lived and died unconscious of the different fates awaiting their
relics. It reminded him that unforeseen factors operate in the evolution
of immortality.
Winter again came round, with its winds, frosts, tame robins, and sparkling
starlight. The year previous Thomasin had hardly been conscious of the
season's advance; this year she laid her heart open to external influences
of every kind. The life of this sweet cousin, her baby, and her servants,
came to Clym's senses only in the form of sounds through a wood partition
as he sat over books of exceptionally large type; but his ear became
at last so accustomed to these slight noises from the other part of
the house that he almost could witness the scenes they signified. A
faint beat of half-seconds conjured up Thomasin rocking the cradle,
a wavering hum meant that she was singing the baby to sleep, a crunching
of sand as between millstones raised the picture of Humphrey's, Fairway's,
or Sam's heavy feet crossing the stone floor of the kitchen; a light
boyish step, and a gay tune in a high key, betokened a visit from Grandfer
Cantle; a sudden break-off in the Grandfer's utterances implied the
application to his lips of a mug of small beer, a bustling and slamming
of doors meant starting to go to market; for Thomasin, in spite of her
added scope of gentility, led a ludicrously narrow life, to the end
that she might save every possible pound for her little daughter.
One summer day Clym was in the garden, immediately outside the parlour
window, which was as usual open. He was looking at the pot-flowers on
the sill; they had been revived and restored by Thomasin to the state
in which his mother had left them. He heard a slight scream from Thomasin,
who was sitting inside the room.
"O, how you frightened me!" she said to someone who had entered.
"I thought you were the ghost of yourself."
Clym was curious enough to advance a little further and look in at the
window. To his astonishment there stood within the room Diggory Venn,
no longer a reddleman, but exhibiting the strangely altered hues of
an ordinary Christian countenance, white shirt-front, light flowered
waistcoat, blue-spotted neckerchief, and bottle-green coat. Nothing
in this appearance was at all singular but the fact of its great difference
from what he had formerly been. Red, and all approach to red, was carefully
excluded from every article of clothes upon him; for what is there that
persons just out of harness dread so much as reminders of the trade
which has enriched them?
Yeobright went round to the door and entered.
"I was so alarmed!" said Thomasin, smiling from one to the
other. "I couldn't believe that he had got white of his own accord!
It seemed supernatural."
"I gave up dealing in reddle last Christmas," said Venn. "It
was a profitable trade, and I found that by that time I had made enough
to take the dairy of fifty cows that my father had in his lifetime.
I always thought of getting to that place again if I changed at all,
and now I am there."
"How did you manage to become white, Diggory?" Thomasin asked.
"I turned so by degrees, ma'am."
"You look much better than ever you did before."
Venn appeared confused; and Thomasin, seeing how inadvertently she had
spoken to a man who might possibly have tender feelings for her still,
blushed a little. Clym saw nothing of this, and added good-humouredly-
"What shall we have to frighten Thomasin's baby with, now you have
become a human being again?"
"Sit down, Diggory," said Thomasin, "and stay to tea."
Venn moved as if he would retire to the kitchen, when Thomasin said
with pleasant pertness as she went on with some sewing, "Of course
you must sit down here. And where does your fifty-cow dairy lie, Mr.
Venn?"
"At Stickleford-about two miles to the right of Alderworth, ma'am,
where the meads begin. I have thought that if Mr. Yeobright would like
to pay me a visit sometimes he shouldn't stay away for want of asking.
I'll not bide to tea this afternoon, thank'ee, for I've got something
on hand that must be settled. 'Tis Maypole-day tomorrow, and the Shadwater
folk have clubbed with a few of your neighbours here to have a pole
just outside your palings in the heath, as it is a nice green place."
Venn waved his elbow towards the patch in front of the house. "I
have been talking to Fairway about it," he continued, "and
I said to him that before we put up the pole it would be as well to
ask Mrs. Wildeve."
"I can say nothing against it," she answered. "Our property
does not reach an inch further than the white palings."
"But you might not like to see a lot of folk going crazy round
a stick, under your very nose?"
"I shall have no objection at all."
Venn soon after went away, and in the evening Yeobright strolled as
far as Fairway's cottage. It was a lovely May sunset, and the birch
trees which grew on this margin of the vast Egdon wilderness had put
on their new leaves, delicate as butterflies' wings, and diaphanous
as amber. Beside Fairway's dwelling was an open space recessed from
the road, and here were now collected all the young people from within
a radius of a couple of miles. The pole lay with one end supported on
a trestle, and women were engaged in wreathing it from the top downwards
with wild-flowers. The instincts of merry England lingered on here with
exceptional vitality, and the symbolic customs which tradition has attached
to each season of the year were yet a reality on Egdon. Indeed, the
impulses of all such outlandish hamlets are pagan still-in these spots
homage to nature, self-adoration, frantic gaieties, fragments of Teutonic
rites to divinities whose names are forgotten, seem in some way or other
to have survived mediaeval doctrine.
