Return of the Native, by Thomas Hardy

Part 10 out of 10

When Clym was gone Thomasin crept upstairs in the dark, and,
just listening by the cot, to assure herself that the child
was asleep, she went to the window, gently lifted the corner
of the white curtain, and looked out. Venn was still there.
She watched the growth of the faint radiance appearing
in the sky by the eastern hill, till presently the edge
of the moon burst upwards and flooded the valley with light.
Diggory's form was now distinct on the green; he was moving
about in a bowed attitude, evidently scanning the grass
for the precious missing article, walking in zigzags right
and left till he should have passed over every foot of the ground.

"How very ridiculous!" Thomasin murmured to herself,
in a tone which was intended to be satirical. "To think
that a man should be so silly as to go mooning about
like that for a girl's glove! A respectable dairyman,
too, and a man of money as he is now. What a pity!"

At last Venn appeared to find it; whereupon he stood
up and raised it to his lips. Then placing it in his
breastpocket--the nearest receptacle to a man's heart
permitted by modern raiment--he ascended the valley
in a mathematically direct line towards his distant
home in the meadows.

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

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

"I am thoroughly perplexed," she said candidly.
"I cannot for my life think who it is that Diggory Venn
is so much in love with. None of the girls at the Maypole
were good enough for him, and yet she must have been there."

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

No clearing up of the mystery was granted her for some time.
But one afternoon Thomasin was upstairs getting ready
for a walk, when she had occasion to come to the landing
and call "Rachel." Rachel was a girl about thirteen,
who carried the baby out for airings; and she came upstairs
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 seed yours on the table,
and I thought I would borrow 'em. I did not mean
to hurt 'em at all, but one of them got lost.
Somebody gave me some money to buy another pair for you,
but I have not been able to go anywhere to get '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
forgot to lecture the girl, who glided silently away.
Thomasin did not move further than to turn her eyes
upon the grass-plat where the Maypole had stood.
She remained thinking, then said to herself that she
would not go out that afternoon, but would work hard at
the baby's unfinished lovely plaid frock, cut on the cross
in the newest fashion. How she managed to work 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 incident was of a kind likely to divert
her industry from a manual to a mental channel.

Next day she went her ways as usual, and continued her
custom of walking in the heath with no other companion
than little Eustacia, now of the age when it is a matter
of doubt with such characters whether they are intended
to walk through the world on their hands or on their feet;
so that they get into painful complications by trying both.
It was very pleasant to Thomasin, when she had carried
the child to some lonely place, to give her a little
private practice on the green turf and shepherd's-thyme,
which formed a soft mat to fall headlong upon them when
equilibrium was lost.

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

"Diggory, give me my glove," said Thomasin, whose manner
it was under any circumstances to plunge into the midst
of a subject which engrossed her.

Venn immediately dismounted, put his hand in his breastpocket,
and handed 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
so indifferent that I was surprised to know you thought
of me."

"If you had remembered what I was once you wouldn't
have been surprised."

"Ah, no," she said quickly. "But men of your character
are mostly so independent."

"What is my character?" he asked.

"I don't exactly know," said Thomasin simply, "except it
is to cover up your feelings under a practical manner,
and only to show them when you are alone."

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

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

"You mustn't judge by folks in general," said Venn.
"Still I don't know much what feelings are nowadays.
I have got so mixed up with business of one sort and t'other
that my soft sentiments are gone off in vapour like.
Yes, I am given up body and soul to the making of money.
Money is all my dream."

"O Diggory, how wicked!" said Thomasin reproachfully,
and looking at him in exact balance between taking his
words seriously and judging them as said to tease her.

"Yes, 'tis rather a rum course," said Venn, in the bland
tone of one comfortably 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 once been he may be again." Thomasin blushed.
"Except that it is rather harder 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 was my duty to do, except just enough to live on."

"I am rather glad of that," said Venn softly, and regarding
her from the corner 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 a not unpleasing kind, Venn mounted
his horse and rode on.

This conversation had passed in a hollow of the heath near
the old Roman road, a place much frequented by Thomasin.
And it might have been observed that she did not in future
walk that way less often from having met Venn there now.
Whether or not Venn abstained from riding thither because
he had met Thomasin in the same place might easily have
been guessed 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 duty to his cousin Thomasin. He could not help
feeling that it would be a pitiful waste of sweet
material if the tender-natured thing should be doomed
from this early stage of her life onwards to dribble
away her winsome qualities on lonely gorse and fern.
But he felt this as an economist merely, and not as a lover.
His passion for Eustacia had been a sort of conserve
of his whole life, and he had nothing more of that supreme
quality left to bestow. So far the obvious thing was
not to entertain 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 a great fancy about Thomasin and himself.
It had not positively amounted to a desire, but it had
always been a favourite dream. That they should be man
and wife in good time, if the happiness of neither
were endangered thereby, was the fancy in question.
So that what course save one was there now left for any son
who reverenced his mother's memory as Yeobright did? It
is an unfortunate fact that any particular whim of parents,
which might have been dispersed by half an hour's
conversation during their lives, becomes sublimated
by their deaths into a fiat the most absolute, with such
results to conscientious children as those parents,
had they lived, would have been the first to decry.

