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Chapter 7 : The Tragic Meeting of Two Old Friends


He in the meantime had aroused himself from sleep, sat up,
and looked around. Eustacia was sitting in a chair hard
by him, and though she held a book in her hand she had
not looked into it for some time.

"Well, indeed!" said Clym, brushing his eyes with his hands.
"How soundly I have slept! I have had such a tremendous dream,
too--one I shall never forget."

"I thought you had been dreaming," said she.

"Yes. It was about my mother. I dreamt that I took you
to her house to make up differences, and when we got there we
couldn't get in, though she kept on crying to us for help.
However, dreams are dreams. What o'clock is it, Eustacia?"

"Half-past two."

"So late, is it? I didn't mean to stay so long. By the
time I have had something to eat it will be after three."

"Ann is not come back from the village, and I thought I
would let you sleep on till she returned."

Clym went to the window and looked out. Presently he said,
musingly, "Week after week passes, and yet Mother does not come.
I thought I should have heard something from her long before this."

Misgiving, regret, fear, resolution, ran their swift
course of expression in Eustacia's dark eyes.
She was face to face with a monstrous difficulty,
and she resolved to get free of it by postponement.

"I must certainly go to Blooms-End soon," he continued,
"and I think I had better go alone." He picked up his
leggings and gloves, threw them down again, and added,
"As dinner will be so late today I will not go back to
the heath, but work in the garden till the evening, and then,
when it will be cooler, I will walk to Blooms-End.
I am quite sure that if I make a little advance Mother
will be willing to forget all. It will be rather late
before I can get home, as I shall not be able to do the
distance either way in less than an hour and a half.
But you will not mind for one evening, dear? What are you
thinking of to make you look so abstracted?"

"I cannot tell you," she said heavily. "I wish we didn't
live here, Clym. The world seems all wrong in this place."

"Well--if we make it so. I wonder if Thomasin has been to
Blooms-End lately. I hope so. But probably not, as she is,
I believe, expecting to be confined in a month or so.
I wish I had thought of that before. Poor Mother must
indeed be very lonely."

"I don't like you going tonight."

"Why not tonight?"

"Something may be said which will terribly injure me."

"My mother is not vindictive," said Clym, his colour
faintly rising.

"But I wish you would not go," Eustacia repeated in a
low tone. "If you agree not to go tonight I promise to go
by myself to her house tomorrow, and make it up with her,
and wait till you fetch me."

"Why do you want to do that at this particular time,
when at every previous time that I have proposed it you
have refused?"

"I cannot explain further than that I should like to see
her alone before you go," she answered, with an impatient
move of her head, and looking at him with an anxiety
more frequently seen upon those of a sanguine temperament
than upon such as herself.

"Well, it is very odd that just when I had decided to go
myself you should want to do what I proposed long ago.
If I wait for you to go tomorrow another day will be lost;
and I know I shall be unable to rest another night without
having been. I want to get this settled, and will.
You must visit her afterwards--it will be all the same."

"I could even go with you now?"

"You could scarcely walk there and back without a longer
rest than I shall take. No, not tonight, Eustacia."

"Let it be as you say, then," she replied in the quiet way
of one who, though willing to ward off evil consequences
by a mild effort, would let events fall out as they
might sooner than wrestle hard to direct them.

Clym then went into the garden; and a thoughtful languor
stole over Eustacia for the remainder of the afternoon,
which her husband attributed to the heat of the weather.

In the evening he set out on the journey. Although the heat
of summer was yet intense the days had considerably shortened,
and before he had advanced a mile on his way all the
heath purples, browns, and greens had merged in a uniform
dress without airiness or graduation, and broken only by
touches of white where the little heaps of clean quartz sand
showed the entrance to a rabbit burrow, or where the white
flints of a footpath lay like a thread over the slopes.
In almost every one of the isolated and stunted thorns
which grew here and there a nighthawk revealed his presence
by whirring like the clack of a mill as long as he could
hold his breath, then stopping, flapping his wings,
wheeling round the bush, alighting, and after a silent
interval of listening beginning to whirr again. At each
brushing of Clym's feet white millermoths flew into the air
just high enough to catch upon their dusty wings the mellowed
light from the west, which now shone across the depressions
and levels of the ground without falling thereon to light them up.

