The Return of the Native
“Do what you think right, dear. I am only too glad that you see your
way clear to happiness again. My sex owes you every amends for the
treatment you received in days gone by.”*
[*] The writer may state here that the original conception of the
story did not design a marriage between Thomasin and Venn. He was to
have retained his isolated and weird character to the last, and to
have disappeared mysteriously from the heath, nobody knowing
whither—Thomasin remaining a widow. But certain circumstances of
serial publication led to a change of intent.
Readers can therefore choose between the endings, and those with an
austere artistic code can assume the more consistent conclusion to
be the true one.
IV.
Cheerfulness Again Asserts Itself at Blooms-End, and Clym Finds His
Vocation
Anybody who had passed through Blooms-End about eleven o’clock on the
morning fixed for the wedding would have found that, while Yeobright’s
house was comparatively quiet, sounds denoting great activity came from
the dwelling of his nearest neighbour, Timothy Fairway. It was chiefly
a noise of feet, briskly crunching hither and thither over the sanded
floor within. One man only was visible outside, and he seemed to be
later at an appointment than he had intended to be, for he hastened up
to the door, lifted the latch, and walked in without ceremony.
The scene within was not quite the customary one. Standing about the
room was the little knot of men who formed the chief part of the Egdon
coterie, there being present Fairway himself, Grandfer Cantle,
Humphrey, Christian, and one or two turf-cutters. It was a warm day,
and the men were as a matter of course in their shirtsleeves, except
Christian, who had always a nervous fear of parting with a scrap of his
clothing when in anybody’s house but his own. Across the stout oak
table in the middle of the room was thrown a mass of striped linen,
which Grandfer Cantle held down on one side, and Humphrey on the other,
while Fairway rubbed its surface with a yellow lump, his face being
damp and creased with the effort of the labour.
“Waxing a bed-tick, souls?” said the newcomer.
“Yes, Sam,” said Grandfer Cantle, as a man too busy to waste words.
“Shall I stretch this corner a shade tighter, Timothy?”
Fairway replied, and the waxing went on with unabated vigour. “’Tis
going to be a good bed, by the look o’t,” continued Sam, after an
interval of silence. “Who may it be for?”
“’Tis a present for the new folks that’s going to set up housekeeping,”
said Christian, who stood helpless and overcome by the majesty of the
proceedings.
“Ah, to be sure; and a valuable one, ’a b’lieve.”
“Beds be dear to fokes that don’t keep geese, bain’t they, Mister
Fairway?” said Christian, as to an omniscient being.
“Yes,” said the furze-dealer, standing up, giving his forehead a
thorough mopping, and handing the beeswax to Humphrey, who succeeded at
the rubbing forthwith. “Not that this couple be in want of one, but
’twas well to show ’em a bit of friendliness at this great racketing
vagary of their lives. I set up both my own daughters in one when they
was married, and there have been feathers enough for another in the
house the last twelve months. Now then, neighbours, I think we have
laid on enough wax. Grandfer Cantle, you turn the tick the right way
outwards, and then I’ll begin to shake in the feathers.”
When the bed was in proper trim Fairway and Christian brought forward
vast paper bags, stuffed to the full, but light as balloons, and began
to turn the contents of each into the receptacle just prepared. As bag
after bag was emptied, airy tufts of down and feathers floated about
the room in increasing quantity till, through a mishap of Christian’s,
who shook the contents of one bag outside the tick, the atmosphere of
the room became dense with gigantic flakes, which descended upon the
workers like a windless snowstorm.
“I never saw such a clumsy chap as you, Christian,” said Grandfer
Cantle severely. “You might have been the son of a man that’s never
been outside Blooms-End in his life for all the wit you have. Really
all the soldiering and smartness in the world in the father seems to
count for nothing in forming the nater of the son. As far as that chief
Christian is concerned I might as well have stayed at home and seed
nothing, like all the rest of ye here. Though, as far as myself is
concerned, a dashing spirit has counted for sommat, to be sure!”
“Don’t ye let me down so, Father; I feel no bigger than a ninepin after
it. I’ve made but a bruckle hit, I’m afeard.”
“Come, come. Never pitch yerself in such a low key as that, Christian;
you should try more,” said Fairway.
“Yes, you should try more,” echoed the Grandfer with insistence, as if
he had been the first to make the suggestion. “In common conscience
every man ought either to marry or go for a soldier. ’Tis a scandal to
the nation to do neither one nor t’other. I did both, thank God!
Neither to raise men nor to lay ’em low—that shows a poor do-nothing
spirit indeed.”
“I never had the nerve to stand fire,” faltered Christian. “But as to
marrying, I own I’ve asked here and there, though without much fruit
from it. Yes, there’s some house or other that might have had a man for
a master—such as he is—that’s now ruled by a woman alone. Still it
might have been awkward if I had found her; for, d’ye see, neighbours,
there’d have been nobody left at home to keep down Father’s spirits to
the decent pitch that becomes a old man.”
“And you’ve your work cut out to do that, my son,” said Grandfer Cantle
smartly. “I wish that the dread of infirmities was not so strong in
me!—I’d start the very first thing tomorrow to see the world over
again! But seventy-one, though nothing at home, is a high figure for a
rover.... Ay, seventy-one, last Candlemasday. Gad, I’d sooner have it
in guineas than in years!” And the old man sighed.
