The Return of the Native
can do all the rest. Steamers sail from there across the Channel, and
so I can get to Paris, where I want to be. Yes,” she pleaded earnestly,
“help me to get to Budmouth harbour without my grandfather’s or my
husband’s knowledge, and I can do all the rest.”
“Will it be safe to leave you there alone?”
“Yes, yes. I know Budmouth well.”
“Shall I go with you? I am rich now.”
She was silent.
“Say yes, sweet!”
She was silent still.
“Well, let me know when you wish to go. We shall be at our present
house till December; after that we remove to Casterbridge. Command me
in anything till that time.”
“I will think of this,” she said hurriedly. “Whether I can honestly
make use of you as a friend, or must close with you as a lover—that is
what I must ask myself. If I wish to go and decide to accept your
company I will signal to you some evening at eight o’clock punctually,
and this will mean that you are to be ready with a horse and trap at
twelve o’clock the same night to drive me to Budmouth harbour in time
for the morning boat.”
“I will look out every night at eight, and no signal shall escape me.”
“Now please go away. If I decide on this escape I can only meet you
once more unless—I cannot go without you. Go—I cannot bear it longer.
Go—go!”
Wildeve slowly went up the steps and descended into the darkness on the
other side; and as he walked he glanced back, till the bank blotted out
her form from his further view.
VI.
Thomasin Argues with Her Cousin, and He Writes a Letter
Yeobright was at this time at Blooms-End, hoping that Eustacia would
return to him. The removal of furniture had been accomplished only that
day, though Clym had lived in the old house for more than a week. He
had spent the time in working about the premises, sweeping leaves from
the garden paths, cutting dead stalks from the flower beds, and nailing
up creepers which had been displaced by the autumn winds. He took no
particular pleasure in these deeds, but they formed a screen between
himself and despair. Moreover, it had become a religion with him to
preserve in good condition all that had lapsed from his mother’s hands
to his own.
During these operations he was constantly on the watch for Eustacia.
That there should be no mistake about her knowing where to find him he
had ordered a notice board to be affixed to the garden gate at
Alderworth, signifying in white letters whither he had removed. When a
leaf floated to the earth he turned his head, thinking it might be her
foot-fall. A bird searching for worms in the mould of the flower-beds
sounded like her hand on the latch of the gate; and at dusk, when soft,
strange ventriloquisms came from holes in the ground, hollow stalks,
curled dead leaves, and other crannies wherein breezes, worms, and
insects can work their will, he fancied that they were Eustacia,
standing without and breathing wishes of reconciliation.
Up to this hour he had persevered in his resolve not to invite her
back. At the same time the severity with which he had treated her
lulled the sharpness of his regret for his mother, and awoke some of
his old solicitude for his mother’s supplanter. Harsh feelings produce
harsh usage, and this by reaction quenches the sentiments that gave it
birth. The more he reflected the more he softened. But to look upon his
wife as innocence in distress was impossible, though he could ask
himself whether he had given her quite time enough—if he had not come a
little too suddenly upon her on that sombre morning.
Now that the first flush of his anger had paled he was disinclined to
ascribe to her more than an indiscreet friendship with Wildeve, for
there had not appeared in her manner the signs of dishonour. And this
once admitted, an absolutely dark interpretation of her act towards his
mother was no longer forced upon him.
On the evening of the fifth November his thoughts of Eustacia were
intense. Echoes from those past times when they had exchanged tender
words all the day long came like the diffused murmur of a seashore left
miles behind. “Surely,” he said, “she might have brought herself to
communicate with me before now, and confess honestly what Wildeve was
to her.”
Instead of remaining at home that night he determined to go and see
Thomasin and her husband. If he found opportunity he would allude to
the cause of the separation between Eustacia and himself, keeping
silence, however, on the fact that there was a third person in his
house when his mother was turned away. If it proved that Wildeve was
innocently there he would doubtless openly mention it. If he were there
with unjust intentions Wildeve, being a man of quick feeling, might
possibly say something to reveal the extent to which Eustacia was
compromised.
But on reaching his cousin’s house he found that only Thomasin was at
home, Wildeve being at that time on his way towards the bonfire
innocently lit by Charley at Mistover. Thomasin then, as always, was
glad to see Clym, and took him to inspect the sleeping baby, carefully
screening the candlelight from the infant’s eyes with her hand.
“Tamsin, have you heard that Eustacia is not with me now?” he said when
they had sat down again.
“No,” said Thomasin, alarmed.
“And not that I have left Alderworth?”
“No. I never hear tidings from Alderworth unless you bring them. What
is the matter?”
Clym in a disturbed voice related to her his visit to Susan Nunsuch’s
boy, the revelation he had made, and what had resulted from his
charging Eustacia with having wilfully and heartlessly done the deed.
He suppressed all mention of Wildeve’s presence with her.
“All this, and I not knowing it!” murmured Thomasin in an awestruck
tone, “Terrible! What could have made her—O, Eustacia! And when you
found it out you went in hot haste to her? Were you too cruel?—or is
she really so wicked as she seems?”
“Can a man be too cruel to his mother’s enemy?”
