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Book Four: THE CLOSED DOOR



Chapter 1 : The Rencounter by the Pool


The July sun shone over Egdon and fired its crimson
heather to scarlet. It was the one season of the year,
and the one weather of the season, in which the heath
was gorgeous. This flowering period represented the second
or noontide division in the cycle of those superficial
changes which alone were possible here; it followed
the green or young-fern period, representing the morn,
and preceded the brown period, when the heathbells
and ferns would wear the russet tinges of evening; to be
in turn displaced by the dark hue of the winter period,
representing night.

Clym and Eustacia, in their little house at Alderworth,
beyond East Egdon, were living on with a monotony which
was delightful to them. The heath and changes of weather
were quite blotted out from their eyes for the present.
They were enclosed in a sort of luminous mist, which hid
from them surroundings of any inharmonious colour,
and gave to all things the character of light. When it
rained they were charmed, because they could remain
indoors together all day with such a show of reason;
when it was fine they were charmed, because they could
sit together on the hills. They were like those double
stars which revolve round and round each other, and from
a distance appear to be one. The absolute solitude in
which they lived intensified their reciprocal thoughts;
yet some might have said that it had the disadvantage
of consuming their mutual affections at a fearfully
prodigal rate. Yeobright did not fear for his own part;
but recollection of Eustacia's old speech about the
evanescence of love, now apparently forgotten by her,
sometimes caused him to ask himself a question; and he
recoiled at the thought that the quality of finiteness was
not foreign to Eden.

When three or four weeks had been passed thus,
Yeobright resumed his reading in earnest. To make up
for lost time he studied indefatigably, for he wished
to enter his new profession with the least possible delay.

Now, Eustacia's dream had always been that, once married
to Clym, she would have the power of inducing him to return
to Paris. He had carefully withheld all promise to do so;
but would he be proof against her coaxing and argument?
She had calculated to such a degree on the probability
of success that she had represented Paris, and not Budmouth,
to her grandfather as in all likelihood their future home.
Her hopes were bound up in this dream. In the quiet days
since their marriage, when Yeobright had been poring
over her lips, her eyes, and the lines of her face,
she had mused and mused on the subject, even while in the
act of returning his gaze; and now the sight of the books,
indicating a future which was antagonistic to her dream,
struck her with a positively painful jar. She was hoping for
the time when, as the mistress of some pretty establishment,
however small, near a Parisian Boulevard, she would be
passing her days on the skirts at least of the gay world,
and catching stray wafts from those town pleasures she
was so well fitted to enjoy. Yet Yeobright was as firm
in the contrary intention as if the tendency of marriage
were rather to develop the fantasies of young philanthropy
than to sweep them away.

Her anxiety reached a high pitch; but there was something
in Clym's undeviating manner which made her hesitate
before sounding him on the subject. At this point
in their experience, however, an incident helped her.
It occurred one evening about six weeks after their union,
and arose entirely out of the unconscious misapplication
of Venn of the fifty guineas intended for Yeobright.

A day or two after the receipt of the money Thomasin
had sent a note to her aunt to thank her. She had been
surprised at the largeness of the amount; but as no sum
had ever been mentioned she set that down to her late
uncle's generosity. She had been strictly charged
by her aunt to say nothing to her husband of this gift;
and Wildeve, as was natural enough, had not brought himself
to mention to his wife a single particular of the midnight
scene in the heath. Christian's terror, in like manner,
had tied his tongue on the share he took in that proceeding;
and hoping that by some means or other the money had gone
to its proper destination, he simply asserted as much,
without giving details.

Therefore, when a week or two had passed away, Mrs. Yeobright
began to wonder why she never heard from her son of the
receipt of the present; and to add gloom to her perplexity
came the possibility that resentment might be the cause
of his silence. She could hardly believe as much,
but why did he not write? She questioned Christian,
and the confusion in his answers would at once have led
her to believe that something was wrong, had not one-half
of his story been corroborated by Thomasin's note.

Mrs. Yeobright was in this state of uncertainty when she
was informed one morning that her son's wife was visiting her
grandfather at Mistover. She determined to walk up the hill,
see Eustacia, and ascertain from her daughter-in-law's lips
whether the family guineas, which were to Mrs. Yeobright
what family jewels are to wealthier dowagers, had miscarried or not.

When Christian learnt where she was going his concern
reached its height. At the moment of her departure he could
prevaricate no longer, and, confessing to the gambling,
told her the truth as far as he knew it--that the guineas
had been won by Wildeve.

"What, is he going to keep them?" Mrs. Yeobright cried.

"I hope and trust not!" moaned Christian. "He's a good man,
and perhaps will do right things. He said you ought
to have gied Mr. Clym's share to Eustacia, and that's
perhaps what he'll do himself."

To Mrs. Yeobright, as soon as she could calmly reflect,
there was much likelihood in this, for she could hardly
believe that Wildeve would really appropriate money
belonging to her son. The intermediate course of giving it
to Eustacia was the sort of thing to please Wildeve's fancy.
But it filled the mother with anger none the less.
That Wildeve should have got command of the guineas
after all, and should rearrange the disposal of them,
placing Clym's share in Clym's wife's hands, because she
had been his own sweetheart, and might be so still,
was as irritating a pain as any that Mrs. Yeobright had
ever borne.

She instantly dismissed the wretched Christian from her
employ for his conduct in the affair; but, feeling quite
helpless and unable to do without him, told him afterwards
that he might stay a little longer if he chose.
Then she hastened off to Eustacia, moved by a much less
promising emotion towards her daughter-in-law than she
had felt half an hour earlier, when planning her journey.
At that time it was to inquire in a friendly spirit if there
had been any accidental loss; now it was to ask plainly
if Wildeve had privately given her money which had been
intended as a sacred gift to Clym.

