Return of the Native

have been perceived in the dusk; approaching thus, it was as though he
burrowed underground. In this manner he came quite close to where the
two were standing.

"Wish to consult me on the matter?" reached his ears in the rich,
impetuous accents of Eustacia Vye. "Consult me? It is an indignity to
me to talk so--I won't bear it any longer!" She began weeping. "I have
loved you, and have shown you that I loved you, much to my regret; and
yet you can come and say in that frigid way that you wish to consult
with me whether it would not be better to marry Thomasin. Better--of
course it would be. Marry her--she is nearer to your own position in
life than I am!"

"Yes, yes; that's very well," said Wildeve peremptorily. "But we must
look at things as they are. Whatever blame may attach to me for having
brought it about, Thomasin's position is at present much worse than
yours. I simply tell you that I am in a strait."

"But you shall not tell me! You must see that it is only harassing me.
Damon, you have not acted well; you have sunk in my opinion. You have
not valued my courtesy--the courtesy of a lady in loving you--who used
to think of far more ambitious things. But it was Thomasin's fault.

"She won you away from me, and she deserves to suffer for it. Where is
she staying now? Not that I care, nor where I am myself. Ah, if I were
dead and gone how glad she would be! Where is she, I ask?"

"Thomasin is now staying at her aunt's shut up in a bedroom, and keeping
out of everybody's sight," he said indifferently.

"I don't think you care much about her even now," said Eustacia with
sudden joyousness, "for if you did you wouldn't talk so coolly about
her. Do you talk so coolly to her about me? Ah, I expect you do! Why did
you originally go away from me? I don't think I can ever forgive you,
except on one condition, that whenever you desert me, you come back
again, sorry that you served me so."

"I never wish to desert you."

"I do not thank you for that. I should hate it to be all smo

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Thomas Hardy, OM (June 2, 1840 January 11, 1928) was an English novelist, short story writer, and poet of the naturalist movement, though he saw himself as a poet and wrote novels mainly for financial gain only. The bulk of his work, set mainly in the semi-imaginary county of Wessex, delineates characters struggling against their passions and circumstances. Hardys poetry, first published in his fifties, has come to be as well regarded as his novels, especially after The Movement of the 1950s and 1960s.