LITMIR.BIZ

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‘I’ve won—well, I’ve won—a gown-piece,’ says she, her colours coming up in a moment. ’Tis a smock for a crown, I thought; and so it turned out. Ay, when I think what she’ll say to me now without a mossel of red in her face, it do seem strange that ’a wouldn’t say such a little thing then. … However, then she went on, and that’s what made me bring up the story. Well, whatever clothes I’ve won, white or figured, for eyes to see or for eyes not to see (’a could do a pretty stroke of modesty in those days), I’d sooner have lost it than have seen what I have. Poor Mr. Yeobright was took bad directly he reached the fair ground, and was forced to go home again. That was the last time he ever went out of the parish.”

      “’A faltered on from one day to another, and then we heard he was gone.”

      “D’ye think he had great pain when ’a died?” said Christian.

      “O no—quite different. Nor any pain of mind. He was lucky enough to be God A’mighty’s own man.”

      “And other folk—d’ye think ’twill be much pain to ’em, Mister Fairway?”

      “That depends on whether they be afeard.”

      “I bain’t afeard at all, I thank God!” said Christian strenuously. “I’m glad I bain’t, for then ’twon’t pain me. … I don’t think I be afeard—or if I be I can’t help it, and I don’t deserve to suffer. I wish I was not afeard at all!”

      There was a solemn silence, and looking from the window, which was unshuttered and unblinded, Timothy said, “Well, what a fess little bonfire that one is, out by Cap’n Vye’s! ’Tis burning just the same now as ever, upon my life.”

      All glances went through the window, and nobody noticed that Wildeve disguised a brief, telltale look. Far away up the sombre valley of heath, and to the right of Rainbarrow, could indeed be seen the light, small, but steady and persistent as before.

      “It was lighted before ours was,” Fairway continued; “and yet every one in the country round is out afore ’n.”

      “Perhaps there’s meaning in it!” murmured Christian.

      “How meaning?” said Wildeve sharply.

      Christian was too scattered to reply, and Timothy helped him.

      “He means, sir, that the lonesome dark-eyed creature up there that some say is a witch—ever I should call a fine young woman such a name—is always up to some odd conceit or other; and so perhaps ’tis she.”

      “I’d be very glad to ask her in wedlock, if she’d hae me and take the risk of her wild dark eyes ill-wishing me,” said Grandfer Cantle staunchly.

      “Don’t ye say it, Father!” implored Christian.

      “Well, be dazed if he who do marry the maid won’t hae an uncommon picture for his best parlour,” said Fairway in a liquid tone, placing down the cup of mead at the end of a good pull.

      “And a partner as deep as the North Star,” said Sam, taking up the cup and finishing the little that remained. “Well, really, now I think we must be moving,” said Humphrey, observing the emptiness of the vessel.

      “But we’ll gie ’em another song?” said Grandfer Cantle. “I’m as full of notes as a bird!”

      “Thank you, Grandfer,” said Wildeve. “But we will not trouble you now. Some other day must do for that—when I have a party.”

      “Be jown’d if I don’t learn ten new songs for’t, or I won’t learn a line!” said Grandfer Cantle. “And you may be sure I won’t disappoint ye by biding away, Mr. Wildeve.”

      “I quite believe you,” said that gentleman.

      All then took their leave, wishing their entertainer long life and happiness as a married man, with recapitulations which occupied some time. Wildeve attended them to the door, beyond which the deep-dyed upward stretch of heath stood awaiting them, an amplitude of darkness reigning from their feet almost to the zenith, where a definite form first became visible in the lowering forehead of Rainbarrow. Diving into the dense obscurity in a line headed by Sam the turf-cutter, they pursued their trackless way home.

      When the scratching of the furze against their leggings had fainted upon the ear, Wildeve returned to the room where he had left Thomasin and her aunt. The women were gone.

      They could only have left the house in one way, by the back window; and this was open.

      Wildeve laughed to himself, remained a moment thinking, and idly returned to the front room. Here his glance fell upon a bottle of wine which stood on the mantelpiece. “Ah—old Dowden!” he murmured; and going to the kitchen door shouted, “Is anybody here who can take something to old Dowden?”

      There was no reply. The room was empty, the lad who acted as his factotum having gone to bed. Wildeve came back put on his hat, took the bottle, and left the house, turning the key in the door, for there was no guest at the inn tonight. As soon as he was on the road the little bonfire on Mistover Knap again met his eye.

      “Still waiting, are you, my lady?” he murmured.

      However, he did not proceed that way just then; but leaving the hill to the left of him, he stumbled over a rutted road that brought him to a cottage which, like all other habitations on the heath at this hour, was only saved from being visible by a faint shine from its bedroom window. This house was the home of Olly Dowden, the besom-maker, and he entered.

      The lower room was in darkness; but by feeling his way he found a table, whereon he placed the bottle, and a minute later emerged again upon the heath. He stood and looked northeast at the undying little fire—high up above him, though not so high as Rainbarrow.

      We have been told what happens when a woman deliberates; and the epigram is not always terminable with woman, provided that one be in the case, and that a fair one. Wildeve stood, and stood longer, and breathed perplexedly, and then said to himself with resignation, “Yes—by Heaven, I must go to her, I suppose!”

      Instead of turning in the direction of home he pressed on rapidly by a path under Rainbarrow towards what was evidently a signal light.

       CHAPTER 6

       The Figure against the Sky

      When the whole Egdon concourse had left the site of the bonfire to its accustomed loneliness, a closely wrapped female figure approached the barrow from that quarter of the heath in which the little fire lay. Had the reddleman been watching he might have recognized her as the woman who had first stood there so singularly, and vanished at the approach of strangers. She ascended to her old position at the top, where the red coals of the perishing fire greeted her like living eyes in the corpse of day. There she stood still around her stretching the vast night atmosphere, whose incomplete darkness in comparison with the total darkness of the heath below it might have represented a venial beside a mortal sin.

      That she was tall and straight in build, that she was lady-like in her movements, was all that could be learnt of her just now, her form being wrapped in a shawl folded in the old cornerwise fashion, and her head in a large kerchief, a protection not superfluous at this hour and place. Her back was towards the wind, which blew from the northwest; but whether she had avoided that aspect because of the chilly gusts which played about her exceptional position, or because her interest lay in the southeast, did not at first appear.

      Her reason for standing so dead still as the pivot of this circle of heath-country was just as obscure. Her extraordinary fixity, her conspicuous loneliness, her heedlessness of night, betokened among other things an utter absence of fear. A tract of country unaltered from that sinister condition which made Caesar anxious every year to get clear of its glooms before the autumnal equinox, a kind of landscape and weather which leads travellers from the

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