The Return of the Native

9--Love Leads a Shrewd Man into Strategy

Reddlemen of the old school are now but seldom seen. Since theintroduction of railways Wessex farmers have managed to do without theseMephistophelian visitants, and the bright pigment so largely used byshepherds in preparing sheep for the fair is obtained by other routes.Even those who yet survive are losing the poetry of existence whichcharacterized them when the pursuit of the trade meant periodicaljourneys to the pit whence the material was dug, a regular camping outfrom month to month, except in the depth of winter, a peregrinationamong farms which could be counted by the hundred, and in spite of thisArab existence the preservation of that respectability which is insuredby the never-failing production of a well-lined purse.

Reddle spreads its lively hues over everything it lights on, and stampsunmistakably, as with the mark of Cain, any person who has handled ithalf an hour.

A child's first sight of a reddleman was an epoch in his life. Thatblood-coloured figure was a sublimation of all the horrid dreamswhich had afflicted the juvenile spirit since imagination began. ”Thereddleman is coming for you!” had been the formulated threat of Wessexmothers for many generations. He was successfully supplanted for awhile, at the beginning of the present century, by Buonaparte; but asprocess of time rendered the latter personage stale and ineffective theolder phrase resumed its early prominence. And now the reddleman hasin his turn followed Buonaparte to the land of worn-out bogeys, and hisplace is filled by modern inventions.

The reddleman lived like a gipsy; but gipsies he scorned. He was aboutas thriving as travelling basket and mat makers; but he had nothingto do with them. He was more decently born and brought up than thecattledrovers who passed and repassed him in his wanderings; but theymerely nodded to him. His stock was more valuable than that of pedlars;but they did not think so, and passed his cart with eyes straight ahead.He was such an unnatural colour to look at that the men of roundaboutsand waxwork shows seemed gentlemen beside him; but he considered themlow company, and remained aloof. Among all these squatters and folksof the road the reddleman continually found himself; yet he was not ofthem. His occupation tended to isolate him, and isolated he was mostlyseen to be.

It was sometimes suggested that reddlemen were criminals for whosemisdeeds other men wrongfully suffered--that in escaping the law theyhad not escaped their own consciences, and had taken to the trade as alifelong penance. Else why should they have chosen it? In the presentcase such a question would have been particularly apposite. Thereddleman who had entered Egdon that afternoon was an instance of thepleasing being wasted to form the ground-work of the singular, when anugly foundation would have done just as well for that purpose. The onepoint that was forbidding about this reddleman was his colour. Freedfrom that he would have been as agreeable a specimen of rustic manhoodas one would often see. A keen observer might have been inclined tothink--which was, indeed, partly the truth--that he had relinquishedhis proper station in life for want of interest in it. Moreover, afterlooking at him one would have hazarded the guess that good nature, andan acuteness as extreme as it could be without verging on craft, formedthe framework of his character.

While he darned the stocking his face became rigid with thought. Softerexpressions followed this, and then again recurred the tender sadnesswhich had sat upon him during his drive along the highway thatafternoon. Presently his needle stopped. He laid down the stocking,arose from his seat, and took a leathern pouch from a hook in the cornerof the van. This contained among other articles a brown-paper packet,which, to judge from the hinge-like character of its worn folds, seemedto have been carefully opened and closed a good many times. He sat downon a three-legged milking stool that formed the only seat in the van,and, examining his packet by the light of a candle, took thence an oldletter and spread it open. The writing had originally been traced onwhite paper, but the letter had now assumed a pale red tinge from theaccident of its situation and the black strokes of writing thereonlooked like the twigs of a winter hedge against a vermilion sunset. Theletter bore a date some two years previous to that time, and was signed”Thomasin Yeobright.” It ran as follows:--