Yeobright did not interrupt the preparations, and went home again. The
next morning, when Thomasin withdrew the curtains of her bedroom window,
there stood the Maypole in the middle of the green, its top cutting
into the sky. It had sprung up in the night, or rather early morning,
like Jack's bean-stalk. She opened the casement to get a better view
of the garlands and posies that adorned it. The sweet perfume of the
flowers had already spread into the surrounding air, which, being free
from every taint, conducted to her lips a full measure of the fragrance
received from the spire of blossom in its midst. At the top of the pole
were crossed hoops decked with small flowers; beneath these came a milk-white
zone of Maybloom; then a zone of bluebells, then of cowslips, then of
lilacs, then of ragged-robins, daffodils, and so on, till the lowest
stage was reached. Thomasin noticed all these, and was delighted that
the May revel was to be so near.
When afternoon came people began to gather on the green, and Yeobright
was interested enough to look out upon them from the open window of
his room. Soon after this Thomasin walked out from the door immediately
below and turned her eyes up to her cousin's face. She was dressed more
gaily than Yeobright had ever seen her dressed since the time of Wildeve's
death, eighteen months before; since the day of her marriage even she
had not exhibited herself to such advantage.
"How pretty you look today, Thomasin!" he said.
"Is it because of the Maypole?"
"Not altogether." And then she blushed and dropped her eyes,
which he did not specially observe, though her manner seemed to him
to be rather peculiar, considering that she was only addressing himself.
Could it be possible that she had put on her summer clothes to please
him?
He recalled her conduct towards him throughout the last few weeks, when
they had often been working together in the garden, just as they had
formerly done when they were boy and girl under his mother's eye. What
if her interest in him were not so entirely that of a relative as it
had formerly been? To Yeobright any possibility of this sort was a serious
matter; and he almost felt troubled at the thought of it. Every pulse
of loverlike feeling which had not been stilled during Eustacia's lifetime
had gone into the grave with her. His passion for her had occurred too
far on in his manhood to leave fuel enough on hand for another fire
of that sort, as may happen with more boyish loves. Even supposing him
capable of loving again, that love would be a plant of slow and laboured
growth, and in the end only small and sickly, like an autumn-hatched
bird.
He was so distressed by this new complexity that when the enthusiastic
brass band arrived and struck up, which it did about five o'clock, with
apparently wind enough among its members to blow down his house, he
withdrew from his rooms by the back door, went down the garden, through
the gate in the hedge, and away out of sight. He could not bear to remain
in the presence of enjoyment today, though he had tried hard.
Nothing was seen of him for four hours. When he came back by the same
path it was dusk, and the dews were coating every green thing. The boisterous
music had ceased; but, entering the premises as he did from behind,
he could not see if the May party had all gone till he had passed through
Thomasin's division of the house to the front door. Thomasin was standing
within the porch alone.
She looked at him reproachfully. "You went away just when it began,
Clym," she said.
"Yes. I felt I could not join in. You went out with them, of course?"
"No, I did not."
"You appeared to be dressed on purpose."
"Yes, but I could not go out alone; so many people were there.
One is there now."
Yeobright strained his eyes across the dark-green patch beyond the paling,
and near the black form of the Maypole he discerned a shadowy figure,
sauntering idly up and down. "Who is it?" he said.
"Mr. Venn," said Thomasin.
"You might have asked him to come in, I think, Tamsie.
He has been very kind to you first and last."
"I will now," she said; and, acting on the impulse, went through
the wicket to where Venn stood under the Maypole.
"It is Mr. Venn, I think?" she inquired.
Venn started as if he had not seen her-artful man that he was-and said,
"Yes."
"Will you come in?"
"I am afraid that I-"
"I have seen you dancing this evening, and you had the very best
of the girls for your partners. Is it that you won't come in because
you wish to stand here, and think over the past hours of enjoyment?"
"Well, that's partly it," said Mr. Venn, with ostentatious
sentiment. "But the main reason why I am biding here like this
is that I want to wait till the moon rises."
"To see how pretty the Maypole looks in the moonlight?"
"No. To look for a glove that was dropped by one of the maidens."
Thomasin was speechless with surprise. That a man who had to walk some
four or five miles to his home should wait here for such a reason pointed
to only one conclusion-the man must be amazingly interested in that
glove's owner.
"Were you dancing with her, Diggory?" she asked, in a voice
which revealed that he had made himself considerably more interesting
to her by this disclosure.
"No," he sighed.
"And you will not come in, then?"
"Not tonight, thank you, ma'am."
"Shall I lend you a lantern to look for the young person's glove,
Mr. Venn?"
"O no; it is not necessary, Mrs. Wildeve, thank you.
The moon will rise in a few minutes."
Thomasin went back to the porch. "Is he coming in?" said Clym,
who had been waiting where she had left him.
"He would rather not tonight," she said, and then passed by
him into the house; whereupon Clym too retired to his own rooms.
When Clym was gone Thomasin crept upstairs in the dark, and, just listening
by the cot, to assure herself that the child was asleep, she went to
the window, gently lifted the corner of the white curtain, and looked
out. Venn was still there. She watched the growth of the faint radiance
appearing in the sky by the eastern hill, till presently the edge of
the moon burst upwards and flooded the valley with light. Diggory's
form was now distinct on the green; he was moving about in a bowed attitude,
evidently scanning the grass for the precious missing article, walking
in zigzags right and left till he should have passed over every foot
of the ground.
"How very ridiculous!" Thomasin murmured to herself, in a
tone which was intended to be satirical. "To think that a man should
be so silly as to go mooning about like that for a girl's glove! A respectable
dairyman, too, and a man of money as he is now. What a pity!"
