包郵還鄉-名著雙語讀物-中文導讀+英文原版

作者：[英]托馬斯·哈代著紀飛等

出版社：清華大學出版社出版時間：2017-04-01

開本： 32開 頁數： 468

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還鄉-名著雙語讀物-中文導讀+英文原版版權信息

ISBN：9787302411307
條形碼：9787302411307 ; 978-7-302-41130-7
裝幀：一般膠版紙
冊數：暫無
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所屬分類：
中小學教輔
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還鄉-名著雙語讀物-中文導讀+英文原版本書特色

本書是英漢雙語版名著系列叢書中的一種，編寫本系列叢書的另一個主要目的就是為準備參加英語國家留學考試的學生提供學習素材。對于留學考試，無論是SSAT、SAT還是TOEFL、GRE，要取得好的成績，就必須了解西方的社會、歷史、文化、生活等方面的背景知識，而閱讀西方原版名著是了解這些知識*重要的手段之一。　　

還鄉-名著雙語讀物-中文導讀+英文原版內容簡介

《還鄉》是19世紀英國*偉大的小說之一。男主人公克萊姆出生在埃頓荒原一個富裕的家庭，后來成為巴黎一位事業有成的生意人。出于對故鄉的眷戀，也夢想通過自己改變家鄉落后的面貌，他毅然回到故鄉。在家鄉，他結識了美麗的姑娘佑斯塔西亞。佑斯塔西亞出生于城市，由于父母雙亡而投靠生活在埃頓荒原上的外公。她厭惡荒原單調的生活，一心向往都市的繁華，因而追求克萊姆，希望克萊姆能把她帶到巴黎。盡管遭到克萊姆母親的強烈反對，佑斯塔西亞*終還是與克萊姆結合了。因為生活目標的不同，他們之間產生了不可調和的矛盾。由于佑斯塔西亞的過失，克萊姆的母親不幸死亡，于是他們之間爆發了激烈沖突。沖突之后，佑斯塔西亞與舊情人離家出走，卻雙雙跌入了湍急的水流不幸遇難。心灰意冷的克萊姆*后做了巡回傳教士。　　書中所展現的故事感染了一代又一代人。無論作為語言學習的課本，還是作為通俗的文學讀本，本書對當代中國的青少年都將產生積極的影響。為了使讀者能夠了解英文故事概況，進而提高閱讀速度和閱讀水平，在每章的開始部分增加了中文導讀。