“Don’t you be mournful, Grandfer,” said Fairway. “Empt some more
feathers into the bed-tick, and keep up yer heart. Though rather lean
in the stalks you be a green-leaved old man still. There’s time enough
left to ye yet to fill whole chronicles.”
“Begad, I’ll go to ’em, Timothy—to the married pair!” said Granfer
Cantle in an encouraged voice, and starting round briskly. “I’ll go to
’em tonight and sing a wedding song, hey? ’Tis like me to do so, you
know; and they’d see it as such. My ‘Down in Cupid’s Gardens’ was well
liked in four; still, I’ve got others as good, and even better. What do
you say to my
She cal′-led to′ her love′
From the lat′-tice a-bove,
′O come in′ from the fog-gy fog′-gy dew′.
’Twould please ’em well at such a time! Really, now I come to think of
it, I haven’t turned my tongue in my head to the shape of a real good
song since Old Midsummer night, when we had the ‘Barley Mow’ at the
Woman; and ’tis a pity to neglect your strong point where there’s few
that have the compass for such things!”
“So ’tis, so ’tis,” said Fairway. “Now gie the bed a shake down. We’ve
put in seventy pounds of best feathers, and I think that’s as many as
the tick will fairly hold. A bit and a drap wouldn’t be amiss now, I
reckon. Christian, maul down the victuals from corner-cupboard if canst
reach, man, and I’ll draw a drap o’ sommat to wet it with.”
They sat down to a lunch in the midst of their work, feathers around,
above, and below them; the original owners of which occasionally came
to the open door and cackled begrudgingly at sight of such a quantity
of their old clothes.
“Upon my soul I shall be chokt,” said Fairway when, having extracted a
feather from his mouth, he found several others floating on the mug as
it was handed round.
“I’ve swallered several; and one had a tolerable quill,” said Sam
placidly from the corner.
“Hullo—what’s that—wheels I hear coming?” Grandfer Cantle exclaimed,
jumping up and hastening to the door. “Why, ’tis they back again—I
didn’t expect ’em yet this half-hour. To be sure, how quick marrying
can be done when you are in the mind for’t!”
“O yes, it can soon be _done_,” said Fairway, as if something should be
added to make the statement complete.
He arose and followed the Grandfer, and the rest also went to the door.
In a moment an open fly was driven past, in which sat Venn and Mrs.
Venn, Yeobright, and a grand relative of Venn’s who had come from
Budmouth for the occasion. The fly had been hired at the nearest town,
regardless of distance and cost, there being nothing on Egdon Heath, in
Venn’s opinion, dignified enough for such an event when such a woman as
Thomasin was the bride; and the church was too remote for a walking
bridal-party.
As the fly passed the group which had run out from the homestead they
shouted “Hurrah!” and waved their hands; feathers and down floating
from their hair, their sleeves, and the folds of their garments at
every motion, and Grandfer Cantle’s seals dancing merrily in the
sunlight as he twirled himself about. The driver of the fly turned a
supercilious gaze upon them; he even treated the wedded pair themselves
with something like condescension; for in what other state than heathen
could people, rich or poor, exist who were doomed to abide in such a
world’s end as Egdon? Thomasin showed no such superiority to the group
at the door, fluttering her hand as quickly as a bird’s wing towards
them, and asking Diggory, with tears in her eyes, if they ought not to
alight and speak to these kind neighbours. Venn, however, suggested
that, as they were all coming to the house in the evening, this was
hardly necessary.
After this excitement the saluting party returned to their occupation,
and the stuffing and sewing were soon afterwards finished, when Fairway
harnessed a horse, wrapped up the cumbrous present, and drove off with
it in the cart to Venn’s house at Stickleford.
Yeobright, having filled the office at the wedding service which
naturally fell to his hands, and afterwards returned to the house with
the husband and wife, was indisposed to take part in the feasting and
dancing that wound up the evening. Thomasin was disappointed.
“I wish I could be there without dashing your spirits,” he said. “But I
might be too much like the skull at the banquet.”
“No, no.”
“Well, dear, apart from that, if you would excuse me, I should be glad.
I know it seems unkind; but, dear Thomasin, I fear I should not be
happy in the company—there, that’s the truth of it. I shall always be
coming to see you at your new home, you know, so that my absence now
will not matter.”
“Then I give in. Do whatever will be most comfortable to yourself.”
Clym retired to his lodging at the housetop much relieved, and occupied
himself during the afternoon in noting down the heads of a sermon, with
which he intended to initiate all that really seemed practicable of the
scheme that had originally brought him hither, and that he had so long
kept in view under various modifications, and through evil and good
report. He had tested and weighed his convictions again and again, and
saw no reason to alter them, though he had considerably lessened his
plan. His eyesight, by long humouring in his native air, had grown
stronger, but not sufficiently strong to warrant his attempting his
extensive educational project. Yet he did not repine—there was still
more than enough of an unambitious sort to tax all his energies and
occupy all his hours.
Evening drew on, and sounds of life and movement in the lower part of
the domicile became more pronounced, the gate in the palings clicking
incessantly. The party was to be an early one, and all the guests were
assembled long before it was dark. Yeobright went down the back
staircase and into the heath by another path than that in front,