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

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

Thomasin was not in her room, and he found her in the
front garden. "I have long been wanting, Thomasin,"
he began, "to say something about a matter that concerns
both our futures."

"And you are going to say it now?" she remarked quickly,
colouring as she met his gaze. "Do stop a minute, Clym,
and let me speak first, for oddly 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 around and lowering her voice. "Well, first you
will promise me this--that you won't be angry and call
me anything harsh if you disagree with what I propose?"

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, of course," he said, altogether perplexed as to
her drift.

"I am thinking of marrying," she then observed blandly.
"But I shall not marry unless you assure me that you approve
of such a step. Why don't you speak?"

"I was taken rather by surprise. But, nevertheless, I am
very glad to hear 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!--not that I mean to call
him old, for he is not very old after all. Ah--I noticed
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!" she exclaimed almost petulantly.
"And I shouldn't have done it, either, only he 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 at last. "He is a very honest and at the same
time astute man. He is clever too, 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 that I asked you, and I won't think any
more of him. At the same time I must marry him if I marry
anybody--that I WILL say!"

"I don't see that," said Clym, carefully concealing every
clue to his own interrupted intention, which she plainly
had not guessed. "You might marry a professional man,
or somebody of that sort, by going into the town to live
and forming acquaintances there."

"I am not fit for town life--so very rural and silly
as I always have been. 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 a street for the world! Egdon is a ridiculous
old place; but I have got used 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 has been kinder to me than anybody else,
and has helped me in many ways that I don't know of!"
Thomasin almost pouted now.

"Yes, he has," said Clym in a neutral tone. "Well, I
wish with all my heart that I could say, marry him.
But I cannot forget what my mother thought on that matter,
and it goes rather against me not to respect her opinion.
There is too much reason why we should do the little we can
to respect 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. "I had 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, and she
turned away to hide a tear.

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

When next they met she said abruptly, "He is much more
respectable now than 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's wish. 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 seen Diggory in his present position, she would
have considered him a fitting husband 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 after this, when Clym strayed into a part
of the heath that he had not lately visited, Humphrey,
who was at work there, said to him, "I am glad to see
that 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 on fine days with the chiel. But, Mr. Yeobright,
I can't help feeling that your cousin ought to have
married you. 'Tis a pity to make two chimleycorners
where there need be only one. You could get her away from
him 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 to their deaths? Don't think such
a thing, Humphrey. After my experience I should consider it
too much of a burlesque to go to church and take a wife.
In the words of Job, 'I have made a covenant with mine eyes;
when then 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 a mark upon me which wouldn't look well
in a love-making scene. I have two ideas 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 after all. He thinks I may as well
make up my mind, and I have got to think so too.
It is to be on the twenty-fifth of next month, if you
don't object."

"Do what you think right, dear. I am only too glad that you
see your way clear to happiness again. My sex owes you
every amends for the treatment you 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 an austere artistic code can assume
the more consistent conclusion to be the true one.

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

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

The scene within was not quite the customary one.
Standing about the room was the little knot of men who formed
the chief part of the Egdon coterie, there being present
Fairway himself, Grandfer Cantle, Humphrey, Christian, and one
or two turf-cutters. It was a warm day, and the men were as
a matter of course in their shirtsleeves, except Christian,
who had always a nervous fear of parting with a scrap
of his clothing when in anybody's house but his own.
Across the stout oak table in the middle of the room
was thrown a mass of striped linen, which Grandfer
Cantle held down on one side, and Humphrey on the other,
while Fairway rubbed its surface with a yellow lump,
his face being damp and creased with the effort 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.
"'Tis going to be a good bed, by the look o't," continued Sam,
after an interval 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 the proceedings.

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

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

"Yes," said the furze-dealer, standing up, giving his
forehead a thorough mopping, and handing the beeswax
to Humphrey, who succeeded at 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 racketing
vagary of their lives. I set up both my own daughters
in one when they was married, and there have been feathers
enough for another in the house the last twelve months.
Now then, neighbours, I think we have laid on enough wax.
Grandfer Cantle, you turn the tick the right way outwards,
and then I'll begin to shake in the feathers."