還鄉-名著雙語讀物-中文導讀+英文原版目錄

目錄
寫在前面/Preface 1
**卷三個女人
Book One The Three Women
**章歲月變換容貌依舊/
Chapter 1 A Face on Which Time Makes but Little Impression 4
第二章煩惱相伴的人物現身荒原/
Chapter 2 Humanity Appears upon the Scene, Hand in
Hand with Trouble 9
第三章鄉村的習俗/
Chapter 3 The Custom of the Country 17
第四章在收稅路上小憩/
Chapter 4 The Halt on the Turnpike Road 39
第五章老實人的困惑/
Chapter 5 Perplexity among Honest People 45
第六章天邊的人影/
Chapter 6 The Figure against the Sky 59
第七章夜的女王/
Chapter 7 Queen of Night 75
第八章在傳說的無人之地發現有人/
Chapter 8 Those Who Are Found Where There Is Said to
Be Nobody 82
第九章愛使聰明男人想出計謀/
Chapter 9 Love Leads a Shrewd Man into Strategy 88
第十章不顧一切地勸說/
Chapter 10 A Desperate Attempt at Persuasion 100
第十一章一個誠實女人的不誠實/
Chapter 11 The Dishonesty of an Honest Woman 110
第二卷到達
Book Two The Arrival
**章來者的消息/
Chapter 1 Tidings of the Comer 120
第二章花落村的人們準備好了/
Chapter 2 The People at Blooms-End Make Ready 125
第三章一點聲音是如何引發一個美夢的/
Chapter 3 How a Little Sound Produced a Great Dream 130
第四章佑斯塔西亞被迫冒險/
Chapter 4 Eustacia Is Led on to an Adventure 136
第五章穿越月光/
Chapter 5 Through the Moonlight 146
第六章兩個面對面站著的人/
Chapter 6 The Two Stand Face to Face 154
第七章美麗與古怪的結合/
Chapter 7 A Coalition between Beauty and Oddness 166
第八章一顆柔弱的心變得堅定/
Chapter 8 Firmness Is Discovered in a Gentle Heart 177
第三卷迷戀
Book Three The Fascination
**章 “我的心便是我的王國”/
Chapter 1 “My Mind to Me a Kingdom Is” 190
第二章新的做法引起一片失望/
Chapter 2 The New Course Causes Disappointment 196
第三章一出陳舊戲的**幕/
Chapter 3 The First Act in a Timeworn Drama 205
第四章一小時的歡樂和許多小時的悲哀/
Chapter 4 An Hour of Bliss and Many Hours of Sadness 221
第五章尖刻話語引發的危機/
Chapter 5 Sharp Words Are Spoken, and a Crisis Ensues 230
第六章約布萊特離開，裂痕出現/
Chapter 6 Yeobright Goes, and the Breach Is Complete 238
第七章一天的早晨和晚上/
Chapter 7 The Morning and the Evening of a Day 246
第八章新的力量加入斗爭/
Chapter 8 A New Force Disturbs the Current 262
第四卷緊閉的大門
Book Four The Closed Door
**章池塘邊發生的沖突/
Chapter 1 The Rencounter by the Pool 272
第二章他在逆境面前歌唱生活/
Chapter 2 He Is Set upon by Adversities but He
Sings a Song 280
第三章她為擺脫沮喪而出走/
Chapter 3 She Goes Out to Battle against Depression 291
第四章使用粗魯的壓制手段/
Chapter 4 Rough Coercion Is Employed 305
第五章穿越荒原的旅行/
Chapter 5 The Journey across the Heath 313
第六章一次巧合及其對旁人帶來的影響/
Chapter 6 A Conjuncture, and Its Result upon the Pedestrian 318
第七章兩個老朋友的悲痛的見面/
Chapter 7 The Tragic Meeting of Two Old Friends 330
第八章佑斯塔西亞聽到別人的好消息而自己卻遭厄運/
Chapter 8 Eustacia Hears of Good Fortune, and Beholds Evil 339
第五卷真相大白
Book Five The Discovery
**章 “在哪里賜給那受難的人光？”/
Chapter 1 “Wherefore Is Light Given to Him That Is in
Misery” 350
第二章一道亮光使得迷茫的心豁然開朗/
Chapter 2 A Lurid Light Breaks in upon a Darkened
Understanding 359
第三章佑斯塔西亞在一個陰暗的早晨獨自打扮/
Chapter 3 Eustacia Dresses Herself on a Black Morning 370
第四章一個快被遺忘的人的照料/
Chapter 4 The Ministrations of a Half-forgotten One 380
第五章偶然間重復了一個老動作/
Chapter 5 An Old Move Inadvertently Repeated 386
第六章托瑪茜與表兄發生爭吵，表兄寫了一封信/
Chapter 6 Thomasin Argues with Her Cousin,
and He Writes a Letter 394
第七章十一月六日的晚上/
Chapter 7 The Night of the Sixth of November 402
第八章大雨、黑暗和焦急的尋找者/
Chapter 8 Rain, Darkness, and Anxious Wanderers 412
第九章場景和聲音把行人吸引在一起/
Chapter 9 Sights and Sounds Draw the Wanderers Together 423
第六卷后來
Book Six Aftercourses
**章不可避免的走向/
Chapter 1 The Inevitable Movement Onward 436
第二章托瑪茜在羅馬路邊的草地上漫步/
Chapter 2 Thomasin Walks in a Green Place by the
Roman Road 446
第三章克萊姆和表妹之間的嚴肅交流/
Chapter 3 The Serious Discourse of Clym with His Cousin 450
第四章快樂再次光臨花落村，克萊姆找到自己的位置/
Chapter 4 Cheerfulness Again Asserts Itself at Blooms-End,
and Clym Finds His Vocation 456

