The Return of the Native
“Keep it close as night, if you promise not to think of it again.”
“You need not fear. The moment has passed. I promise.” She then went
away, entered the house, and lay down.
Later in the afternoon her grandfather returned. He was about to
question her categorically, but on looking at her he withheld his
words.
“Yes, it is too bad to talk of,” she slowly returned in answer to his
glance. “Can my old room be got ready for me tonight, Grandfather? I
shall want to occupy it again.”
He did not ask what it all meant, or why she had left her husband, but
ordered the room to be prepared.
V.
An Old Move Inadvertently Repeated
Charley’s attentions to his former mistress were unbounded. The only
solace to his own trouble lay in his attempts to relieve hers. Hour
after hour he considered her wants; he thought of her presence there
with a sort of gratitude, and, while uttering imprecations on the cause
of her unhappiness, in some measure blessed the result. Perhaps she
would always remain there, he thought, and then he would be as happy as
he had been before. His dread was lest she should think fit to return
to Alderworth, and in that dread his eyes, with all the inquisitiveness
of affection, frequently sought her face when she was not observing
him, as he would have watched the head of a stockdove to learn if it
contemplated flight. Having once really succoured her, and possibly
preserved her from the rashest of acts, he mentally assumed in addition
a guardian’s responsibility for her welfare.
For this reason he busily endeavoured to provide her with pleasant
distractions, bringing home curious objects which he found in the
heath, such as white trumpet-shaped mosses, redheaded lichens, stone
arrowheads used by the old tribes on Egdon, and faceted crystals from
the hollows of flints. These he deposited on the premises in such
positions that she should see them as if by accident.
A week passed, Eustacia never going out of the house. Then she walked
into the enclosed plot and looked through her grandfather’s spyglass,
as she had been in the habit of doing before her marriage. One day she
saw, at a place where the highroad crossed the distant valley, a
heavily laden wagon passing along. It was piled with household
furniture. She looked again and again, and recognized it to be her own.
In the evening her grandfather came indoors with a rumour that
Yeobright had removed that day from Alderworth to the old house at
Blooms-End.
On another occasion when reconnoitring thus she beheld two female
figures walking in the vale. The day was fine and clear; and the
persons not being more than half a mile off she could see their every
detail with the telescope. The woman walking in front carried a white
bundle in her arms, from one end of which hung a long appendage of
drapery; and when the walkers turned, so that the sun fell more
directly upon them, Eustacia could see that the object was a baby. She
called Charley, and asked him if he knew who they were, though she well
guessed.
“Mrs. Wildeve and the nurse-girl,” said Charley.
“The nurse is carrying the baby?” said Eustacia.
“No, ’tis Mrs. Wildeve carrying that,” he answered, “and the nurse
walks behind carrying nothing.”
The lad was in good spirits that day, for the Fifth of November had
again come round, and he was planning yet another scheme to divert her
from her too absorbing thoughts. For two successive years his mistress
had seemed to take pleasure in lighting a bonfire on the bank
overlooking the valley; but this year she had apparently quite
forgotten the day and the customary deed. He was careful not to remind
her, and went on with his secret preparations for a cheerful surprise,
the more zealously that he had been absent last time and unable to
assist. At every vacant minute he hastened to gather furze-stumps,
thorn-tree roots, and other solid materials from the adjacent slopes,
hiding them from cursory view.
The evening came, and Eustacia was still seemingly unconscious of the
anniversary. She had gone indoors after her survey through the glass,
and had not been visible since. As soon as it was quite dark Charley
began to build the bonfire, choosing precisely that spot on the bank
which Eustacia had chosen at previous times.
When all the surrounding bonfires had burst into existence Charley
kindled his, and arranged its fuel so that it should not require
tending for some time. He then went back to the house, and lingered
round the door and windows till she should by some means or other learn
of his achievement and come out to witness it. But the shutters were
closed, the door remained shut, and no heed whatever seemed to be taken
of his performance. Not liking to call her he went back and replenished
the fire, continuing to do this for more than half an hour. It was not
till his stock of fuel had greatly diminished that he went to the back
door and sent in to beg that Mrs. Yeobright would open the
window-shutters and see the sight outside.
Eustacia, who had been sitting listlessly in the parlour, started up at
the intelligence and flung open the shutters. Facing her on the bank
blazed the fire, which at once sent a ruddy glare into the room where
she was, and overpowered the candles.
“Well done, Charley!” said Captain Vye from the chimney-corner. “But I
hope it is not my wood that he’s burning.... Ah, it was this time last
year that I met with that man Venn, bringing home Thomasin Yeobright—to
be sure it was! Well, who would have thought that girl’s troubles would
have ended so well? What a snipe you were in that matter, Eustacia! Has
your husband written to you yet?”
“No,” said Eustacia, looking vaguely through the window at the fire,
which just then so much engaged her mind that she did not resent her
grandfather’s blunt opinion. She could see Charley’s form on the bank,
shovelling and stirring the fire; and there flashed upon her
imagination some other form which that fire might call up.
