The Return of the Native

2--Thomasin Walks in a Green Place by the Roman Road

Clym saw little of Thomasin for several days after this; and when theymet she was more silent than usual. At length he asked her what she wasthinking of so intently.

”I am thoroughly perplexed,” she said candidly. ”I cannot for my lifethink who it is that Diggory Venn is so much in love with. None of thegirls at the Maypole were good enough for him, and yet she must havebeen there.”

Clym tried to imagine Venn's choice for a moment; but ceasing to beinterested in the question he went on again with his gardening.

No clearing up of the mystery was granted her for some time. But oneafternoon Thomasin was upstairs getting ready for a walk, when she hadoccasion to come to the landing and call ”Rachel.” Rachel was a girlabout thirteen, who carried the baby out for airings; and she cameupstairs at the call.

”Have you seen one of my last new gloves about the house, Rachel?”inquired Thomasin. ”It is the fellow to this one.”

Rachel did not reply.

”Why don't you answer?” said her mistress.

”I think it is lost, ma'am.”

”Lost? Who lost it? I have never worn them but once.”

Rachel appeared as one dreadfully troubled, and at last began to cry.”Please, ma'am, on the day of the Maypole I had none to wear, and I seedyours on the table, and I thought I would borrow 'em. I did not mean tohurt 'em at all, but one of them got lost. Somebody gave me some moneyto buy another pair for you, but I have not been able to go anywhere toget 'em.”

”Who's somebody?”

”Mr. Venn.”

”Did he know it was my glove?”

”Yes. I told him.”

Thomasin was so surprised by the explanation that she quite forgotto lecture the girl, who glided silently away. Thomasin did not movefurther than to turn her eyes upon the grass-plat where the Maypole hadstood. She remained thinking, then said to herself that she would not goout that afternoon, but would work hard at the baby's unfinished lovelyplaid frock, cut on the cross in the newest fashion. How she managed towork hard, and yet do no more than she had done at the end of two hours,would have been a mystery to anyone not aware that the recent incidentwas of a kind likely to divert her industry from a manual to a mentalchannel.

Next day she went her ways as usual, and continued her custom of walkingin the heath with no other companion than little Eustacia, now of theage when it is a matter of doubt with such characters whether they areintended to walk through the world on their hands or on their feet; sothat they get into painful complications by trying both. It was verypleasant to Thomasin, when she had carried the child to some lonelyplace, to give her a little private practice on the green turf andshepherd's-thyme, which formed a soft mat to fall headlong upon themwhen equilibrium was lost.

Once, when engaged in this system of training, and stooping to removebits of stick, fern-stalks, and other such fragments from the child'spath, that the journey might not be brought to an untimely end bysome insuperable barrier a quarter of an inch high, she was alarmed bydiscovering that a man on horseback was almost close beside her, thesoft natural carpet having muffled the horse's tread. The rider, who wasVenn, waved his hat in the air and bowed gallantly.

”Diggory, give me my glove,” said Thomasin, whose manner it was underany circumstances to plunge into the midst of a subject which engrossedher.

Venn immediately dismounted, put his hand in his breastpocket, andhanded the glove.

”Thank you. It was very good of you to take care of it.”

”It is very good of you to say so.”

”O no. I was quite glad to find you had it. Everybody gets soindifferent that I was surprised to know you thought of me.”

”If you had remembered what I was once you wouldn't have beensurprised.”

”Ah, no,” she said quickly. ”But men of your character are mostly soindependent.”

”What is my character?” he asked.

”I don't exactly know,” said Thomasin simply, ”except it is to cover upyour feelings under a practical manner, and only to show them when youare alone.”

”Ah, how do you know that?” said Venn strategically.

”Because,” said she, stopping to put the little girl, who had managed toget herself upside down, right end up again, ”because I do.”

”You mustn't judge by folks in general,” said Venn. ”Still I don't knowmuch what feelings are nowadays. I have got so mixed up with businessof one sort and t'other that my soft sentiments are gone off in vapourlike. Yes, I am given up body and soul to the making of money. Money isall my dream.”

”O Diggory, how wicked!” said Thomasin reproachfully, and looking at himin exact balance between taking his words seriously and judging them assaid to tease her.