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還鄉-名著雙語讀物-中文導讀+英文原版節選

第五章老實人的困惑Chapter 5 Perplexity among Honest People　　　　托瑪茜無力地回答說，她和懷爾德夫到了角堡鎮，牧師發現結婚許可證有些不合規定的地方，就沒有讓他們結婚。托瑪茜不想和懷爾德夫一起回來，看見狄格雷·維恩后，便搭了維恩的順路車回來了。她還哀求約布萊特太太原諒她的這件丟臉事。約布萊特太太心中同時生出同情和憤怒的感情。她開口道，自己早就阻止過托瑪茜的婚事，而且早就不相信懷爾德夫能帶給托瑪茜幸福。不過既然已經訂婚，那無論出了什么狀況，托瑪茜都一定要嫁給懷爾德夫。說著，約布萊特太太帶著托瑪茜朝淑女店走去，要看看懷爾德夫會在自己面前耍什么心眼。　　淑女店面朝著荒原和雨冢，后面是花園，再過去是一條深邃的溪流。此刻夜色沉沉，依稀可以看見燈光下淑女店的男主人的身影。托瑪茜本來不想再見懷爾德夫，但她的姑媽堅決要如此，兩人便一起走了進來。懷爾德夫十分年輕，體型健美，舉止優雅。他轉過身來，迎接兩位女客。約布萊特太太立刻帶著傲慢的口氣質問起來，懷爾德夫彬彬有禮地解釋了結婚許可證的事情。托瑪茜發覺約布萊特太太和懷爾德夫的對話越來越不愉快，便請求約布萊特太太先待在外面，自己和懷爾德夫在里屋說幾句話。　　一進里屋，托瑪茜就淚流滿面地向懷爾德夫陳述說，自己非常痛苦，但仍然竭力控制住，好不讓自己的姑媽再責怪懷爾德夫。她沒有想到結婚跟自己想象的溫馨甜美完全不同，現在只懇求懷爾德夫再同自己結婚，好不讓自己的姑媽和即將回家的表哥因為自己而感到羞愧。懷爾德夫毫不掩飾自己對于約布萊特太太的不滿，說自己絕不會忘記結婚公告被人反對這件事。懷爾德夫發現托瑪茜神色痛苦，便連忙補充說，他一定會讓婚禮完成，托瑪茜立刻高興起來。這時，淑女店外傳來一陣吵嚷聲和歌聲，從中可以明顯聽出蒂莫西·費爾韋和坎特大爺的聲音。懷爾德夫明白這是荒原上的人們給他們唱歌祝賀來了。約布萊特太太從外屋沖了進來，要帶托瑪茜離開。懷爾德夫止住了他們，說由自己出去應對。臨走時，還罵了句“這幫蠢貨”。　　懷爾德夫來到外屋，迎來了以坎特大爺和蒂莫西·費爾韋為首的幾十個人。他們面帶笑容地唱了一首歌，坎特大爺代表大家真誠地獻出了祝福。懷爾德夫干巴巴地回應了一句，接著，便拿出一罐蜂蜜酒，希望他們能喝完酒后早點離開。蜂蜜酒在來人中傳開了，他們一邊喝酒，一邊大聲地拉著家常，先恭祝懷爾德夫娶了托瑪茜，又稱贊起已經去世的約布萊特先生。他們熱情地稱贊起約布萊特先生吹奏單簧管和拉低音提琴的高超技術，再次對約布萊特先生的英年早逝感到可惜，還有幾個人回憶了約布萊特先生去世的那個下午發生的事情。懷爾德夫感到難以忍受。一陣沉默后，蒂莫西從窗外看到了那處小巧明亮的篝火，詢問是怎么回事。沒有人留意懷爾德夫那一閃而過的知情表情。他們又談論了幾句老船長維伊家的外孫女，之后便打算離開了。懷爾德夫拒絕了坎特大爺臨走前再唱一首歌的提議，說自己以后會再辦一個晚會，便送走了祝賀的人群。等懷爾德夫走進里屋，發現約布萊特太太和托瑪茜已經從窗口逃離了房間。　　懷爾德夫無意中看到答應要送給道頓家的半瓶酒，便拿著酒瓶出了門。外面一片黑暗，懷爾德夫將酒送到了道頓家，又向那處小篝火望了望，然后朝著篝火走去。　　　　　　 homasin looked as if quite overcome by her aunt’s change of manner. “It means just what it seems to mean: I am — not married,” she replied faintly. “Excuse me — for humiliating you, Aunt, by this mishap — I am sorry for it. But I cannot help it.”　　“Me? Think of yourself first.”　　“It was nobody’s fault. When we got there the parson wouldn’t marry us because of some trifling irregularity in the license.”　　“What irregularity?”　　“I don’t know. Mr. Wildeve can explain. I did not think when I went away this morning that I should come back like this.” It being dark, Thomasin allowed her emotion to escape her by the silent way of tears, which could roll down her cheek unseen.　　“I could almost say that it serves you right — if I did not feel that you don’t deserve it,” continued Mrs. Yeobright, who, possessing two distinct moods in close contiguity, a gentle mood and an angry, flew from one to the other without the least warning. “Remember, Thomasin, this business was none of my seeking; from the very first, when you began to feel foolish about that man, I warned you he would not make you happy. I felt it so strongly that I did what I would never have believed myself capable of doing — stood up in the church, and made myself the public talk for weeks. But having once consented, I don’t submit to these fancies without good reason. Marry him you must after this.”　　“Do you think I wish to do otherwise for one moment?” said Thomasin, with a heavy sigh. “I know how wrong it was of me to love him, but don’t pain me by talking like that, Aunt! You would not have had me stay there with him, would you? — and your house is the only home I have to return to. He says we can be married in a day or two.”　　“I wish he had never seen you.”　　“Very well; then I will be the miserablest woman in the world, and not let him see me again. No, I won’t have him!”　　“It is too late to speak so. Come with me. I am going to the inn to see if he has returned. Of course I shall get to the bottom of this story at once. Mr. Wildeve must not suppose he can play tricks upon me, or any belonging to me.”　　“It was not that. The license was wrong, and he couldn’t get another the same day. He will tell you in a moment how it was, if he comes.”　　“Why didn’t he bring you back?”　　“That was me!” again sobbed Thomasin. “When I found we could not be married I didn’t like to come back with him, and I was very ill. Then I saw Diggory Venn, and was glad to get him to take me home. I cannot explain it any better, and you must be angry with me if you will.”　　“I shall see about that,” said Mrs. Yeobright; and they turned towards the inn, known in the neighbourhood as the Quiet Woman, the sign of which represented the figure of a matron carrying her head under her arm, beneath which gruesome design was written the couplet so well known to frequenters of the inn:—　　　　SINCE THE WOMAN’S QUIET　　LET NO MAN BREED A RIOT.