DEAR DIGGORY VENN,--The question you put when you overtook me cominghome from Pond-close gave me such a surprise that I am afraid I did notmake you exactly understand what I meant. Of course, if my aunt had notmet me I could have explained all then at once, but as it was there wasno chance. I have been quite uneasy since, as you know I do not wishto pain you, yet I fear I shall be doing so now in contradicting whatI seemed to say then. I cannot, Diggory, marry you, or think of lettingyou call me your sweetheart. I could not, indeed, Diggory. I hope youwill not much mind my saying this, and feel in a great pain. It makes mevery sad when I think it may, for I like you very much, and I always putyou next to my cousin Clym in my mind. There are so many reasons why wecannot be married that I can hardly name them all in a letter. I did notin the least expect that you were going to speak on such a thing whenyou followed me, because I had never thought of you in the sense of alover at all. You must not becall me for laughing when you spoke; youmistook when you thought I laughed at you as a foolish man. I laughedbecause the idea was so odd, and not at you at all. The great reasonwith my own personal self for not letting you court me is, that I do notfeel the things a woman ought to feel who consents to walk with youwith the meaning of being your wife. It is not as you think, that I haveanother in my mind, for I do not encourage anybody, and never have inmy life. Another reason is my aunt. She would not, I know, agree to it,even if I wished to have you. She likes you very well, but she willwant me to look a little higher than a small dairy-farmer, and marrya professional man. I hope you will not set your heart against me forwriting plainly, but I felt you might try to see me again, and it isbetter that we should not meet. I shall always think of you as a goodman, and be anxious for your well-doing. I send this by Jane Orchard'slittle maid,--And remain Diggory, your faithful friend,

THOMASIN YEOBRIGHT.

To MR. VENN, Dairy-farmer.

Since the arrival of that letter, on a certain autumn morning long ago,the reddleman and Thomasin had not met till today. During the intervalhe had shifted his position even further from hers than it hadoriginally been, by adopting the reddle trade; though he was really invery good circumstances still. Indeed, seeing that his expenditure wasonly one-fourth of his income, he might have been called a prosperousman.

Rejected suitors take to roaming as naturally as unhived bees; and thebusiness to which he had cynically devoted himself was in many wayscongenial to Venn. But his wanderings, by mere stress of old emotions,had frequently taken an Egdon direction, though he never intruded uponher who attracted him thither. To be in Thomasin's heath, and near her,yet unseen, was the one ewe-lamb of pleasure left to him.

Then came the incident of that day, and the reddleman, still lovingher well, was excited by this accidental service to her at a criticaljuncture to vow an active devotion to her cause, instead of, ashitherto, sighing and holding aloof. After what had happened it wasimpossible that he should not doubt the honesty of Wildeve's intentions.But her hope was apparently centred upon him; and dismissing his regretsVenn determined to aid her to be happy in her own chosen way. That thisway was, of all others, the most distressing to himself, was awkwardenough; but the reddleman's love was generous.

His first active step in watching over Thomasin's interests was takenabout seven o'clock the next evening and was dictated by the news whichhe had learnt from the sad boy. That Eustacia was somehow the causeof Wildeve's carelessness in relation to the marriage had at once beenVenn's conclusion on hearing of the secret meeting between them. It didnot occur to his mind that Eustacia's love signal to Wildeve was thetender effect upon the deserted beauty of the intelligence which hergrandfather had brought home. His instinct was to regard her as aconspirator against rather than as an antecedent obstacle to Thomasin'shappiness.

During the day he had been exceedingly anxious to learn the condition ofThomasin, but he did not venture to intrude upon a threshold to whichhe was a stranger, particularly at such an unpleasant moment as this. Hehad occupied his time in moving with his ponies and load to a new pointin the heath, eastward to his previous station and here he selected anook with a careful eye to shelter from wind and rain, which seemed tomean that his stay there was to be a comparatively extended one. Afterthis he returned on foot some part of the way that he had come; and,it being now dark, he diverged to the left till he stood behind a hollybush on the edge of a pit not twenty yards from Rainbarrow.

He watched for a meeting there, but he watched in vain. Nobody excepthimself came near the spot that night.

But the loss of his labour produced little effect upon the reddleman.He had stood in the shoes of Tantalus, and seemed to look upon a certainmass of disappointment as the natural preface to all realizations,without which preface they would give cause for alarm.

The same hour the next evening found him again at the same place; butEustacia and Wildeve, the expected trysters, did not appear.