”Yes, 'tis rather a rum course,” said Venn, in the bland tone of onecomfortably resigned to sins he could no longer overcome.

”You, who used to be so nice!”

”Well, that's an argument I rather like, because what a man has oncebeen he may be again.” Thomasin blushed. ”Except that it is ratherharder now,” Venn continued.

”Why?” she asked.

”Because you be richer than you were at that time.”

”O no--not much. I have made it nearly all over to the baby, as it wasmy duty to do, except just enough to live on.”

”I am rather glad of that,” said Venn softly, and regarding her from thecorner of his eye, ”for it makes it easier for us to be friendly.”

Thomasin blushed again, and, when a few more words had been said of anot unpleasing kind, Venn mounted his horse and rode on.

This conversation had passed in a hollow of the heath near the oldRoman road, a place much frequented by Thomasin. And it might have beenobserved that she did not in future walk that way less often from havingmet Venn there now. Whether or not Venn abstained from riding thitherbecause he had met Thomasin in the same place might easily have beenguessed from her proceedings about two months later in the same year.



3--The Serious Discourse of Clym with His Cousin

Throughout this period Yeobright had more or less pondered on his dutyto his cousin Thomasin. He could not help feeling that it would be apitiful waste of sweet material if the tender-natured thing should bedoomed from this early stage of her life onwards to dribble away herwinsome qualities on lonely gorse and fern. But he felt this as aneconomist merely, and not as a lover. His passion for Eustacia had beena sort of conserve of his whole life, and he had nothing more of thatsupreme quality left to bestow. So far the obvious thing was not toentertain any idea of marriage with Thomasin, even to oblige her.

But this was not all. Years ago there had been in his mother's mind agreat fancy about Thomasin and himself. It had not positively amountedto a desire, but it had always been a favourite dream. That theyshould be man and wife in good time, if the happiness of neither wereendangered thereby, was the fancy in question. So that what course saveone was there now left for any son who reverenced his mother's memoryas Yeobright did? It is an unfortunate fact that any particular whim ofparents, which might have been dispersed by half an hour's conversationduring their lives, becomes sublimated by their deaths into a fiat themost absolute, with such results to conscientious children as thoseparents, had they lived, would have been the first to decry.

Had only Yeobright's own future been involved he would have proposed toThomasin with a ready heart. He had nothing to lose by carrying out adead mother's hope. But he dreaded to contemplate Thomasin wedded to themere corpse of a lover that he now felt himself to be. He had but threeactivities alive in him. One was his almost daily walk to the littlegraveyard wherein his mother lay, another, his just as frequent visitsby night to the more distant enclosure which numbered his Eustacia amongits dead; the third was self-preparation for a vocation which aloneseemed likely to satisfy his cravings--that of an itinerant preacherof the eleventh commandment. It was difficult to believe that Thomasinwould be cheered by a husband with such tendencies as these.

Yet he resolved to ask her, and let her decide for herself. It was evenwith a pleasant sense of doing his duty that he went downstairs to herone evening for this purpose, when the sun was printing on the valleythe same long shadow of the housetop that he had seen lying there timesout of number while his mother lived.

Thomasin was not in her room, and he found her in the front garden. ”Ihave long been wanting, Thomasin,” he began, ”to say something about amatter that concerns both our futures.”

”And you are going to say it now?” she remarked quickly, colouring asshe met his gaze. ”Do stop a minute, Clym, and let me speak first, foroddly enough, I have been wanting to say something to you.”

”By all means say on, Tamsie.”

”I suppose nobody can overhear us?” she went on, casting her eyes aroundand lowering her voice. ”Well, first you will promise me this--that youwon't be angry and call me anything harsh if you disagree with what Ipropose?”

Yeobright promised, and she continued: ”What I want is your advice,for you are my relation--I mean, a sort of guardian to me--aren't you,Clym?”

”Well, yes, I suppose I am; a sort of guardian. In fact, I am, ofcourse,” he said, altogether perplexed as to her drift.

”I am thinking of marrying,” she then observed blandly. ”But I shall notmarry unless you assure me that you approve of such a step. Why don'tyou speak?”

”I was taken rather by surprise. But, nevertheless, I am very glad tohear such news. I shall approve, of course, dear Tamsie. Who can it be?I am quite at a loss to guess. No I am not--'tis the old doctor!--notthat I mean to call him old, for he is not very old after all. Ah--Inoticed when he attended you last time!”