[1]1　　　　The inn which really bore this sign and legend stood some miles to the northwest of the present scene, wherein the house more immediately referred to is now no longer an inn; and the surroundings are much changed. But another inn, some of whose features are also embodied in this description, the RED LION at Winfrith, still remains as a haven for the wayfarer (1912).　　The front of the house was towards the heath and Rainbarrow, whose dark shape seemed to threaten it from the sky. Upon the door was a neglected brass plate, bearing the unexpected inscription, “Mr. Wildeve, Engineer”— a useless yet cherished relic from the time when he had been started in that profession in an office at Budmouth by those who had hoped much from him, and had been disappointed. The garden was at the back, and behind this ran a still deep stream, forming the margin of the heath in that direction, meadow-land appearing beyond the stream.　　But the thick obscurity permitted only skylines to be visible of any scene at present. The water at the back of the house could be heard, idly spinning whirpools in its creep between the rows of dry feather-headed reeds which formed a stockade along each bank. Their presence was denoted by sounds as of a congregation praying humbly, produced by their rubbing against each other in the slow wind.　　The window, whence the candlelight had shone up the vale to the eyes of the bonfire group, was uncurtained, but the sill lay too high for a pedestrian on the outside to look over it into the room. A vast shadow, in which could be dimly traced portions of a masculine contour, blotted half the ceiling.　　“He seems to be at home,” said Mrs. Yeobright.　　“Must I come in, too, Aunt?” asked Thomasin faintly. “I suppose not; it would be wrong.”　　“You must come, certainly — to confront him, so that he may make no false representations to me. We shall not be five minutes in the house, and then we’ll walk home.”　　Entering the open passage, she tapped at the door of the private parlour, unfastened it, and looked in.　　The back and shoulders of a man came between Mrs. Yeobright’s eyes and the fire. Wildeve, whose form it was, immediately turned, arose, and advanced to meet his visitors.　　He was quite a young man, and of the two properties, form and motion, the latter first attracted the eye in him. The grace of his movement was singular — it was the pantomimic expression of a lady-killing career. Next came into notice the more material qualities, among which was a profuse crop of hair impending over the top of his face, lending to his forehead the high-cornered outline of an early Gothic shield; and a neck which was smooth and round as a cylinder. The lower half of his figure was of light build. Altogether he was one in whom no man would have seen anything to admire, and in whom no woman would have seen anything to dislike.　　He discerned the young girl’s form in the passage, and said, “Thomasin, then, has reached home. How could you leave me in that way, darling?” And turning to Mrs. Yeobright —“It was useless to argue with her. She would go, and go alone.”　　“But what’s the meaning of it all?” demanded Mrs. Yeobright haughtily.　　“Take a seat,” said Wildeve, placing chairs for the two women. “Well, it was a very stupid mistake, but such mistakes will happen. The license was useless at Anglebury. It was made out for Budmouth, but as I didn’t read it I wasn’t aware of that.”　　“But you had been staying at Anglebury?”　　“No. I had been at Budmouth — till two days ago — and that was where I had intended to take her; but when I came to fetch her we decided upon Anglebury, forgetting that a new license would be necessary. There was not time to get to Budmouth afterwards.”　　“I think you are very much to blame,” said Mrs. Yeobright.　　“It was quite my fault we chose Anglebury,” Thomasin pleaded. “I proposed it because I was not known there.”　　“I know so well that I am to blame that you need not remind me of it,” replied Wildeve shortly.　　