Those words of Thomasin, which seemed so little, but meant so much,
remained in the ears of Diggory Venn: "Help me to keep him home in the
evenings."
On this occasion Venn had arrived on Egdon Heath only to cross to the
other side: he had no further connection with the interests of the
Yeobright family, and he had a business of his own to attend to. Yet
he suddenly began to feel himself drifting into the old track of
manoeuvring on Thomasin's account.
He sat in his van and considered. From Thomasin's words and manner
he had plainly gathered that Wildeve neglected her. For whom could
he neglect her if not for Eustacia? Yet it was scarcely credible
that things had come to such a head as to indicate that Eustacia
systematically encouraged him. Venn resolved to reconnoitre somewhat
carefully the lonely road which led along the vale from Wildeve's
dwelling to Clym's house at Alderworth.
At this time, as had been seen, Wildeve was quite innocent of any
predetermined act of intrigue, and except at the dance on the green
he had not once met Eustacia since her marriage. But that the spirit
of intrigue was in him had been shown by a recent romantic habit of
his: a habit of going out after dark and strolling towards Alderworth,
there looking at the moon and stars, looking at Eustacia's house, and
walking back at leisure.
Accordingly, when watching on the night after the festival, the
reddleman saw him ascend by the little path, lean over the front gate
of Clym's garden, sigh, and turn to go back again. It was plain that
Wildeve's intrigue was rather ideal than real. Venn retreated before
him down the hill to a place where the path was merely a deep groove
between the heather; here he mysteriously bent over the ground for a
few minutes, and retired. When Wildeve came on to that spot his ankle
was caught by something, and he fell headlong.
As soon as he had recovered the power of respiration he sat up and
listened. There was not a sound in the gloom beyond the spiritless
stir of the summer wind. Feeling about for the obstacle which had
flung him down, he discovered that two tufts of heath had been tied
together across the path, forming a loop, which to a traveller was
certain overthrow. Wildeve pulled off the string that bound them, and
went on with tolerable quickness. On reaching home he found the cord
to be of a reddish colour. It was just what he had expected.
Although his weaknesses were not specially those akin to physical
fear, the species of _coup-de-Jarnac_ from one he knew too well
troubled the mind of Wildeve. But his movements were unaltered
thereby. A night or two later he again went along the vale to
Alderworth, taking the precaution of keeping out of any path. The
sense that he was watched, that craft was employed to circumvent his
errant tastes, added piquancy to a journey so entirely sentimental,
so long as the danger was of no fearful sort. He imagined that Venn
and Mrs. Yeobright were in league, and felt that there was a certain
legitimacy in combating such a coalition.
The heath tonight appeared to be totally deserted: and Wildeve, after
looking over Eustacia's garden gate for some little time, with a cigar
in his mouth, was tempted by the fascination that emotional smuggling
had for his nature to advance towards the window, which was not quite
closed, the blind being only partly drawn down. He could see into
the room, and Eustacia was sitting there alone. Wildeve contemplated
her for a minute, and then retreating into the heath beat the ferns
lightly, whereupon moths flew out alarmed. Securing one, he returned
to the window, and holding the moth to the chink, opened his hand.
The moth made towards the candle upon Eustacia's table, hovered round
it two or three times, and flew into the flame.
Eustacia started up. This had been a well-known signal in old times
when Wildeve had used to come secretly wooing to Mistover. She at
once knew that Wildeve was outside, but before she could consider
what to do her husband came in from upstairs. Eustacia's face burnt
crimson at the unexpected collision of incidents, and filled it with
an animation that it too frequently lacked.
"You have a very high colour, dearest," said Yeobright, when he came
close enough to see it. "Your appearance would be no worse if it were
always so."
"I am warm," said Eustacia. "I think I will go into the air for a few
minutes."
"Shall I go with you?"
"O no. I am only going to the gate."
She arose, but before she had time to get out of the room a loud
rapping began upon the front door.
"I'll go--I'll go," said Eustacia in an unusually quick tone for her;
and she glanced eagerly towards the window whence the moth had flown;
but nothing appeared there.