”No, no,” she said hastily. ”'Tis Mr. Venn.”

Clym's face suddenly became grave.

”There, now, you don't like him, and I wish I hadn't mentioned him!” sheexclaimed almost petulantly. ”And I shouldn't have done it, either, onlyhe keeps on bothering me so till I don't know what to do!”

Clym looked at the heath. ”I like Venn well enough,” he answered atlast. ”He is a very honest and at the same time astute man. He is clevertoo, as is proved by his having got you to favour him. But really,Thomasin, he is not quite--”

”Gentleman enough for me? That is just what I feel. I am sorry now thatI asked you, and I won't think any more of him. At the same time I mustmarry him if I marry anybody--that I WILL say!”

”I don't see that,” said Clym, carefully concealing every clue to hisown interrupted intention, which she plainly had not guessed. ”You mightmarry a professional man, or somebody of that sort, by going into thetown to live and forming acquaintances there.”

”I am not fit for town life--so very rural and silly as I always havebeen. Do not you yourself notice my countrified ways?”

”Well, when I came home from Paris I did, a little; but I don't now.”

”That's because you have got countrified too. O, I couldn't live in astreet for the world! Egdon is a ridiculous old place; but I have gotused to it, and I couldn't be happy anywhere else at all.”

”Neither could I,” said Clym.

”Then how could you say that I should marry some town man? I am sure,say what you will, that I must marry Diggory, if I marry at all. He hasbeen kinder to me than anybody else, and has helped me in many ways thatI don't know of!” Thomasin almost pouted now.

”Yes, he has,” said Clym in a neutral tone. ”Well, I wish with all myheart that I could say, marry him. But I cannot forget what my motherthought on that matter, and it goes rather against me not to respect heropinion. There is too much reason why we should do the little we can torespect it now.”

”Very well, then,” sighed Thomasin. ”I will say no more.”

”But you are not bound to obey my wishes. I merely say what I think.”

”O no--I don't want to be rebellious in that way,” she said sadly. ”Ihad no business to think of him--I ought to have thought of my family.What dreadfully bad impulses there are in me!” Her lips trembled, andshe turned away to hide a tear.

Clym, though vexed at what seemed her unaccountable taste, was in ameasure relieved to find that at any rate the marriage question inrelation to himself was shelved. Through several succeeding days he sawher at different times from the window of his room moping disconsolatelyabout the garden. He was half angry with her for choosing Venn; then hewas grieved at having put himself in the way of Venn's happiness, whowas, after all, as honest and persevering a young fellow as any onEgdon, since he had turned over a new leaf. In short, Clym did not knowwhat to do.

When next they met she said abruptly, ”He is much more respectable nowthan he was then!”

”Who? O yes--Diggory Venn.”

”Aunt only objected because he was a reddleman.”

”Well, Thomasin, perhaps I don't know all the particulars of my mother'swish. So you had better use your own discretion.”

”You will always feel that I slighted your mother's memory.”

”No, I will not. I shall think you are convinced that, had she seenDiggory in his present position, she would have considered him a fittinghusband for you. Now, that's my real feeling. Don't consult me any more,but do as you like, Thomasin. I shall be content.”

It is to be supposed that Thomasin was convinced; for a few days afterthis, when Clym strayed into a part of the heath that he had not latelyvisited, Humphrey, who was at work there, said to him, ”I am glad to seethat Mrs. Wildeve and Venn have made it up again, seemingly.”

”Have they?” said Clym abstractedly.

”Yes; and he do contrive to stumble upon her whenever she walks out onfine days with the chiel. But, Mr. Yeobright, I can't help feelingthat your cousin ought to have married you. 'Tis a pity to make twochimleycorners where there need be only one. You could get her away fromhim now, 'tis my belief, if you were only to set about it.”

”How can I have the conscience to marry after having driven two women totheir deaths? Don't think such a thing, Humphrey. After my experienceI should consider it too much of a burlesque to go to church and take awife. In the words of Job, 'I have made a covenant with mine eyes; whenthen should I think upon a maid?'”

”No, Mr. Clym, don't fancy that about driving two women to their deaths.You shouldn't say it.”

