The Return of the Native by Thomas Hardy (most read books TXT) 📖

from Wildeve in the porch, and quickly withdraw into the house, was Thomasin’s. On entering she threw down a cloak which had been carelessly wrapped round her, and came forward to the light, where Mrs. Yeobright sat at her work-table, drawn up within the settle, so that part of it projected into the chimney-corner.

“I don’t like your going out after dark alone, Tamsin,” said her aunt quietly, without looking up from her work. “I have only been just outside the door.”

“Well?” inquired Mrs. Yeobright, struck by a change in the tone of Thomasin’s voice, and observing her. Thomasin’s cheek was flushed to a pitch far beyond that which it had reached before her troubles, and her eyes glittered.

“It was HE who knocked,” she said.

“I thought as much.”

“He wishes the marriage to be at once.”

“Indeed! What—is he anxious?” Mrs. Yeobright directed a searching look upon her niece. “Why did not Mr. Wildeve come in?”

“He did not wish to. You are not friends with him, he says. He would like the wedding to be the day after tomorrow, quite privately; at the church of his parish—not at ours.”

“Oh! And what did you say?”

“I agreed to it,” Thomasin answered firmly. “I am a practical woman now. I don’t believe in hearts at all. I would marry him under any circumstances since—since Clym’s letter.”

A letter was lying on Mrs. Yeobright’s workbasket, and at Thomasin’s words her aunt reopened it, and silently read for the tenth time that day:—

 

What is the meaning of this silly story that people are circulating about Thomasin and Mr. Wildeve? I should call such a scandal humiliating if there was the least chance of its being true. How could such a gross falsehood have arisen? It is said that one should go abroad to hear news of home, and I appear to have done it. Of course I contradict the tale everywhere; but it is very vexing, and I wonder how it could have originated. It is too ridiculous that such a girl as Thomasin could so mortify us as to get jilted on the wedding day. What has she done?

 

“Yes,” Mrs. Yeobright said sadly, putting down the letter. “If you think you can marry him, do so. And since Mr. Wildeve wishes it to be unceremonious, let it be that too. I can do nothing. It is all in your own hands now. My power over your welfare came to an end when you left this house to go with him to Anglebury.” She continued, half in bitterness, “I may almost ask, why do you consult me in the matter at all? If you had gone and married him without saying a word to me, I could hardly have been angry—simply because, poor girl, you can’t do a better thing.”

“Don’t say that and dishearten me.”

“You are right—I will not.”

“I do not plead for him, Aunt. Human nature is weak, and I am not a blind woman to insist that he is perfect. I did think so, but I don’t now. But I know my course, and you know that I know it. I hope for the best.”

“And so do I, and we will both continue to,” said Mrs. Yeobright, rising and kissing her. “Then the wedding, if it comes off, will be on the morning of the very day Clym comes home?”

“Yes. I decided that it ought to be over before he came. After that you can look him in the face, and so can I. Our concealments will matter nothing.”

Mrs. Yeobright moved her head in thoughtful assent, and presently said, “Do you wish me to give you away? I am willing to undertake that, you know, if you wish, as I was last time. After once forbidding the banns I think I can do no less.”

“I don’t think I will ask you to come,” said Thomasin reluctantly, but with decision. “It would be unpleasant, I am almost sure. Better let there be only strangers present, and none of my relations at all. I would rather have it so. I do not wish to do anything which may touch your credit, and I feel that I should be uncomfortable if you were there, after what has passed. I am only your niece, and there is no necessity why you should concern yourself more about me.”

“Well, he has beaten us,” her aunt said. “It really seems as if he had been playing with you in this way in revenge for my humbling him as I did by standing up against him at first.”

“O no, Aunt,” murmured Thomasin.

They said no more on the subject then. Diggory Venn’s knock came soon after; and Mrs. Yeobright, on returning from her interview with him in the porch, carelessly observed, “Another lover has come to ask for you.”

“No?”

“Yes, that queer young man Venn.”

“Asks to pay his addresses to me?”

“Yes; and I told him he was too late.”

Thomasin looked silently into the candle-flame. “Poor Diggory!” she said, and then aroused herself to other things.

The next day was passed in mere mechanical deeds of preparation, both the women being anxious to immerse themselves in these to escape the emotional aspect of the situation. Some wearing apparel and other articles were collected anew for Thomasin, and remarks on domestic details were frequently made, so as to obscure any inner misgivings about her future as Wildeve’s wife.

The appointed morning came. The arrangement with Wildeve was that he should meet her at the church to guard against any unpleasant curiosity which might have affected them had they been seen walking off together in the usual country way.

