The Return of the Native
one thing, my body does not require much of me. I cannot enjoy
delicacies; good things are wasted upon me. Well, I ought to turn that
defect to advantage, and by being able to do without what other people
require I can spend what such things cost upon anybody else.”
Now, Yeobright, having inherited some of these very instincts from the
woman before him, could not fail to awaken a reciprocity in her through
her feelings, if not by arguments, disguise it as she might for his
good. She spoke with less assurance. “And yet you might have been a
wealthy man if you had only persevered. Manager to that large diamond
establishment—what better can a man wish for? What a post of trust and
respect! I suppose you will be like your father; like him, you are
getting weary of doing well.”
“No,” said her son, “I am not weary of that, though I am weary of what
you mean by it. Mother, what is doing well?”
Mrs. Yeobright was far too thoughtful a woman to be content with ready
definitions, and, like the “What is wisdom?” of Plato’s Socrates, and
the “What is truth?” of Pontius Pilate, Yeobright’s burning question
received no answer.
The silence was broken by the clash of the garden gate, a tap at the
door, and its opening. Christian Cantle appeared in the room in his
Sunday clothes.
It was the custom on Egdon to begin the preface to a story before
absolutely entering the house, so as to be well in for the body of the
narrative by the time visitor and visited stood face to face. Christian
had been saying to them while the door was leaving its latch, “To think
that I, who go from home but once in a while, and hardly then, should
have been there this morning!”
“’Tis news you have brought us, then, Christian?” said Mrs. Yeobright.
“Ay, sure, about a witch, and ye must overlook my time o’ day; for,
says I, ‘I must go and tell ’em, though they won’t have half done
dinner.’ I assure ye it made me shake like a driven leaf. Do ye think
any harm will come o’t?”
“Well—what?”
“This morning at church we was all standing up, and the pa’son said,
‘Let us pray.’ ‘Well,’ thinks I, ‘one may as well kneel as stand’; so
down I went; and, more than that, all the rest were as willing to
oblige the man as I. We hadn’t been hard at it for more than a minute
when a most terrible screech sounded through church, as if somebody had
just gied up their heart’s blood. All the folk jumped up and then we
found that Susan Nunsuch had pricked Miss Vye with a long
stocking-needle, as she had threatened to do as soon as ever she could
get the young lady to church, where she don’t come very often. She’ve
waited for this chance for weeks, so as to draw her blood and put an
end to the bewitching of Susan’s children that has been carried on so
long. Sue followed her into church, sat next to her, and as soon as she
could find a chance in went the stocking-needle into my lady’s arm.”
“Good heaven, how horrid!” said Mrs. Yeobright.
“Sue pricked her that deep that the maid fainted away; and as I was
afeard there might be some tumult among us, I got behind the bass viol
and didn’t see no more. But they carried her out into the air, ’tis
said; but when they looked round for Sue she was gone. What a scream
that girl gied, poor thing! There were the pa’son in his surplice
holding up his hand and saying, ‘Sit down, my good people, sit down!’
But the deuce a bit would they sit down. O, and what d’ye think I found
out, Mrs. Yeobright? The pa’son wears a suit of clothes under his
surplice!—I could see his black sleeves when he held up his arm.”
“’Tis a cruel thing,” said Yeobright.
“Yes,” said his mother.
“The nation ought to look into it,” said Christian. “Here’s Humphrey
coming, I think.”
In came Humphrey. “Well, have ye heard the news? But I see you have.
’Tis a very strange thing that whenever one of Egdon folk goes to
church some rum job or other is sure to be doing. The last time one of
us was there was when neighbour Fairway went in the fall; and that was
the day you forbad the banns, Mrs. Yeobright.”
“Has this cruelly treated girl been able to walk home?” said Clym.
“They say she got better, and went home very well. And now I’ve told it
I must be moving homeward myself.”
“And I,” said Humphrey. “Truly now we shall see if there’s anything in
what folks say about her.”
When they were gone into the heath again Yeobright said quietly to his
mother, “Do you think I have turned teacher too soon?”
“It is right that there should be schoolmasters, and missionaries, and
all such men,” she replied. “But it is right, too, that I should try to
lift you out of this life into something richer, and that you should
not come back again, and be as if I had not tried at all.”
Later in the day Sam, the turf-cutter, entered. “I’ve come a-borrowing,
Mrs. Yeobright. I suppose you have heard what’s been happening to the
beauty on the hill?”
“Yes, Sam: half a dozen have been telling us.”
“Beauty?” said Clym.
“Yes, tolerably well-favoured,” Sam replied. “Lord! all the country
owns that ’tis one of the strangest things in the world that such a
woman should have come to live up there.”
“Dark or fair?”
“Now, though I’ve seen her twenty times, that’s a thing I cannot call
to mind.”
“Darker than Tamsin,” murmured Mrs. Yeobright.
“A woman who seems to care for nothing at all, as you may say.”
“She is melancholy, then?” inquired Clym.
“She mopes about by herself, and don’t mix in with the people.”
“Is she a young lady inclined for adventures?”
“Not to my knowledge.”
“Doesn’t join in with the lads in their games, to get some sort of
excitement in this lonely place?”
“No.”
“Mumming, for instance?”
“No. Her notions be different. I should rather say her thoughts were
far away from here, with lords and ladies she’ll never know, and
mansions she’ll never see again.”
