The Return of the Native
Thus Venn, in his anxiety to rectify matters, had placed in Thomasin’s
hands not only the fifty guineas which rightly belonged to her, but
also the fifty intended for her cousin Clym. His mistake had been based
upon Wildeve’s words at the opening of the game, when he indignantly
denied that the guinea was not his own. It had not been comprehended by
the reddleman that at halfway through the performance the game was
continued with the money of another person; and it was an error which
afterwards helped to cause more misfortune than treble the loss in
money value could have done.
The night was now somewhat advanced; and Venn plunged deeper into the
heath, till he came to a ravine where his van was standing—a spot not
more than two hundred yards from the site of the gambling bout. He
entered this movable home of his, lit his lantern, and, before closing
his door for the night, stood reflecting on the circumstances of the
preceding hours. While he stood the dawn grew visible in the northeast
quarter of the heavens, which, the clouds having cleared off, was
bright with a soft sheen at this midsummer time, though it was only
between one and two o’clock. Venn, thoroughly weary, then shut his door
and flung himself down to sleep.
BOOK FOURTH—THE CLOSED DOOR
I.
The Rencounter by the Pool
The July sun shone over Egdon and fired its crimson heather to scarlet.
It was the one season of the year, and the one weather of the season,
in which the heath was gorgeous. This flowering period represented the
second or noontide division in the cycle of those superficial changes
which alone were possible here; it followed the green or young-fern
period, representing the morn, and preceded the brown period, when the
heathbells and ferns would wear the russet tinges of evening; to be in
turn displaced by the dark hue of the winter period, representing
night.
Clym and Eustacia, in their little house at Alderworth, beyond East
Egdon, were living on with a monotony which was delightful to them. The
heath and changes of weather were quite blotted out from their eyes for
the present. They were enclosed in a sort of luminous mist, which hid
from them surroundings of any inharmonious colour, and gave to all
things the character of light. When it rained they were charmed,
because they could remain indoors together all day with such a show of
reason; when it was fine they were charmed, because they could sit
together on the hills. They were like those double stars which revolve
round and round each other, and from a distance appear to be one. The
absolute solitude in which they lived intensified their reciprocal
thoughts; yet some might have said that it had the disadvantage of
consuming their mutual affections at a fearfully prodigal rate.
Yeobright did not fear for his own part; but recollection of Eustacia’s
old speech about the evanescence of love, now apparently forgotten by
her, sometimes caused him to ask himself a question; and he recoiled at
the thought that the quality of finiteness was not foreign to Eden.
When three or four weeks had been passed thus, Yeobright resumed his
reading in earnest. To make up for lost time he studied indefatigably,
for he wished to enter his new profession with the least possible
delay.
Now, Eustacia’s dream had always been that, once married to Clym, she
would have the power of inducing him to return to Paris. He had
carefully withheld all promise to do so; but would he be proof against
her coaxing and argument? She had calculated to such a degree on the
probability of success that she had represented Paris, and not
Budmouth, to her grandfather as in all likelihood their future home.
Her hopes were bound up in this dream. In the quiet days since their
marriage, when Yeobright had been poring over her lips, her eyes, and
the lines of her face, she had mused and mused on the subject, even
while in the act of returning his gaze; and now the sight of the books,
indicating a future which was antagonistic to her dream, struck her
with a positively painful jar. She was hoping for the time when, as the
mistress of some pretty establishment, however small, near a Parisian
Boulevard, she would be passing her days on the skirts at least of the
gay world, and catching stray wafts from those town pleasures she was
so well fitted to enjoy. Yet Yeobright was as firm in the contrary
intention as if the tendency of marriage were rather to develop the
fantasies of young philanthropy than to sweep them away.
Her anxiety reached a high pitch; but there was something in Clym’s
undeviating manner which made her hesitate before sounding him on the
subject. At this point in their experience, however, an incident helped
her. It occurred one evening about six weeks after their union, and
arose entirely out of the unconscious misapplication of Venn of the
fifty guineas intended for Yeobright.
A day or two after the receipt of the money Thomasin had sent a note to
her aunt to thank her. She had been surprised at the largeness of the
amount; but as no sum had ever been mentioned she set that down to her
late uncle’s generosity. She had been strictly charged by her aunt to
say nothing to her husband of this gift; and Wildeve, as was natural
enough, had not brought himself to mention to his wife a single
particular of the midnight scene in the heath. Christian’s terror, in
like manner, had tied his tongue on the share he took in that
proceeding; and hoping that by some means or other the money had gone
to its proper destination, he simply asserted as much, without giving
details.
Therefore, when a week or two had passed away, Mrs. Yeobright began to
wonder why she never heard from her son of the receipt of the present;
and to add gloom to her perplexity came the possibility that resentment
might be the cause of his silence. She could hardly believe as much,
but why did he not write? She questioned Christian, and the confusion
in his answers would at once have led her to believe that something was
wrong, had not one-half of his story been corroborated by Thomasin’s
note.
