One day just before this time Wildeve was standing at the door ofthe Quiet Woman. In addition to the upward path through the heath toRainbarrow and Mistover, there was a road which branched from thehighway a short distance below the inn, and ascended to Mistover by acircuitous and easy incline. This was the only route on that side forvehicles to the captain's retreat. A light cart from the nearest towndescended the road, and the lad who was driving pulled up in front ofthe inn for something to drink.
"You come from Mistover?" said Wildeve.
"Yes. They are taking in good things up there. Going to be awedding." And the driver buried his face in his mug.
Wildeve had not received an inkling of the fact before, and a suddenexpression of pain overspread his face. He turned for a moment intothe passage to hide it. Then he came back again.
"Do you mean Miss Vye?" he said. "How is it--that she can be marriedso soon?"
"By the will of God and a ready young man, I suppose."
"You don't mean Mr. Yeobright?"
"Yes. He has been creeping about with her all the spring."
"I suppose--she was immensely taken with him?"
"She is crazy about him, so their general servant of all work tellsme. And that lad Charley that looks after the horse is all in a dazeabout it. The stun-poll has got fondlike of her."
"Is she lively--is she glad? Going to be married so soon--well!"
"It isn't so very soon."
"No; not so very soon."
Wildeve went indoors to the empty room, a curious heartache withinhim. He rested his elbow upon the mantelpiece and his face upon hishand. When Thomasin entered the room he did not tell her of whathe had heard. The old longing for Eustacia had reappeared in hissoul; and it was mainly because he had discovered that it was anotherman's intention to possess her.
To be yearning for the difficult, to be weary of that offered; to carefor the remote, to dislike the near; it was Wildeve's nature always.This is the true mark of the man of sentiment. Though Wildeve'sfevered feeling had not been elaborated to real poetical compass, itwas of the standard sort. He might have been called the Rousseau ofEgdon.