The Return of the Native

”Yes,” Mrs. Yeobright said sadly, putting down the letter. ”If youthink you can marry him, do so. And since Mr. Wildeve wishes it to beunceremonious, let it be that too. I can do nothing. It is all in yourown hands now. My power over your welfare came to an end when youleft this house to go with him to Anglebury.” She continued, half inbitterness, ”I may almost ask, why do you consult me in the matter atall? If you had gone and married him without saying a word to me, Icould hardly have been angry--simply because, poor girl, you can't do abetter thing.”

”Don't say that and dishearten me.”

”You are right--I will not.”

”I do not plead for him, Aunt. Human nature is weak, and I am not ablind woman to insist that he is perfect. I did think so, but I don'tnow. But I know my course, and you know that I know it. I hope for thebest.”

”And so do I, and we will both continue to,” said Mrs. Yeobright, risingand kissing her. ”Then the wedding, if it comes off, will be on themorning of the very day Clym comes home?”

”Yes. I decided that it ought to be over before he came. After that youcan look him in the face, and so can I. Our concealments will matternothing.”

Mrs. Yeobright moved her head in thoughtful assent, and presently said,”Do you wish me to give you away? I am willing to undertake that, youknow, if you wish, as I was last time. After once forbidding the banns Ithink I can do no less.”

”I don't think I will ask you to come,” said Thomasin reluctantly, butwith decision. ”It would be unpleasant, I am almost sure. Better letthere be only strangers present, and none of my relations at all. Iwould rather have it so. I do not wish to do anything which may touchyour credit, and I feel that I should be uncomfortable if you werethere, after what has passed. I am only your niece, and there is nonecessity why you should concern yourself more about me.”

”Well, he has beaten us,” her aunt said. ”It really seems as if he hadbeen playing with you in this way in revenge for my humbling him as Idid by standing up against him at first.”

”O no, Aunt,” murmured Thomasin.

They said no more on the subject then. Diggory Venn's knock came soonafter; and Mrs. Yeobright, on returning from her interview with him inthe porch, carelessly observed, ”Another lover has come to ask for you.”

”No?”

”Yes, that queer young man Venn.”

”Asks to pay his addresses to me?”

”Yes; and I told him he was too late.”

Thomasin looked silently into the candle-flame. ”Poor Diggory!” shesaid, and then aroused herself to other things.

The next day was passed in mere mechanical deeds of preparation, boththe women being anxious to immerse themselves in these to escape theemotional aspect of the situation. Some wearing apparel and otherarticles were collected anew for Thomasin, and remarks on domesticdetails were frequently made, so as to obscure any inner misgivingsabout her future as Wildeve's wife.

The appointed morning came. The arrangement with Wildeve was that heshould meet her at the church to guard against any unpleasant curiositywhich might have affected them had they been seen walking off togetherin the usual country way.

Aunt and niece stood together in the bedroom where the bride wasdressing. The sun, where it could catch it, made a mirror of Thomasin'shair, which she always wore braided. It was braided according to acalendar system--the more important the day the more numerous thestrands in the braid. On ordinary working-days she braided it in threes;on ordinary Sundays in fours; at Maypolings, gipsyings, and the like,she braided it in fives. Years ago she had said that when she marriedshe would braid it in sevens. She had braided it in sevens today.

”I have been thinking that I will wear my blue silk after all,” shesaid. ”It is my wedding day, even though there may be something sadabout the time. I mean,” she added, anxious to correct any wrongimpression, ”not sad in itself, but in its having had greatdisappointment and trouble before it.”

Mrs. Yeobright breathed in a way which might have been called a sigh. ”Ialmost wish Clym had been at home,” she said. ”Of course you chose thetime because of his absence.”

”Partly. I have felt that I acted unfairly to him in not telling himall; but, as it was done not to grieve him, I thought I would carry outthe plan to its end, and tell the whole story when the sky was clear.”

”You are a practical little woman,” said Mrs. Yeobright, smiling. ”Iwish you and he--no, I don't wish anything. There, it is nine o'clock,”she interrupted, hearing a whizz and a dinging downstairs.

”I told Damon I would leave at nine,” said Thomasin, hastening out ofthe room.

Her aunt followed. When Thomasin was going up the little walk from thedoor to the wicket-gate, Mrs. Yeobright looked reluctantly at her, andsaid, ”It is a shame to let you go alone.”

”It is necessary,” said Thomasin.

”At any rate,” added her aunt with forced cheerfulness, ”I shallcall upon you this afternoon, and bring the cake with me. If Clym hasreturned by that time he will perhaps come too. I wish to show Mr.Wildeve that I bear him no ill-will. Let the past be forgotten. Well,God bless you! There, I don't believe in old superstitions, but I'lldo it.” She threw a slipper at the retreating figure of the girl, whoturned, smiled, and went on again.