At last Venn appeared to find it; whereupon he stood up and raised it
to his lips. Then placing it in his breastpocket-the nearest receptacle
to a man's heart permitted by modern raiment-he ascended the valley
in a mathematically direct line towards his distant home in the meadows.
2 - Thomasin Walks in a Green Place by the Roman Road
Clym saw little of Thomasin for several days after this;
and when they met she was more silent than usual. At length he asked
her what she was thinking of so intently.
"I am thoroughly perplexed," she said candidly. "I cannot
for my life think who it is that Diggory Venn is so much in love with.
None of the girls at the Maypole were good enough for him, and yet she
must have been there."
Clym tried to imagine Venn's choice for a moment; but ceasing to be
interested in the question he went on again with his gardening.
No clearing up of the mystery was granted her for some time. But one
afternoon Thomasin was upstairs getting ready for a walk, when she had
occasion to come to the landing and call "Rachel." Rachel
was a girl about thirteen, who carried the baby out for airings; and
she came upstairs at the call.
"Have you seen one of my last new gloves about the house, Rachel?"
inquired Thomasin. "It is the fellow to this one."
Rachel did not reply.
"Why don't you answer?" said her mistress.
"I think it is lost, ma'am."
"Lost? Who lost it? I have never worn them but once."
Rachel appeared as one dreadfully troubled, and at last began to cry.
"Please, ma'am, on the day of the Maypole I had none to wear, and
I seed yours on the table, and I thought I would borrow 'em. I did not
mean to hurt 'em at all, but one of them got lost. Somebody gave me
some money to buy another pair for you, but I have not been able to
go anywhere to get 'em."
"Who's somebody?"
"Mr. Venn."
"Did he know it was my glove?"
"Yes. I told him."
Thomasin was so surprised by the explanation that she quite forgot to
lecture the girl, who glided silently away. Thomasin did not move further
than to turn her eyes upon the grass-plat where the Maypole had stood.
She remained thinking, then said to herself that she would not go out
that afternoon, but would work hard at the baby's unfinished lovely
plaid frock, cut on the cross in the newest fashion. How she managed
to work hard, and yet do no more than she had done at the end of two
hours, would have been a mystery to anyone not aware that the recent
incident was of a kind likely to divert her industry from a manual to
a mental channel.
Next day she went her ways as usual, and continued her custom of walking
in the heath with no other companion than little Eustacia, now of the
age when it is a matter of doubt with such characters whether they are
intended to walk through the world on their hands or on their feet;
so that they get into painful complications by trying both. It was very
pleasant to Thomasin, when she had carried the child to some lonely
place, to give her a little private practice on the green turf and shepherd's-thyme,
which formed a soft mat to fall headlong upon them when equilibrium
was lost.
Once, when engaged in this system of training, and stooping to remove
bits of stick, fern-stalks, and other such fragments from the child's
path, that the journey might not be brought to an untimely end by some
insuperable barrier a quarter of an inch high, she was alarmed by discovering
that a man on horseback was almost close beside her, the soft natural
carpet having muffled the horse's tread. The rider, who was Venn, waved
his hat in the air and bowed gallantly.
"Diggory, give me my glove," said Thomasin, whose manner it
was under any circumstances to plunge into the midst of a subject which
engrossed her.
Venn immediately dismounted, put his hand in his breastpocket, and handed
the glove.
"Thank you. It was very good of you to take care of it."
"It is very good of you to say so."
"O no. I was quite glad to find you had it. Everybody gets so indifferent
that I was surprised to know you thought of me."
"If you had remembered what I was once you wouldn't have been surprised."
"Ah, no," she said quickly. "But men of your character
are mostly so independent."
"What is my character?" he asked.
"I don't exactly know," said Thomasin simply, "except
it is to cover up your feelings under a practical manner, and only to
show them when you are alone."
"Ah, how do you know that?" said Venn strategically.
"Because," said she, stopping to put the little girl, who
had managed to get herself upside down, right end up again, "because
I do."
"You mustn't judge by folks in general," said Venn.
"Still I don't know much what feelings are nowadays. I have got
so mixed up with business of one sort and t'other that my soft sentiments
are gone off in vapour like. Yes, I am given up body and soul to the
making of money.
Money is all my dream."
"O Diggory, how wicked!" said Thomasin reproachfully, and
looking at him in exact balance between taking his words seriously and
judging them as said to tease her.
"Yes, 'tis rather a rum course," said Venn, in the bland tone
of one comfortably resigned to sins he could no longer overcome.
"You, who used to be so nice!"
"Well, that's an argument I rather like, because what a man has
once been he may be again." Thomasin blushed. "Except that
it is rather harder now," Venn continued.
"Why?" she asked.
"Because you be richer than you were at that time."
"O no-not much. I have made it nearly all over to the baby, as
it was my duty to do, except just enough to live on."
"I am rather glad of that," said Venn softly, and regarding
her from the corner of his eye, "for it makes it easier for us
to be friendly."
Thomasin blushed again, and, when a few more words had been said of
a not unpleasing kind, Venn mounted his horse and rode on.
This conversation had passed in a hollow of the heath near the old Roman
road, a place much frequented by Thomasin. And it might have been observed
that she did not in future walk that way less often from having met
Venn there now. Whether or not Venn abstained from riding thither because
he had met Thomasin in the same place might easily have been guessed
from her proceedings about two months later in the same year.