”Well, we'll leave that out,” said Yeobright. ”But anyhow God has set amark upon me which wouldn't look well in a love-making scene. I have twoideas in my head, and no others. I am going to keep a night-school;and I am going to turn preacher. What have you got to say to that,Humphrey?”

”I'll come and hear 'ee with all my heart.”

”Thanks. 'Tis all I wish.”

As Clym descended into the valley Thomasin came down by the other path,and met him at the gate. ”What do you think I have to tell you, Clym?”she said, looking archly over her shoulder at him.

”I can guess,” he replied.

She scrutinized his face. ”Yes, you guess right. It is going to be afterall. He thinks I may as well make up my mind, and I have got to thinkso too. It is to be on the twenty-fifth of next month, if you don'tobject.”

”Do what you think right, dear. I am only too glad that you see your wayclear to happiness again. My sex owes you every amends for the treatmentyou 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 anaustere artistic code can assume the more consistent conclusion to bethe true one.



4--Cheerfulness Again Asserts Itself at Blooms-End, and Clym Finds HisVocation

Anybody who had passed through Blooms-End about eleven o'clock on themorning fixed for the wedding would have found that, while Yeobright'shouse was comparatively quiet, sounds denoting great activity came fromthe dwelling of his nearest neighbour, Timothy Fairway. It was chieflya noise of feet, briskly crunching hither and thither over the sandedfloor within. One man only was visible outside, and he seemed to belater at an appointment than he had intended to be, for he hastened upto the door, lifted the latch, and walked in without ceremony.

The scene within was not quite the customary one. Standing about theroom was the little knot of men who formed the chief part of the Egdoncoterie, there being present Fairway himself, Grandfer Cantle, Humphrey,Christian, and one or two turf-cutters. It was a warm day, and the menwere as a matter of course in their shirtsleeves, except Christian, whohad always a nervous fear of parting with a scrap of his clothing whenin anybody's house but his own. Across the stout oak table in the middleof the room was thrown a mass of striped linen, which Grandfer Cantleheld down on one side, and Humphrey on the other, while Fairway rubbedits surface with a yellow lump, his face being damp and creased with theeffort 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. ”'Tisgoing to be a good bed, by the look o't,” continued Sam, after aninterval 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 theproceedings.

”Ah, to be sure; and a valuable one, 'a b'lieve.”

”Beds be dear to fokes that don't keep geese, bain't they, MisterFairway?” said Christian, as to an omniscient being.

”Yes,” said the furze-dealer, standing up, giving his forehead athorough mopping, and handing the beeswax to Humphrey, who succeededat 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 racketingvagary of their lives. I set up both my own daughters in one when theywas married, and there have been feathers enough for another in thehouse the last twelve months. Now then, neighbours, I think we havelaid on enough wax. Grandfer Cantle, you turn the tick the right wayoutwards, and then I'll begin to shake in the feathers.”

When the bed was in proper trim Fairway and Christian brought forwardvast paper bags, stuffed to the full, but light as balloons, and beganto turn the contents of each into the receptacle just prepared. As bagafter bag was emptied, airy tufts of down and feathers floated about theroom in increasing quantity till, through a mishap of Christian's, whoshook the contents of one bag outside the tick, the atmosphere of theroom became dense with gigantic flakes, which descended upon the workerslike a windless snowstorm.

”I never saw such a clumsy chap as you, Christian,” said GrandferCantle severely. ”You might have been the son of a man that's never beenoutside Blooms-End in his life for all the wit you have. Really all thesoldiering and smartness in the world in the father seems to count fornothing in forming the nater of the son. As far as that chief Christianis 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, adashing spirit has counted for sommat, to be sure!”

”Don't ye let me down so, Father; I feel no bigger than a ninepin afterit. 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, asif he had been the first to make the suggestion. ”In common conscienceevery man ought either to marry or go for a soldier. 'Tis a scandal tothe nation to do neither one nor t'other. I did both, thank God! Neitherto raise men nor to lay 'em low--that shows a poor do-nothing spiritindeed.”

”I never had the nerve to stand fire,” faltered Christian. ”But as tomarrying, I own I've asked here and there, though without much fruitfrom it. Yes, there's some house or other that might have had a man fora master--such as he is--that's now ruled by a woman alone. Still itmight 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 tothe decent pitch that becomes a old man.”

