The Return of the Native
He went across to her; and could almost perceive in her anxious face
that this journey of hers to Wildeve was undertaken with the same
object as his own to Eustacia.
She did not conceal the fact. “Then,” said the reddleman, “you may as
well leave it alone, Mrs. Yeobright.”
“I half think so myself,” she said. “But nothing else remains to be
done besides pressing the question upon him.”
“I should like to say a word first,” said Venn firmly. “Mr. Wildeve is
not the only man who has asked Thomasin to marry him; and why should
not another have a chance? Mrs. Yeobright, I should be glad to marry
your niece and would have done it any time these last two years. There,
now it is out, and I have never told anybody before but herself.”
Mrs. Yeobright was not demonstrative, but her eyes involuntarily
glanced towards his singular though shapely figure.
“Looks are not everything,” said the reddleman, noticing the glance.
“There’s many a calling that don’t bring in so much as mine, if it
comes to money; and perhaps I am not so much worse off than Wildeve.
There is nobody so poor as these professional fellows who have failed;
and if you shouldn’t like my redness—well, I am not red by birth, you
know; I only took to this business for a freak; and I might turn my
hand to something else in good time.”
“I am much obliged to you for your interest in my niece; but I fear
there would be objections. More than that, she is devoted to this man.”
“True; or I shouldn’t have done what I have this morning.”
“Otherwise there would be no pain in the case, and you would not see me
going to his house now. What was Thomasin’s answer when you told her of
your feelings?”
“She wrote that you would object to me; and other things.”
“She was in a measure right. You must not take this unkindly—I merely
state it as a truth. You have been good to her, and we do not forget
it. But as she was unwilling on her own account to be your wife, that
settles the point without my wishes being concerned.”
“Yes. But there is a difference between then and now, ma’am. She is
distressed now, and I have thought that if you were to talk to her
about me, and think favourably of me yourself, there might be a chance
of winning her round, and getting her quite independent of this
Wildeve’s backward and forward play, and his not knowing whether he’ll
have her or no.”
Mrs. Yeobright shook her head. “Thomasin thinks, and I think with her,
that she ought to be Wildeve’s wife, if she means to appear before the
world without a slur upon her name. If they marry soon, everybody will
believe that an accident did really prevent the wedding. If not, it may
cast a shade upon her character—at any rate make her ridiculous. In
short, if it is anyhow possible they must marry now.”
“I thought that till half an hour ago. But, after all, why should her
going off with him to Anglebury for a few hours do her any harm?
Anybody who knows how pure she is will feel any such thought to be
quite unjust. I have been trying this morning to help on this marriage
with Wildeve—yes, I, ma’am—in the belief that I ought to do it, because
she was so wrapped up in him. But I much question if I was right, after
all. However, nothing came of it. And now I offer myself.”
Mrs. Yeobright appeared disinclined to enter further into the question.
“I fear I must go on,” she said. “I do not see that anything else can
be done.”
And she went on. But though this conversation did not divert Thomasin’s
aunt from her purposed interview with Wildeve, it made a considerable
difference in her mode of conducting that interview. She thanked God
for the weapon which the reddleman had put into her hands.
Wildeve was at home when she reached the inn. He showed her silently
into the parlour, and closed the door. Mrs. Yeobright began—
“I have thought it my duty to call today. A new proposal has been made
to me, which has rather astonished me. It will affect Thomasin greatly;
and I have decided that it should at least be mentioned to you.”
“Yes? What is it?” he said civilly.
“It is, of course, in reference to her future. You may not be aware
that another man has shown himself anxious to marry Thomasin. Now,
though I have not encouraged him yet, I cannot conscientiously refuse
him a chance any longer. I don’t wish to be short with you; but I must
be fair to him and to her.”
“Who is the man?” said Wildeve with surprise.
“One who has been in love with her longer than she has with you. He
proposed to her two years ago. At that time she refused him.”
“Well?”
“He has seen her lately, and has asked me for permission to pay his
addresses to her. She may not refuse him twice.”
“What is his name?”
Mrs. Yeobright declined to say. “He is a man Thomasin likes,” she
added, “and one whose constancy she respects at least. It seems to me
that what she refused then she would be glad to get now. She is much
annoyed at her awkward position.”
“She never once told me of this old lover.”
“The gentlest women are not such fools as to show _every_ card.”
“Well, if she wants him I suppose she must have him.”
“It is easy enough to say that; but you don’t see the difficulty. He
wants her much more than she wants him; and before I can encourage
anything of the sort I must have a clear understanding from you that
you will not interfere to injure an arrangement which I promote in the
belief that it is for the best. Suppose, when they are engaged, and
everything is smoothly arranged for their marriage, that you should
step between them and renew your suit? You might not win her back, but
you might cause much unhappiness.”
“Of course I should do no such thing,” said Wildeve “But they are not
engaged yet. How do you know that Thomasin would accept him?”
“That’s a question I have carefully put to myself; and upon the whole
the probabilities are in favour of her accepting him in time. I flatter
myself that I have some influence over her. She is pliable, and I can
be strong in my recommendations of him.”