Yeobright walked on amid this quiet scene with a hope that
all would soon be well. Three miles on he came to a spot
where a soft perfume was wafted across his path, and he
stood still for a moment to inhale the familiar scent.
It was the place at which, four hours earlier,
his mother had sat down exhausted on the knoll covered
with shepherd's-thyme. While he stood a sound between
a breathing and a moan suddenly reached his ears.

He looked to where the sound came from; but nothing
appeared there save the verge of the hillock stretching
against the sky in an unbroken line. He moved a few
steps in that direction, and now he perceived a recumbent
figure almost close to his feet.

Among the different possibilities as to the person's
individuality there did not for a moment occur to
Yeobright that it might be one of his own family.
Sometimes furze-cutters had been known to sleep
out of doors at these times, to save a long journey
homeward and back again; but Clym remembered the moan
and looked closer, and saw that the form was feminine;
and a distress came over him like cold air from a cave.
But he was not absolutely certain that the woman was his mother
till he stooped and beheld her face, pallid, and with closed eyes.

His breath went, as it were, out of his body and the cry
of anguish which would have escaped him died upon his lips.
During the momentary interval that elapsed before he
became conscious that something must be done all sense
of time and place left him, and it seemed as if he and his
mother were as when he was a child with her many years
ago on this heath at hours similar to the present.
Then he awoke to activity; and bending yet lower he found
that she still breathed, and that her breath though feeble
was regular, except when disturbed by an occasional gasp.

"O, what is it! Mother, are you very ill--you are not dying?"
he cried, pressing his lips to her face. "I am your Clym.
How did you come here? What does it all mean?"

At that moment the chasm in their lives which his love
for Eustacia had caused was not remembered by Yeobright,
and to him the present joined continuously with that friendly
past that had been their experience before the division.

She moved her lips, appeared to know him, but could not speak;
and then Clym strove to consider how best to move her,
as it would be necessary to get her away from the spot
before the dews were intense. He was able-bodied,
and his mother was thin. He clasped his arms round her,
lifted her a little, and said, "Does that hurt you?"

She shook her head, and he lifted her up; then, at a slow pace,
went onward with his load. The air was now completely cool;
but whenever he passed over a sandy patch of ground
uncarpeted with vegetation there was reflected from its
surface into his face the heat which it had imbibed
during the day. At the beginning of his undertaking he
had thought but little of the distance which yet would
have to be traversed before Blooms-End could be reached;
but though he had slept that afternoon he soon began
to feel the weight of his burden. Thus he proceeded,
like Aeneas with his father; the bats circling round his head,
nightjars flapping their wings within a yard of his face,
and not a human being within call.

While he was yet nearly a mile from the house his mother
exhibited signs of restlessness under the constraint
of being borne along, as if his arms were irksome to her.
He lowered her upon his knees and looked around.
The point they had now reached, though far from any road,
was not more than a mile from the Blooms-End cottages
occupied by Fairway, Sam, Humphrey, and the Cantles.
Moreover, fifty yards off stood a hut, built of clods
and covered with thin turves, but now entirely disused.
The simple outline of the lonely shed was visible,
and thither he determined to direct his steps. As soon
as he arrived he laid her down carefully by the entrance,
and then ran and cut with his pocketknife an armful of the
dryest fern. Spreading this within the shed, which was
entirely open on one side, he placed his mother thereon;
then he ran with all his might towards the dwelling
of Fairway.

Nearly a quarter of an hour had passed, disturbed only by the
broken breathing of the sufferer, when moving figures began
to animate the line between heath and sky. In a few moments
Clym arrived with Fairway, Humphrey, and Susan Nunsuch;
Olly Dowden, who had chanced to be at Fairway's, Christian
and Grandfer Cantle following helter-skelter behind.
They had brought a lantern and matches, water, a pillow,
and a few other articles which had occurred to their minds
in the hurry of the moment. Sam had been despatched
back again for brandy, and a boy brought Fairway's pony,
upon which he rode off to the nearest medical man,
with directions to call at Wildeve's on his way, and inform
Thomasin that her aunt was unwell.

Sam and the brandy soon arrived, and it was administered
by the light of the lantern; after which she became
sufficiently conscious to signify by signs that something
was wrong with her foot. Olly Dowden at length
understood her meaning, and examined the foot indicated.
It was swollen and red. Even as they watched the red
began to assume a more livid colour, in the midst
of which appeared a scarlet speck, smaller than a pea,
and it was found to consist of a drop of blood, which rose
above the smooth flesh of her ankle in a hemisphere.