3 - The Serious Discourse of Clym with His Cousin
Throughout this period Yeobright had more or less pondered
on his duty to his cousin Thomasin. He could not help feeling that it
would be a pitiful waste of sweet material if the tender-natured thing
should be doomed from this early stage of her life onwards to dribble
away her winsome qualities on lonely gorse and fern. But he felt this
as an economist merely, and not as a lover. His passion for Eustacia
had been a sort of conserve of his whole life, and he had nothing more
of that supreme quality left to bestow. So far the obvious thing was
not to entertain any idea of marriage with Thomasin, even to oblige
her.
But this was not all. Years ago there had been in his mother's mind
a great fancy about Thomasin and himself. It had not positively amounted
to a desire, but it had always been a favourite dream. That they should
be man and wife in good time, if the happiness of neither were endangered
thereby, was the fancy in question. So that what course save one was
there now left for any son who reverenced his mother's memory as Yeobright
did? It is an unfortunate fact that any particular whim of parents,
which might have been dispersed by half an hour's conversation during
their lives, becomes sublimated by their deaths into a fiat the most
absolute, with such results to conscientious children as those parents,
had they lived, would have been the first to decry.
Had only Yeobright's own future been involved he would have proposed
to Thomasin with a ready heart. He had nothing to lose by carrying out
a dead mother's hope. But he dreaded to contemplate Thomasin wedded
to the mere corpse of a lover that he now felt himself to be. He had
but three activities alive in him. One was his almost daily walk to
the little graveyard wherein his mother lay, another, his just as frequent
visits by night to the more distant enclosure which numbered his Eustacia
among its dead; the third was self-preparation for a vocation which
alone seemed likely to satisfy his cravings-that of an itinerant preacher
of the eleventh commandment. It was difficult to believe that Thomasin
would be cheered by a husband with such tendencies as these.
Yet he resolved to ask her, and let her decide for herself. It was even
with a pleasant sense of doing his duty that he went downstairs to her
one evening for this purpose, when the sun was printing on the valley
the same long shadow of the housetop that he had seen lying there times
out of number while his mother lived.
Thomasin was not in her room, and he found her in the front garden.
"I have long been wanting, Thomasin," he began, "to say
something about a matter that concerns both our futures."
"And you are going to say it now?" she remarked quickly, colouring
as she met his gaze. "Do stop a minute, Clym, and let me speak
first, for oddly enough, I have been wanting to say something to you."
"By all means say on, Tamsie."
"I suppose nobody can overhear us?" she went on, casting her
eyes around and lowering her voice. "Well, first you will promise
me this-that you won't be angry and call me anything harsh if you disagree
with what I propose?"
Yeobright promised, and she continued: "What I want is your advice,
for you are my relation-I mean, a sort of guardian to me-aren't you,
Clym?"
"Well, yes, I suppose I am; a sort of guardian. In fact, I am,
of course," he said, altogether perplexed as to her drift.
"I am thinking of marrying," she then observed blandly. "But
I shall not marry unless you assure me that you approve of such a step.
Why don't you speak?"
"I was taken rather by surprise. But, nevertheless, I am very glad
to hear such news. I shall approve, of course, dear Tamsie. Who can
it be? I am quite at a loss to guess. No I am not-'tis the old doctor!--not
that I mean to call him old, for he is not very old after all. Ah-I
noticed when he attended you last time!"
"No, no," she said hastily. "'Tis Mr. Venn."
Clym's face suddenly became grave.
"There, now, you don't like him, and I wish I hadn't mentioned
him!" she exclaimed almost petulantly. "And I shouldn't have
done it, either, only he keeps on bothering me so till I don't know
what to do!"
Clym looked at the heath. "I like Venn well enough,"
he answered at last. "He is a very honest and at the same
time astute man. He is clever too, as is proved by his
having got you to favour him. But really, Thomasin, he is
not quite-"
"Gentleman enough for me? That is just what I feel. I am sorry
now that I asked you, and I won't think any more of him. At the same
time I must marry him if I marry anybody-that I WILL say!"
"I don't see that," said Clym, carefully concealing every
clue to his own interrupted intention, which she plainly had not guessed.
"You might marry a professional man, or somebody of that sort,
by going into the town to live and forming acquaintances there."
"I am not fit for town life-so very rural and silly as I always
have been. Do not you yourself notice my countrified ways?"
"Well, when I came home from Paris I did, a little; but I don't
now."
"That's because you have got countrified too. O, I couldn't live
in a street for the world! Egdon is a ridiculous old place; but I have
got used to it, and I couldn't be happy anywhere else at all."
"Neither could I," said Clym.
"Then how could you say that I should marry some town man? I am
sure, say what you will, that I must marry Diggory, if I marry at all.
He has been kinder to me than anybody else, and has helped me in many
ways that I don't know of!" Thomasin almost pouted now.
"Yes, he has," said Clym in a neutral tone. "Well, I
wish with all my heart that I could say, marry him. But I cannot forget
what my mother thought on that matter, and it goes rather against me
not to respect her opinion. There is too much reason why we should do
the little we can to respect it now."
"Very well, then," sighed Thomasin. "I will say no more."
"But you are not bound to obey my wishes. I merely say what I think."
"O no-I don't want to be rebellious in that way," she said
sadly. "I had no business to think of him-I ought to have thought
of my family. What dreadfully bad impulses there are in me!" Her
lips trembled, and she turned away to hide a tear.