A few steps further, and she looked back. ”Did you call me, Aunt?” shetremulously inquired. ”Good-bye!”

Moved by an uncontrollable feeling as she looked upon Mrs. Yeobright'sworn, wet face, she ran back, when her aunt came forward, and they metagain. ”O--Tamsie,” said the elder, weeping, ”I don't like to let yougo.”

”I--I am--” Thomasin began, giving way likewise. But, quelling hergrief, she said ”Good-bye!” again and went on.

Then Mrs. Yeobright saw a little figure wending its way between thescratching furze-bushes, and diminishing far up the valley--a pale-bluespot in a vast field of neutral brown, solitary and undefended except bythe power of her own hope.

But the worst feature in the case was one which did not appear in thelandscape; it was the man.

The hour chosen for the ceremony by Thomasin and Wildeve had been sotimed as to enable her to escape the awkwardness of meeting her cousinClym, who was returning the same morning. To own to the partial truthof what he had heard would be distressing as long as the humiliatingposition resulting from the event was unimproved. It was only after asecond and successful journey to the altar that she could lift up herhead and prove the failure of the first attempt a pure accident.

She had not been gone from Blooms-End more than half an hour whenYeobright came by the meads from the other direction and entered thehouse.

”I had an early breakfast,” he said to his mother after greeting her.”Now I could eat a little more.”

They sat down to the repeated meal, and he went on in a low, anxiousvoice, apparently imagining that Thomasin had not yet come downstairs,”What's this I have heard about Thomasin and Mr. Wildeve?”

”It is true in many points,” said Mrs. Yeobright quietly; ”but it is allright now, I hope.” She looked at the clock.

”True?”

”Thomasin is gone to him today.”

Clym pushed away his breakfast. ”Then there is a scandal of some sort,and that's what's the matter with Thomasin. Was it this that made herill?”

”Yes. Not a scandal--a misfortune. I will tell you all about it, Clym.You must not be angry, but you must listen, and you'll find that what wehave done has been done for the best.”

She then told him the circumstances. All that he had known of the affairbefore he returned from Paris was that there had existed anattachment between Thomasin and Wildeve, which his mother had at firstdiscountenanced, but had since, owing to the arguments of Thomasin,looked upon in a little more favourable light. When she, therefore,proceeded to explain all he was greatly surprised and troubled.

”And she determined that the wedding should be over before you cameback,” said Mrs. Yeobright, ”that there might be no chance of hermeeting you, and having a very painful time of it. That's why she hasgone to him; they have arranged to be married this morning.”

”But I can't understand it,” said Yeobright, rising. ”'Tis so unlikeher. I can see why you did not write to me after her unfortunate returnhome. But why didn't you let me know when the wedding was going tobe--the first time?”

”Well, I felt vexed with her just then. She seemed to me to beobstinate; and when I found that you were nothing in her mind I vowedthat she should be nothing in yours. I felt that she was only myniece after all; I told her she might marry, but that I should take nointerest in it, and should not bother you about it either.”

”It wouldn't have been bothering me. Mother, you did wrong.”

”I thought it might disturb you in your business, and that you mightthrow up your situation, or injure your prospects in some way because ofit, so I said nothing. Of course, if they had married at that time in aproper manner, I should have told you at once.”

”Tamsin actually being married while we are sitting here!”

”Yes. Unless some accident happens again, as it did the first time. Itmay, considering he's the same man.”

”Yes, and I believe it will. Was it right to let her go? Suppose Wildeveis really a bad fellow?”

”Then he won't come, and she'll come home again.”

”You should have looked more into it.”

”It is useless to say that,” his mother answered with an impatient lookof sorrow. ”You don't know how bad it has been here with us all theseweeks, Clym. You don't know what a mortification anything of that sortis to a woman. You don't know the sleepless nights we've had in thishouse, and the almost bitter words that have passed between us sincethat Fifth of November. I hope never to pass seven such weeks again.Tamsin has not gone outside the door, and I have been ashamed to lookanybody in the face; and now you blame me for letting her do the onlything that can be done to set that trouble straight.”

”No,” he said slowly. ”Upon the whole I don't blame you. But justconsider how sudden it seems to me. Here was I, knowing nothing; andthen I am told all at once that Tamsie is gone to be married. Well,I suppose there was nothing better to do. Do you know, Mother,” hecontinued after a moment or two, looking suddenly interested in his ownpast history, ”I once thought of Tamsin as a sweetheart? Yes, I did. Howodd boys are! And when I came home and saw her this time she seemed somuch more affectionate than usual, that I was quite reminded of thosedays, particularly on the night of the party, when she was unwell. Wehad the party just the same--was not that rather cruel to her?”

”It made no difference. I had arranged to give one, and it was not worthwhile to make more gloom than necessary. To begin by shutting ourselvesup and telling you of Tamsin's misfortunes would have been a poor sortof welcome.”