”And you've your work cut out to do that, my son,” said Grandfer Cantlesmartly. ”I wish that the dread of infirmities was not so strong inme!--I'd start the very first thing tomorrow to see the world overagain! But seventy-one, though nothing at home, is a high figure for arover.... Ay, seventy-one, last Candlemasday. Gad, I'd sooner have it inguineas than in years!” And the old man sighed.

”Don't you be mournful, Grandfer,” said Fairway. ”Empt some morefeathers into the bed-tick, and keep up yer heart. Though rather lean inthe stalks you be a green-leaved old man still. There's time enough leftto ye yet to fill whole chronicles.”

”Begad, I'll go to 'em, Timothy--to the married pair!” said GranferCantle 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, youknow; and they'd see it as such. My 'Down in Cupid's Gardens' was wellliked in four; still, I've got others as good, and even better. What doyou 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 ofit, I haven't turned my tongue in my head to the shape of a real goodsong since Old Midsummer night, when we had the 'Barley Mow' at theWoman; and 'tis a pity to neglect your strong point where there's fewthat have the compass for such things!”

”So 'tis, so 'tis,” said Fairway. ”Now gie the bed a shake down. We'veput in seventy pounds of best feathers, and I think that's as many asthe tick will fairly hold. A bit and a drap wouldn't be amiss now, Ireckon. Christian, maul down the victuals from corner-cupboard if canstreach, 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 cameto the open door and cackled begrudgingly at sight of such a quantity oftheir old clothes.

”Upon my soul I shall be chokt,” said Fairway when, having extracted afeather from his mouth, he found several others floating on the mug asit was handed round.

”I've swallered several; and one had a tolerable quill,” said Samplacidly 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--Ididn't expect 'em yet this half-hour. To be sure, how quick marrying canbe done when you are in the mind for't!”

”O yes, it can soon be DONE,” said Fairway, as if something should beadded 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 fromBudmouth for the occasion. The fly had been hired at the nearest town,regardless of distance and cost, there being nothing on Egdon Heath, inVenn's opinion, dignified enough for such an event when such a womanas Thomasin was the bride; and the church was too remote for a walkingbridal-party.

As the fly passed the group which had run out from the homestead theyshouted ”Hurrah!” and waved their hands; feathers and down floatingfrom their hair, their sleeves, and the folds of their garments at everymotion, and Grandfer Cantle's seals dancing merrily in the sunlight ashe twirled himself about. The driver of the fly turned a superciliousgaze upon them; he even treated the wedded pair themselves withsomething like condescension for in what other state than heathen couldpeople, rich or poor, exist who were doomed to abide in such a world'send as Egdon? Thomasin showed no such superiority to the group at thedoor, fluttering her hand as quickly as a bird's wing towards them, andasking Diggory, with tears in her eyes, if they ought not to alight andspeak to these kind neighbours. Venn, however, suggested that, as theywere 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 Fairwayharnessed a horse, wrapped up the cumbrous present, and drove off withit in the cart to Venn's house at Stickleford.

Yeobright, having filled the office at the wedding service whichnaturally fell to his hands, and afterwards returned to the house withthe husband and wife, was indisposed to take part in the feasting anddancing that wound up the evening. Thomasin was disappointed.

”I wish I could be there without dashing your spirits,” he said. ”But Imight 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 happyin the company--there, that's the truth of it. I shall always be comingto see you at your new home, you know, so that my absence now will notmatter.”

”Then I give in. Do whatever will be most comfortable to yourself.”

Clym retired to his lodging at the housetop much relieved, and occupiedhimself during the afternoon in noting down the heads of a sermon, withwhich he intended to initiate all that really seemed practicable of thescheme that had originally brought him hither, and that he had so longkept in view under various modifications, and through evil and goodreport. He had tested and weighed his convictions again and again, andsaw no reason to alter them, though he had considerably lessened hisplan. His eyesight, by long humouring in his native air, had grownstronger, but not sufficiently strong to warrant his attempting hisextensive educational project. Yet he did not repine--there was stillmore than enough of an unambitious sort to tax all his energies andoccupy all his hours.