Mrs. Yeobright was in this state of uncertainty when she was informed
one morning that her son’s wife was visiting her grandfather at
Mistover. She determined to walk up the hill, see Eustacia, and
ascertain from her daughter-in-law’s lips whether the family guineas,
which were to Mrs. Yeobright what family jewels are to wealthier
dowagers, had miscarried or not.
When Christian learnt where she was going his concern reached its
height. At the moment of her departure he could prevaricate no longer,
and, confessing to the gambling, told her the truth as far as he knew
it—that the guineas had been won by Wildeve.
“What, is he going to keep them?” Mrs. Yeobright cried.
“I hope and trust not!” moaned Christian. “He’s a good man, and perhaps
will do right things. He said you ought to have gied Mr. Clym’s share
to Eustacia, and that’s perhaps what he’ll do himself.”
To Mrs. Yeobright, as soon as she could calmly reflect, there was much
likelihood in this, for she could hardly believe that Wildeve would
really appropriate money belonging to her son. The intermediate course
of giving it to Eustacia was the sort of thing to please Wildeve’s
fancy. But it filled the mother with anger none the less. That Wildeve
should have got command of the guineas after all, and should rearrange
the disposal of them, placing Clym’s share in Clym’s wife’s hands,
because she had been his own sweetheart, and might be so still, was as
irritating a pain as any that Mrs. Yeobright had ever borne.
She instantly dismissed the wretched Christian from her employ for his
conduct in the affair; but, feeling quite helpless and unable to do
without him, told him afterwards that he might stay a little longer if
he chose. Then she hastened off to Eustacia, moved by a much less
promising emotion towards her daughter-in-law than she had felt half an
hour earlier, when planning her journey. At that time it was to inquire
in a friendly spirit if there had been any accidental loss; now it was
to ask plainly if Wildeve had privately given her money which had been
intended as a sacred gift to Clym.
She started at two o’clock, and her meeting with Eustacia was hastened
by the appearance of the young lady beside the pool and bank which
bordered her grandfather’s premises, where she stood surveying the
scene, and perhaps thinking of the romantic enactments it had witnessed
in past days. When Mrs. Yeobright approached, Eustacia surveyed her
with the calm stare of a stranger.
The mother-in-law was the first to speak. “I was coming to see you,”
she said.
“Indeed!” said Eustacia with surprise, for Mrs. Yeobright, much to the
girl’s mortification, had refused to be present at the wedding. “I did
not at all expect you.”
“I was coming on business only,” said the visitor, more coldly than at
first. “Will you excuse my asking this—Have you received a gift from
Thomasin’s husband?”
“A gift?”
“I mean money!”
“What—I myself?”
“Well, I meant yourself, privately—though I was not going to put it in
that way.”
“Money from Mr. Wildeve? No—never! Madam, what do you mean by that?”
Eustacia fired up all too quickly, for her own consciousness of the old
attachment between herself and Wildeve led her to jump to the
conclusion that Mrs. Yeobright also knew of it, and might have come to
accuse her of receiving dishonourable presents from him now.
“I simply ask the question,” said Mrs. Yeobright. “I have been——”
“You ought to have better opinions of me—I feared you were against me
from the first!” exclaimed Eustacia.
“No. I was simply for Clym,” replied Mrs. Yeobright, with too much
emphasis in her earnestness. “It is the instinct of everyone to look
after their own.”
“How can you imply that he required guarding against me?” cried
Eustacia, passionate tears in her eyes. “I have not injured him by
marrying him! What sin have I done that you should think so ill of me?
You had no right to speak against me to him when I have never wronged
you.”
“I only did what was fair under the circumstances,” said Mrs. Yeobright
more softly. “I would rather not have gone into this question at
present, but you compel me. I am not ashamed to tell you the honest
truth. I was firmly convinced that he ought not to marry you—therefore
I tried to dissuade him by all the means in my power. But it is done
now, and I have no idea of complaining any more. I am ready to welcome
you.”
“Ah, yes, it is very well to see things in that business point of
view,” murmured Eustacia with a smothered fire of feeling. “But why
should you think there is anything between me and Mr. Wildeve? I have a
spirit as well as you. I am indignant; and so would any woman be. It
was a condescension in me to be Clym’s wife, and not a manœuvre, let me
remind you; and therefore I will not be treated as a schemer whom it
becomes necessary to bear with because she has crept into the family.”
“Oh!” said Mrs. Yeobright, vainly endeavouring to control her anger. “I
have never heard anything to show that my son’s lineage is not as good
as the Vyes’—perhaps better. It is amusing to hear you talk of
condescension.”
“It was condescension, nevertheless,” said Eustacia vehemently. “And if
I had known then what I know now, that I should be living in this wild
heath a month after my marriage, I—I should have thought twice before
agreeing.”
“It would be better not to say that; it might not sound truthful. I am
not aware that any deception was used on his part—I know there was
not—whatever might have been the case on the other side.”
“This is too exasperating!” answered the younger woman huskily, her
face crimsoning, and her eyes darting light. “How can you dare to speak