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

"I never saw such a clumsy chap as you, Christian,"
said Grandfer Cantle severely. "You might have been
the son of a man that's never been outside Blooms-End
in his life for all the wit you have. Really all the
soldiering and smartness in the world in the father seems
to count for nothing in forming the nater of the son.
As far as that chief Christian is 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,
a dashing spirit has counted for sommat, to be sure!"

"Don't ye let me down so, Father; I feel no bigger
than a ninepin after it. 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, as if he had been the first to make
the suggestion. "In common conscience every man ought
either to marry or go for a soldier. 'Tis a scandal
to the nation to do neither one nor t'other. I did both,
thank God! Neither to raise men nor to lay 'em low--
that shows a poor do-nothing spirit indeed."

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

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

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

"Begad, I'll go to 'em, Timothy--to the married pair!"
said Granfer Cantle 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, you know;
and they'd see it as such. My 'Down in Cupid's Gardens'
was well liked in four; still, I've got others as good,
and even better. What do you 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 of it, I haven't turned my tongue
in my head to the shape of a real good song since Old
Midsummer night, when we had the 'Barley Mow' at the Woman;
and 'tis a pity to neglect your strong point where there's
few that have the compass for such things!"

"So 'tis, so 'tis," said Fairway. "Now gie the bed a
shake down. We've put in seventy pounds of best feathers,
and I think that's as many as the tick will fairly hold.
A bit and a drap wouldn't be amiss now, I reckon.
Christian, maul down the victuals from corner-cupboard
if canst reach, 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 came to the open door
and cackled begrudgingly at sight of such a quantity
of their old clothes.

"Upon my soul I shall be chokt," said Fairway when,
having extracted a feather from his mouth, he found several
others floating on the mug as it was handed round.

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

"O yes, it can soon be DONE," said Fairway, as if
something should be added 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 from Budmouth for
the occasion. The fly had been hired at the nearest town,
regardless of distance and cost, there being nothing on
Egdon Heath, in Venn's opinion, dignified enough for such
an event when such a woman as Thomasin was the bride;
and the church was too remote for a walking bridal-party.

As the fly passed the group which had run out from the
homestead they shouted "Hurrah!" and waved their hands;
feathers and down floating from their hair, their sleeves,
and the folds of their garments at every motion,
and Grandfer Cantle's seals dancing merrily in the sunlight
as he twirled himself about. The driver of the fly turned
a supercilious gaze upon them; he even treated the wedded
pair themselves with something like condescension;
for in what other state than heathen could people,
rich or poor, exist who were doomed to abide in such a
world's end as Egdon? Thomasin showed no such superiority
to the group at the door, fluttering her hand as quickly
as a bird's wing towards them, and asking Diggory,
with tears in her eyes, if they ought not to alight and speak
to these kind neighbours. Venn, however, suggested that,
as they were 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 Fairway harnessed a horse,
wrapped up the cumbrous present, and drove off with it
in the cart to Venn's house at Stickleford.

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

"I wish I could be there without dashing your spirits,"
he said. "But I might 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 happy in the company--there,
that's the truth of it. I shall always be coming to see
you at your new home, you know, so that my absence now
will not matter."

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

Clym retired to his lodging at the housetop much relieved,
and occupied himself during the afternoon in noting
down the heads of a sermon, with which he intended to
initiate all that really seemed practicable of the scheme
that had originally brought him hither, and that he
had so long kept in view under various modifications,
and through evil and good report. He had tested and weighed
his convictions again and again, and saw no reason to
alter them, though he had considerably lessened his plan.
His eyesight, by long humouring in his native air,
had grown stronger, but not sufficiently strong to warrant
his attempting his extensive educational project.
Yet he did not repine--there was still more than enough
of an unambitious sort to tax all his energies and occupy
all his hours.

Evening drew on, and sounds of life and movement in
the lower part of the domicile became more pronounced,
the gate in the palings clicking incessantly. The party was
to be an early one, and all the guests were assembled long
before it was dark. Yeobright went down the back staircase
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 would return to wish Thomasin and her husband good-bye
as they departed. His steps were insensibly bent towards
Mistover by the path that he had followed on that terrible
morning when he learnt the strange news from Susan'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's home. While he stood observing the darkening
scene somebody came up. Clym, seeing him but dimly,
would have let him pass silently, had not the pedestrian,
who was Charley, recognized the young man and spoken to him.