Evening drew on, and sounds of life and movement in the lower part ofthe domicile became more pronounced, the gate in the palings clickingincessantly. The party was to be an early one, and all the guestswere assembled long before it was dark. Yeobright went down the backstaircase and into the heath by another path than that in front,intending to walk in the open air till the party was over, when he wouldreturn to wish Thomasin and her husband good-bye as they departed. Hissteps were insensibly bent towards Mistover by the path that he hadfollowed on that terrible morning when he learnt the strange news fromSusan's boy.

He did not turn aside to the cottage, but pushed on to an eminence,whence he could see over the whole quarter that had once been Eustacia'shome. While he stood observing the darkening scene somebody came up.Clym, seeing him but dimly, would have let him pass silently, had notthe pedestrian, who was Charley, recognized the young man and spoken tohim.

”Charley, I have not seen you for a length of time,” said Yeobright. ”Doyou often walk this way?”

”No,” the lad replied. ”I don't often come outside the bank.”

”You were not at the Maypole.”

”No,” said Charley, in the same listless tone. ”I don't care for thatsort of thing now.”

”You rather liked Miss Eustacia, didn't you?” Yeobright gently asked.Eustacia had frequently told him of Charley's romantic attachment.

”Yes, very much. Ah, I wish--”

”Yes?”

”I wish, Mr. Yeobright, you could give me something to keep that oncebelonged to her--if you don't mind.”

”I shall be very happy to. It will give me very great pleasure, Charley.Let me think what I have of hers that you would like. But come with meto the house, and I'll see.”

They walked towards Blooms-End together. When they reached the front itwas dark, and the shutters were closed, so that nothing of the interiorcould be seen.

”Come round this way,” said Clym. ”My entrance is at the back for thepresent.”

The two went round and ascended the crooked stair in darkness tillClym's sitting-room on the upper floor was reached, where he lit acandle, Charley entering gently behind. Yeobright searched his desk,and taking out a sheet of tissue-paper unfolded from it two or threeundulating locks of raven hair, which fell over the paper like blackstreams. From these he selected one, wrapped it up, and gave it to thelad, whose eyes had filled with tears. He kissed the packet, put it inhis pocket, and said in a voice of emotion, ”O, Mr. Clym, how good youare to me!”

”I will go a little way with you,” said Clym. And amid the noise ofmerriment from below they descended. Their path to the front led themclose to a little side window, whence the rays of candles streamedacross the shrubs. The window, being screened from general observationby the bushes, had been left unblinded, so that a person in this privatenook could see all that was going on within the room which containedthe wedding guests, except in so far as vision was hindered by the greenantiquity of the panes.

”Charley, what are they doing?” said Clym. ”My sight is weaker againtonight, and the glass of this window is not good.”

Charley wiped his own eyes, which were rather blurred with moisture, andstepped closer to the casement. ”Mr. Venn is asking Christian Cantle tosing,” he replied, ”and Christian is moving about in his chair as ifhe were much frightened at the question, and his father has struck up astave instead of him.”

”Yes, I can hear the old man's voice,” said Clym. ”So there's to be nodancing, I suppose. And is Thomasin in the room? I see something movingin front of the candles that resembles her shape, I think.”

”Yes. She do seem happy. She is red in the face, and laughing atsomething Fairway has said to her. O my!”

”What noise was that?” said Clym.

”Mr. Venn is so tall that he knocked his head against the beam in gieinga skip as he passed under. Mrs. Venn has run up quite frightened and nowshe's put her hand to his head to feel if there's a lump. And now theybe all laughing again as if nothing had happened.”

”Do any of them seem to care about my not being there?” Clym asked.

”No, not a bit in the world. Now they are all holding up their glassesand drinking somebody's health.”

”I wonder if it is mine?”

”No, 'tis Mr. and Mrs. Venn's, because he is making a hearty sort ofspeech. There--now Mrs. Venn has got up, and is going away to put on herthings, I think.”

”Well, they haven't concerned themselves about me, and it is quite rightthey should not. It is all as it should be, and Thomasin at least ishappy. We will not stay any longer now, as they will soon be coming outto go home.”