“Such things don’t happen for nothing,” said the aunt. “It is a great slight to me and my family; and when it gets known there will be a very unpleasant time for us. How can she look her friends in the face tomorrow? It is a very great injury, and one I cannot easily forgive. It may even reflect on her character.”　　“Nonsense,” said Wildeve.　　Thomasin’s large eyes had flown from the face of one to the face of the other during this discussion, and she now said anxiously, “Will you allow me, Aunt, to talk it over alone with Damon for five minutes? Will you, Damon?”　　“Certainly, dear,” said Wildeve, “if your aunt will excuse us.” He led her into an adjoining room, leaving Mrs. Yeobright by the fire.　　As soon as they were alone, and the door closed, Thomasin said, turning up her pale, tearful face to him, “It is killing me, this, Damon! I did not mean to part from you in anger at Anglebury this morning; but I was frightened and hardly knew what I said. I’ve not let Aunt know how much I suffered today; and it is so hard to command my face and voice, and to smile as if it were a slight thing to me; but I try to do so, that she may not be still more indignant with you. I know you could not help it, dear, whatever Aunt may think.”　　“She is very unpleasant.”　　“Yes,” Thomasin murmured, “and I suppose I seem so now. .?.?. Damon, what do you mean to do about me?”　　“Do about you?”　　“Yes. Those who don’t like you whisper things which at moments make me doubt you. We mean to marry, I suppose, don’t we?”　　“Of course we do. We have only to go to Budmouth on Monday, and we marry at once.”　　“Then do let us go! — O Damon, what you make me say!” She hid her face in her handkerchief. “Here am I asking you to marry me, when by rights you ought to be on your knees imploring me, your cruel mistress, not to refuse you, and saying it would break your heart if I did. I used to think it would be pretty and sweet like that; but how different!”　　“Yes, real life is never at all like that.”　　“But I don’t care personally if it never takes place,” she added with a little dignity; “no, I can live without you. It is Aunt I think of. She is so proud, and thinks so much of her family respectability, that she will be cut down with mortification if this story should get abroad before — it is done. My cousin Clym, too, will be much wounded.”　　“Then he will be very unreasonable. In fact, you are all rather unreasonable.”　　Thomasin coloured a little, and not with love. But whatever the momentary feeling which caused that flush in her, it went as it came, and she humbly said, “I never mean to be, if I can help it. I merely feel that you have my aunt to some extent in your power at last.”　　“As a matter of justice it is almost due to me,” said Wildeve. “Think what I have gone through to win her consent; the insult that it is to any man to have the banns forbidden — the double insult to a man unlucky enough to be cursed with sensitiveness, and blue demons, and Heaven knows what, as I am. I can never forget those banns. A harsher man would rejoice now in the power I have of turning upon your aunt by going no further in the business.”　　She looked wistfully at him with her sorrowful eyes as he said those words, and her aspect showed that more than one person in the room could deplore the possession of sensitiveness. Seeing that she was really suffering he seemed disturbed and added, “This is merely a reflection you know. I have not the least intention to refuse to complete the marriage, Tamsie mine — I could not bear it.”　　“You could not, I know!” said the fair girl, brightening. “You, who cannot bear the sight of pain in even an insect, or any disagreeable sound, or unpleasant smell even, will not long cause pain to me and mine.”　　“I will not, if I can help it.”　　“Your hand upon it, Damon.”　　He carelessly gave her his hand.　　“Ah, by my crown, what’s that?” he said suddenly.　　There fell upon their ears the sound of numerous voices singing in front of the house. Among these, two made themselves prominent by their peculiarity: one was a very strong bass, the other a wheezy thin piping. Thomasin recognized them as belonging to Timothy Fairway and Grandfer Cantle respectively.　　“What does it mean — it is not skimmity-riding, I hope?” she said, with a frightened gaze at Wildeve.　　