He pursued precisely the same course yet four nights longer, and withoutsuccess. But on the next, being the day-week of their previous meeting,he saw a female shape floating along the ridge and the outline ofa young man ascending from the valley. They met in the little ditchencircling the tumulus--the original excavation from which it had beenthrown up by the ancient British people.

The reddleman, stung with suspicion of wrong to Thomasin, was arousedto strategy in a moment. He instantly left the bush and crept forward onhis hands and knees. When he had got as close as he might safely venturewithout discovery he found that, owing to a cross-wind, the conversationof the trysting pair could not be overheard.

Near him, as in divers places about the heath, were areas strewn withlarge turves, which lay edgeways and upside down awaiting removal byTimothy Fairway, previous to the winter weather. He took two of theseas he lay, and dragged them over him till one covered his head andshoulders, the other his back and legs. The reddleman would now havebeen quite invisible, even by daylight; the turves, standing upon himwith the heather upwards, looked precisely as if they were growing. Hecrept along again, and the turves upon his back crept with him. Had heapproached without any covering the chances are that he would nothave been perceived in the dusk; approaching thus, it was as though heburrowed underground. In this manner he came quite close to where thetwo were standing.

”Wish to consult me on the matter?” reached his ears in the rich,impetuous accents of Eustacia Vye. ”Consult me? It is an indignity tome to talk so--I won't bear it any longer!” She began weeping. ”I haveloved you, and have shown you that I loved you, much to my regret; andyet you can come and say in that frigid way that you wish to consultwith me whether it would not be better to marry Thomasin. Better--ofcourse it would be. Marry her--she is nearer to your own position inlife than I am!”

”Yes, yes; that's very well,” said Wildeve peremptorily. ”But we mustlook at things as they are. Whatever blame may attach to me for havingbrought it about, Thomasin's position is at present much worse thanyours. I simply tell you that I am in a strait.”

”But you shall not tell me! You must see that it is only harassing me.Damon, you have not acted well; you have sunk in my opinion. You havenot valued my courtesy--the courtesy of a lady in loving you--who usedto think of far more ambitious things. But it was Thomasin's fault.

”She won you away from me, and she deserves to suffer for it. Where isshe staying now? Not that I care, nor where I am myself. Ah, if I weredead and gone how glad she would be! Where is she, I ask?”

”Thomasin is now staying at her aunt's shut up in a bedroom, and keepingout of everybody's sight,” he said indifferently.

”I don't think you care much about her even now,” said Eustacia withsudden joyousness, ”for if you did you wouldn't talk so coolly abouther. Do you talk so coolly to her about me? Ah, I expect you do! Why didyou originally go away from me? I don't think I can ever forgive you,except on one condition, that whenever you desert me, you come backagain, sorry that you served me so.”

”I never wish to desert you.”

”I do not thank you for that. I should hate it to be all smooth. Indeed,I think I like you to desert me a little once now and then. Love is thedismallest thing where the lover is quite honest. O, it is a shame tosay so; but it is true!” She indulged in a little laugh. ”My low spiritsbegin at the very idea. Don't you offer me tame love, or away you go!”

”I wish Tamsie were not such a confoundedly good little woman,” saidWildeve, ”so that I could be faithful to you without injuring a worthyperson. It is I who am the sinner after all; I am not worth the littlefinger of either of you.”

”But you must not sacrifice yourself to her from any sense of justice,”replied Eustacia quickly. ”If you do not love her it is the mostmerciful thing in the long run to leave her as she is. That's alwaysthe best way. There, now I have been unwomanly, I suppose. When you haveleft me I am always angry with myself for things that I have said toyou.”

Wildeve walked a pace or two among the heather without replying. Thepause was filled up by the intonation of a pollard thorn a little way towindward, the breezes filtering through its unyielding twigs as througha strainer. It was as if the night sang dirges with clenched teeth.

She continued, half sorrowfully, ”Since meeting you last, it hasoccurred to me once or twice that perhaps it was not for love of me youdid not marry her. Tell me, Damon--I'll try to bear it. Had I nothingwhatever to do with the matter?”

”Do you press me to tell?”

”Yes, I must know. I see I have been too ready to believe in my ownpower.”