Observing that Clym appeared singularly interested Mrs. Yeobright said
rather uneasily to Sam, “You see more in her than most of us do. Miss
Vye is to my mind too idle to be charming. I have never heard that she
is of any use to herself or to other people. Good girls don’t get
treated as witches even on Egdon.”
“Nonsense—that proves nothing either way,” said Yeobright.
“Well, of course I don’t understand such niceties,” said Sam,
withdrawing from a possibly unpleasant argument; “and what she is we
must wait for time to tell us. The business that I have really called
about is this, to borrow the longest and strongest rope you have. The
captain’s bucket has dropped into the well, and they are in want of
water; and as all the chaps are at home today we think we can get it
out for him. We have three cart-ropes already, but they won’t reach to
the bottom.”
Mrs. Yeobright told him that he might have whatever ropes he could find
in the outhouse, and Sam went out to search. When he passed by the door
Clym joined him, and accompanied him to the gate.
“Is this young witch-lady going to stay long at Mistover?” he asked.
“I should say so.”
“What a cruel shame to ill-use her, She must have suffered greatly—more
in mind than in body.”
“’Twas a graceless trick—such a handsome girl, too. You ought to see
her, Mr. Yeobright, being a young man come from far, and with a little
more to show for your years than most of us.”
“Do you think she would like to teach children?” said Clym.
Sam shook his head. “Quite a different sort of body from that, I
reckon.”
“O, it was merely something which occurred to me. It would of course be
necessary to see her and talk it over—not an easy thing, by the way,
for my family and hers are not very friendly.”
“I’ll tell you how you mid see her, Mr. Yeobright,” said Sam. “We are
going to grapple for the bucket at six o’clock tonight at her house,
and you could lend a hand. There’s five or six coming, but the well is
deep, and another might be useful, if you don’t mind appearing in that
shape. She’s sure to be walking round.”
“I’ll think of it,” said Yeobright; and they parted.
He thought of it a good deal; but nothing more was said about Eustacia
inside the house at that time. Whether this romantic martyr to
superstition and the melancholy mummer he had conversed with under the
full moon were one and the same person remained as yet a problem.
III.
The First Act in a Timeworn Drama
The afternoon was fine, and Yeobright walked on the heath for an hour
with his mother. When they reached the lofty ridge which divided the
valley of Blooms-End from the adjoining valley they stood still and
looked round. The Quiet Woman Inn was visible on the low margin of the
heath in one direction, and afar on the other hand rose Mistover Knap.
“You mean to call on Thomasin?” he inquired.
“Yes. But you need not come this time,” said his mother.
“In that case I’ll branch off here, Mother. I am going to Mistover.”
Mrs. Yeobright turned to him inquiringly.
“I am going to help them get the bucket out of the captain’s well,” he
continued. “As it is so very deep I may be useful. And I should like to
see this Miss Vye—not so much for her good looks as for another
reason.”
“Must you go?” his mother asked.
“I thought to.”
And they parted. “There is no help for it,” murmured Clym’s mother
gloomily as he withdrew. “They are sure to see each other. I wish Sam
would carry his news to other houses than mine.”
Clym’s retreating figure got smaller and smaller as it rose and fell
over the hillocks on his way. “He is tender-hearted,” said Mrs.
Yeobright to herself while she watched him; “otherwise it would matter
little. How he’s going on!”
He was, indeed, walking with a will over the furze, as straight as a
line, as if his life depended upon it. His mother drew a long breath,
and, abandoning the visit to Thomasin, turned back. The evening films
began to make nebulous pictures of the valleys, but the high lands
still were raked by the declining rays of the winter sun, which glanced
on Clym as he walked forward, eyed by every rabbit and field-fare
around, a long shadow advancing in front of him.
On drawing near to the furze-covered bank and ditch which fortified the
captain’s dwelling he could hear voices within, signifying that
operations had been already begun. At the side-entrance gate he stopped
and looked over.
Half a dozen able-bodied men were standing in a line from the
well-mouth, holding a rope which passed over the well-roller into the
depths below. Fairway, with a piece of smaller rope round his body,
made fast to one of the standards, to guard against accidents, was
leaning over the opening, his right hand clasping the vertical rope
that descended into the well.
“Now, silence, folks,” said Fairway.
The talking ceased, and Fairway gave a circular motion to the rope, as
if he were stirring batter. At the end of a minute a dull splashing
reverberated from the bottom of the well; the helical twist he had
imparted to the rope had reached the grapnel below.
“Haul!” said Fairway; and the men who held the rope began to gather it
over the wheel.
“I think we’ve got sommat,” said one of the haulers-in.
“Then pull steady,” said Fairway.
They gathered up more and more, till a regular dripping into the well
could be heard below. It grew smarter with the increasing height of the
bucket, and presently a hundred and fifty feet of rope had been pulled
in.
Fairway then lit a lantern, tied it to another cord, and began lowering
it into the well beside the first: Clym came forward and looked down.
Strange humid leaves, which knew nothing of the seasons of the year,
and quaint-natured mosses were revealed on the wellside as the lantern
descended; till its rays fell upon a confused mass of rope and bucket
dangling in the dank, dark air.
“We’ve only got en by the edge of the hoop—steady, for God’s sake!”