The Return of the Native

  III

  Eustacia Dresses Herself on a Black Morning

  A consciousness of a vast impassivity in all which lay around him tookpossession even of Yeobright in his wild walk towards Alderworth. Hehad once before felt in his own person this overpowering of the fervidby the inanimate; but then it had tended to enervate a passion farsweeter than that which at present pervaded him. It was once when hestood parting from Eustacia in the moist still levels beyond thehills.

  But dismissing all this he went onward home, and came to the front ofhis house. The blinds of Eustacia's bedroom were still closely drawn,for she was no early riser. All the life visible was in the shape ofa solitary thrush cracking a small snail upon the door-stone for hisbreakfast, and his tapping seemed a loud noise in the general silencewhich prevailed; but on going to the door Clym found it unfastened,the young girl who attended upon Eustacia being astir in the back partof the premises. Yeobright entered and went straight to his wife'sroom.

  The noise of his arrival must have aroused her, for when he opened thedoor she was standing before the looking-glass in her night-dress, theends of her hair gathered into one hand, with which she was coilingthe whole mass round her head, previous to beginning toiletteoperations. She was not a woman given to speaking first at a meeting,and she allowed Clym to walk across in silence, without turning herhead. He came behind her, and she saw his face in the glass. It wasashy, haggard, and terrible. Instead of starting towards him insorrowful surprise, as even Eustacia, undemonstrative wife as she was,would have done in days before she burdened herself with a secret,she remained motionless, looking at him in the glass. And whileshe looked the carmine flush with which warmth and sound sleep hadsuffused her cheeks and neck dissolved from view, and the deathlikepallor in his face flew across into hers. He was close enough to seethis, and the sight instigated his tongue.

  "You know what is the matter," he said huskily. "I see it in yourface."

  Her hand relinquished the rope of hair and dropped to her side, andthe pile of tresses, no longer supported, fell from the crown of herhead about her shoulders and over the white night-gown. She made noreply.

  "Speak to me," said Yeobright peremptorily.

  The blanching process did not cease in her, and her lips now became aswhite as her face. She turned to him and said, "Yes, Clym, I'll speakto you. Why do you return so early? Can I do anything for you?"

  "Yes, you can listen to me. It seems that my wife is not very well?"

  "Why?"

  "Your face, my dear; your face. Or perhaps it is the pale morninglight which takes your colour away? Now I am going to reveal a secretto you. Ha-ha!"

  "O, that is ghastly!"

  "What?"

  "Your laugh."

  "There's reason for ghastliness. Eustacia, you have held my happinessin the hollow of your hand, and like a devil you have dashed it down!"

  She started back from the dressing-table, retreated a few steps fromhim, and looked him in the face. "Ah! you think to frighten me," shesaid, with a slight laugh. "Is it worth while? I am undefended, andalone."

  "How extraordinary!"

  "What do you mean?"

  "As there is ample time I will tell you, though you know well enough.I mean that it is extraordinary that you should be alone in myabsence. Tell me, now, where is he who was with you on the afternoonof the thirty-first of August? Under the bed? Up the chimney?"

  A shudder overcame her and shook the light fabric of her night-dressthroughout. "I do not remember dates so exactly," she said. "Icannot recollect that anybody was with me besides yourself."

  "The day I mean," said Yeobright, his voice growing louder andharsher, "was the day you shut the door against my mother and killedher. O, it is too much--too bad!" He leant over the footpiece of thebedstead for a few moments, with his back towards her; then risingagain: "Tell me, tell me! tell me--do you hear?" he cried, rushing upto her and seizing her by the loose folds of her sleeve.

  The superstratum of timidity which often overlies those who are daringand defiant at heart had been passed through, and the mettlesomesubstance of the woman was reached. The red blood inundated her face,previously so pale.

  "What are you going to do?" she said in a low voice, regarding himwith a proud smile. "You will not alarm me by holding on so; but itwould be a pity to tear my sleeve."

  Instead of letting go he drew her closer to him. "Tell me theparticulars of--my mother's death," he said in a hard, pantingwhisper; "or--I'll--I'll--"

  "Clym," she answered slowly, "do you think you dare do anything tome that I dare not bear? But before you strike me listen. You willget nothing from me by a blow, even though it should kill me, as itprobably will. But perhaps you do not wish me to speak--killing maybe all you mean?"