She started at two o'clock, and her meeting with Eustacia
was hastened by the appearance of the young lady beside
the pool and bank which bordered her grandfather's premises,
where she stood surveying the scene, and perhaps thinking
of the romantic enactments it had witnessed in past days.
When Mrs. Yeobright approached, Eustacia surveyed her
with the calm stare of a stranger.

The mother-in-law was the first to speak. "I was coming
to see you," she said.

"Indeed!" said Eustacia with surprise, for Mrs. Yeobright,
much to the girl's mortification, had refused to be present
at the wedding. "I did not at all expect you."

"I was coming on business only," said the visitor,
more coldly than at first. "Will you excuse my asking
this--Have you received a gift from Thomasin's husband?"

"A gift?"

"I mean money!"

"What--I myself?"

"Well, I meant yourself, privately--though I was not going
to put it in that way."

"Money from Mr. Wildeve? No--never! Madam, what do you
mean by that?" Eustacia fired up all too quickly,
for her own consciousness of the old attachment between
herself and Wildeve led her to jump to the conclusion
that Mrs. Yeobright also knew of it, and might have come
to accuse her of receiving dishonourable presents from him now.

"I simply ask the question," said Mrs. Yeobright.
"I have been----"

"You ought to have better opinions of me--I feared you
were against me from the first!" exclaimed Eustacia

"No. I was simply for Clym," replied Mrs. Yeobright,
with too much emphasis in her earnestness. "It is the
instinct of everyone to look after their own."

"How can you imply that he required guarding against me?"
cried Eustacia, passionate tears in her eyes. "I have
not injured him by marrying him! What sin have I done
that you should think so ill of me? You had no right to
speak against me to him when I have never wronged you."

"I only did what was fair under the circumstances,"
said Mrs. Yeobright more softly. "I would rather not have
gone into this question at present, but you compel me.
I am not ashamed to tell you the honest truth. I was firmly
convinced that he ought not to marry you--therefore I
tried to dissuade him by all the means in my power. But it
is done now, and I have no idea of complaining any more.
I am ready to welcome you."

"Ah, yes, it is very well to see things in that business
point of view," murmured Eustacia with a smothered fire
of feeling. "But why should you think there is anything
between me and Mr. Wildeve? I have a spirit as well
as you. I am indignant; and so would any woman be.
It was a condescension in me to be Clym's wife, and not
a manoeuvre, let me remind you; and therefore I will
not be treated as a schemer whom it becomes necessary
to bear with because she has crept into the family."

"Oh!" said Mrs. Yeobright, vainly endeavouring to control
her anger. "I have never heard anything to show that my
son's lineage is not as good as the Vyes'--perhaps better.
It is amusing to hear you talk of condescension."

"It was condescension, nevertheless," said Eustacia vehemently.
"And if I had known then what I know now, that I should
be living in this wild heath a month after my marriage,
I--I should have thought twice before agreeing."

"It would be better not to say that; it might not
sound truthful. I am not aware that any deception
was used on his part--I know there was not--whatever
might have been the case on the other side."

"This is too exasperating!" answered the younger woman huskily,
her face crimsoning, and her eyes darting light.
"How can you dare to speak to me like that? I insist upon
repeating to you that had I known that my life would
from my marriage up to this time have been as it is,
I should have said NO. I don't complain. I have never
uttered a sound of such a thing to him; but it is true.
I hope therefore that in the future you will be silent on
my eagerness. If you injure me now you injure yourself."

"Injure you? Do you think I am an evil-disposed person?"

"You injured me before my marriage, and you have now
suspected me of secretly favouring another man for money!"

"I could not help what I thought. But I have never spoken
of you outside my house."

"You spoke of me within it, to Clym, and you could not
do worse."

"I did my duty."

"And I'll do mine."

"A part of which will possibly be to set him against
his mother. It is always so. But why should I not bear
it as others have borne it before me!"

"I understand you," said Eustacia, breathless with emotion.
"You think me capable of every bad thing. Who can be
worse than a wife who encourages a lover, and poisons
her husband's mind against his relative? Yet that is now
the character given to me. Will you not come and drag
him out of my hands?"

Mrs. Yeobright gave back heat for heat.

"Don't rage at me, madam! It ill becomes your beauty,
and I am not worth the injury you may do it on my account,
I assure you. I am only a poor old woman who has lost
a son."

"If you had treated me honourably you would have had
him still." Eustacia said, while scalding tears trickled
from her eyes. "You have brought yourself to folly;
you have caused a division which can never be healed!"

"I have done nothing. This audacity from a young woman
is more than I can bear."

"It was asked for; you have suspected me, and you have made
me speak of my husband in a way I would not have done.
You will let him know that I have spoken thus, and it will
cause misery between us. Will you go away from me? You
are no friend!"

"I will go when I have spoken a word. If anyone says I
have come here to question you without good grounds for it,
that person speaks untruly. If anyone says that I
attempted to stop your marriage by any but honest means,
that person, too, does not speak the truth. I have fallen
on an evil time; God has been unjust to me in letting
you insult me! Probably my son's happiness does not lie
on this side of the grave, for he is a foolish man
who neglects the advice of his parent. You, Eustacia,
stand on the edge of a precipice without knowing it.
Only show my son one-half the temper you have shown
me today--and you may before long--and you will find
that though he is as gentle as a child with you now,
he can be as hard as steel!"

The excited mother then withdrew, and Eustacia, panting,
stood looking into the pool.





The Return of the Native by Thomas Hardy
Category:
General Fiction
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