"I know what it is," cried Sam. "She has been stung
by an adder!"

"Yes," said Clym instantly. "I remember when I was
a child seeing just such a bite. O, my poor mother!"

"It was my father who was bit," said Sam. "And there's
only one way to cure it. You must rub the place
with the fat of other adders, and the only way to get
that is by frying them. That's what they did for him."

"'Tis an old remedy," said Clym distrustfully, "and I
have doubts about it. But we can do nothing else till
the doctor comes."

"'Tis a sure cure," said Olly Dowden, with emphasis.
"I've used it when I used to go out nursing."

"Then we must pray for daylight, to catch them,"
said Clym gloomily.

"I will see what I can do," said Sam.

He took a green hazel which he had used as a walking stick,
split it at the end, inserted a small pebble, and with
the lantern in his hand went out into the heath.
Clym had by this time lit a small fire, and despatched
Susan Nunsuch for a frying pan. Before she had returned
Sam came in with three adders, one briskly coiling
and uncoiling in the cleft of the stick, and the other
two hanging dead across it.

"I have only been able to get one alive and fresh as he
ought to be," said Sam. "These limp ones are two I
killed today at work; but as they don't die till the sun
goes down they can't be very stale meat."

The live adder regarded the assembled group with a sinister
look in its small black eye, and the beautiful brown and jet
pattern on its back seemed to intensify with indignation.
Mrs. Yeobright saw the creature, and the creature saw
her--she quivered throughout, and averted her eyes.

"Look at that," murmured Christian Cantle. "Neighbours, how
do we know but that something of the old serpent in
God's garden, that gied the apple to the young woman
with no clothes, lives on in adders and snakes still?
Look at his eye--for all the world like a villainous sort
of black currant. 'Tis to be hoped he can't ill-wish us!
There's folks in heath who've been overlooked already.
I will never kill another adder as long as I live."

"Well, 'tis right to be afeard of things, if folks can't
help it," said Grandfer Cantle. "'Twould have saved me
many a brave danger in my time."

"I fancy I heard something outside the shed," said Christian.
"I wish troubles would come in the daytime, for then
a man could show his courage, and hardly beg for mercy
of the most broomstick old woman he should see, if he
was a brave man, and able to run out of her sight!"

"Even such an ignorant fellow as I should know better
than do that," said Sam.

"Well, there's calamities where we least expect it,
whether or no. Neighbours, if Mrs. Yeobright were to die,
d'ye think we should be took up and tried for the
manslaughter of a woman?"

"No, they couldn't bring it in as that," said Sam,
"unless they could prove we had been poachers at some time
of our lives. But she'll fetch round."

"Now, if I had been stung by ten adders I should hardly
have lost a day's work for't," said Grandfer Cantle.
"Such is my spirit when I am on my mettle. But perhaps
'tis natural in a man trained for war. Yes, I've gone
through a good deal; but nothing ever came amiss to me
after I joined the Locals in four." He shook his head
and smiled at a mental picture of himself in uniform.
"I was always first in the most galliantest scrapes in my
younger days!"

"I suppose that was because they always used to put
the biggest fool afore," said Fairway from the fire,
beside which he knelt, blowing it with his breath.

"D'ye think so, Timothy?" said Grandfer Cantle, coming forward
to Fairway's side with sudden depression in his face.
"Then a man may feel for years that he is good solid company,
and be wrong about himself after all?"

"Never mind that question, Grandfer. Stir your stumps
and get some more sticks. 'Tis very nonsense of an old
man to prattle so when life and death's in mangling."

"Yes, yes," said Grandfer Cantle, with melancholy conviction.
"Well, this is a bad night altogether for them that have
done well in their time; and if I were ever such a dab
at the hautboy or tenor viol, I shouldn't have the heart
to play tunes upon 'em now."

Susan now arrived with the frying pan, when the live
adder was killed and the heads of the three taken off.
The remainders, being cut into lengths and split open,
were tossed into the pan, which began hissing and crackling
over the fire. Soon a rill of clear oil trickled from
the carcases, whereupon Clym dipped the corner of his
handkerchief into the liquid and anointed the wound.





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