The Return of the Native
“You need think no such thing,” said she drily. “It is simply that I,
in common with the rest of the world, feel that there are certain
things which had better be done by certain people than by others.”
“As you like, as you like,” said Wildeve laconically. “It is not worth
arguing about. Well, I think I must turn homeward again, as the inn
must not be left long in charge of the lad and the maid only.”
He went his way, his farewell being scarcely so courteous as his
greeting. But Mrs. Yeobright knew him thoroughly by this time, and took
little notice of his manner, good or bad.
When Wildeve was gone Mrs. Yeobright stood and considered what would be
the best course to adopt with regard to the guineas, which she had not
liked to entrust to Wildeve. It was hardly credible that Thomasin had
told him to ask for them, when the necessity for them had arisen from
the difficulty of obtaining money at his hands. At the same time
Thomasin really wanted them, and might be unable to come to Blooms-End
for another week at least. To take or send the money to her at the inn
would be impolite, since Wildeve would pretty surely be present, or
would discover the transaction; and if, as her aunt suspected, he
treated her less kindly than she deserved to be treated, he might then
get the whole sum out of her gentle hands. But on this particular
evening Thomasin was at Mistover, and anything might be conveyed to her
there without the knowledge of her husband. Upon the whole the
opportunity was worth taking advantage of.
Her son, too, was there, and was now married. There could be no more
proper moment to render him his share of the money than the present.
And the chance that would be afforded her, by sending him this gift, of
showing how far she was from bearing him ill-will, cheered the sad
mother’s heart.
She went upstairs and took from a locked drawer a little box, out of
which she poured a hoard of broad unworn guineas that had lain there
many a year. There were a hundred in all, and she divided them into two
heaps, fifty in each. Tying up these in small canvas bags, she went
down to the garden and called to Christian Cantle, who was loitering
about in hope of a supper which was not really owed him. Mrs. Yeobright
gave him the moneybags, charged him to go to Mistover, and on no
account to deliver them into any one’s hands save her son’s and
Thomasin’s. On further thought she deemed it advisable to tell
Christian precisely what the two bags contained, that he might be fully
impressed with their importance. Christian pocketed the moneybags,
promised the greatest carefulness, and set out on his way.
“You need not hurry,” said Mrs. Yeobright. “It will be better not to
get there till after dusk, and then nobody will notice you. Come back
here to supper, if it is not too late.”
It was nearly nine o’clock when he began to ascend the vale towards
Mistover; but the long days of summer being at their climax, the first
obscurity of evening had only just begun to tan the landscape. At this
point of his journey Christian heard voices, and found that they
proceeded from a company of men and women who were traversing a hollow
ahead of him, the tops only of their heads being visible.
He paused and thought of the money he carried. It was almost too early
even for Christian seriously to fear robbery; nevertheless he took a
precaution which ever since his boyhood he had adopted whenever he
carried more than two or three shillings upon his person—a precaution
somewhat like that of the owner of the Pitt Diamond when filled with
similar misgivings. He took off his boots, untied the guineas, and
emptied the contents of one little bag into the right boot, and of the
other into the left, spreading them as flatly as possible over the
bottom of each, which was really a spacious coffer by no means limited
to the size of the foot. Pulling them on again and lacing them to the
very top, he proceeded on his way, more easy in his head than under his
soles.
His path converged towards that of the noisy company, and on coming
nearer he found to his relief that they were several Egdon people whom
he knew very well, while with them walked Fairway, of Blooms-End.
“What! Christian going too?” said Fairway as soon as he recognized the
newcomer. “You’ve got no young woman nor wife to your name to gie a
gown-piece to, I’m sure.”
“What d’ye mean?” said Christian.
“Why, the raffle. The one we go to every year. Going to the raffle as
well as ourselves?”
“Never knew a word o’t. Is it like cudgel playing or other sportful
forms of bloodshed? I don’t want to go, thank you, Mister Fairway, and
no offence.”
“Christian don’t know the fun o’t, and ’twould be a fine sight for
him,” said a buxom woman. “There’s no danger at all, Christian. Every
man puts in a shilling apiece, and one wins a gown-piece for his wife
or sweetheart if he’s got one.”
“Well, as that’s not my fortune there’s no meaning in it to me. But I
should like to see the fun, if there’s nothing of the black art in it,
and if a man may look on without cost or getting into any dangerous
wrangle?”
“There will be no uproar at all,” said Timothy. “Sure, Christian, if
you’d like to come we’ll see there’s no harm done.”
“And no ba’dy gaieties, I suppose? You see, neighbours, if so, it would
be setting father a bad example, as he is so light moral’d. But a
gown-piece for a shilling, and no black art—’tis worth looking in to
see, and it wouldn’t hinder me half an hour. Yes, I’ll come, if you’ll
step a little way towards Mistover with me afterwards, supposing night
should have closed in, and nobody else is going that way?”
One or two promised; and Christian, diverging from his direct path,
turned round to the right with his companions towards the Quiet Woman.