“And in your disparagement of me at the same time.”
“Well, you may depend upon my not praising you,” she said drily. “And
if this seems like manœuvring, you must remember that her position is
peculiar, and that she has been hardly used. I shall also be helped in
making the match by her own desire to escape from the humiliation of
her present state; and a woman’s pride in these cases will lead her a
very great way. A little managing may be required to bring her round;
but I am equal to that, provided that you agree to the one thing
indispensable; that is, to make a distinct declaration that she is to
think no more of you as a possible husband. That will pique her into
accepting him.”
“I can hardly say that just now, Mrs. Yeobright. It is so sudden.”
“And so my whole plan is interfered with! It is very inconvenient that
you refuse to help my family even to the small extent of saying
distinctly you will have nothing to do with us.”
Wildeve reflected uncomfortably. “I confess I was not prepared for
this,” he said. “Of course I’ll give her up if you wish, if it is
necessary. But I thought I might be her husband.”
“We have heard that before.”
“Now, Mrs. Yeobright, don’t let us disagree. Give me a fair time. I
don’t want to stand in the way of any better chance she may have; only
I wish you had let me know earlier. I will write to you or call in a
day or two. Will that suffice?”
“Yes,” she replied, “provided you promise not to communicate with
Thomasin without my knowledge.”
“I promise that,” he said. And the interview then terminated, Mrs.
Yeobright returning homeward as she had come.
By far the greatest effect of her simple strategy on that day was, as
often happens, in a quarter quite outside her view when arranging it.
In the first place, her visit sent Wildeve the same evening after dark
to Eustacia’s house at Mistover.
At this hour the lonely dwelling was closely blinded and shuttered from
the chill and darkness without. Wildeve’s clandestine plan with her was
to take a little gravel in his hand and hold it to the crevice at the
top of the window shutter, which was on the outside, so that it should
fall with a gentle rustle, resembling that of a mouse, between shutter
and glass. This precaution in attracting her attention was to avoid
arousing the suspicions of her grandfather.
The soft words, “I hear; wait for me,” in Eustacia’s voice from within
told him that she was alone.
He waited in his customary manner by walking round the enclosure and
idling by the pool, for Wildeve was never asked into the house by his
proud though condescending mistress. She showed no sign of coming out
in a hurry. The time wore on, and he began to grow impatient. In the
course of twenty minutes she appeared from round the corner, and
advanced as if merely taking an airing.
“You would not have kept me so long had you known what I come about,”
he said with bitterness. “Still, you are worth waiting for.”
“What has happened?” said Eustacia. “I did not know you were in
trouble. I too am gloomy enough.”
“I am not in trouble,” said he. “It is merely that affairs have come to
a head, and I must take a clear course.”
“What course is that?” she asked with attentive interest.
“And can you forget so soon what I proposed to you the other night?
Why, take you from this place, and carry you away with me abroad.”
“I have not forgotten. But why have you come so unexpectedly to repeat
the question, when you only promised to come next Saturday? I thought I
was to have plenty of time to consider.”
“Yes, but the situation is different now.”
“Explain to me.”
“I don’t want to explain, for I may pain you.”
“But I must know the reason of this hurry.”
“It is simply my ardour, dear Eustacia. Everything is smooth now.”
“Then why are you so ruffled?”
“I am not aware of it. All is as it should be. Mrs. Yeobright—but she
is nothing to us.”
“Ah, I knew she had something to do with it! Come, I don’t like
reserve.”
“No—she has nothing. She only says she wishes me to give up Thomasin
because another man is anxious to marry her. The woman, now she no
longer needs me, actually shows off!” Wildeve’s vexation has escaped
him in spite of himself.
Eustacia was silent a long while. “You are in the awkward position of
an official who is no longer wanted,” she said in a changed tone.
“It seems so. But I have not yet seen Thomasin.”
“And that irritates you. Don’t deny it, Damon. You are actually nettled
by this slight from an unexpected quarter.”
“Well?”
“And you come to get me because you cannot get her. This is certainly a
new position altogether. I am to be a stop-gap.”
“Please remember that I proposed the same thing the other day.”
Eustacia again remained in a sort of stupefied silence. What curious
feeling was this coming over her? Was it really possible that her
interest in Wildeve had been so entirely the result of antagonism that
the glory and the dream departed from the man with the first sound that
he was no longer coveted by her rival? She was, then, secure of him at
last. Thomasin no longer required him. What a humiliating victory! He
loved her best, she thought; and yet—dared she to murmur such
treacherous criticism ever so softly?—what was the man worth whom a
woman inferior to herself did not value? The sentiment which lurks more
or less in all animate nature—that of not desiring the undesired of
others—was lively as a passion in the supersubtle, epicurean heart of
Eustacia. Her social superiority over him, which hitherto had scarcely
ever impressed her, became unpleasantly insistent, and for the first
time she felt that she had stooped in loving him.
“Well, darling, you agree?” said Wildeve.
“If it could be London, or even Budmouth, instead of America,” she