Clym, though vexed at what seemed her unaccountable taste, was in a
measure relieved to find that at any rate the marriage question in relation
to himself was shelved. Through several succeeding days he saw her at
different times from the window of his room moping disconsolately about
the garden. He was half angry with her for choosing Venn; then he was
grieved at having put himself in the way of Venn's happiness, who was,
after all, as honest and persevering a young fellow as any on Egdon,
since he had turned over a new leaf. In short, Clym did not know what
to do.
When next they met she said abruptly, "He is much more respectable
now than he was then!"
"Who? O yes-Diggory Venn."
"Aunt only objected because he was a reddleman."
"Well, Thomasin, perhaps I don't know all the particulars of my
mother's wish. So you had better use your own discretion."
"You will always feel that I slighted your mother's memory."
"No, I will not. I shall think you are convinced that, had she
seen Diggory in his present position, she would have considered him
a fitting husband for you. Now, that's my real feeling. Don't consult
me any more, but do as you like, Thomasin. I shall be content."
It is to be supposed that Thomasin was convinced; for a few days after
this, when Clym strayed into a part of the heath that he had not lately
visited, Humphrey, who was at work there, said to him, "I am glad
to see that Mrs. Wildeve and Venn have made it up again, seemingly."
"Have they?" said Clym abstractedly.
"Yes; and he do contrive to stumble upon her whenever she walks
out on fine days with the chiel. But, Mr. Yeobright, I can't help feeling
that your cousin ought to have married you. 'Tis a pity to make two
chimleycorners where there need be only one. You could get her away
from him now, 'tis my belief, if you were only to set about it."
"How can I have the conscience to marry after having driven two
women to their deaths? Don't think such a thing, Humphrey. After my
experience I should consider it too much of a burlesque to go to church
and take a wife. In the words of Job, 'I have made a covenant with mine
eyes; when then should I think upon a maid?'"
"No, Mr. Clym, don't fancy that about driving two women to their
deaths. You shouldn't say it."
"Well, we'll leave that out," said Yeobright. "But anyhow
God has set a mark upon me which wouldn't look well in a love-making
scene. I have two ideas in my head, and no others. I am going to keep
a night-school; and I am going to turn preacher. What have you got to
say to that, Humphrey?"
"I'll come and hear 'ee with all my heart."
"Thanks. 'Tis all I wish."
As Clym descended into the valley Thomasin came down by the other path,
and met him at the gate. "What do you think I have to tell you,
Clym?" she said, looking archly over her shoulder at him.
"I can guess," he replied.
She scrutinized his face. "Yes, you guess right. It is going to
be after all. He thinks I may as well make up my mind, and I have got
to think so too. It is to be on the twenty-fifth of next month, if you
don't object."
"Do what you think right, dear. I am only too glad that you
see your way clear to happiness again. My sex owes you
every amends for the treatment you received in days gone by."*
· The writer may state here that the original conception of the
story did not design a marriage between Thomasin and Venn. He was to
have retained his isolated and weird character to the last, and to have
disappeared mysteriously from the heath, nobody knowing whither-Thomasin
remaining a widow. But certain circumstances of serial publication led
to a change of intent.
Readers can therefore choose between the endings, and
those with an austere artistic code can assume the more consistent conclusion
to be the true one.
4 - Cheerfulness Again Asserts Itself at Blooms-End, and
Clym Finds His Vocation
Anybody who had passed through Blooms-End about eleven
o'clock on the morning fixed for the wedding would have found that,
while Yeobright's house was comparatively quiet, sounds denoting great
activity came from the dwelling of his nearest neighbour, Timothy Fairway.
It was chiefly a noise of feet, briskly crunching hither and thither
over the sanded floor within. One man only was visible outside, and
he seemed to be later at an appointment than he had intended to be,
for he hastened up to the door, lifted the latch, and walked in without
ceremony.
The scene within was not quite the customary one. Standing about the
room was the little knot of men who formed the chief part of the Egdon
coterie, there being present Fairway himself, Grandfer Cantle, Humphrey,
Christian, and one or two turf-cutters. It was a warm day, and the men
were as a matter of course in their shirtsleeves, except Christian,
who had always a nervous fear of parting with a scrap of his clothing
when in anybody's house but his own. Across the stout oak table in the
middle of the room was thrown a mass of striped linen, which Grandfer
Cantle held down on one side, and Humphrey on the other, while Fairway
rubbed its surface with a yellow lump, his face being damp and creased
with the effort of the labour.
"Waxing a bed-tick, souls?" said the newcomer.
"Yes, Sam," said Grandfer Cantle, as a man too busy to waste
words. "Shall I stretch this corner a shade tighter, Timothy?"
Fairway replied, and the waxing went on with unabated vigour. "'Tis
going to be a good bed, by the look o't," continued Sam, after
an interval of silence. "Who may it be for?"
"'Tis a present for the new folks that's going to set up housekeeping,"
said Christian, who stood helpless and overcome by the majesty of the
proceedings.
"Ah, to be sure; and a valuable one, 'a b'lieve."
"Beds be dear to fokes that don't keep geese, bain't they, Mister
Fairway?" said Christian, as to an omniscient being.