He accompanied the lad into the heath on his way home, and, returningalone to the house a quarter of an hour later, found Venn and Thomasinready to start, all the guests having departed in his absence. Thewedded pair took their seats in the four-wheeled dogcart which Venn'shead milker and handy man had driven from Stickleford to fetch them in;little Eustacia and the nurse were packed securely upon the open flapbehind; and the milker, on an ancient overstepping pony, whose shoesclashed like cymbals at every tread, rode in the rear, in the manner ofa body-servant of the last century.

”Now we leave you in absolute possession of your own house again,” saidThomasin as she bent down to wish her cousin good night. ”It will berather lonely for you, Clym, after the hubbub we have been making.”

”O, that's no inconvenience,” said Clym, smiling rather sadly. And thenthe party drove off and vanished in the night shades, and Yeobrightentered the house. The ticking of the clock was the only sound thatgreeted him, for not a soul remained; Christian, who acted as cook,valet, and gardener to Clym, sleeping at his father's house. Yeobrightsat down in one of the vacant chairs, and remained in thought a longtime. His mother's old chair was opposite; it had been sat in thatevening by those who had scarcely remembered that it ever was hers. Butto Clym she was almost a presence there, now as always. Whatever shewas in other people's memories, in his she was the sublime saint whoseradiance even his tenderness for Eustacia could not obscure. But hisheart was heavy, that Mother had NOT crowned him in the day of hisespousals and in the day of the gladness of his heart. And events hadborne out the accuracy of her judgment, and proved the devotedness ofher care. He should have heeded her for Eustacia's sake even more thanfor his own. ”It was all my fault,” he whispered. ”O, my mother, mymother! would to God that I could live my life again, and endure for youwhat you endured for me!”

On the Sunday after this wedding an unusual sight was to be seen onRainbarrow. From a distance there simply appeared to be a motionlessfigure standing on the top of the tumulus, just as Eustacia had stood onthat lonely summit some two years and a half before. But now it was finewarm weather, with only a summer breeze blowing, and early afternooninstead of dull twilight. Those who ascended to the immediateneighbourhood of the Barrow perceived that the erect form in the centre,piercing the sky, was not really alone. Round him upon the slopes of theBarrow a number of heathmen and women were reclining or sitting at theirease. They listened to the words of the man in their midst, who waspreaching, while they abstractedly pulled heather, stripped ferns, ortossed pebbles down the slope. This was the first of a series of morallectures or Sermons on the Mount, which were to be delivered from thesame place every Sunday afternoon as long as the fine weather lasted.

The commanding elevation of Rainbarrow had been chosen for two reasons:first, that it occupied a central position among the remote cottagesaround; secondly, that the preacher thereon could be seen from alladjacent points as soon as he arrived at his post, the view of him beingthus a convenient signal to those stragglers who wished to draw near.The speaker was bareheaded, and the breeze at each waft gently liftedand lowered his hair, somewhat too thin for a man of his years, thesestill numbering less than thirty-three. He wore a shade over his eyes,and his face was pensive and lined; but, though these bodily featureswere marked with decay there was no defect in the tones of his voice,which were rich, musical, and stirring. He stated that his discourses topeople were to be sometimes secular, and sometimes religious, but neverdogmatic; and that his texts would be taken from all kinds of books.This afternoon the words were as follows:--

”'And the king rose up to meet her, and bowed himself unto her, and satdown on his throne, and caused a seat to be set for the king's mother;and she sat on his right hand. Then she said, I desire one smallpetition of thee; I pray thee say me not nay. And the king said untoher, Ask, on, my mother: for I will not say thee nay.'”

Yeobright had, in fact, found his vocation in the career of an itinerantopen-air preacher and lecturer on morally unimpeachable subjects; andfrom this day he laboured incessantly in that office, speaking not onlyin simple language on Rainbarrow and in the hamlets round, but in a morecultivated strain elsewhere--from the steps and porticoes of town halls,from market-crosses, from conduits, on esplanades and on wharves, fromthe parapets of bridges, in barns and outhouses, and all other suchplaces in the neighbouring Wessex towns and villages. He left alonecreeds and systems of philosophy, finding enough and more than enoughto occupy his tongue in the opinions and actions common to all good men.Some believed him, and some believed not; some said that his words werecommonplace, others complained of his want of theological doctrine;while others again remarked that it was well enough for a man to take topreaching who could not see to do anything else. But everywhere he waskindly received, for the story of his life had become generally known.