When they entered the large common room of the inn they found assembled
there about ten men from among the neighbouring population, and the
group was increased by the new contingent to double that number. Most
of them were sitting round the room in seats divided by wooden elbows
like those of crude cathedral stalls, which were carved with the
initials of many an illustrious drunkard of former times who had passed
his days and his nights between them, and now lay as an alcoholic
cinder in the nearest churchyard. Among the cups on the long table
before the sitters lay an open parcel of light drapery—the gown-piece,
as it was called—which was to be raffled for. Wildeve was standing with
his back to the fireplace smoking a cigar; and the promoter of the
raffle, a packman from a distant town, was expatiating upon the value
of the fabric as material for a summer dress.
“Now, gentlemen,” he continued, as the newcomers drew up to the table,
“there’s five have entered, and we want four more to make up the
number. I think, by the faces of those gentlemen who have just come in,
that they are shrewd enough to take advantage of this rare opportunity
of beautifying their ladies at a very trifling expense.”
Fairway, Sam, and another placed their shillings on the table, and the
man turned to Christian.
“No, sir,” said Christian, drawing back, with a quick gaze of
misgiving. “I am only a poor chap come to look on, an it please ye,
sir. I don’t so much as know how you do it. If so be I was sure of
getting it I would put down the shilling; but I couldn’t otherwise.”
“I think you might almost be sure,” said the pedlar. “In fact, now I
look into your face, even if I can’t say you are sure to win, I can say
that I never saw anything look more like winning in my life.”
“You’ll anyhow have the same chance as the rest of us,” said Sam.
“And the extra luck of being the last comer,” said another.
“And I was born wi’ a caul, and perhaps can be no more ruined than
drowned?” Christian added, beginning to give way.
Ultimately Christian laid down his shilling, the raffle began, and the
dice went round. When it came to Christian’s turn he took the box with
a trembling hand, shook it fearfully, and threw a pair-royal. Three of
the others had thrown common low pairs, and all the rest mere points.
“The gentleman looked like winning, as I said,” observed the chapman
blandly. “Take it, sir; the article is yours.”
“Haw-haw-haw!” said Fairway. “I’m damned if this isn’t the quarest
start that ever I knowed!”
“Mine?” asked Christian, with a vacant stare from his target eyes. “I—I
haven’t got neither maid, wife, nor widder belonging to me at all, and
I’m afeard it will make me laughed at to ha’e it, Master Traveller.
What with being curious to join in I never thought of that! What shall
I do wi’ a woman’s clothes in _my_ bedroom, and not lose my decency!”
“Keep ’em, to be sure,” said Fairway, “if it is only for luck. Perhaps
’twill tempt some woman that thy poor carcase had no power over when
standing empty-handed.”
“Keep it, certainly,” said Wildeve, who had idly watched the scene from
a distance.
The table was then cleared of the articles, and the men began to drink.
“Well, to be sure!” said Christian, half to himself. “To think I should
have been born so lucky as this, and not have found it out until now!
What curious creatures these dice be—powerful rulers of us all, and yet
at my command! I am sure I never need be afeared of anything after
this.” He handled the dice fondly one by one. “Why, sir,” he said in a
confidential whisper to Wildeve, who was near his left hand, “if I
could only use this power that’s in me of multiplying money I might do
some good to a near relation of yours, seeing what I’ve got about me of
hers—eh?” He tapped one of his money-laden boots upon the floor.
“What do you mean?” said Wildeve.
“That’s a secret. Well, I must be going now.” He looked anxiously
towards Fairway.
“Where are you going?” Wildeve asked.
“To Mistover Knap. I have to see Mrs. Thomasin there—that’s all.”
“I am going there, too, to fetch Mrs. Wildeve. We can walk together.”
Wildeve became lost in thought, and a look of inward illumination came
into his eyes. It was money for his wife that Mrs. Yeobright could not
trust him with. “Yet she could trust this fellow,” he said to himself.
“Why doesn’t that which belongs to the wife belong to the husband too?”
He called to the pot-boy to bring him his hat, and said, “Now,
Christian, I am ready.”
“Mr. Wildeve,” said Christian timidly, as he turned to leave the room,
“would you mind lending me them wonderful little things that carry my
luck inside ’em, that I might practise a bit by myself, you know?” He
looked wistfully at the dice and box lying on the mantlepiece.
“Certainly,” said Wildeve carelessly. “They were only cut out by some
lad with his knife, and are worth nothing.” And Christian went back and
privately pocketed them.
Wildeve opened the door and looked out. The night was warm and cloudy.
“By Gad! ’tis dark,” he continued. “But I suppose we shall find our
way.”
“If we should lose the path it might be awkward,” said Christian. “A
lantern is the only shield that will make it safe for us.”
“Let’s have a lantern by all means.” The stable lantern was fetched and
lighted. Christian took up his gownpiece, and the two set out to ascend
the hill.
Within the room the men fell into chat till their attention was for a
moment drawn to the chimney-corner. This was large, and, in addition to
its proper recess, contained within its jambs, like many on Egdon, a
receding seat, so that a person might sit there absolutely unobserved,
provided there was no fire to light him up, as was the case now and
throughout the summer. From the niche a single object protruded into
the light from the candles on the table. It was a clay pipe, and its
colour was reddish. The men had been attracted to this object by a
voice behind the pipe asking for a light.