The Return of the Native | Page 9

turning to
Humphrey. "I ask that question."
"Ever since her aunt altered her mind, and said she might have the man
after all," replied Humphrey, without removing his eyes from the fire.
He was a somewhat solemn young fellow, and carried the hook and
leather gloves of a furze-cutter, his legs, by reason of that occupation,
being sheathed in bulging leggings as stiff as the Philistine's greaves of
brass. "That's why they went away to be married, I count. You see,
after kicking up such a nunny-watch and forbidding the banns 'twould

have made Mis'ess Yeobright seem foolish-like to have a banging
wedding in the same parish all as if she'd never gainsaid it."
"Exactly--seem foolish-like; and that's very bad for the poor things that
be so, though I only guess as much, to be sure," said Grandfer Cantle,
still strenuously preserving a sensible bearing and mien.
"Ah, well, I was at church that day," said Fairway, "which was a very
curious thing to happen."
"If 'twasn't my name's Simple," said the Grandfer emphatically. "I ha'n't
been there to-year; and now the winter is a-coming on I won't say I
shall."
"I ha'n't been these three years," said Humphrey; "for I'm so dead
sleepy of a Sunday; and 'tis so terrible far to get there; and when you do
get there 'tis such a mortal poor chance that you'll be chose for up
above, when so many bain't, that I bide at home and don't go at all."
"I not only happened to be there," said Fairway, with a fresh collection
of emphasis, "but I was sitting in the same pew as Mis'ess Yeobright.
And though you may not see it as such, it fairly made my blood run
cold to hear her. Yes, it is a curious thing; but it made my blood run
cold, for I was close at her elbow." The speaker looked round upon the
bystanders, now drawing closer to hear him, with his lips gathered
tighter than ever in the rigorousness of his descriptive moderation.
"'Tis a serious job to have things happen to 'ee there," said a woman
behind.
"'Ye are to declare it,' was the parson's words," Fairway continued.
"And then up stood a woman at my side--a-touching of me. 'Well, be
damned if there isn't Mis'ess Yeobright a-standing up,' I said to myself.
Yes, neighbours, though I was in the temple of prayer that's what I said.
'Tis against my conscience to curse and swear in company, and I hope
any woman here will overlook it. Still what I did say I did say, and
'twould be a lie if I didn't own it."

"So 'twould, neighbour Fairway."
"'Be damned if there isn't Mis'ess Yeobright a-standing up,' I said," the
narrator repeated, giving out the bad word with the same passionless
severity of face as before, which proved how entirely necessity and not
gusto had to do with the iteration. "And the next thing I heard was, 'I
forbid the banns,' from her. 'I'll speak to you after the service,' said the
parson, in quite a homely way--yes, turning all at once into a common
man no holier than you or I. Ah, her face was pale! Maybe you can call
to mind that monument in Weatherbury church--the cross-legged
soldier that have had his arm knocked away by the school-children?
Well, he would about have matched that woman's face, when she said,
'I forbid the banns.'"
The audience cleared their throats and tossed a few stalks into the fire,
not because these deeds were urgent, but to give themselves time to
weigh the moral of the story.
"I'm sure when I heard they'd been forbid I felt as glad as if anybody
had gied me sixpence," said an earnest voice--that of Olly Dowden, a
woman who lived by making heath brooms, or besoms. Her nature was
to be civil to enemies as well as to friends, and grateful to all the world
for letting her remain alive.
"And now the maid have married him just the same," said Humphrey.
"After that Mis'ess Yeobright came round and was quite agreeable,"
Fairway resumed, with an unheeding air, to show that his words were
no appendage to Humphrey's, but the result of independent reflection.
"Supposing they were ashamed, I don't see why they shouldn't have
done it here-right," said a wide-spread woman whose stays creaked like
shoes whenever she stooped or turned. "'Tis well to call the neighbours
together and to hae a good racket once now and then; and it may as
well be when there's a wedding as at tide-times. I don't care for close
ways."
"Ah, now, you'd hardly believe it, but I don't care for gay weddings,"

said Timothy Fairway, his eyes again travelling round. "I hardly blame
Thomasin Yeobright and neighbour Wildeve for