Aunt and niece stood together in the bedroom where the bride was dressing. The sun, where it could catch it, made a mirror of Thomasin’s hair, which she always wore braided. It was braided according to a calendar system—the more important the day the more numerous the strands in the braid. On ordinary working-days she braided it in threes; on ordinary Sundays in fours; at Maypolings, gipsyings, and the like, she braided it in fives. Years ago she had said that when she married she would braid it in sevens. She had braided it in sevens today.

“I have been thinking that I will wear my blue silk after all,” she said. “It is my wedding day, even though there may be something sad about the time. I mean,” she added, anxious to correct any wrong impression, “not sad in itself, but in its having had great disappointment and trouble before it.”

Mrs. Yeobright breathed in a way which might have been called a sigh. “I almost wish Clym had been at home,” she said. “Of course you chose the time because of his absence.”

“Partly. I have felt that I acted unfairly to him in not telling him all; but, as it was done not to grieve him, I thought I would carry out the plan to its end, and tell the whole story when the sky was clear.”

“You are a practical little woman,” said Mrs. Yeobright, smiling. “I wish you and he—no, I don’t wish anything. There, it is nine o’clock,” she interrupted, hearing a whizz and a dinging downstairs.

“I told Damon I would leave at nine,” said Thomasin, hastening out of the room.

Her aunt followed. When Thomasin was going up the little walk from the door to the wicket-gate, Mrs. Yeobright looked reluctantly at her, and said, “It is a shame to let you go alone.”

“It is necessary,” said Thomasin.

“At any rate,” added her aunt with forced cheerfulness, “I shall call upon you this afternoon, and bring the cake with me. If Clym has returned by that time he will perhaps come too. I wish to show Mr. Wildeve that I bear him no ill-will. Let the past be forgotten. Well, God bless you! There, I don’t believe in old superstitions, but I’ll do it.” She threw a slipper at the retreating figure of the girl, who turned, smiled, and went on again.

A few steps further, and she looked back. “Did you call me, Aunt?” she tremulously inquired. “Good-bye!”

Moved by an uncontrollable feeling as she looked upon Mrs. Yeobright’s worn, wet face, she ran back, when her aunt came forward, and they met again. “O—Tamsie,” said the elder, weeping, “I don’t like to let you go.”

“I—I am—” Thomasin began, giving way likewise. But, quelling her grief, she said “Good-bye!” again and went on.

Then Mrs. Yeobright saw a little figure wending its way between the scratching furze-bushes, and diminishing far up the valley—a pale-blue spot in a vast field of neutral brown, solitary and undefended except by the power of her own hope.

But the worst feature in the case was one which did not appear in the landscape; it was the man.

The hour chosen for the ceremony by Thomasin and Wildeve had been so timed as to enable her to escape the awkwardness of meeting her cousin Clym, who was returning the same morning. To own to the partial truth of what he had heard would be distressing as long as the humiliating position resulting from the event was unimproved. It was only after a second and successful journey to the altar that she could lift up her head and prove the failure of the first attempt a pure accident.

She had not been gone from Blooms-End more than half an hour when Yeobright came by the meads from the other direction and entered the house.

“I had an early breakfast,” he said to his mother after greeting her. “Now I could eat a little more.”

They sat down to the repeated meal, and he went on in a low, anxious voice, apparently imagining that Thomasin had not yet come downstairs, “What’s this I have heard about Thomasin and Mr. Wildeve?”

“It is true in many points,” said Mrs. Yeobright quietly; “but it is all right now, I hope.” She looked at the clock.

“True?”

“Thomasin is gone to him today.”

Clym pushed away his breakfast. “Then there is a scandal of some sort, and that’s what’s the matter with Thomasin. Was it this that made her ill?”

“Yes. Not a scandal—a misfortune. I will tell you all about it, Clym. You must not be angry, but you must listen, and you’ll find that what we have done has been done for the best.”

She then told him the circumstances. All that he had known of the affair before he returned from Paris was that there had existed an attachment between Thomasin and Wildeve, which his mother had at first discountenanced, but had since, owing to the arguments of Thomasin, looked upon in a little more favourable light. When she, therefore, proceeded to explain all he was greatly surprised and troubled.

“And she determined that the wedding should be over before you came back,” said Mrs. Yeobright, “that there might be no chance of her meeting you, and having a very painful time of it. That’s why she has gone to him; they have arranged to be married this morning.”

“But I can’t understand it,” said Yeobright, rising. “‘Tis so unlike her. I can see why you did not write to me after her unfortunate return home. But why didn’t you let me know when the wedding was going to be—the first time?”

“Well, I felt vexed with her just then. She seemed to me to be obstinate; and when I found that you were nothing in her mind I vowed that she should be nothing in yours. I felt that she was only my niece after all; I told her she might marry, but that I should take no interest in it, and should not bother you about it either.”

“It wouldn’t have been bothering me. Mother, you did wrong.”

“I thought it might disturb you in your