"Yes," said the furze-dealer, standing up, giving his forehead
a thorough mopping, and handing the beeswax to Humphrey, who succeeded
at the rubbing forthwith. "Not that this couple be in want of one,
but 'twas well to show 'em a bit of friendliness at this great racketing
vagary of their lives. I set up both my own daughters in one when they
was married, and there have been feathers enough for another in the
house the last twelve months. Now then, neighbours, I think we have
laid on enough wax. Grandfer Cantle, you turn the tick the right way
outwards, and then I'll begin to shake in the feathers."
When the bed was in proper trim Fairway and Christian brought forward
vast paper bags, stuffed to the full, but light as balloons, and began
to turn the contents of each into the receptacle just prepared. As bag
after bag was emptied, airy tufts of down and feathers floated about
the room in increasing quantity till, through a mishap of Christian's,
who shook the contents of one bag outside the tick, the atmosphere of
the room became dense with gigantic flakes, which descended upon the
workers like a windless snowstorm.
"I never saw such a clumsy chap as you, Christian," said Grandfer
Cantle severely. "You might have been the son of a man that's never
been outside Blooms-End in his life for all the wit you have. Really
all the soldiering and smartness in the world in the father seems to
count for nothing in forming the nater of the son. As far as that chief
Christian is concerned I might as well have stayed at home and seed
nothing, like all the rest of ye here. Though, as far as myself is concerned,
a dashing spirit has counted for sommat, to be sure!"
"Don't ye let me down so, Father; I feel no bigger than a ninepin
after it. I've made but a bruckle hit, I'm afeard."
"Come, come. Never pitch yerself in such a low key as that, Christian;
you should try more," said Fairway.
"Yes, you should try more," echoed the Grandfer with insistence,
as if he had been the first to make the suggestion. "In common
conscience every man ought either to marry or go for a soldier. 'Tis
a scandal to the nation to do neither one nor t'other. I did both, thank
God! Neither to raise men nor to lay 'em low- that shows a poor do-nothing
spirit indeed."
"I never had the nerve to stand fire," faltered Christian.
"But as to marrying, I own I've asked here and there, though without
much fruit from it. Yes, there's some house or other that might have
had a man for a master-such as he is-that's now ruled by a woman alone.
Still it might have been awkward if I had found her; for, d'ye see,
neighbours, there'd have been nobody left at home to keep down Father's
spirits to the decent pitch that becomes a old man."
"And you've your work cut out to do that, my son," said Grandfer
Cantle smartly. "I wish that the dread of infirmities was not so
strong in me!--I'd start the very first thing tomorrow to see the world
over again! But seventy-one, though nothing at home, is a high figure
for a rover....Ay, seventy-one, last Candlemasday. Gad, I'd sooner have
it in guineas than in years!"
And the old man sighed.
"Don't you be mournful, Grandfer," said Fairway. "Empt
some more feathers into the bed-tick, and keep up yer heart. Though
rather lean in the stalks you be a green-leaved old man still. There's
time enough left to ye yet to fill whole chronicles."
"Begad, I'll go to 'em, Timothy-to the married pair!" said
Granfer Cantle in an encouraged voice, and starting round briskly. "I'll
go to 'em tonight and sing a wedding song, hey? 'Tis like me to do so,
you know; and they'd see it as such. My 'Down in Cupid's Gardens' was
well liked in four; still, I've got others as good, and even better.
What do you say to my
She cal'-led to' her love'
From the lat'-tice a-bove,
'O come in' from the fog-gy fog'-gy dew'.'
'Twould please 'em well at such a time! Really, now I
come to think of it, I haven't turned my tongue in my head to the shape
of a real good song since Old Midsummer night, when we had the 'Barley
Mow' at the Woman; and 'tis a pity to neglect your strong point where
there's few that have the compass for such things!"
"So 'tis, so 'tis," said Fairway. "Now gie the bed a
shake down. We've put in seventy pounds of best feathers, and I think
that's as many as the tick will fairly hold. A bit and a drap wouldn't
be amiss now, I reckon. Christian, maul down the victuals from corner-cupboard
if canst reach, man, and I'll draw a drap o' sommat to wet it with."
They sat down to a lunch in the midst of their work, feathers around,
above, and below them; the original owners of which occasionally came
to the open door and cackled begrudgingly at sight of such a quantity
of their old clothes.
"Upon my soul I shall be chokt," said Fairway when, having
extracted a feather from his mouth, he found several others floating
on the mug as it was handed round.
"I've swallered several; and one had a tolerable quill," said
Sam placidly from the corner.
"Hullo-what's that-wheels I hear coming?" Grandfer Cantle
exclaimed, jumping up and hastening to the door. "Why, 'tis they
back again-I didn't expect 'em yet this half-hour. To be sure, how quick
marrying can be done when you are in the mind for't!"
"O yes, it can soon be DONE," said Fairway, as if something
should be added to make the statement complete.
He arose and followed the Grandfer, and the rest also went to the door.
In a moment an open fly was driven past, in which sat Venn and Mrs.
Venn, Yeobright, and a grand relative of Venn's who had come from Budmouth
for the occasion. The fly had been hired at the nearest town, regardless
of distance and cost, there being nothing on Egdon Heath, in Venn's
opinion, dignified enough for such an event when such a woman as Thomasin
was the bride; and the church was too remote for a walking bridal-party.