”Well, the immediate reason was that the license would not do for theplace, and before I could get another she ran away. Up to that pointyou had nothing to do with it. Since then her aunt has spoken to me in atone which I don't at all like.”

”Yes, yes! I am nothing in it--I am nothing in it. You only trifle withme. Heaven, what can I, Eustacia Vye, be made of to think so much ofyou!”

”Nonsense; do not be so passionate.... Eustacia, how we roved among thesebushes last year, when the hot days had got cool, and the shades of thehills kept us almost invisible in the hollows!”

She remained in moody silence till she said, ”Yes; and how I used tolaugh at you for daring to look up to me! But you have well made mesuffer for that since.”

”Yes, you served me cruelly enough until I thought I had found someonefairer than you. A blessed find for me, Eustacia.”

”Do you still think you found somebody fairer?”

”Sometimes I do, sometimes I don't. The scales are balanced so nicelythat a feather would turn them.”

”But don't you really care whether I meet you or whether I don't?” shesaid slowly.

”I care a little, but not enough to break my rest,” replied the youngman languidly. ”No, all that's past. I find there are two flowers whereI thought there was only one. Perhaps there are three, or four, or anynumber as good as the first.... Mine is a curious fate. Who would havethought that all this could happen to me?”

She interrupted with a suppressed fire of which either love or angerseemed an equally possible issue, ”Do you love me now?”

”Who can say?”

”Tell me; I will know it!”

”I do, and I do not,” said he mischievously. ”That is, I have my timesand my seasons. One moment you are too tall, another moment you are toodo-nothing, another too melancholy, another too dark, another I don'tknow what, except--that you are not the whole world to me that you usedto be, my dear. But you are a pleasant lady to know and nice to meet,and I dare say as sweet as ever--almost.”

Eustacia was silent, and she turned from him, till she said, in a voiceof suspended mightiness, ”I am for a walk, and this is my way.”

”Well, I can do worse than follow you.”

”You know you can't do otherwise, for all your moods and changes!” sheanswered defiantly. ”Say what you will; try as you may; keep away fromme all that you can--you will never forget me. You will love me all yourlife long. You would jump to marry me!”

”So I would!” said Wildeve. ”Such strange thoughts as I've had from timeto time, Eustacia; and they come to me this moment. You hate the heathas much as ever; that I know.”

”I do,” she murmured deeply. ”'Tis my cross, my shame, and will be mydeath!”

”I abhor it too,” said he. ”How mournfully the wind blows round us now!”

She did not answer. Its tone was indeed solemn and pervasive. Compoundutterances addressed themselves to their senses, and it was possible toview by ear the features of the neighbourhood. Acoustic pictures werereturned from the darkened scenery; they could hear where the tracts ofheather began and ended; where the furze was growing stalky and tall;where it had been recently cut; in what direction the fir-clump lay,and how near was the pit in which the hollies grew; for these differingfeatures had their voices no less than their shapes and colours.

”God, how lonely it is!” resumed Wildeve. ”What are picturesque ravinesand mists to us who see nothing else? Why should we stay here? Will yougo with me to America? I have kindred in Wisconsin.”

”That wants consideration.”

”It seems impossible to do well here, unless one were a wild bird or alandscape-painter. Well?”

”Give me time,” she softly said, taking his hand. ”America is so faraway. Are you going to walk with me a little way?”

As Eustacia uttered the latter words she retired from the base of thebarrow, and Wildeve followed her, so that the reddleman could hear nomore.

He lifted the turves and arose. Their black figures sank and disappearedfrom against the sky. They were as two horns which the sluggish heathhad put forth from its crown, like a mollusc, and had now again drawnin.

The reddleman's walk across the vale, and over into the next where hiscart lay, was not sprightly for a slim young fellow of twenty-four. Hisspirit was perturbed to aching. The breezes that blew around his mouthin that walk carried off upon them the accents of a commination.

He entered the van, where there was a fire in a stove. Without lightinghis candle he sat down at once on the three-legged stool, and ponderedon what he had seen and heard touching that still-loved one of his.He uttered a sound which was neither sigh nor sob, but was even moreindicative than either of a troubled mind.

”My Tamsie,” he whispered heavily. ”What can be done? Yes, I will seethat Eustacia Vye.”