“Of course not; no, it is that the heath-folk have come to sing to us a welcome. This is intolerable!” He began pacing about, the men outside singing cheerily?—　　“He told’ her that she’ was the joy’ of his life’, And if’ she’d con-sent’ he would make her his wife’; She could’ not refuse’ him; to church’ so they went’, Young Will was forgot’, and young Sue’ was content’; And then’ was she kiss’d’ and set down’ on his knee’, No man’ in the world’ was so lov’-ing as he’!”　　Mrs. Yeobright burst in from the outer room. “Thomasin, Thomasin!” she said, looking indignantly at Wildeve; “here’s a pretty exposure! Let us escape at once. Come!”　　It was, however, too late to get away by the passage. A rugged knocking had begun upon the door of the front room. Wildeve, who had gone to the window, came back.　　“Stop!” he said imperiously, putting his hand upon Mrs. Yeobright’s arm. “We are regularly besieged. There are fifty of them out there if there’s one. You stay in this room with Thomasin; I’ll go out and face them. You must stay now, for my sake, till they are gone, so that it may seem as if all was right. Come, Tamsie dear, don’t go making a scene — we must marry after this; that you can see as well as I. Sit still, that’s all — and don’t speak much. I’ll manage them. Blundering fools!”　　He pressed the agitated girl into a seat, returned to the outer room and opened the door. Immediately outside, in the passage, appeared Grandfer Cantle singing in concert with those still standing in front of the house. He came into the room and nodded abstractedly to Wildeve, his lips still parted, and his features excruciatingly strained in the emission of the chorus. This being ended, he said heartily, “Here’s welcome to the new-made couple, and God bless ’em!”　　“Thank you,” said Wildeve, with dry resentment, his face as gloomy as a thunderstorm.　　At the Grandfer’s heels now came the rest of the group, which included Fairway, Christian, Sam the turf-cutter, Humphrey, and a dozen others. All smiled upon Wildeve, and upon his tables and chairs likewise, from a general sense of friendliness towards the articles as well as towards their owner.　　“We be not here afore Mrs. Yeobright after all,” said Fairway, recognizing the matron’s bonnet through the glass partition which divided the public apartment they had entered from the room where the women sat. “We struck down across, d’ye see, Mr. Wildeve, and she went round by the path.”　　“And I see the young bride’s little head!” said Grandfer, peeping in the same direction, and discerning Thomasin, who was waiting beside her aunt in a miserable and awkward way. “Not quite settled in yet — well, well, there’s plenty of time.”　　Wildeve made no reply; and probably feeling that the sooner he treated them the sooner they would go, he produced a stone jar, which threw a warm halo over matters at once.　　“That’s a drop of the right sort, I can see,” said Grandfer Cantle, with the air of a man too well-mannered to show any hurry to taste it.　　“Yes,” said Wildeve, “’tis some old mead. I hope you will like it.”　　“O ay!” replied the guests, in the hearty tones natural when the words demanded by politeness coincide with those of deepest feeling. “There isn’t a prettier drink under the sun.”　　“I’ll take my oath there isn’t,” added Grandfer Cantle. “All that can be said against mead is that ’tis rather heady, and apt to lie about a man a good while. But tomorrow’s Sunday, thank God.”　　“I feel’d for all the world like some bold soldier after I had had some once,” said Christian.　　“You shall feel so again,” said Wildeve, with condescension, “Cups or glasses, gentlemen?”　　“Well, if you don’t mind, we’ll have the beaker, and pass ‘en round; ’tis better than heling it out in dribbles.”　　“Jown the slippery glasses,” said Grandfer Cantle. “What’s the good of a thing that you can’t put down in the ashes to warm, hey, neighbours; that’s what I ask?”　　“Right, Grandfer,” said Sam; and the mead then circulated.　　