The Return of the Native
much in it yourself if you so dislike it?”
The inquiry, though a simple one, was plainly disconcerting, and he sat
down before replying. “I don’t think you often see me there. Give an
instance.”
“I will,” she answered triumphantly. “When you went out this evening I
thought that as baby was asleep I would see where you were going to so
mysteriously without telling me. So I ran out and followed behind you.
You stopped at the place where the road forks, looked round at the
bonfires, and then said, ‘Damn it, I’ll go!’ And you went quickly up
the left-hand road. Then I stood and watched you.”
Wildeve frowned, afterwards saying, with a forced smile, “Well, what
wonderful discovery did you make?”
“There—now you are angry, and we won’t talk of this any more.” She went
across to him, sat on a footstool, and looked up in his face.
“Nonsense!” he said, “that’s how you always back out. We will go on
with it now we have begun. What did you next see? I particularly want
to know.”
“Don’t be like that, Damon!” she murmured. “I didn’t see anything. You
vanished out of sight, and then I looked round at the bonfires and came
in.”
“Perhaps this is not the only time you have dogged my steps. Are you
trying to find out something bad about me?”
“Not at all! I have never done such a thing before, and I shouldn’t
have done it now if words had not sometimes been dropped about you.”
“What _do_ you mean?” he impatiently asked.
“They say—they say you used to go to Alderworth in the evenings, and it
puts into my mind what I have heard about—”
Wildeve turned angrily and stood up in front of her. “Now,” he said,
flourishing his hand in the air, “just out with it, madam! I demand to
know what remarks you have heard.”
“Well, I heard that you used to be very fond of Eustacia—nothing more
than that, though dropped in a bit-by-bit way. You ought not to be
angry!”
He observed that her eyes were brimming with tears. “Well,” he said,
“there is nothing new in that, and of course I don’t mean to be rough
towards you, so you need not cry. Now, don’t let us speak of the
subject any more.”
And no more was said, Thomasin being glad enough of a reason for not
mentioning Clym’s visit to her that evening, and his story.
VII.
The Night of the Sixth of November
Having resolved on flight Eustacia at times seemed anxious that
something should happen to thwart her own intention. The only event
that could really change her position was the appearance of Clym. The
glory which had encircled him as her lover was departed now; yet some
good simple quality of his would occasionally return to her memory and
stir a momentary throb of hope that he would again present himself
before her. But calmly considered it was not likely that such a
severance as now existed would ever close up—she would have to live on
as a painful object, isolated, and out of place. She had used to think
of the heath alone as an uncongenial spot to be in; she felt it now of
the whole world.
Towards evening on the sixth her determination to go away again
revived. About four o’clock she packed up anew the few small articles
she had brought in her flight from Alderworth, and also some belonging
to her which had been left here; the whole formed a bundle not too
large to be carried in her hand for a distance of a mile or two. The
scene without grew darker; mud-coloured clouds bellied downwards from
the sky like vast hammocks slung across it, and with the increase of
night a stormy wind arose; but as yet there was no rain.
Eustacia could not rest indoors, having nothing more to do, and she
wandered to and fro on the hill, not far from the house she was soon to
leave. In these desultory ramblings she passed the cottage of Susan
Nunsuch, a little lower down than her grandfather’s. The door was ajar,
and a riband of bright firelight fell over the ground without. As
Eustacia crossed the firebeams she appeared for an instant as distinct
as a figure in a phantasmagoria—a creature of light surrounded by an
area of darkness; the moment passed, and she was absorbed in night
again.
A woman who was sitting inside the cottage had seen and recognized her
in that momentary irradiation. This was Susan herself, occupied in
preparing a posset for her little boy, who, often ailing, was now
seriously unwell. Susan dropped the spoon, shook her fist at the
vanished figure, and then proceeded with her work in a musing, absent
way.
At eight o’clock, the hour at which Eustacia had promised to signal
Wildeve if ever she signalled at all, she looked around the premises to
learn if the coast was clear, went to the furze-rick, and pulled thence
a long-stemmed bough of that fuel. This she carried to the corner of
the bank, and, glancing behind to see if the shutters were all closed,
she struck a light, and kindled the furze. When it was thoroughly
ablaze Eustacia took it by the stem and waved it in the air above her
head till it had burned itself out.
She was gratified, if gratification were possible to such a mood, by
seeing a similar light in the vicinity of Wildeve’s residence a minute
or two later. Having agreed to keep watch at this hour every night, in
case she should require assistance, this promptness proved how strictly
he had held to his word. Four hours after the present time, that is, at
midnight, he was to be ready to drive her to Budmouth, as prearranged.
Eustacia returned to the house. Supper having been got over she retired
early, and sat in her bedroom waiting for the time to go by. The night
being dark and threatening, Captain Vye had not strolled out to gossip
in any cottage or to call at the inn, as was sometimes his custom on
these long autumn nights; and he sat sipping grog alone downstairs.
About ten o’clock there was a knock at the door. When the servant
opened it the rays of the candle fell upon the form of Fairway.