  "Kill you! Do you expect it?"

  "I do."

  "Why?"

  "No less degree of rage against me will match your previous grief forher."

  "Phew--I shall not kill you," he said contemptuously, as if under asudden change of purpose. "I did think of it; but--I shall not. Thatwould be making a martyr of you, and sending you to where she is; andI would keep you away from her till the universe come to an end, if Icould."

  "I almost wish you would kill me," said she with gloomy bitterness."It is with no strong desire, I assure you, that I play the part Ihave lately played on earth. You are no blessing, my husband."

  "You shut the door--you looked out of the window upon her--youhad a man in the house with you--you sent her away to die. Theinhumanity--the treachery--I will not touch you--stand away fromme--and confess every word!"

  "Never! I'll hold my tongue like the very death that I don't mindmeeting, even though I can clear myself of half you believe byspeaking. Yes. I will! Who of any dignity would take the trouble toclear cobwebs from a wild man's mind after such language as this? No;let him go on, and think his narrow thoughts, and run his head intothe mire. I have other cares."

  "'Tis too much--but I must spare you."

  "Poor charity."

  "By my wretched soul you sting me, Eustacia! I can keep it up, andhotly too. Now, then, madam, tell me his name!"

  "Never, I am resolved."

  "How often does he write to you? Where does he put his letters--whendoes he meet you? Ah, his letters! Do you tell me his name?"

  "I do not."

  "Then I'll find it myself." His eyes had fallen upon a small deskthat stood near, on which she was accustomed to write her letters.He went to it. It was locked.

  "Unlock this!"

  "You have no right to say it. That's mine."

  Without another word he seized the desk and dashed it to the floor.The hinge burst open, and a number of letters tumbled out.

  "Stay!" said Eustacia, stepping before him with more excitement thanshe had hitherto shown.

  "Come, come! stand away! I must see them."

  She looked at the letters as they lay, checked her feeling, and movedindifferently aside; when he gathered them up, and examined them.

  By no stretch of meaning could any but a harmless construction beplaced upon a single one of the letters themselves. The solitaryexception was an empty envelope directed to her, and the handwritingwas Wildeve's. Yeobright held it up. Eustacia was doggedly silent.

  "Can you read, madam? Look at this envelope. Doubtless we shall findmore soon, and what was inside them. I shall no doubt be gratified bylearning in good time what a well-finished and full-blown adept in acertain trade my lady is."

  "Do you say it to me--do you?" she gasped.

  He searched further, but found nothing more. "What was in thisletter?" he said.

  "Ask the writer. Am I your hound that you should talk to me in thisway?"

  "Do you brave me? do you stand me out, mistress? Answer. Don't lookat me with those eyes as if you would bewitch me again! Sooner thanthat I die. You refuse to answer?"

  "I wouldn't tell you after this, if I were as innocent as the sweetestbabe in heaven!"

  "Which you are not."

>   "Certainly I am not absolutely," she replied. "I have not done whatyou suppose; but if to have done no harm at all is the only innocencerecognized, I am beyond forgiveness. But I require no help from yourconscience."

  "You can resist, and resist again! Instead of hating you I could, Ithink, mourn for and pity you, if you were contrite, and would confessall. Forgive you I never can. I don't speak of your lover--I willgive you the benefit of the doubt in that matter, for it only affectsme personally. But the other: had you half-killed ME, had it beenthat you wilfully took the sight away from these feeble eyes of mine,I could have forgiven you. But THAT'S too much for nature!"

  "Say no more. I will do without your pity. But I would have savedyou from uttering what you will regret."

  "I am going away now. I shall leave you."

  "You need not go, as I am going myself. You will keep just as faraway from me by staying here."