As the fly passed the group which had run out from the homestead they
shouted "Hurrah!" and waved their hands; feathers and down
floating from their hair, their sleeves, and the folds of their garments
at every motion, and Grandfer Cantle's seals dancing merrily in the
sunlight as he twirled himself about. The driver of the fly turned a
supercilious gaze upon them; he even treated the wedded pair themselves
with something like condescension; for in what other state than heathen
could people, rich or poor, exist who were doomed to abide in such a
world's end as Egdon? Thomasin showed no such superiority to the group
at the door, fluttering her hand as quickly as a bird's wing towards
them, and asking Diggory, with tears in her eyes, if they ought not
to alight and speak to these kind neighbours. Venn, however, suggested
that, as they were all coming to the house in the evening, this was
hardly necessary.
After this excitement the saluting party returned to their occupation,
and the stuffing and sewing were soon afterwards finished, when Fairway
harnessed a horse, wrapped up the cumbrous present, and drove off with
it in the cart to Venn's house at Stickleford.
Yeobright, having filled the office at the wedding service
which naturally fell to his hands, and afterwards returned to the house
with the husband and wife, was indisposed to take part in the feasting
and dancing that wound up the evening. Thomasin was disappointed.
"I wish I could be there without dashing your spirits," he
said. "But I might be too much like the skull at the banquet."
"No, no."
"Well, dear, apart from that, if you would excuse me, I should
be glad. I know it seems unkind; but, dear Thomasin, I fear I should
not be happy in the company-there, that's the truth of it. I shall always
be coming to see you at your new home, you know, so that my absence
now will not matter."
"Then I give in. Do whatever will be most comfortable to yourself."
Clym retired to his lodging at the housetop much relieved, and occupied
himself during the afternoon in noting down the heads of a sermon, with
which he intended to initiate all that really seemed practicable of
the scheme that had originally brought him hither, and that he had so
long kept in view under various modifications, and through evil and
good report. He had tested and weighed his convictions again and again,
and saw no reason to alter them, though he had considerably lessened
his plan. His eyesight, by long humouring in his native air, had grown
stronger, but not sufficiently strong to warrant his attempting his
extensive educational project. Yet he did not repine-there was still
more than enough of an unambitious sort to tax all his energies and
occupy all his hours.
Evening drew on, and sounds of life and movement in the lower part of
the domicile became more pronounced, the gate in the palings clicking
incessantly. The party was to be an early one, and all the guests were
assembled long before it was dark. Yeobright went down the back staircase
and into the heath by another path than that in front, intending to
walk in the open air till the party was over, when he would return to
wish Thomasin and her husband good-bye as they departed. His steps were
insensibly bent towards Mistover by the path that he had followed on
that terrible morning when he learnt the strange news from Susan's boy.
He did not turn aside to the cottage, but pushed on to an eminence,
whence he could see over the whole quarter that had once been Eustacia's
home. While he stood observing the darkening scene somebody came up.
Clym, seeing him but dimly, would have let him pass silently, had not
the pedestrian, who was Charley, recognized the young man and spoken
to him.
"Charley, I have not seen you for a length of time," said
Yeobright. "Do you often walk this way?"
"No," the lad replied. "I don't often come outside the
bank."
"You were not at the Maypole."
"No," said Charley, in the same listless tone. "I don't
care for that sort of thing now."
"You rather liked Miss Eustacia, didn't you?" Yeobright gently
asked. Eustacia had frequently told him of Charley's romantic attachment.
"Yes, very much. Ah, I wish-"
"Yes?"
"I wish, Mr. Yeobright, you could give me something to keep that
once belonged to her-if you don't mind."
"I shall be very happy to. It will give me very great pleasure,
Charley. Let me think what I have of hers that you would like. But come
with me to the house, and I'll see."
They walked towards Blooms-End together. When they reached the front
it was dark, and the shutters were closed, so that nothing of the interior
could be seen.
"Come round this way," said Clym. "My entrance is at
the back for the present."
The two went round and ascended the crooked stair in darkness till Clym's
sitting-room on the upper floor was reached, where he lit a candle,
Charley entering gently behind. Yeobright searched his desk, and taking
out a sheet of tissue-paper unfolded from it two or three undulating
locks of raven hair, which fell over the paper like black streams. From
these he selected one, wrapped it up, and gave it to the lad, whose
eyes had filled with tears. He kissed the packet, put it in his pocket,
and said in a voice of emotion, "O, Mr. Clym, how good you are
to me!"
"I will go a little way with you," said Clym. And amid the
noise of merriment from below they descended. Their path to the front
led them close to a little side window, whence the rays of candles streamed
across the shrubs. The window, being screened from general observation
by the bushes, had been left unblinded, so that a person in this private
nook could see all that was going on within the room which contained
the wedding guests, except in so far as vision was hindered by the green
antiquity of the panes.
"Charley, what are they doing?" said Clym. "My sight
is weaker again tonight, and the glass of this window is not good."
Charley wiped his own eyes, which were rather blurred with moisture,
and stepped closer to the casement. "Mr. Venn is asking Christian
Cantle to sing," he replied, "and Christian is moving about
in his chair as if he were much frightened at the question, and his
father has struck up a stave instead of him."
"Yes, I can hear the old man's voice," said Clym. "So
there's to be no dancing, I suppose. And is Thomasin in the room? I
see something moving in front of the candles that resembles her shape,
I think."
"Yes. She do seem happy. She is red in the face, and laughing at
something Fairway has said to her. O my!"
"What noise was that?" said Clym.