“I was a-forced to go to Lower Mistover tonight,” he said, “and Mr.
Yeobright asked me to leave this here on my way; but, faith, I put it
in the lining of my hat, and thought no more about it till I got back
and was hasping my gate before going to bed. So I have run back with it
at once.”
He handed in a letter and went his way. The girl brought it to the
captain, who found that it was directed to Eustacia. He turned it over
and over, and fancied that the writing was her husband’s, though he
could not be sure. However, he decided to let her have it at once if
possible, and took it upstairs for that purpose; but on reaching the
door of her room and looking in at the keyhole he found there was no
light within, the fact being that Eustacia, without undressing, had
flung herself upon the bed, to rest and gather a little strength for
her coming journey. Her grandfather concluded from what he saw that he
ought not to disturb her; and descending again to the parlour he placed
the letter on the mantelpiece to give it to her in the morning.
At eleven o’clock he went to bed himself, smoked for some time in his
bedroom, put out his light at half-past eleven, and then, as was his
invariable custom, pulled up the blind before getting into bed, that he
might see which way the wind blew on opening his eyes in the morning,
his bedroom window commanding a view of the flagstaff and vane. Just as
he had lain down he was surprised to observe the white pole of the
staff flash into existence like a streak of phosphorus drawn downwards
across the shade of night without. Only one explanation met this—a
light had been suddenly thrown upon the pole from the direction of the
house. As everybody had retired to rest the old man felt it necessary
to get out of bed, open the window softly, and look to the right and
left. Eustacia’s bedroom was lighted up, and it was the shine from her
window which had lighted the pole. Wondering what had aroused her, he
remained undecided at the window, and was thinking of fetching the
letter to slip it under her door, when he heard a slight brushing of
garments on the partition dividing his room from the passage.
The captain concluded that Eustacia, feeling wakeful, had gone for a
book, and would have dismissed the matter as unimportant if he had not
also heard her distinctly weeping as she passed.
“She is thinking of that husband of hers,” he said to himself. “Ah, the
silly goose! she had no business to marry him. I wonder if that letter
is really his?”
He arose, threw his boat-cloak round him, opened the door, and said,
“Eustacia!” There was no answer. “Eustacia!” he repeated louder, “there
is a letter on the mantelpiece for you.”
But no response was made to this statement save an imaginary one from
the wind, which seemed to gnaw at the corners of the house, and the
stroke of a few drops of rain upon the windows.
He went on to the landing, and stood waiting nearly five minutes. Still
she did not return. He went back for a light, and prepared to follow
her; but first he looked into her bedroom. There, on the outside of the
quilt, was the impression of her form, showing that the bed had not
been opened; and, what was more significant, she had not taken her
candlestick downstairs. He was now thoroughly alarmed; and hastily
putting on his clothes he descended to the front door, which he himself
had bolted and locked. It was now unfastened. There was no longer any
doubt that Eustacia had left the house at this midnight hour; and
whither could she have gone? To follow her was almost impossible. Had
the dwelling stood in an ordinary road, two persons setting out, one in
each direction, might have made sure of overtaking her; but it was a
hopeless task to seek for anybody on a heath in the dark, the
practicable directions for flight across it from any point being as
numerous as the meridians radiating from the pole. Perplexed what to
do, he looked into the parlour, and was vexed to find that the letter
still lay there untouched.
At half-past eleven, finding that the house was silent, Eustacia had
lighted her candle, put on some warm outer wrappings, taken her bag in
her hand, and, extinguishing the light again, descended the staircase.
When she got into the outer air she found that it had begun to rain,
and as she stood pausing at the door it increased, threatening to come
on heavily. But having committed herself to this line of action there
was no retreating for bad weather. Even the receipt of Clym’s letter
would not have stopped her now. The gloom of the night was funereal;
all nature seemed clothed in crape. The spiky points of the fir trees
behind the house rose into the sky like the turrets and pinnacles of an
abbey. Nothing below the horizon was visible save a light which was
still burning in the cottage of Susan Nunsuch.
Eustacia opened her umbrella and went out from the enclosure by the
steps over the bank, after which she was beyond all danger of being
perceived. Skirting the pool, she followed the path towards Rainbarrow,
occasionally stumbling over twisted furze roots, tufts of rushes, or
oozing lumps of fleshy fungi, which at this season lay scattered about
the heath like the rotten liver and lungs of some colossal animal. The
moon and stars were closed up by cloud and rain to the degree of
extinction. It was a night which led the traveller’s thoughts
instinctively to dwell on nocturnal scenes of disaster in the
chronicles of the world, on all that is terrible and dark in history
and legend—the last plague of Egypt, the destruction of Sennacherib’s
host, the agony in Gethsemane.
Eustacia at length reached Rainbarrow, and stood still there to think.
Never was harmony more perfect than that between the chaos of her mind
and the chaos of the world without. A sudden recollection had flashed
on her this moment—she had not money enough for undertaking a long