Clym remained thinking. ”I almost wish you had not had that party,” hesaid; ”and for other reasons. But I will tell you in a day or two. Wemust think of Tamsin now.”

They lapsed into silence. ”I'll tell you what,” said Yeobright again,in a tone which showed some slumbering feeling still. ”I don't think itkind to Tamsin to let her be married like this, and neither of us thereto keep up her spirits or care a bit about her. She hasn't disgracedherself, or done anything to deserve that. It is bad enough that thewedding should be so hurried and unceremonious, without our keeping awayfrom it in addition. Upon my soul, 'tis almost a shame. I'll go.”

”It is over by this time,” said his mother with a sigh; ”unless theywere late, or he--”

”Then I shall be soon enough to see them come out. I don't quite likeyour keeping me in ignorance, Mother, after all. Really, I half hope hehas failed to meet her!”

”And ruined her character?”

”Nonsense--that wouldn't ruin Thomasin.”

He took up his hat and hastily left the house. Mrs. Yeobright lookedrather unhappy, and sat still, deep in thought. But she was not longleft alone. A few minutes later Clym came back again, and in his companycame Diggory Venn.

”I find there isn't time for me to get there,” said Clym.

”Is she married?” Mrs. Yeobright inquired, turning to the reddleman aface in which a strange strife of wishes, for and against, was apparent.

Venn bowed. ”She is, ma'am.”

”How strange it sounds,” murmured Clym.

”And he didn't disappoint her this time?” said Mrs. Yeobright.

”He did not. And there is now no slight on her name. I was hasteningath'art to tell you at once, as I saw you were not there.”

”How came you to be there? How did you know it?” she asked.

”I have been in that neighbourhood for some time, and I saw them go in,”said the reddleman. ”Wildeve came up to the door, punctual as the clock.I didn't expect it of him.” He did not add, as he might have added, thathow he came to be in that neighbourhood was not by accident; that,since Wildeve's resumption of his right to Thomasin, Venn, with thethoroughness which was part of his character, had determined to see theend of the episode.

”Who was there?” said Mrs. Yeobright.

”Nobody hardly. I stood right out of the way, and she did not see me.”The reddleman spoke huskily, and looked into the garden.

”Who gave her away?”

”Miss Vye.”

”How very remarkable! Miss Vye! It is to be considered an honour, Isuppose?”

”Who's Miss Vye?” said Clym.

”Captain Vye's granddaughter, of Mistover Knap.”

”A proud girl from Budmouth,” said Mrs. Yeobright. ”One not much to myliking. People say she's a witch, but of course that's absurd.”

The reddleman kept to himself his acquaintance with that fair personage,and also that Eustacia was there because he went to fetch her, inaccordance with a promise he had given as soon as he learnt that themarriage was to take place. He merely said, in continuation of thestory----

”I was sitting on the churchyard wall when they came up, one from oneway, the other from the other; and Miss Vye was walking thereabouts,looking at the headstones. As soon as they had gone in I went to thedoor, feeling I should like to see it, as I knew her so well. I pulledoff my boots because they were so noisy, and went up into the gallery. Isaw then that the parson and clerk were already there.”

”How came Miss Vye to have anything to do with it, if she was only on awalk that way?”

”Because there was nobody else. She had gone into the church just beforeme, not into the gallery. The parson looked round before beginning, andas she was the only one near he beckoned to her, and she went up to therails. After that, when it came to signing the book, she pushed up herveil and signed; and Tamsin seemed to thank her for her kindness.” Thereddleman told the tale thoughtfully for there lingered upon his visionthe changing colour of Wildeve, when Eustacia lifted the thick veilwhich had concealed her from recognition and looked calmly into hisface. ”And then,” said Diggory sadly, ”I came away, for her history asTamsin Yeobright was over.”

”I offered to go,” said Mrs. Yeobright regretfully. ”But she said it wasnot necessary.”

”Well, it is no matter,” said the reddleman. ”The thing is done at lastas it was meant to be at first, and God send her happiness. Now I'llwish you good morning.”

He placed his cap on his head and went out.

From that instant of leaving Mrs. Yeobright's door, the reddleman wasseen no more in or about Egdon Heath for a space of many months. Hevanished entirely. The nook among the brambles where his van had beenstanding was as vacant as ever the next morning, and scarcely a signremained to show that he had been there, excepting a few straws, and alittle redness on the turf, which was washed away by the next storm ofrain.

The report that Diggory had brought of the wedding, correct as far as itwent, was deficient in one significant particular, which had escaped himthrough his being at some distance back in the church. When Thomasinwas tremblingly engaged in signing her name Wildeve had flung towardsEustacia a glance that said plainly, ”I have punished you now.” She hadreplied in a low tone--and he little thought how truly--”You mistake; itgives me sincerest pleasure to see her your wife today.”





BOOK THREE -- THE FASCINATION