"Mr. Venn is so tall that he knocked his head against the beam
in gieing a skip as he passed under. Mrs. Venn has run up quite frightened
and now she's put her hand to his head to feel if there's a lump. And
now they be all laughing again as if nothing had happened."
"Do any of them seem to care about my not being there?"
Clym asked.
"No, not a bit in the world. Now they are all holding up their
glasses and drinking somebody's health."
"I wonder if it is mine?"
"No, 'tis Mr. and Mrs. Venn's, because he is making a hearty sort
of speech. There-now Mrs. Venn has got up, and is going away to put
on her things, I think."
"Well, they haven't concerned themselves about me, and it is quite
right they should not. It is all as it should be, and Thomasin at least
is happy. We will not stay any longer now, as they will soon be coming
out to go home."
He accompanied the lad into the heath on his way home, and, returning
alone to the house a quarter of an hour later, found Venn and Thomasin
ready to start, all the guests having departed in his absence. The wedded
pair took their seats in the four-wheeled dogcart which Venn's head
milker and handy man had driven from Stickleford to fetch them in; little
Eustacia and the nurse were packed securely upon the open flap behind;
and the milker, on an ancient overstepping pony, whose shoes clashed
like cymbals at every tread, rode in the rear, in the manner of a body-servant
of the last century.
"Now we leave you in absolute possession of your own house again,"
said Thomasin as she bent down to wish her cousin good night. "It
will be rather lonely for you, Clym, after the hubbub we have been making."
"O, that's no inconvenience," said Clym, smiling rather sadly.
And then the party drove off and vanished in the night shades, and Yeobright
entered the house. The ticking of the clock was the only sound that
greeted him, for not a soul remained; Christian, who acted as cook,
valet, and gardener to Clym, sleeping at his father's house. Yeobright
sat down in one of the vacant chairs, and remained in thought a long
time. His mother's old chair was opposite; it had been sat in that evening
by those who had scarcely remembered that it ever was hers. But to Clym
she was almost a presence there, now as always. Whatever she was in
other people's memories, in his she was the sublime saint whose radiance
even his tenderness for Eustacia could not obscure. But his heart was
heavy, that Mother had NOT crowned him in the day of his espousals and
in the day of the gladness of his heart. And events had borne out the
accuracy of her judgment, and proved the devotedness of her care. He
should have heeded her for Eustacia's sake even more than for his own.
"It was all my fault," he whispered. "O, my mother, my
mother! would to God that I could live my life again, and endure for
you what you endured for me!"
On the Sunday after this wedding an unusual sight was
to be seen on Rainbarrow. From a distance there simply appeared to be
a motionless figure standing on the top of the tumulus, just as Eustacia
had stood on that lonely summit some two years and a half before. But
now it was fine warm weather, with only a summer breeze blowing, and
early afternoon instead of dull twilight. Those who ascended to the
immediate neighbourhood of the Barrow perceived that the erect form
in the centre, piercing the sky, was not really alone. Round him upon
the slopes of the Barrow a number of heathmen and women were reclining
or sitting at their ease. They listened to the words of the man in their
midst, who was preaching, while they abstractedly pulled heather, stripped
ferns, or tossed pebbles down the slope. This was the first of a series
of moral lectures or Sermons on the Mount, which were to be delivered
from the same place every Sunday afternoon as long as the fine weather
lasted.
The commanding elevation of Rainbarrow had been chosen for two reasons:
first, that it occupied a central position among the remote cottages
around; secondly, that the preacher thereon could be seen from all adjacent
points as soon as he arrived at his post, the view of him being thus
a convenient signal to those stragglers who wished to draw near. The
speaker was bareheaded, and the breeze at each waft gently lifted and
lowered his hair, somewhat too thin for a man of his years, these still
numbering less than thirty-three. He wore a shade over his eyes, and
his face was pensive and lined; but, though these bodily features were
marked with decay there was no defect in the tones of his voice, which
were rich, musical, and stirring. He stated that his discourses to people
were to be sometimes secular, and sometimes religious, but never dogmatic;
and that his texts would be taken from all kinds of books. This afternoon
the words were as follows:--
"'And the king rose up to meet her, and bowed himself unto her,
and sat down on his throne, and caused a seat to be set for the king's
mother; and she sat on his right hand. Then she said, I desire one small
petition of thee;
I pray thee say me not nay. And the king said unto her, Ask, on, my
mother: for I will not say thee nay.'"
Yeobright had, in fact, found his vocation in the career
of an itinerant open-air preacher and lecturer on morally unimpeachable
subjects; and from this day he laboured incessantly in that office,
speaking not only in simple language on Rainbarrow and in the hamlets
round, but in a more cultivated strain elsewhere-from the steps and
porticoes of town halls, from market-crosses, from conduits, on esplanades
and on wharves, from the parapets of bridges, in barns and outhouses,
and all other such places in the neighbouring Wessex towns and villages.
He left alone creeds and systems of philosophy, finding enough and more
than enough to occupy his tongue in the opinions and actions common
to all good men. Some believed him, and some believed not; some said
that his words were commonplace, others complained of his want of theological
doctrine; while others again remarked that it was well enough for a
man to take to preaching who could not see to do anything else. But
everywhere he was kindly received, for the story of his life had become
generally known.
**End of the Project Gutenberg Etext of Return of the
Native by Hardy**