“I can fancy so.”
“Very well, then—I’ll admit that he can. But now what is to be done?”
“Make it up again—if a quarrel so deadly can ever be made up. I almost
wish you had not told me. But do try to be reconciled. There are ways,
after all, if you both wish to.”
“I don’t know that we do both wish to make it up,” said Clym. “If she
had wished it, would she not have sent to me by this time?”
“You seem to wish to, and yet you have not sent to her.”
“True; but I have been tossed to and fro in doubt if I ought, after
such strong provocation. To see me now, Thomasin, gives you no idea of
what I have been; of what depths I have descended to in these few last
days. O, it was a bitter shame to shut out my mother like that! Can I
ever forget it, or even agree to see her again?”
“She might not have known that anything serious would come of it, and
perhaps she did not mean to keep Aunt out altogether.”
“She says herself that she did not. But the fact remains that keep her
out she did.”
“Believe her sorry, and send for her.”
“How if she will not come?”
“It will prove her guilty, by showing that it is her habit to nourish
enmity. But I do not think that for a moment.”
“I will do this. I will wait for a day or two longer—not longer than
two days certainly; and if she does not send to me in that time I will
indeed send to her. I thought to have seen Wildeve here tonight. Is he
from home?”
Thomasin blushed a little. “No,” she said. “He is merely gone out for a
walk.”
“Why didn’t he take you with him? The evening is fine. You want fresh
air as well as he.”
“Oh, I don’t care for going anywhere; besides, there is baby.”
“Yes, yes. Well, I have been thinking whether I should not consult your
husband about this as well as you,” said Clym steadily.
“I fancy I would not,” she quickly answered. “It can do no good.”
Her cousin looked her in the face. No doubt Thomasin was ignorant that
her husband had any share in the events of that tragic afternoon; but
her countenance seemed to signify that she concealed some suspicion or
thought of the reputed tender relations between Wildeve and Eustacia in
days gone by.
Clym, however, could make nothing of it, and he rose to depart, more in
doubt than when he came.
“You will write to her in a day or two?” said the young woman
earnestly. “I do so hope the wretched separation may come to an end.”
“I will,” said Clym; “I don’t rejoice in my present state at all.”
And he left her and climbed over the hill to Blooms-End. Before going
to bed he sat down and wrote the following letter:—
MY DEAR EUSTACIA,—I must obey my heart without consulting my reason too
closely. Will you come back to me? Do so, and the past shall never be
mentioned. I was too severe; but O, Eustacia, the provocation! You
don’t know, you never will know, what those words of anger cost me
which you drew down upon yourself. All that an honest man can promise
you I promise now, which is that from me you shall never suffer
anything on this score again. After all the vows we have made,
Eustacia, I think we had better pass the remainder of our lives in
trying to keep them. Come to me, then, even if you reproach me. I have
thought of your sufferings that morning on which I parted from you; I
know they were genuine, and they are as much as you ought to bear. Our
love must still continue. Such hearts as ours would never have been
given us but to be concerned with each other. I could not ask you back
at first, Eustacia, for I was unable to persuade myself that he who was
with you was not there as a lover. But if you will come and explain
distracting appearances I do not question that you can show your
honesty to me. Why have you not come before? Do you think I will not
listen to you? Surely not, when you remember the kisses and vows we
exchanged under the summer moon. Return then, and you shall be warmly
welcomed. I can no longer think of you to your prejudice—I am but too
much absorbed in justifying you.—Your husband as ever,
CLYM.
“There,” he said, as he laid it in his desk, “that’s a good thing done.
If she does not come before tomorrow night I will send it to her.”
Meanwhile, at the house he had just left Thomasin sat sighing uneasily.
Fidelity to her husband had that evening induced her to conceal all
suspicion that Wildeve’s interest in Eustacia had not ended with his
marriage. But she knew nothing positive; and though Clym was her
well-beloved cousin there was one nearer to her still.
When, a little later, Wildeve returned from his walk to Mistover,
Thomasin said, “Damon, where have you been? I was getting quite
frightened, and thought you had fallen into the river. I dislike being
in the house by myself.”
“Frightened?” he said, touching her cheek as if she were some domestic
animal. “Why, I thought nothing could frighten you. It is that you are
getting proud, I am sure, and don’t like living here since we have
risen above our business. Well, it is a tedious matter, this getting a
new house; but I couldn’t have set about it sooner, unless our ten
thousand pounds had been a hundred thousand, when we could have
afforded to despise caution.”
“No—I don’t mind waiting—I would rather stay here twelve months longer
than run any risk with baby. But I don’t like your vanishing so in the
evenings. There’s something on your mind—I know there is, Damon. You go
about so gloomily, and look at the heath as if it were somebody’s gaol
instead of a nice wild place to walk in.”
He looked towards her with pitying surprise. “What, do you like Egdon
Heath?” he said.
“I like what I was born near to; I admire its grim old face.”
“Pooh, my dear. You don’t know what you like.”
“I am sure I do. There’s only one thing unpleasant about Egdon.”
“What’s that?”
“You never take me with you when you walk there. Why do you wander so