The Return of the Native
look with indifference upon the cruel satires that Fate loves to
indulge in. I have heard of people, who, upon coming suddenly into
happiness, have died from anxiety lest they should not live to enjoy
it. I felt myself in that whimsical state of uneasiness lately; but I
shall be spared it now. Let us walk on.”
Clym took the hand which was already bared for him—it was a favourite
way with them to walk bare hand in bare hand—and led her through the
ferns. They formed a very comely picture of love at full flush, as they
walked along the valley that late afternoon, the sun sloping down on
their right, and throwing their thin spectral shadows, tall as poplar
trees, far out across the furze and fern. Eustacia went with her head
thrown back fancifully, a certain glad and voluptuous air of triumph
pervading her eyes at having won by her own unaided self a man who was
her perfect complement in attainment, appearance, and age. On the young
man’s part, the paleness of face which he had brought with him from
Paris, and the incipient marks of time and thought, were less
perceptible than when he returned, the healthful and energetic
sturdiness which was his by nature having partially recovered its
original proportions. They wandered onward till they reached the nether
margin of the heath, where it became marshy and merged in moorland.
“I must part from you here, Clym,” said Eustacia.
They stood still and prepared to bid each other farewell. Everything
before them was on a perfect level. The sun, resting on the horizon
line, streamed across the ground from between copper-coloured and lilac
clouds, stretched out in flats beneath a sky of pale soft green. All
dark objects on the earth that lay towards the sun were overspread by a
purple haze, against which groups of wailing gnats shone out, rising
upwards and dancing about like sparks of fire.
“O! this leaving you is too hard to bear!” exclaimed Eustacia in a
sudden whisper of anguish. “Your mother will influence you too much; I
shall not be judged fairly, it will get afloat that I am not a good
girl, and the witch story will be added to make me blacker!”
“They cannot. Nobody dares to speak disrespectfully of you or of me.”
“Oh how I wish I was sure of never losing you—that you could not be
able to desert me anyhow!”
Clym stood silent a moment. His feelings were high, the moment was
passionate, and he cut the knot.
“You shall be sure of me, darling,” he said, folding her in his arms.
“We will be married at once.”
“O Clym!”
“Do you agree to it?”
“If—if we can.”
“We certainly can, both being of full age. And I have not followed my
occupation all these years without having accumulated money; and if you
will agree to live in a tiny cottage somewhere on the heath, until I
take a house in Budmouth for the school, we can do it at a very little
expense.”
“How long shall we have to live in the tiny cottage, Clym?”
“About six months. At the end of that time I shall have finished my
reading—yes, we will do it, and this heart-aching will be over. We
shall, of course, live in absolute seclusion, and our married life will
only begin to outward view when we take the house in Budmouth, where I
have already addressed a letter on the matter. Would your grandfather
allow you?”
“I think he would—on the understanding that it should not last longer
than six months.”
“I will guarantee that, if no misfortune happens.”
“If no misfortune happens,” she repeated slowly.
“Which is not likely. Dearest, fix the exact day.”
And then they consulted on the question, and the day was chosen. It was
to be a fortnight from that time.
This was the end of their talk, and Eustacia left him. Clym watched her
as she retired towards the sun. The luminous rays wrapped her up with
her increasing distance, and the rustle of her dress over the sprouting
sedge and grass died away. As he watched, the dead flat of the scenery
overpowered him, though he was fully alive to the beauty of that
untarnished early summer green which was worn for the nonce by the
poorest blade. There was something in its oppressive horizontality
which too much reminded him of the arena of life; it gave him a sense
of bare equality with, and no superiority to, a single living thing
under the sun.
Eustacia was now no longer the goddess but the woman to him, a being to
fight for, support, help, be maligned for. Now that he had reached a
cooler moment he would have preferred a less hasty marriage; but the
card was laid, and he determined to abide by the game. Whether Eustacia
was to add one other to the list of those who love too hotly to love
long and well, the forthcoming event was certainly a ready way of
proving.
VI.
Yeobright Goes, and the Breach Is Complete
All that evening smart sounds denoting an active packing up came from
Yeobright’s room to the ears of his mother downstairs.
Next morning he departed from the house and again proceeded across the
heath. A long day’s march was before him, his object being to secure a
dwelling to which he might take Eustacia when she became his wife. Such
a house, small, secluded, and with its windows boarded up, he had
casually observed a month earlier, about two miles beyond the village
of East Egdon, and six miles distant altogether; and thither he
directed his steps today.
The weather was far different from that of the evening before. The
yellow and vapoury sunset which had wrapped up Eustacia from his
parting gaze had presaged change. It was one of those not infrequent
days of an English June which are as wet and boisterous as November.
The cold clouds hastened on in a body, as if painted on a moving slide.
Vapours from other continents arrived upon the wind, which curled and
parted round him as he walked on.