"You had better not at this time of the evening," he said. Clym
stepped before her into the passage, and Eustacia waited, her
somnolent manner covering her inner heat and agitation.
She listened, and Clym opened the door. No words were uttered
outside, and presently he closed it and came back, saying, "Nobody
was there. I wonder what that could have meant?"
He was left to wonder during the rest of the evening, for no
explanation offered itself, and Eustacia said nothing, the additional
fact that she knew of only adding more mystery to the performance.
Meanwhile a little drama had been acted outside which saved Eustacia
from all possibility of compromising herself that evening at least.
While Wildeve had been preparing his moth-signal another person had
come behind him up to the gate. This man, who carried a gun in his
hand, looked on for a moment at the other's operation by the window,
walked up to the house, knocked at the door, and then vanished round
the corner and over the hedge.
"Damn him!" said Wildeve. "He has been watching me again."
As his signal had been rendered futile by this uproarious rapping
Wildeve withdrew, passed out at the gate, and walked quickly down
the path without thinking of anything except getting away unnoticed.
Half-way down the hill the path ran near a knot of stunted hollies,
which in the general darkness of the scene stood as the pupil in a
black eye. When Wildeve reached this point a report startled his ear,
and a few spent gunshots fell among the leaves around him.
There was no doubt that he himself was the cause of that gun's
discharge; and he rushed into the clump of hollies, beating the bushes
furiously with his stick; but nobody was there. This attack was a
more serious matter than the last, and it was some time before Wildeve
recovered his equanimity. A new and most unpleasant system of menace
had begun, and the intent appeared to be to do him grievous bodily
harm. Wildeve had looked upon Venn's first attempt as a species of
horse-play, which the reddleman had indulged in for want of knowing
better; but now the boundary line was passed which divides the
annoying from the perilous.
Had Wildeve known how thoroughly in earnest Venn had become he
might have been still more alarmed. The reddleman had been almost
exasperated by the sight of Wildeve outside Clym's house, and he was
prepared to go to any lengths short of absolutely shooting him, to
terrify the young innkeeper out of his recalcitrant impulses. The
doubtful legitimacy of such rough coercion did not disturb the mind
of Venn. It troubles few such minds in such cases, and sometimes this
is not to be regretted. From the impeachment of Strafford to Farmer
Lynch's short way with the scamps of Virginia there have been many
triumphs of justice which are mockeries of law.
About half a mile below Clym's secluded dwelling lay a hamlet where
lived one of the two constables who preserved the peace in the parish
of Alderworth, and Wildeve went straight to the constable's cottage.
Almost the first thing that he saw on opening the door was the
constable's truncheon hanging to a nail, as if to assure him that
here were the means to his purpose. On inquiry, however, of the
constable's wife he learnt that the constable was not at home.
Wildeve said he would wait.
The minutes ticked on, and the constable did not arrive. Wildeve
cooled down from his state of high indignation to a restless
dissatisfaction with himself, the scene, the constable's wife, and the
whole set of circumstances. He arose and left the house. Altogether,
the experience of that evening had had a cooling, not to say a
chilling, effect on misdirected tenderness, and Wildeve was in no
mood to ramble again to Alderworth after nightfall in hope of a stray
glance from Eustacia.
Thus far the reddleman had been tolerably successful in his rude
contrivances for keeping down Wildeve's inclination to rove in the
evening. He had nipped in the bud the possible meeting between
Eustacia and her old lover this very night. But he had not
anticipated that the tendency of his action would be to divert
Wildeve's movement rather than to stop it. The gambling with the
guineas had not conduced to make him a welcome guest to Clym; but to
call upon his wife's relative was natural, and he was determined to
see Eustacia. It was necessary to choose some less untoward hour than
ten o'clock at night. "Since it is unsafe to go in the evening," he
said, "I'll go by day."
Meanwhile Venn had left the heath and gone to call upon Mrs.
Yeobright, with whom he had been on friendly terms since she had
learnt what a providential countermove he had made towards the
restitution of the family guineas. She wondered at the lateness of
his call, but had no objection to see him.