  "Call her to mind--think of her--what goodness there was in her: itshowed in every line of her face! Most women, even when but slightlyannoyed, show a flicker of evil in some curl of the mouth or somecorner of the cheek; but as for her, never in her angriest moments wasthere anything malicious in her look. She was angered quickly, butshe forgave just as readily, and underneath her pride there was themeekness of a child. What came of it?--what cared you? You hated herjust as she was learning to love you. O! couldn't you see what wasbest for you, but must bring a curse upon me, and agony and deathupon her, by doing that cruel deed! What was the fellow's name whowas keeping you company and causing you to add cruelty to her to yourwrong to me? Was it Wildeve? Was it poor Thomasin's husband? Heaven,what wickedness! Lost your voice, have you? It is natural afterdetection of that most noble trick... Eustacia, didn't any tenderthought of your own mother lead you to think of being gentle to mineat such a time of weariness? Did not one grain of pity enter yourheart as she turned away? Think what a vast opportunity was then lostof beginning a forgiving and honest course. Why did not you kick himout, and let her in, and say I'll be an honest wife and a noble womanfrom this hour? Had I told you to go and quench eternally our lastflickering chance of happiness here you could have done no worse.Well, she's asleep now; and have you a hundred gallants, neither theynor you can insult her any more."

  "You exaggerate fearfully," she said in a faint, weary voice; "but Icannot enter into my defence--it is not worth doing. You are nothingto me in future, and the past side of the story may as well remainuntold. I have lost all through you, but I have not complained. Yourblunders and misfortunes may have been a sorrow to you, but theyhave been a wrong to me. All persons of refinement have been scaredaway from me since I sank into the mire of marriage. Is this yourcherishing--to put me into a hut like this, and keep me like the wifeof a hind? You deceived me--not by words, but by appearances, whichare less seen through than words. But the place will serve as well asany other--as somewhere to pass from--into my grave." Her words weresmothered in her throat, and her head drooped down.

  "I don't know what you mean by that. Am I the cause of your sin?"(Eustacia made a trembling motion towards him.) "What, you can beginto shed tears and offer me your hand? Good God! can you? No, not I.I'll not commit the fault of taking that." (The hand she had offereddropped nervelessly, but the tears continued flowing.) "Well, yes,I'll take it, if only for the sake of my own foolish kisses that werewasted there before I knew what I cherished. How bewitched I was! Howcould there be any good in a woman that everybody spoke ill of?"

  "O, O, O!" she cried, breaking down at last; and, shaking with sobswhich choked her, she sank upon her knees. "O, will you have done! O,you are too relentless--there's a limit to the cruelty of savages! Ihave held out long--but you crush me down. I beg for mercy--I cannotbear this any longer--it is inhuman to go further with this! If Ihad--killed your--mother with my own hand--I should not deserve such ascourging to the bone as this. O, O! God have mercy upon a miserablewoman!... You have beaten me in this game--I beg you to stay your handin pity!... I confess that I--wilfully did not undo the door the firsttime she knocked--but--I--should have unfastened it the second--ifI had not thought you had gone to do it yourself. When I found youhad not I opened it, but she was gone. That's the extent of mycrime--towards HER. Best natures commit bad faults sometimes, don'tthey?--I think they do. Now I will leave you--for ever and ever!"

  "Tell all, and I WILL pity you. Was the man in the house with youWildeve?"

  "I cannot tell," she said desperately through her sobbing. "Don'tinsist further--I cannot tell. I am going from this house. We cannotboth stay here."

  "You need not go: I will go. You can stay here."

  "No, I will dress, and then I will go."

  "Where?"

  "Where I came from, or ELSEwhere."

  She hastily dressed herself, Yeobright moodily walking up and downthe room the whole of the time. At last all her things were on. Herlittle hands quivered so violently as she held them to her chin tofasten her bonnet that she could not tie the strings, and after a fewmoments she relinquished the attempt. Seeing this he moved forwardand said, "Let me tie them."

  She assented in silence, and lifted her chin. For once at least inher life she was totally oblivious of the charm of her attitude. Buthe was not, and he turned his eyes aside, that he might not be temptedto softness.

  The strings were tied; she turned from him. "Do you still prefergoing away yourself to my leaving you?" he inquired again.

  "I do."

  "Very well--let it be. And when you will confess to the man I maypity you."

  She flung her shawl about her and went downstairs, leaving himstanding in the room.