At length Clym reached the margin of a fir and beech plantation that
had been enclosed from heath-land in the year of his birth. Here the
trees, laden heavily with their new and humid leaves, were now
suffering more damage than during the highest winds of winter, when the
boughs are especially disencumbered to do battle with the storm. The
wet young beeches were undergoing amputations, bruises, cripplings, and
harsh lacerations, from which the wasting sap would bleed for many a
day to come, and which would leave scars visible till the day of their
burning. Each stem was wrenched at the root, where it moved like a bone
in its socket, and at every onset of the gale convulsive sounds came
from the branches, as if pain were felt. In a neighbouring brake a
finch was trying to sing; but the wind blew under his feathers till
they stood on end, twisted round his little tail, and made him give up
his song.
Yet a few yards to Yeobright’s left, on the open heath, how
ineffectively gnashed the storm! Those gusts which tore the trees
merely waved the furze and heather in a light caress. Egdon was made
for such times as these.
Yeobright reached the empty house about midday. It was almost as lonely
as that of Eustacia’s grandfather, but the fact that it stood near a
heath was disguised by a belt of firs which almost enclosed the
premises. He journeyed on about a mile further to the village in which
the owner lived, and, returning with him to the house, arrangements
were completed, and the man undertook that one room at least should be
ready for occupation the next day. Clym’s intention was to live there
alone until Eustacia should join him on their wedding-day.
Then he turned to pursue his way homeward through the drizzle that had
so greatly transformed the scene. The ferns, among which he had lain in
comfort yesterday, were dripping moisture from every frond, wetting his
legs through as he brushed past; and the fur of the rabbits leaping
before him was clotted into dark locks by the same watery surrounding.
He reached home damp and weary enough after his ten-mile walk. It had
hardly been a propitious beginning, but he had chosen his course, and
would show no swerving. The evening and the following morning were
spent in concluding arrangements for his departure. To stay at home a
minute longer than necessary after having once come to his
determination would be, he felt, only to give new pain to his mother by
some word, look, or deed.
He had hired a conveyance and sent off his goods by two o’clock that
day. The next step was to get some furniture, which, after serving for
temporary use in the cottage, would be available for the house at
Budmouth when increased by goods of a better description. A mart
extensive enough for the purpose existed at Anglebury, some miles
beyond the spot chosen for his residence, and there he resolved to pass
the coming night.
It now only remained to wish his mother good-bye. She was sitting by
the window as usual when he came downstairs.
“Mother, I am going to leave you,” he said, holding out his hand.
“I thought you were, by your packing,” replied Mrs. Yeobright in a
voice from which every particle of emotion was painfully excluded.
“And you will part friends with me?”
“Certainly, Clym.”
“I am going to be married on the twenty-fifth.”
“I thought you were going to be married.”
“And then—and then you must come and see us. You will understand me
better after that, and our situation will not be so wretched as it is
now.”
“I do not think it likely I shall come to see you.”
“Then it will not be my fault or Eustacia’s, Mother. Good-bye!”
He kissed her cheek, and departed in great misery, which was several
hours in lessening itself to a controllable level. The position had
been such that nothing more could be said without, in the first place,
breaking down a barrier; and that was not to be done.
No sooner had Yeobright gone from his mother’s house than her face
changed its rigid aspect for one of blank despair. After a while she
wept, and her tears brought some relief. During the rest of the day she
did nothing but walk up and down the garden path in a state bordering
on stupefaction. Night came, and with it but little rest. The next day,
with an instinct to do something which should reduce prostration to
mournfulness, she went to her son’s room, and with her own hands
arranged it in order, for an imaginary time when he should return
again. She gave some attention to her flowers, but it was perfunctorily
bestowed, for they no longer charmed her.
It was a great relief when, early in the afternoon, Thomasin paid her
an unexpected visit. This was not the first meeting between the
relatives since Thomasin’s marriage; and past blunders having been in a
rough way rectified, they could always greet each other with pleasure
and ease.
The oblique band of sunlight which followed her through the door became
the young wife well. It illuminated her as her presence illuminated the
heath. In her movements, in her gaze, she reminded the beholder of the
feathered creatures who lived around her home. All similes and
allegories concerning her began and ended with birds. There was as much
variety in her motions as in their flight. When she was musing she was
a kestrel, which hangs in the air by an invisible motion of its wings.
When she was in a high wind her light body was blown against trees and
banks like a heron’s. When she was frightened she darted noiselessly
like a kingfisher. When she was serene she skimmed like a swallow, and
that is how she was moving now.
“You are looking very blithe, upon my word, Tamsie,” said Mrs.
Yeobright, with a sad smile. “How is Damon?”
“He is very well.”
“Is he kind to you, Thomasin?” And Mrs. Yeobright observed her
narrowly.
“Pretty fairly.”
“Is that honestly said?”
“Yes, Aunt. I would tell you if he were unkind.” She added, blushing,
and with hesitation, “He—I don’t know if I ought to complain to you