She left the room, put on her garden bonnet and cloak, and went out.
Reaching the bank, she looked over with a wild curiosity and misgiving,
when Charley said to her, with a pleased sense of himself, “I made it
o’ purpose for you, ma’am.”
“Thank you,” she said hastily. “But I wish you to put it out now.”
“It will soon burn down,” said Charley, rather disappointed. “Is it not
a pity to knock it out?”
“I don’t know,” she musingly answered.
They stood in silence, broken only by the crackling of the flames, till
Charley, perceiving that she did not want to talk to him, moved
reluctantly away.
Eustacia remained within the bank looking at the fire, intending to go
indoors, yet lingering still. Had she not by her situation been
inclined to hold in indifference all things honoured of the gods and of
men she would probably have come away. But her state was so hopeless
that she could play with it. To have lost is less disturbing than to
wonder if we may possibly have won; and Eustacia could now, like other
people at such a stage, take a standing-point outside herself, observe
herself as a disinterested spectator, and think what a sport for Heaven
this woman Eustacia was.
While she stood she heard a sound. It was the splash of a stone in the
pond.
Had Eustacia received the stone full in the bosom her heart could not
have given a more decided thump. She had thought of the possibility of
such a signal in answer to that which had been unwittingly given by
Charley; but she had not expected it yet. How prompt Wildeve was! Yet
how could he think her capable of deliberately wishing to renew their
assignations now? An impulse to leave the spot, a desire to stay,
struggled within her; and the desire held its own. More than that it
did not do, for she refrained even from ascending the bank and looking
over. She remained motionless, not disturbing a muscle of her face or
raising her eyes; for were she to turn up her face the fire on the bank
would shine upon it, and Wildeve might be looking down.
There was a second splash into the pond.
Why did he stay so long without advancing and looking over? Curiosity
had its way—she ascended one or two of the earth-steps in the bank and
glanced out.
Wildeve was before her. He had come forward after throwing the last
pebble, and the fire now shone into each of their faces from the bank
stretching breast-high between them.
“I did not light it!” cried Eustacia quickly. “It was lit without my
knowledge. Don’t, don’t come over to me!”
“Why have you been living here all these days without telling me? You
have left your home. I fear I am something to blame in this?”
“I did not let in his mother; that’s how it is!”
“You do not deserve what you have got, Eustacia; you are in great
misery; I see it in your eyes, your mouth, and all over you. My poor,
poor girl!” He stepped over the bank. “You are beyond everything
unhappy!”
“No, no; not exactly—”
“It has been pushed too far—it is killing you—I do think it!”
Her usually quiet breathing had grown quicker with his words. “I—I—”
she began, and then burst into quivering sobs, shaken to the very heart
by the unexpected voice of pity—a sentiment whose existence in relation
to herself she had almost forgotten.
This outbreak of weeping took Eustacia herself so much by surprise that
she could not leave off, and she turned aside from him in some shame,
though turning hid nothing from him. She sobbed on desperately; then
the outpour lessened, and she became quieter. Wildeve had resisted the
impulse to clasp her, and stood without speaking.
“Are you not ashamed of me, who used never to be a crying animal?” she
asked in a weak whisper as she wiped her eyes. “Why didn’t you go away?
I wish you had not seen quite all that; it reveals too much by half.”
“You might have wished it, because it makes me as sad as you,” he said
with emotion and deference. “As for revealing—the word is impossible
between us two.”
“I did not send for you—don’t forget it, Damon; I am in pain, but I did
not send for you! As a wife, at least, I’ve been straight.”
“Never mind—I came. O, Eustacia, forgive me for the harm I have done
you in these two past years! I see more and more that I have been your
ruin.”
“Not you. This place I live in.”
“Ah, your generosity may naturally make you say that. But I am the
culprit. I should either have done more or nothing at all.”
“In what way?”
“I ought never to have hunted you out, or, having done it, I ought to
have persisted in retaining you. But of course I have no right to talk
of that now. I will only ask this—can I do anything for you? Is there
anything on the face of the earth that a man can do to make you happier
than you are at present? If there is, I will do it. You may command me,
Eustacia, to the limit of my influence; and don’t forget that I am
richer now. Surely something can be done to save you from this! Such a
rare plant in such a wild place it grieves me to see. Do you want
anything bought? Do you want to go anywhere? Do you want to escape the
place altogether? Only say it, and I’ll do anything to put an end to
those tears, which but for me would never have been at all.”
“We are each married to another person,” she said faintly; “and
assistance from you would have an evil sound—after—after—”
“Well, there’s no preventing slanderers from having their fill at any
time; but you need not be afraid. Whatever I may feel I promise you on
my word of honour never to speak to you about—or act upon—until you say
I may. I know my duty to Thomasin quite as well as I know my duty to
you as a woman unfairly treated. What shall I assist you in?”
“In getting away from here.”
“Where do you wish to go to?”
“I have a place in my mind. If you could help me as far as Budmouth I