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

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