“Well,” said Timothy Fairway, feeling demands upon his praise in some form or other, “’tis a worthy thing to be married, Mr. Wildeve; and the woman you’ve got is a dimant, so says I. Yes,” he continued, to Grandfer Cantle, raising his voice so as to be heard through the partition, “her father (inclining his head towards the inner room) was as good a feller as ever lived. He always had his great indignation ready against anything underhand.”　　“Is that very dangerous?” said Christian.　　“And there were few in these parts that were upsides with him,” said Sam. “Whenever a club walked he’d play the clarinet in the band that marched before ’em as if he’d never touched anything but a clarinet all his life. And then, when they got to church door he’d throw down the clarinet, mount the gallery, snatch up the bass viol, and rozum away as if he’d never played anything but a bass viol. Folk would say — folk that knowed what a true stave was —‘Surely, surely that’s never the same man that I saw handling the clarinet so masterly by now!”　　“I can mind it,” said the furze-cutter. “’Twas a wonderful thing that one body could hold it all and never mix the fingering.”　　“There was Kingsbere church likewise,” Fairway recommenced, as one opening a new vein of the same mine of interest.　　Wildeve breathed the breath of one intolerably bored, and glanced through the partition at the prisoners.　　“He used to walk over there of a Sunday afternoon to visit his old acquaintance Andrew Brown, the first clarinet there; a good man enough, but rather screechy in his music, if you can mind?”　　“‘A was.”　　“And neighbour Yeobright would take Andrey’s place for some part of the service, to let Andrey have a bit of a nap, as any friend would naturally do.”　　“As any friend would,” said Grandfer Cantle, the other listeners expressing the same accord by the shorter way of nodding their heads.　　“No sooner was Andrey asleep and the first whiff of neighbour Yeobright’s wind had got inside Andrey’s clarinet than everyone in church feeled in a moment there was a great soul among ’em. All heads would turn, and they’d say, ‘Ah, I thought ’twas he!’ One Sunday I can well mind — a bass viol day that time, and Yeobright had brought his own. ’Twas the Hundred-and-thirty-third to ‘Lydia’; and when they’d come to ‘Ran down his beard and o’er his robes its costly moisture shed,’ neighbour Yeobright, who had just warmed to his work, drove his bow into them strings that glorious grand that he e’en a’most sawed the bass viol into two pieces. Every winder in church rattled as if ’twere a thunderstorm. Old Pa’son Williams lifted his hands in his great holy surplice as natural as if he’d been in common clothes, and seemed to say hisself, ‘O for such a man in our parish!’ But not a soul in Kingsbere could hold a candle to Yeobright.”　　“Was it quite safe when the winder shook?” Christian inquired.　　He received no answer, all for the moment sitting rapt in admiration of the performance described. As with Farinelli’s singing before the princesses, Sheridan’s renowned Begum Speech, and other such examples, the fortunate condition of its being for ever lost to the world invested the deceased Mr. Yeobright’s tour de force on that memorable afternoon with a cumulative glory which comparative criticism, had that been possible, might considerably have shorn down.　　“He was the last you’d have expected to drop off in the prime of life,” said Humphrey.　　“Ah, well; he was looking for the earth some months afore he went. At that time women used to run for smocks and gown-pieces at Greenhill Fair, and my wife that is now, being a long-legged slittering maid, hardly husband-high, went with the rest of the maidens, for ‘a was a good, runner afore she got so heavy. When she came home I said — we were then just beginning to walk together —‘What have ye got, my honey?’ ‘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.　　[1] The inn which really bore this sign and legend stood some miles to the northwest of the present scene, wherein the house more immediately referred to is now no longer an inn; and the surroundings are much changed. But another inn, some of whose features are also embodied in this description, the RED LION at Winfrith, still remains as a haven for the wayfarer (1912).???????? The Return of the Native Perplexity among ?Honest People4645

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