He gave her a full account of Clym's affliction, and of the state in
which he was living; then, referring to Thomasin, touched gently upon
the apparent sadness of her days. "Now, ma'am, depend upon it," he
said, "you couldn't do a better thing for either of 'em than to make
yourself at home in their houses, even if there should be a little
rebuff at first."
"Both she and my son disobeyed me in marrying; therefore I have
no interest in their households. Their troubles are of their own
making." Mrs. Yeobright tried to speak severely; but the account of
her son's state had moved her more than she cared to show.
"Your visits would make Wildeve walk straighter than he is inclined
to do, and might prevent unhappiness down the heath."
"What do you mean?"
"I saw something tonight out there which I didn't like at all. I wish
your son's house and Mr. Wildeve's were a hundred miles apart instead
of four or five."
"Then there WAS an understanding between him and Clym's wife when he
made a fool of Thomasin!"
"We'll hope there's no understanding now."
"And our hope will probably be very vain. O Clym! O Thomasin!"
"There's no harm done yet. In fact, I've persuaded Wildeve to mind
his own business."
"How?"
"O, not by talking--by a plan of mine called the silent system."
"I hope you'll succeed."
"I shall if you help me by calling and making friends with your son.
You'll have a chance then of using your eyes."
"Well, since it has come to this," said Mrs. Yeobright sadly, "I will
own to you, reddleman, that I thought of going. I should be much
happier if we were reconciled. The marriage is unalterable, my life
may be cut short, and I should wish to die in peace. He is my only
son; and since sons are made of such stuff I am not sorry I have no
other. As for Thomasin, I never expected much from her; and she has
not disappointed me. But I forgave her long ago; and I forgive him
now. I'll go."
At this very time of the reddleman's conversation with Mrs. Yeobright
at Blooms-End another conversation on the same subject was languidly
proceeding at Alderworth.
All the day Clym had borne himself as if his mind were too full of its
own matter to allow him to care about outward things, and his words
now showed what had occupied his thoughts. It was just after the
mysterious knocking that he began the theme. "Since I have been away
today, Eustacia, I have considered that something must be done to heal
up this ghastly breach between my dear mother and myself. It troubles
me."
"What do you propose to do?" said Eustacia abstractedly, for she could
not clear away from her the excitement caused by Wildeve's recent
manoeuvre for an interview.
"You seem to take a very mild interest in what I propose, little or
much," said Clym, with tolerable warmth.
"You mistake me," she answered, reviving at his reproach. "I am only
thinking."
"What of?"
"Partly of that moth whose skeleton is getting burnt up in the wick of
the candle," she said slowly. "But you know I always take an interest
in what you say."
"Very well, dear. Then I think I must go and call upon her."... He
went on with tender feeling: "It is a thing I am not at all too proud
to do, and only a fear that I might irritate her has kept me away so
long. But I must do something. It is wrong in me to allow this sort
of thing to go on."
"What have you to blame yourself about?"
"She is getting old, and her life is lonely, and I am her only son."
"She has Thomasin."
"Thomasin is not her daughter; and if she were that would not excuse
me. But this is beside the point. I have made up my mind to go to
her, and all I wish to ask you is whether you will do your best to
help me--that is, forget the past; and if she shows her willingness to
be reconciled, meet her half-way by welcoming her to our house, or by
accepting a welcome to hers?"
At first Eustacia closed her lips as if she would rather do anything
on the whole globe than what he suggested. But the lines of her mouth
softened with thought, though not so far as they might have softened;
and she said, "I will put nothing in your way; but after what has
passed it is asking too much that I go and make advances."
"You never distinctly told me what did pass between you."
"I could not do it then, nor can I now. Sometimes more bitterness is
sown in five minutes than can be got rid of in a whole life; and that
may be the case here." She paused a few moments, and added, "If you
had never returned to your native place, Clym, what a blessing it
would have been for you!... It has altered the destinies of--"
"Three people."
"Five," Eustacia thought; but she kept that in.
V