"Charley, I have not seen you for a length of time,"
said Yeobright. "Do you 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 that sort 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--"


"I wish, Mr. Yeobright, you could give me something
to keep that once belonged 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 me to the house,
and I'll see."

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

"Come round this way," said Clym. "My entrance is at
the back for the present."

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

"I will go a little way with you," said Clym. And amid
the noise of merriment from below they descended.
Their path to the front led them close to a little side window,
whence the rays of candles streamed across the shrubs.
The window, being screened from general observation
by the bushes, had been left unblinded, so that a person
in this private nook could see all that was going on
within the room which contained the wedding guests,
except in so far as vision was hindered by the green
antiquity of the panes.

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

Charley wiped his own eyes, which were rather blurred
with moisture, and stepped closer to the casement.
"Mr. Venn is asking Christian Cantle to sing," he replied,
"and Christian is moving about in his chair as if he were
much frightened at the question, and his father has struck
up a stave instead of him."

"Yes, I can hear the old man's voice," said Clym.
"So there's to be no dancing, I suppose. And is Thomasin
in the room? I see something moving in front of the candles
that resembles her shape, I think."

"Yes. She do seem happy. She is red in the face,
and laughing at something 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 gieing a skip as he passed under. Mrs. Venn
has run up quite frightened and now she's put her hand
to his head to feel if there's a lump. And now they
be 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 glasses and drinking somebody's health."

"I wonder if it is mine?"

"No, 'tis Mr. and Mrs. Venn's, because he is making a
hearty sort of speech. There--now Mrs. Venn has got up,
and is going away to put on her things, I think."

"Well, they haven't concerned themselves about me, and it
is quite right they should not. It is all as it should be,
and Thomasin at least is happy. We will not stay any
longer now, as they will soon be coming out to go home."

He accompanied the lad into the heath on his way home,
and, returning alone to the house a quarter of an
hour later, found Venn and Thomasin ready to start,
all the guests having departed in his absence.
The wedded pair took their seats in the four-wheeled
dogcart which Venn's head milker and handy man had driven
from Stickleford to fetch them in; little Eustacia and
the nurse were packed securely upon the open flap behind;
and the milker, on an ancient overstepping pony, whose shoes
clashed like cymbals at every tread, rode in the rear,
in the manner of a body-servant of the last century.

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

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

On the Sunday after this wedding an unusual sight was
to be seen on Rainbarrow. From a distance there simply
appeared to be a motionless figure standing on the top
of the tumulus, just as Eustacia had stood on that lonely
summit some two years and a half before. But now it
was fine warm weather, with only a summer breeze blowing,
and early afternoon instead of dull twilight.
Those who ascended to the immediate neighbourhood of
the Barrow perceived that the erect form in the centre,
piercing the sky, was not really alone. Round him upon
the slopes of the Barrow a number of heathmen and women
were reclining or sitting at their ease. They listened
to the words of the man in their midst, who was preaching,
while they abstractedly pulled heather, stripped ferns,
or tossed pebbles down the slope. This was the first
of a series of moral lectures or Sermons on the Mount,
which were to be delivered from the same 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 cottages around; secondly, that the
preacher thereon could be seen from all adjacent points
as soon as he arrived at his post, the view of him
being thus a convenient signal to those stragglers
who wished to draw near. The speaker was bareheaded,
and the breeze at each waft gently lifted and lowered
his hair, somewhat too thin for a man of his years,
these still numbering less than thirty-three.
He wore a shade over his eyes, and his face was pensive
and lined; but, though these bodily features were marked
with decay there was no defect in the tones of his voice,
which were rich, musical, and stirring. He stated that
his discourses to people were to be sometimes secular,
and sometimes religious, but never dogmatic; 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 sat down 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 small petition of thee;
I pray thee say me not nay. And the king said unto her,
Ask, on, my mother: for I will not say thee nay.'"

Yeobright had, in fact, found his vocation in the career
of an itinerant open-air preacher and lecturer on morally
unimpeachable subjects; and from this day he laboured
incessantly in that office, speaking not only in simple
language on Rainbarrow and in the hamlets round, but in
a more cultivated strain elsewhere--from the steps and
porticoes of town halls, from market-crosses, from conduits,
on esplanades and on wharves, from the parapets of bridges,
in barns and outhouses, and all other such places in the
neighbouring Wessex towns and villages. He left alone
creeds and systems of philosophy, finding enough and more
than enough to 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 were commonplace,
others complained of his want of theological doctrine;
while others again remarked that it was well enough
for a man to take to preaching who could not see to do
anything else. But everywhere he was kindly received,
for the story of his life had become generally known.


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